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Morganna
The next morning dawned warm and still and the feeling of lightness had dimmed. He was between his old feelings of dread and the new feeling of joy, afraid the joy would disappear. Clyde was by the cart, ready to be tied in and he left Toby loose, to wander with him unfettered. Uncertain of the coming day’s events, he made himself smile and prayed to his angel for hope.
As it turned out, the day was long and uneventful. He was sure he’d lost his way, though he’d been this way many times before. It was late afternoon that the track widened and told of a settlement ahead. Ahead was a young lady, a creature he had more fear of than any other. He needed to keep going for the village was not far and he was out of food. With heart in mouth, he stopped by the lass and asked her if she would like to ride in the cart.
“Why, thank ye, Sir,” she said brightly. “I be travelling many a year and I really do need to stop.” She leapt up and tossed her small sack into the back of the cart.
Donal sneaked a look at her face and his mouth fell open. There was no mistaking it – she was the likeness of the angel who had been at his side these past ten years.
“Oh dear, do I look so dreadful?” asked the lass, looking worried. “Ye be not frightened of me, are ye?”
“No ... ah, no, not at all,” said Donal, not knowing where to start explaining. “It’s just ... just that ye look like me ... ah, someone I know. What name are ye called by, then?” he asked while his mind tried to find something else to say.
“I be Morganna. What be yer name, sir?” she asked.
“Oh, gosh ...”
“Gosh, what an unusual name. Are ye from foreign parts?” Morganna asked, smiling. Her smile warmed his uncertainty. He thought she was joking but he wasn’t sure.
“Ah, no, I’m er, I be called Donal,” he said, almost forgetting his own name.
“Oh me gosh!” she said.
“No, Donal ...” he said.
“Yes, yes, I know,” she said quickly. “I only said ‘oh gosh’ as I hadn’t heard that name before, except in me special conversations.”
“Special conversations?” asked Donal.
“Oh dear, ye’ll think me a silly girl, now won’t ye,” she said, blushing. “Oh well, I’ll tell ye then since I’ve started. I have this person I speak to, this man who used to be a boy but grew up and, well, his name is Donal, just like yers.”
“So I’m not the only one!” he said, clapping his hand to his head. “Ye have a secret voice, an angel too?”
“And ye have one too?” she asked, wide-eyed. “What be his name?”
“Actually, he has no name ... it’s a she and she’s the likeness of ye, just like ye!” he said, feeling the shard of ice around his heart beginning to melt. It felt like his belly button was laughing. They both sat and looked at each other, unable to find or form words. After a moment, she broke the spell.
“It’s a warm day, isn’t it,” she said as she struggled out of her overcoat. As she did so, her shirt came out of her breeches a little and he spied two golden rings, pierced through her belly button. “Oh!” she said, embarrassed and tucked her shirt in again.
“A golden belly button ...” said Donal quietly.
“Yes, I’ve always wanted a golden belly button but the rings will have to do!” she said happily. “Not sure why but that’s what I’ve always wanted. Silly huh?”
“Maybe we CAN have what we ask for,” he said, smiling his silly smile.
“Oh absolutely!” she said, patting his leg.
They smiled at each other as he urged Clyde to start for the village. He shyly put his hand on hers. She didn’t move it away.
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How This Book Happened
In 2010 (it may have been around May) I discovered a short-story writing competition. Now, usually, short stories are considered to be under 3,000 words (sometimes less) but this competition was different – it celebrated a writer (whose name eludes me right now) who broke the rules and wrote long short stories – and the maximum length for this competition was 7,000 words. And I so love people who break the rules!
So, with two weeks to go to deadline, I wrote a short story and sent it off. And, no, I did not win the competition … or even come second or third or anything else – you would have heard the shouting from where you live, wherever that is. However, my lovely, intelligent and discerning wife (Anna) told me that it was a beautifully written story and that I should keep writing and stretch it into a book. Well, of course, her opinion holds more weight than some silly writing judge’s and so I kept writing and a novel is emerging from my busy pen.
So, what you have here is a lovely, moving story (per Anna’s considered opinion) of 9,000 words and the other 90,000 words will be added over the next six months to make a lovely, moving novel.
So now you know the story of the story. Interesting, huh?
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About Philip Bradbury
In New Zealand I experienced life as an accountant, credit manager and company director, shepherd, scrub-cutter, tree pruner, freezing worker, plastics factory worker, saxophonist, army driver, tour bus driver, stage and television actor and singer, builder, lecturer, facilitator for men’s groups, reporter, columnist, magazine editor, publisher, writer …
In South Africa as an AIDS workshop co-facilitator …
In the Australian bush as a barman, horse and camel trekker and stock-whip teacher …
In England as a contract accountant, corporate trainer, estate manager, lecturer, singer/songwriter, website editor/writer and freelance writer …
Back in Australia I’m renovating houses, teaching and writing ... and wondering what's next!
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