A short story by Steven Scott

My withered hands shake as I open the book and set it on the podium. From my inside jacket pocket, I retrieve my reading glasses. Before I put them on, however, I look up at the eager eyes of the crowd before me. It seems this was one occasion in which the youth could be made to tear themselves away from their cell phones. 

“In order to understand just how much this place means to me, and how much I hope it will mean to each and every one of you, I must first take you back to the beginning. Back to the day my life changed forever: the day of my parents’ funeral.” I place the reading glasses on the bridge of my nose and begin to read the first tabbed section aloud.

~

“The rain struck our umbrellas with a consistent hum, and all our concentration was focused on hearing the priest’s final prayer.

‘Give them, oh Lord, your peace and let your eternal light shine upon them.’ He spread his hands as if expecting an embrace and looked to the crowd.

‘Amen,’ came the resounding answer. 

‘Let us go in the peace of the Lord.’

The crowd dispersed quickly, anxious to escape the downpour. They all got into their identical Morris Minors and sped away, their duty done.

I remained in my place, glazed eyes staring at twin coffins in the ground. It is hard to remember what I was thinking, as I was only eight years old at the time. I suppose I understood what death was, but I didn’t fully understand the impact it would have on my life. I half expected to get in the car with them and drive home as if nothing had happened, but I knew, somewhere inside me, that I would never see my parents again. 

I sensed a hand tentatively hovering over my shoulder. I turned to face the tearful green eyes of my aunt staring down at me through winged spectacles. I always thought they made her look like an owl. I liked owls.

‘It’s time to go, James.’ Her hand stopped hovering and gently led me away from the gravesite while the other hand dabbed her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. As we walked she attempted to break the silence. ‘Your parents left a will. Do you know what a will is, James?’

It was my father’s name, short for William. I was old enough to know this wasn’t what she meant, however. 

Without waiting for a response, she continued. ‘It is mostly a list of all their belongings and what they would like done with them. My sister and your father instructed us in their will to sell your home here in Sussex, along with all its contents to pay off any outstanding debts they may have had when… when the time came. There is still a sizable amount of money left however, and they’ve left it for you to have on your eighteenth birthday.’

Ten years sounded so far away. Not that I really cared about the money at the time. I was more concerned with my own belongings. ‘What about my things?’ I had never slept without the blanket my mother had knitted or without reading one of the stories from Le Mort d’Arthur or the Canterbury Tales. My father had given me his worn copies.  

‘All packed and sent ahead of us to Scotland.’ 

‘What’s in Scotland?’

‘Your new home. You have been left in the care of your uncle and I. We live in my ancestral home outside of Portree. Don’t you remember visiting as a child?’

I did not. My aunt and uncle usually came to visit us here. 

We had reached the car, and my uncle held the back door open for me. He did the same for my aunt at the passenger door, and then walked around the car to get into the driver’s seat. His fedora brushed the top of the car as he sat down. Starting the car, the all too familiar flatulent exhaust sounded behind us, and we were moving. Turning to my aunt, he said, ‘Did you tell him, Abigail?’

‘Just about.’

‘The island?’

‘Ah! The island! Thank you, Rupert.’ She strained a smile, still wiping away tears.  ‘When my parents died, I got the house, but Valerie got an island, just off the coast from us. They left it to you. So, if you ever get tired of us,’ she let out a sad laugh, ‘you can always run off to your very own island.’

I liked the sound of that. At home, I had a house in a tree. Now, I had an entire island.

We stayed in a hotel the night of the funeral and left before the sun rose the next morning. We drove the entire day from one end of the British Isle to the other. By the time we arrived in Portree the sun had already set again. I was shown to a room not far from my aunt and uncle’s. My belongings from home had been neatly boxed and placed in the far corner of the room. My first instinct was to find my mother’s blanket and my father’s books. I eventually found them, after a few wrong boxes, and brought them over to the large four poster bed. 

I was well into the Friar’s Tale when there was a soft knock on the door. 

I looked over curiously and supposed they were waiting for my permission to enter. ‘Come in.’

The door creaked loudly to allow my aunt and uncle entrance

‘We just wanted to see that you were settling in all right. Is there anything we can get you?’ My aunt sat at the corner of the bed. 

‘No, I found what I needed in the boxes.’

‘Well, get some rest, we can go over and see the island in the morning,’ my uncle said.

I nodded in agreement.

‘Goodnight, James.’ My aunt came closer and kissed my forehead gently. ‘We love you very much.’ 

I smiled shyly and cast my eyes down at the bed. They left without another word.

~

The next morning my uncle was true to his word. He took me in the rowboat they kept on a rack near the water’s edge. I looked over at the island while he situated the boat in the water. It was small, but not too small. It was probably about half a mile around. It was certainly bigger than my tree house.

I got in the rowboat and we sailed to the other side.

‘I’ll wait by the shore while you look around. Don’t wander too far,’ he said, laughing at his own joke.

‘I won’t,’ I said, already making my way for the tree-line. 

The island was like nothing I had ever seen. Birds were in every treetop. Rabbits and squirrels scampered about in the distance. Flowers grew around the roots of the trees and in patches of their own. Life here seemed to exist independently from the rest of the world. The sun almost seemed brighter, though it could have been his imagination.

I found myself on a well-trodden path. Following it led me out of the trees to the coastline farthest from the manor. Just off the coast, on a tiny island barely large enough for me to stand on, was a willow tree. The water between the tree and the larger island was shallow enough for me to wade through. Removing my shoes, I made my way over to the tree unquestioningly as if it were calling to me, and once there, I knew why.

The tree had something carved into its trunk. It bore the letters ‘W’ and ‘V’ framed by a heart. I knew what they stood for immediately: William and Valerie. My parents had come here. To this very spot and carved this out together. I traced the letters gently, feeling a tightness in the back of my throat. I looked up when I felt water on my arm, but there was nothing to be found in the treetop. Bringing my hand to my cheek, I realized the water was coming from my eyes. Was I crying? I couldn’t remember the last time I had cried, but I supposed it was only a matter of time. My knees gave way beneath me and I fell to the ground and let out what I had been holding in for some time. I sobbed until my eyes couldn’t produce anymore tears and my throat was sore, yet despite the pain I felt better than I had since the funeral. I may not have completely understood the concept of death, but I did know the grave marked the end of someone’s life.  This tree marked the continued growth and endurance of my parent’s memory.

~

That island became my favorite place to be. I spent most of the daylight hours reading in the shade of the trees, or in the sun when it was colder. Sometimes I simply laid in the grass and imagined I was in a faraway land where strange creatures roamed. The island was home to a whole host of creatures, though none of them were strange. The local rabbit population seemed quite taken with me, though probably because I fed them on occasion. I spent so much time on my island that my uncle had seen fit to assist me in building a small cottage of sorts. It had its own fireplace, wooden floors, and windows that opened. We were quite proud of it when we finished it after only three months. Getting the materials over had been the hardest part. At first, we tried putting the planks in our family’s small row boat, but half way across, the boat capsized and we plunged into the cold water.

I had never been taught how to swim. Upon reflection of this incident, I was embarrassed that, in fourteen years, I had never learned. Though, at the time, I could think only of my own survival. I flailed my arms about me, but it changed nothing as I sank lower below the water. It seemed like ages before I felt my uncle’s arms under my own. Together we floated to the surface, and I discharged the water from my lungs, gasping for air and gripping the upside-down row boat. 

‘Calm down Samwise Gamgee, did you think I’d let you drown?’

Forgetting my panic for a moment, I retorted, ‘Are you suggesting that, in this situation, you would be Frodo? Why you are much too fat.’ 

We eyed each other seriously for a moment before we burst into laughter.  

Together we flipped the boat back over and I clambered inside with his help. My uncle gathered up all the wooden planks before they floated away and held them with one arm while gripping the boat with the other and I towed him to shore. We dropped off the supplies and then returned to the house to dry off. 

In the months that followed, we built a large raft to tow behind the boat with the necessary supplies. Once we were done building, we brought over furniture from the house as well as some of my personal things to make the cottage more inviting.  My uncle even gifted me his own copies of the Lord of the Rings trilogy, which I displayed proudly on the mantel. It wasn’t until later in life that I realized just how much my interests were influenced by my uncle, for he also introduced me to cartography, a craft I picked up quickly and took very seriously.   

~

‘Please, please me, woah yeah, like I please you,’ sounded from the transistor radio above the desk. I hummed the music quietly to myself as I worked. The walls around my desk were covered in hand-drawn maps. Some were of the fictional kingdoms in my books, some of Britain, and the rest were all the same place, yet each was different. I had taken to mapping the Island, a Kingdom all its own. There was the forest of the elves, the hills of the dwarves, even the rabbit warren had its place on some of the maps. Each map was unique, except for one thing: the star marking the Kingdom’s capital. The place where the benevolent ruler of the island resided. On every map, in every Kingdom, there was always Haven. My Haven. It was a place sheltered from the world, and protected from the goings on of the lands beyond. Here, anything was possible, and nothing dreadful ever happened. 

I took to referring to the entire island as Haven. I said it so much that even my aunt and uncle began to call it by its new name. As the years went by, I spent more and more of my time there. My uncle liked to joke that I had moved away from home, and on some nights, I had. I set up a bed at the cottage and spent many nights either sleeping in it or reading until the sun rose. I preferred it to my drafty bedroom on the mainland and the lumpy mattress of my four-poster bed. I could see now why my mother moved to the south and set up a small comfortable home for herself with my father. Drafty manors in the Scottish Highlands made for a cold and uninviting home. Though I loved it here all the same. Without this ancestral land, I never would have gotten Haven. 

I once again found myself hunched over my desk. Ignoring the essay hanging unfinished in the typewriter’s grasp, I scribbled a note in Quenya, the High-Elven language invented by Tolkien. Assuming I was even accepted to any of the Universities I tested for, it would soon be time for me to leave Portree. Before I left, however, I wanted to leave something for my parents, and for me. It would be something that only I could make any sense of, thus the Elvish. I felt I owed my parents something for all they did for me while they were alive, and what they still do in death. 

The note finished, I placed it in a small trunk. I hadn’t visited the tree in some time, but I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye. I buried the box beneath the trunk of the tree where it would be safe until I was ready to open it. Hopefully, university could help with its contents. The note was a promise to myself that I would one day make a haven for others. That one day, I could pass on the peace I had found on this island in another form. I didn’t know how I could do that yet, but the promise was made and my parents had borne witness.

As I got closer to the cottage I could make out a frantic voice.

‘Dreadful things,’ the voice was saying, ‘how can anyone feel safe in this monstrosity.’ 

I peered out the window to see my aunt struggling to paddle a small row-boat across what I had come to call the Frozen Straight. The water was always freezing no matter the time of year. The boat teetered perilously to one side, but she was able to right herself with no small amount of screaming.

I made my way outside just as her boat slid onto the shore. Steadying the boat and offering my hand as she got out, I said, ‘Mum? I never thought I’d see the day you would risk the water to visit me here.’

Huffing and smoothing the ruffles in her skirt she looked up at me and smiled, waving an envelope in front of me.  ‘Today is not just any day! Here, look at this.’ She put the envelope in my hands and waited for me to look inside.

‘Opening my mail again I see?’

‘Well of course, that is my address written there is it not?’

Smirking, I slid out the piece of paper and read over it. At the bottom was the red and blue seal of the University of St. Andrews. ‘I got in.’

‘You got in!’ She wrapped her bony arms though mine and jumped up and down. 

Returning her hug, I laughed at her foolishness until she was able to calm herself. ‘Your Uncle will be so proud.’ She beamed up at me, hands cupping my face.

I took her hands from my face and said, ‘Thank you mum. Now, would you like a ride back to the house?’

She let out a relieved breath. ‘Oh, thank Heavens, yes, yes I would.’ 

As we rowed back across I thought about the journey ahead. I hadn’t been away from Haven for more than a day these last few years and now I would have to really leave and make a life for myself elsewhere. At least while classes are in session. Did I have any hope of fulfilling my promise? Would my parents be disappointed if I didn’t? I would have to do everything in my power to keep my word. 

~

I was well into my fourth decade when I decided my cottage on Haven would become my permanent residence. I had plans to expand it and make it more livable with a kitchen, plumbing, and electricity. I had been there infrequently since university. At first it was due to my classes, but soon after I made a career in archaeology. At first I was away most of the time on digs in Ireland and France studying the Celts. Eventually I arranged to mostly do research from home, only going on the occasional dig if it was in Scotland. 

Once the plans were made and I was officially returned to Haven, I felt it was time to open the old trunk beneath the tree. I had all but forgotten it was there.

I dug up the earth with a spade and pulled out the trunk. Beneath the weathered lid, I found the note exactly as I had left it. Its time in the earth had done little to age it aside from the slight yellowing of the paper. Picking up the note I read it aloud to myself.

‘You have found your haven, now help others find theirs.’ I smiled to myself as I remembered the vow my younger self had made. I had never forgotten it, it had simply moved farther and farther into the back of my mind. Though, reading it, I felt the same way in that moment as I had when it was written. I would bring haven to as many others as I could, whatever form it might take.

I stood up and brought the note back into the cottage. Gazing at my familiar desk, it struck me. I moved quickly across the room and sat in front of it, hands flying across the keys of my typewriter. Perhaps, I thought, the story of how I found my haven would help others find theirs. 

I paused for a moment as I thought it over. I had never written anything of the kind before. I had dabbled in creative writing at university, but nothing of this magnitude. Could I write a book? Though I quickly shook the thought, thinking that if Margaret Thatcher could become the Prime Minister, I could certainly write a book.”

~

Closing the book, I look up at the quiet audience. Their young faces look at me and see an old man reading his book. I look at them and see the faces of the future. 

“This is it. The moment I fulfill my promise and provide the means for each and every one of you to find your own haven. So, without further ado, allow me to welcome you all to the opening of Havenport Memorial Library. May you find here, in this house, and in these books, the kind of place that shapes your lives and your imaginations.”

The crowd applauds as they stand and make their way further into the library. I look upon them with unyielding hope for the future. Mine and Theirs. 

My mission complete, I stroll to the shelves and eye the book spines until I find the spot I am looking for. Sliding my book into its place, I nod in approval and make my way out the back of the manor. To the dock, to my home, to Haven.