“Tell me!”
“No!”
“Tell me!”
“No”
“TELL ME!”
“No”
“PLEEEEEASE?”
“No. Why should I?”
At age 12, a girl is practically a woman, and knows absolutely everything in the whole world. It is part of the code of elder sisters to use this knowledge to infuriate their younger siblings. Particularly the males.
“Pleeeeeeeaaaase?”
“No”
“I’ll tell, I will”
“Go on, then”
“I will!”
“Go on, then, you tattle-tale. I still won’t tell you”
“You’ll have to -“
“No I won’t, I’ll just make up something else and say that was my secret”
A whine of exasperation escaped the boys lips. Tears of anger were beginning to come.
“Come on. Pleeeaase?”
“No. I found it, it’s my secret”
A smug smile. The girl could see the tantrum about to flare up.
“Tell Me!”
“No. Go away”
“TELL ME!”
“No” A calculated laugh, short, cruel and sarcastic.
“TELL ME!!!”
“No, alright? Now will you just go away?”
“TELLLL MEEEE!!!!”
This time it was a yell. Then it became a shriek, and finally a blubbery, sobbing gasp. But an appropriate authority figure was far away, and the crying had no effect. Hoarse, tired and teary, the boy had hit rock bottom. He had no other choice but to bargain.
“’Reese, if you tell me, I’ll let you join my club”
“You haven’t got a club”
“Have too-“
“And even if you did, I wouldn’t want to join” She turned back to her book, stretching along the length of the old bed.
“’Reeesey, I’ll give you something if you tell me”
She raised an eyebrow but didn’t look up. “Like what?”
“Ummm… my marbles?”
“Nahhh…”
“Well, what do you want then?”
A smile. This, of course, was the whole point.
“Eclair”
“No!”
Another smile. She knew the boy would never part with his shiny gold horse. “Well, there’s nothing else I want…..although…” A perfectly measured pause. “How about your top? And your bow and arrow?”
“Well, alright…”
“And you have to give me all your boiled sweets”
“Nofair!”
“Do you want to know the secret or not?”
“….alright…” the boy mumbled, downcast.
Of course, she didn’t particularly want his toys, and she knew that as soon as the authorities were notified, both the toys and the sweets would soon be returned to their rightful owner. But that wasn’t important. The important thing was to make her brother twist and turn and squeal, to the point where he would give her almost anything to be released. This time, however, Paul was lucky, because she really did have a secret. And it was a fantastic one, bubbling over with mystery and excitement. So the torture had another, less selfish purpose: it would ensure Paul’s silence, at least for a while.
Cherise smiled again, a broad, beautiful smile which enlivened her oval face with hints of mysterious possibilities; a smile not so much mischievous as dangerous. In a few years time, that smile would be used powerfully to win favours from counts, dukes and princes. But for the moment, her days were free of such concerns, and she was intent to have as much fun as possible.
Usually that meant playing with Paul, her only real companion in the huge castle. Paul adored her in the way that only little brothers can. He believed she knew everything, could do anything, and that with her he would always encounter boundless adventure. That was what she enjoyed most about her time with Paul: she was his bard, his trusted guide to thrilling entertainment. She loved convincing him that their play for that day was real, that they were sailing to Africa on the wooden raft, or that the men in the Gatehouse were really spies from Spain. Sometimes, she would close her eyes and, with a shiver, let herself believe the fantasies along with him.
Paul sprinted back across the polished wood floor, his eyes alight and his hands full of his end of the deal. He plonked them down on the bed, and with that shadowy grin, Cherise acknowledged his exuberance. Pocketing the sweets, she swung off the bed. “Come on, Paul. I’ll show you the secret. It’s in the Ruins.” Paul’s excitement made him run ahead, and at first she let him speed past her. Then she caught a haunting memory in his pace, and her feet took after him, unbidden.
They raced down the mighty arched staircase, through the vaulted kitchens and out across the sun-warmed, verdant lawn, shrieking and giggling as they tried to outdo each other’s speed, leapt over imagined obstacles and detoured through strange short-cuts. Cherise laughed and ran without thinking, losing herself to childhood glee.
The castle grounds where extensive, but the children had explored and conquered every square foot that lay within the outer wall. Once or twice they had even ventured beyond that barrier, going into the dark woods beyond, but they never strayed far. That was a little too scary for young Paul. On the eastern side, however, the wall became part of the ruins of the old castle, and there they could jump in and out of the woods without fear. The ruins themselves were a childhood dream: level after level of crumbling building, twisted over with vines and trees, and packed with more places to hide or make a home in than they could ever use. The Tower was the most lived in of their cubbies; a narrow two-story spire with half a roof, containing some mats to lie on, and a few toys which had never been brought home again. Cherise had convinced Paul that she had spent the night in the Tower once - though in truth the cold had driven her in just after dusk - and had become a legend.
But this was no time to play Knights and Princesses in the Tower. Cherise nimbly balanced and skipped across the ruins, heading quickly and skillfully towards her destination. Though she would never say it, she was glad she had told Paul. This was a great secret, and she would have burst if she hadn’t told someone. More, she was glad of Paul’s plucky companionship, for this was a real secret, and as such was actually a little exhilarating. Having Paul there would help her keep her head, since she always had to be the responsible one when her brother was around.
“Here it is, Paul” she called, and dropped heavily down into what would have once been an old wine cellar. She pushed the barrel out of the way, congratulating herself for so cleverly using it to hide her secret.. And there it was. A small wooden trapdoor with no handle, fitted snugly into the cobbles. A musty, wooden smell drifted up through a single knothole, which showed the deep darkness underneath. Proud of her find, Cherise turned with a flourish to Paul, who still stood gaping on the walls above. “You see?” she said. “A secret door. It must have been hidden for years. And only you and I know about it!”
Paul was still speechless as he lowered himself into the cellar. Cherise congratulated herself again. She’d managed to really amaze him this time. This was one adventure he’d never forget. “It could lead anywhere. Maybe all the way under the castle. Maybe even further, out to the ocean! Or down into the centre of the Earth!”
“Gosh.” It was all that Paul could manage.
“But first we have to open it!” she continued. “That’s why I had to tell you, because I need your muscles to help me lift it”. Paul loved the allusion to his manly strength, and jumped over to help her. As they looked for an implement to hook into the knothole, Cherise continued to fill both their heads with fantastic images of what the underworld might hold.
The first two sticks snapped, but the third held, and slowly the two children levered the old oak door up, up, up and then with a final push, let it smack down hard onto the leaf-carpeted rocks behind its hinge. A cloud of sawdust flew up, stinging their eyes and throats. When it cleared, they clambered to the side of the entrance and sat motionless, straining and peering as their eyes accustomed to the darkness. They both saw it at the same time.
“There’s a man down -“ but one look at his sister’s white face silenced Paul. Older, wiser, Cherise knew far too well that the figure in the cellar meant something was very wrong. Something very bad and very serious had happened, and she had to do something about it, because she was a big girl now, almost an adult, and there was no-one else. Cherise bit her lip and stared around her in panic. Below her, in the semi-darkness, the large man lay motionless, his head softly resting in the dark liquid that was still slowly leaking out of the messy crater indented in his skull.
Not really copyright © Steve Darlington, but if you steal it and sell it, I'll find you, even if you hide in a wind tunnel in Nebraska. Last updated 6/2/00
