The Perils of Untying Love – Episode 1
Trewla, fresh from the laboratory, her hands and arms dotted with small burns from her latest efforts at tackling the spell cursing Castle Silverhill, was leaned back in her deckchair on the other side of the outdoor table from me. Grimmon, a not-so-fresh odour of fungus hanging about him, was seated next to her.
We were on my favourite terrace at the top of the castle wall, not far from my studio, which was the ideal place on a warm evening from where to watch a sunset. The world the castle had relocated to three days ago was mild, benign and rather pleasant. More than once, I had found myself wishing we could stay there forever.
I crossed my legs, groaned and tossed the book I’d been reading onto the table.
“‘I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud’,” I said. “It doesn’t make sense! What a load of drivel.”
“It’s poetry,” said Trewla. “It’s not supposed to be taken literally.”
I sighed. “Clouds don’t wander. They don’t have any choice where the wind blows them.” I pointed at the sky to emphasise my point. “Do you see any clouds on their own? No. So how can they be lonely?”
Before Trewla could reply, I surged ahead with, “Now, if the poet had written ‘I Wandered Lonely as a Hermit on a Mountaintop’ I’d be far more inclined to agree with him.” Seeing the darkening of Trewla’s eyes, I hastily added, “Or her.”
A day or two ago, I’d gone to the castle’s kitchen for a cup of tea and ended up lamenting to Cook about how difficult I found it to have a normal conversation with Trewla. For reasons I can’t fathom, they always turn sour. Cook had said something about me always putting my foot in it and would be better if I avoided talking to Trewla altogether. But she relented when she saw my downcast expression.
“Look,” she said. “If I were you, I’d stick to talking to her about things even you can’t go wrong with. You know, like the weather. Anything you can’t be offensive about.”
She had made a good point, I thought. Apart from her last comment.
“What about poetry?” I said. “I’m sure that will impress her.”
“I’m not sure impress is the word I’d use, but–”
“That’s settled then,” I interrupted. “Poetry it is.”
I grabbed my tea and hurried out of the door. It’s not that Cook doesn’t have the best of intentions, but she often doesn’t see matters clearly. I suppose that comes from her having been turned into a two-dimensional, flat as a pancake person by a backfiring spell that I may, or may not, have cast. Accidentally.
Upon leaving the kitchen, I’d gone straight to the castle’s library where I found a book of popular poems stuffed between a volume about werewolves and one bound tightly with so much string I couldn’t see the cover. A label bearing the words “WARNING! Do Not Read” had been glued over the bindings.
Armed with the book of popular poems, I had felt invincible that afternoon as I’d lowered myself into a deckchair on the terrace. Trewla hadn’t got up and left when I arrived, so I took that as a good sign.
I’d made a big show of opening the poetry book and flicking through the pages. Trewla hadn’t looked up, but Grimmon had given me one of those looks he specialises in, which involves him simultaneously rolling his eyes, shaking his head, and sneering.
After giving Trewla the benefit of my wisdom about clouds and poor poetry, she turned her face away from me. The tips of her pointed ears turned red.
“Or her,” I said again, louder in case she hadn’t heard me.
She turned her face towards me. “If you’re so clever, why don’t you write a poem?” Her lips stretched into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
I’m not one to back down on a challenge. Especially if it will thaw Trewla’s opinion of me.
Write a poem…? How hard can it be?
A thought struck me. That book wrapped in string… It had been right next to the poetry book on the library shelf. I bet it was a manual about how to write romantic poetry. Why else would a glow from its edges have shone through its bindings when I’d bumped it? The book had probably been trussed with string by a romance-hating ancestor of mine.
“All right. I will,” I said, trying not to look smug.
With that poetry manual unwrapped and in my hands, I’m sure to come up with something stunning.
*** Continued in episode 2 ***
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