Cecil - Chapter 2
Malcom and Muckle Rock
If you missed my last post, I am taking a stab at writing out a story that I have told my kids at bedtime. You can read chapter 1 here (I have made some minor adjustments since posting it, as I am finding out that the tale is growing in the telling). I would love to hear your thoughts in the comments. Enjoy the adventure, friends!
It was a little after two o’clock when Flora headed over to the bookstore to bring Malcolm their afternoon tea. They were lucky enough to live right behind the shop in a small paneled cottage that fit them well. One simple bedroom, a quaint kitchen with a large bay window that overlooked the jutting cliffs along the coast and a lavish garden that wrapped around the front and back. No matter the season, Flora made sure it was always brimming with some type of fruit or flower. The children in the village knew they had full rights to walk by and pick whatever food they could find to enjoy, as long as they made sure, according to Flora’s rule, that they always picked two and shared one with a friend.
As she pushed through the front door, she noticed something very unexpected. It wasn’t the abrupt silence that caught her by surprise but the absence of tobacco smoke floating around the shop. It was too clear inside, which meant Malcolm hadn’t been there for a while. As she walked over to the counter she noticed a yellow-stained paper with a scribbled note: “Be back in a few hours. Feel free to grab a book and come back tomorrow to pay. - M.”
This was strange to Flora since there weren’t many options for where he could be. His frequent haunts were limited to their cottage garden, the shop and occasionally the tobacconist on the corner. She shrugged her shoulders and decided to walk through the aisles to take a look around.
As she maneuvered around the shop she noticed the door to the backroom was cracked open. She pushed gently against it and peered in only to find that the large wooden table in the middle of the room was void of books. She knew that this room was special to Malcolm – it was where he kept his favorite collections, the ones he vowed never to sell. Years ago, when she would visit him for afternoon tea and there were no customers, she would find him back in that room, hunched over the table, pipe in mouth, eating up every word. He never did tell her much about them besides that they had been passed down from some old sailors and fishermen. Recently though, she noticed that those books had started to collect dust and that Malcolm had seemed to lose interest in them, and Flora never asked why.
- - -
“Where are we going?” asked Cecil, his arms filled with a pile of old books as he followed Malcolm up the narrow stone alleyways. Cecil had learned over the years to trust the old man, even if what he was saying or doing did not, at first, make sense. In all the time he had known him, he came to find that he never did anything without a specific purpose in mind. Malcolm might have been old, but his wit was sharper than any of the young men in the village.
“We are heading to the cliffside up ahead where the old lighthouse is.”
Cecil was of course familiar with this area. Each time his family sailed in through the foggy nights, it was this piercing beam that guided them safely to harbor.
As they climbed up the gradual incline of the hill, Cecil noticed Malcom’s head shifting from the book to the sea and back, his index finger tracing the page as if he was confirming a fact.
As they reached the crest of the grassy cliff, they walked over to the base of the lighthouse where they found a small bench to sit on. As Cecil looked out over the steep cliff and into the vast sea, he felt a suprisng rush of warmth jet up under his skin and he couldn’t tell whether it was his own excitement being stirred or something wholly other at play. Malcolm never told Cecil, but he experienced the same kind of sensation in that moment, and was equally confused as to what was really taking place.
“Ah, that certainly must be it, yes, yes…” Malcolm mumbled as he gestured with his left hand that was still holding his pipe, though by now it had to be nearly empty. He was pointing to what the villagers had named “Muckle Rock” – three massive, jagged grey rocks jumping straight out of the sea, miles and miles off the coast. It looked like someone had dropped three random pillars of stone in the ocean and then let the slow decay of time, water and air bend and shape them to their liking. Most folks said that they looked out of place – and that is probably why there was an ever growing trail of rumors floating around them.
“Do you see that area Cecil?” Malcolm asked, as he glanced over at the young boy. “That area of water underneath the rocks has, as they say around town, the scent of legend.”
“I do remember you mentioning some tales around Muckle Rock a few years ago...”
“Yes, yes and I want to read you a journal entry from this old book. It was written nearly 75 years ago by a young teen around the same age as you are right now.”
January 7th, 1875
Another long day out on the open sea. Pops said it would feel like this, like the days ticked slower under these dark clouds and wild waves. He was also right about another thing; the food is getting old (a boy can only eat mashed potatoes and cold, canned meat so much). Captain Ewan said that this route was new and they were hoping to catch more fish than the last few trips. Money has been really tight for our family, and I hope he is right. I would love to buy Mum and Sis each a new dress for their birthdays. All in all, I would say this trip feels like the same as the last few, but what happened yesterday has changed my mind entirely and has left me a bit perplexed…
It was very early in the morning before sunrise and the crew wasn’t up yet. I had a bad night of sleep so I decided to make some instant coffee and head to the deck (just to note, I still dislike the taste of coffee, but I think it might be working its effect on me). I knew we were going to be around Muckle Rock soon and I wanted to get a good view of it before the work began as the full moon was still shining bright in the sky. As we slowly crept under the shadows of the grand pillars, I forgot I had left my sketchbook in my bunk under deck. I made a run for it, trying not to miss a chance for the best view. As I headed down the stairs and hall, I noticed a faint glow bleeding out of the doorway of my room. This was curious to me, as it was still dark outside and all you usually could see was the murky reflection of the water through my window. But this time, as I turned into the room, I was struck with an unexpected sight. It was, as I can recall, two glowing lights peering in as if they were in search of something. They glowed with an intensity that I have never seen under water, and chills flushed up and down my spine. As I moved slowly towards the window to get a better look, I started to hear the most beautiful of sounds. It was like a choir of heavenly beings beginning to breathe and hum and sing. There were no words spoken and yet I felt as if I had known what they were saying. It came to me as though from a distant land and yet I couldn’t help but feel as if I was returning home. After what seemed like an hour (it was probably more likely 45 seconds), the lights faded in tandem with the song and I was left standing there frozen in wonder.
I still don’t know how to explain these odd events and I haven’t told anyone else, but this wasn’t the only strange thing to happen… and I can’t help but think that it all picked up as soon as we drew near Muckle Rock. I will write more later when I have time. I have heard other whispers at dinner from the men and I don’t think I am the only one that has seen or heard these odd things.
Cecil’s eyes were locked onto Malcolm as if he was trying to decode a puzzle. He knew that what he had seen and felt that night in his room was real, but there was a part of his mind that told him he was making it all up, that he was just a boy telling wild tales for attention.
Malcolm slowly closed the book and peered out over the cliff, squinting as he worked to lock his attention onto the giant rocks once again. He took a deep sigh as if he felt a sense of refreshment and leaned back in the bench: “Ahh…It feels like ages ago my lad, and yet, the memory has begun to rush in like the tide.”
Cecil scrunched his face in curiosity and straightened up. “What do you mean? What feels like ages ago? Did you know the young man who wrote this?”
“Why yes my dear boy. I knew him very well. That young lad was me.”
The layers of this story keeping getting more interesting! I love how you describe the setting so clearly. This world you're creating feels lived-in and deep with whimsy. Looking forward to chapter 3!