Also, below I am placing the fragments I read, in case the video was unclear (as it probably is in places - again, my first time ever recording anything other than short holiday videos...)
Chapter 1
In the Gibbles’ house
*
‘Qwerty,
you moron!’ shouted a woman standing in the middle of the kitchen. One of her
hands was hidden in a large oven glove; in the second she was holding a
saucepan. Qwerty instinctively ducked down, afraid the pan would hit his head.
‘Are you out of your mind? Oh, I’ve forgotten, you’ve no brains whatsoever! Get
outta my sight, you little rat!’
The
boy exited the house as quickly as he could, walking straight into the garden.
He knew there was no point arguing. He stuck his nails into his palm and hid
behind a clump of blooming junipers, where nothing disturbed him; there were
only bees, which he didn’t even notice. The bees, busy with their own, daily
duties, also ignored the boy, as he was sitting on the lawn and with a
rebellious expression munching on a single blade of grass.
Qwerty
was growing angrier with every minute. He’d been in this house for two weeks,
and every day felt worse. No one needed him here, and he seemed to be in
everyone’s way.
Exactly
fourteen days ago Qwerty had lost the only person whom he could ever call his
family. Uncle Matt, who had raised him since Qwerty was a toddler, had died
after a long battle with cancer. The boy had to move out of the family manor.
The house was a grand residence; it stood in the shadow of deep-rooted trees,
had a small rose garden on the back, with the ancient, beaten stairs leading to
its door. But, having no other choice, he’d left it and come to live with his
uncle’s sister.
He
didn’t like it here. He had to swap bright, quiet rooms, full of old-fashioned
furniture, for a square, grey house, where he had no space for himself. Uncle
and aunt – they told him to address them this way, although he could only think
of them as Mr and Mrs Gibble – gave him a tiny room with blue walls. Qwerty
immediately hated this colour. The bedroom was so small that one could hardly
move inside it. Its windows faced the garden and neighbouring houses, and the
space was squeezed between the rooms of the Gibbles’ children. As a result,
Qwerty had no privacy and no peace. At various times of the night and day
Dolores and Sebastian came in to tease him, spitting out insults. He’d asked
Mrs Gibble to give him the key to the door, but she’d said:
‘What
have you got to hide? Are you ashamed of something? Or are you up to something
no good?’
And
the boy, whether he wanted or not, had to give up. The only thing he’d achieved
was distrust from his hosts and the twins’ mockery.
(...)
He’d been living peacefully and
carefree, until uncle Matt got sick. It had started almost a year ago – it had
been cancer and no remedies had offered a cure. During the first months he’d
been doing well, occasionally turning paler than ever before and one of the
kitchen drawers had filled with medicines. But in time it had worsened: the man
had deteriorated; hadn’t been able to move from his chair; with the tiniest
effort large drops of sweat had appeared on his forehead, and his hands had
shaken so much the book he’d been reading landed on the floor every time. Only
his eyes had remained shiny and full of life.
Qwerty
helped him walk up the stairs, wiped his forehead with a handkerchief with the
initials: M.S. – Matthew Seymore, picked up his book or newspaper that landed
on the floor with a quiet rustle, and tried to pretend everything was fine, as
always. But finally the day arrived when he could have pretended no longer;
uncle Matt had to stay in bed and the nurse came every day. Cheerful voices in
the old manor were no more.
*
Not
long before his passing uncle Matt asked everyone to leave the room, including
his sister, and pulled Qwerty close.
‘Qwerty,
you should know something,’ he said with some difficulty. ‘I’ve always loved
you as my own son.’
‘I
know uncle, I know,’ replied Qwerty, blocking tears. ‘Don’t talk so much, I can
see it tires you.’
‘Oh,
now it doesn’t matter. I’ll rest soon. Listen, because I have something
important to tell you, something I could never speak of…’
Qwerty
trembled. There had only been one topic his uncle had not wanted to talk about:
Qwerty’s parents. Even though the boy had asked about them on multiple
occasions, his uncle had always responded either with silence or a change of
subject.
‘I
see you know what I mean. And you’re right; I wish to speak of your parents. I
know I’ve made a mistake not telling you about them, but I am… I was a
weak-hearted man. I couldn’t confess everything to you. I… simply couldn’t talk
about it,’ uncle Matt was hardly letting words out, as if finding the right
ones was a terrible ordeal. ‘I could see you were happy, even though I was not
an ideal guardian… You lived differently to your peers, and I couldn’t give you
all I should have. But, to my relief and satisfaction, you were content. But I
didn’t do… I never said… Never mind that; now it is not important, as I shall
not fix anything… Listen, Qwerty, do you remember the small hiding place in my
bedroom? I showed you it once, but didn’t let you look inside.’
Qwerty
nodded.
‘Before
you leave this place… When I’m gone…’
Qwerty
wanted to shout in protest, but uncle Matt stopped him, same way he used to do
when the boy was wrong about something, but stubbornly claiming the opposite.
‘No,
don’t protest. When I’m gone, you’ll live with my sister and her family.’
‘With
Mr and Mrs Gibble?’ the boy asked with disbelief.
Uncle
Matt winced, hearing the name, which – even in his deteriorated state –
apparently brought some unpleasant memories. But he composed himself quickly.
‘Yes,
with Mr and Mrs Gibble. Before they take you away, make sure you collect what’s
hidden. It’s very important, Qwerty: you must take what’s inside.’
‘I’ll
do it, uncle, I swear,’ there was so much promise in the boy’s voice that
Matthew Seymore nodded approvingly.
‘Good. You’ll find out… I don’t have
time to tell you… It’s our family’s tale…,’ Matt didn’t finish, because at that
very moment his doctor and Adela Gibble entered the room.
‘You should finish this
conversation,’ the doctor said to Matthew. ‘You are exhausted,’ and a tall,
bony woman grabbed Qwerty’s shoulders, unceremoniously walking him out.
‘Towards the sun, Qwerty,’ uncle
Matt’s voice followed the boy. ‘Always walk towards the sun!’ and the door
closed behind him.
Uncle Matt passed away that night
and the next evening Mrs Gibble and Qwerty were to leave the old manor and move
him to her house. When she finished rummaging through her brother’s
possessions, Qwerty, who had been packing his own things, sneaked inside. Only
then he felt the real emptiness: neatly made up bed with an ancient, dark-red
canopy, in places eaten by moths; walls, stripped of portraits to be sold to
the museum or private collectors; a window with no curtains; empty furniture…
All this made his throat close and brought burning tears to his eyes. He came
nearer the window, quickly peeked through it and, listening carefully to make
sure there was no one on the corridor, he produced a penknife he’d hidden in
his pocket.
He dislodged one of the planks in
the flooring, which seemed to be the same as others. It sprang aside, however,
and Qwerty saw a little package, slid into a gap in the floor. He took it out
and unwrapped. He then realised it was a book – inconspicuous in its
appearance, bound in leather. He opened it; on the very first page he saw the
sun, drawn with black ink – it took half of the page, and it was encircled by
several strange letters, which he wasn’t able to read. He observed nothing
more, because there was the sound of steps from the hallway, perfectly audible
in an empty building. He quickly covered the hiding place and slid the book
under his jumper.
‘What are you doing here?’ his aunt
asked him sharply. ‘You were supposed to pack!’
‘Yes, of course… I just… I just came
to see, for the last time…’
‘Oh, there’s no time for sentiments.
Hurry up, I don’t want to spend another night here.’
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