Fenya

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic

Chapter 4 (v.1)

Submitted: July 24, 2011

Reads: 128

Comments: 1

A A A | A A A

Submitted: July 24, 2011

A A A

A A A

 

3

 

Marshall Point

 

 

 

The sun beat down on us in sweeping rays breaking through the gaps of the vast white clouds against brilliant blue sky, as our hair blew in the crisp wind. I was riding in the passenger seat of Ben’s black Jeep, and from the corner of my eye, I saw Cam lean forward from the backseat, her smiling silently, her auburn hair tangling over her face; she had on sunglasses, and so did Ben, and I glance at him across from me, driving casually with one arm the other raised, emptying a Mountain Dew. He sighs, and drops it into a vacant cup holder. He had the radio going, and some upbeat popular song plays, and I can’t help but smile as we fly around a curve, the green blur of scenery and moderate traffic flickering by us.

 

Blinking, I look and see Cam’s moving her mouth, saying words, but I can’t hear her over the blast of wind. I squint my eyes, and ask loudly, “What did you say?”

 

“I said,” Cam speaks over the din of music and rampant air, her hair wild wisps in the wind, “how long does it take to get this Marshall Point?”

 

“Oh,” I say, grinning, “not much longer. Why?”

 

“Okay, Oh—I was just wondering.”

 

Ben looks over to me, and asks me if I would open his open his glove compartment and get out his pack of American Spirit, and so I do. I pop open the packet, give him a cigarette, and he says I can have one, so I do—he asks Cam if she cares for one, but she just shakes her head; although I don’t see any disproval in her eyes, she keeps her lips tight. I find the lighter in the compartment, light mine aflame cupping a hand around the crackling end to block out the wind, before I pass it to Ben. He flicks his afire, and hands it back to me to stow away, and I put them back, the packet and lighter, clamping the compartment shut.

 

The cigarette tastes surprisingly good, although I rarely smoke. I inhale the robust tobacco flavor, and grin stupidly, staring out at the blurring traffic and hillside environment, the sun shining, sparkling through it all. Time passes, us smoking, flicking off the burnt ashes, and eventually extinguish them in his cigarette butt makeshift trays in one of his cup holders filled with blackened others. I close my eyes feeling the wind lick over my skin, take in the aroma of the outside, from the drifting smoke of traffic, to eventually the potent smell of salt water, and then we see it, the Atlantic Ocean jutting out to our left, waves crashing against the rocky shore, and we zoom along headed for the lighthouse.

 

There’s the occasional call of the seabirds, their shadows, snatches, flittering fluidly against the blacktop, and then gone. Around an hour or so has passed before we arrive, pulling into graveled parking lot.  Ben killed the engine, and we got out, and as we headed for the white glimmering landmark, the sunlight swept from the breaks of the vast white clouds over us and onto the ground below. The air carried the rolling smells of the sea salt, icky brine, and the din of the squawking gulls, and croaking pelicans, which whips through our hair, as we make our way closer to the lighthouse. The murmuring chatter of passing by tourists and other locals come to enjoy the day grows louder; and, I catch bits and pieces of conversation here and there—“Did you remember to bring the binoculars?” says one tall man wearing a straw hat with plastered sun screen on his nose to his smaller, birdlike wife—“Daddy how tall is it?” says a frail pale girl, her blonde hair glimmering in the bright sunlight—“I’m tired of walking” says some child, boy, and so on.

 

We hear the sloshing of the waves against the rocky shore, a strange fluid cackling with the sounds of the birds, and step around a crowd of standing people to reach the door of the connecting green-roofed white house. The house sits beyond a flag billowing in the wind with a columned terrace overlooking the stretching pier to the small lighthouse shadowed against the brilliant blue sky. Inside we pay to go across, and we move along keeping to ourselves. Outside again, the rolling roar of the tide coming in is no longer muted, and the waves smashing against the eroded boulders washes out the sounds of people’s continuous talking of those ahead of them already walking the pier, and behind. The following amount of people, random rues of pastel colors, and occasional black, dark blue were nondescript, except for when we crossed paths we three teenagers like us, although the other way around: two girls, and one boy, and one of the girls happened to be talking to her friend, when I looked at her and was suddenly struck by her beauty—I just kept staring at her…She had these unbelievable ice blue eyes, and long flowing brown hair that was tied loosely in a single braid over her flowing mauve blouse. And this was what caused me to accidently bump into her. I automatically spurted a sorry, and she simply laughed, high and clear, her other two friends slowing down for her.

“It’s no problem, you’re fine,” she tells me, smiling with plump rosy lips, blushing. There was something to her voice. It had a slight accent to it, had it been…I think about it, and realize it’s faintly French. I blink, and this makes me water. She simply continues to smile, and wanders off continuing to talk to her companions, and Ben has to tell me to move, to bring me to my senses, and I can see that Cam doesn’t look to enthused by my dazed appearance, so I try to get it together, and then I realize Ben is laughing at me. I knock him on the shoulder and tell him to shut up, he doesn’t mind me, and goes on with the chuckling till we reach the lighthouse. It’s not very tall, so we’re at the top in no time, and looking out the great dark expanse of the sea glittering in the falling sunlight, shimmering with a certain otherworldliness that leaves you pretty much speechless. There’s nothing you can say. You can only stare out, and feel so small, your problems vanishing away.

 

“It’s so…beautiful,” I hear Cam mutter beside of me, and I notice she’s running a hand through her hair, gazing. The belting wind rushes through the open space of the lighthouse, licks our faces, tingling with the salt and sand. I nod, and say it is. After awhile of staring, we decided to head on, and leave our place standing looking beyond into the swallowing ocean, the hazy horizon disappearing into the wispy colorful clouds.

 

 

Remnants of the small bonfire: blackened beach-wood, sticks, spartina grass lay in a crumpled burnt pile within the surrounding smooth stones. The smoke drifted toward the hanging purple evening sky, filled our noses, and made us blink repeatedly. I sat with my legs sprawled out, digging my fingers in the pebbly sand of the beach near Marshall Point, staring out on a fixed point of a floating glimmering buoy out in the ocean; beside me, Cam sat her legs drawn up close to her chest, her arms wrapped around them, as she rests her chin on the top of her knees. She breaths softly, closing her eyes. Beyond us sat Ben in a crouch, holding his burning cigarette stub, breathing in the tobacco, before blowing out the smoke. His face is emotionless, and he blinks staring aimlessly into the Atlantic.

 

We had spent latter part of the afternoon and now evening at the public beach, eating our dinner: some turkey sandwiches with chips and cold drinks we had packed in a blue cooler that was occupying the space between Ben and I near the dying campfire. I had spotted a fishing boat out on the horizon once or twice while we had been here, and thought of my own, thinking that I would have to back to work soon, and I sigh. My eyes wander, and I can see that the stars are beginning to peak from the darkest part of the heavens above, winking down at us. We hear Ben cough, and I look over to see he’s done smoking, and he tossed the butt somewhere in the sand. He returns the stare, and smirks.

 

“Ready?”

 

I nod, and ask Cam if she is too, and she inclines her head, and tells me she is, and so we start to collect our trash. I end up carrying the cooler, and before we leave, Ben kicks dirt over the fire to make sure it has gone completely out. The wind beats against us, blowing rampant and the air has taken on a colder chill with the mist of the sea, dampening our hair, and the sand has gotten into the creases of our hands and faces, irritating slightly. But we silently make our back to Ben’s Jeep, equally tired, and full. I drop the cooler into the back and we climb up into the vehicle. Ben cranks it up, and off we go, headlights tearing into the thickening darkness, the whipping wind of the ocean eventually behind us.

 

 

I look out to the sparkling windows of Cam’s house, internally lit; we had stopped here first to drop her off, and me. Ben didn’t mind, and he would drive off home afterword. It wasn’t that far at all. I remember then the times I had looked to the backseat when Cam had fallen curiously too quiet, and saw she had slumped over, asleep; her calm, relaxed face shadowed in the dark. She looked considerably younger, but then again maybe everyone did when they were caught in their own dreams. Happy.

 

Blinking, reality sets in, and I hear Cam’s asking if I’m ready; I jump out and help her down with a careful hand. She thanks me quietly, her eyes kind beneath her raise hood of her thin, cloth hoodie. I tell her I’ll walk her to her house, and Cam doesn’t object. We walk together around the Jeep, and to her front door without so much as a word, lost in a drifting quiet; it’s comfortable though. This is when I realize, we truly have become friends. We didn’t have to say anything, or feel forced to, so as to best fill any awkward silences. But they had all of them vanished. Now.

 

When we reach her door, we stand for a few moments, her back to the wooden frame, facing me. She looking at me with those eyes, with that expression that translates she’s not sure of what to exactly say. I give her a smile, and start to tell her goodnight, when she does something I hadn’t expected so soon—or really, at all. She leans over and kisses me softly on my cheek, then quickly recedes. I can see her face blushing with color, as a rosy smile bends her curved lips. “Thanks, Aaron,” she says, in almost a mummer, “for tonight…For being my friend.”

 

“Uh—N-no problem,” I splutter clumsily, “I hope you had a good time.”

 

She nods. “I did. Goodnight, Aaron.”

 

“Night,” I tell her, and she gives me a faint small wave before opening her door with a creak, and retreating into her house, closing the door after her. For a few moments I stand there stunned, blinking at the closed, wooden door. Confused. Strange feelings are now swirling inside that I’m not sure I fully understand. Still a little dazed, I turn around and stroll back to the sidewalk, and see that Ben is still waiting there, a hand resting on the wheel. He casts me a facetious look, and sends me an exaggerated kiss goodbye, and my eyes narrow at him—so he had seen! Whatever. I can see him chuckling at my expense though, before over-does a wave goodbye, before turning his Jeep around. I return the wave, but weakly, and then he is gone, his black Jeep melted into the night.

 

Shaking my head, I turn away, and begin heading to my house, its familiar form blackening against the starry night sky, carrying thoughts that are very confusing, but somehow promising. I’m grinning stupidly all the way there, my hands pocketed, and whistling a made-up happy tune.

 


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