Where the Child Lies - A novel by B.Maravolo
Chapter One
He shut his eyes tightly and concentrated.
“One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-”
Sometimes by ignoring the voice, it would go away. Other times, it remained. There was an unpleasant laugh.
“Quit counting, Timothy,” it whispered. “I won’t go away.”
Timothy squeezed his eyes tighter. “Eight-nine-ten-”
“I’m here, Timothy. You have to listen to me! Hee, hee,” it tittered merrily. “You are stuck with me, Timothy!”
“Eleven-twelve-thirteen-”
The voice now became very soft. “I won’t go away.”
Timothy stopped counting. His toy bear, Bear, was pressed against his chest. “Go away,” he whispered.
“No. I can’t, Timothy.”
“Who are you?” Bear’s eye was coming loose. It poked the little boy.
No answer.
“Please, who are you?” The same question, night after night.
“I’ll tell you some day.”
“When’s some day?” Timothy asked impatiently.
“When I’m ready.”
“But why are you so horrible to me? Why do you talk in my head?”
“Because I do.” it replied.
“Where are you from?”
“Garble, garble, garble--Twitter, snicker, click, click, click.”
Timothy sucked his breath in, waiting. There was a small chuckle. “Hello?” asked the little boy softly.
“Hello, Timothy.”
“I won’t talk to you anymore. I want to go to sleep.”
“Goodnight, Timothy.”
“Goodnight.” Outside a night bird chirped.
“Hello?” Timothy reluctantly whispered aloud to the darkness. The bird fell silent.
The small boy peered over his duvet. The room was cloaked in darkness with only a grey patch showing where the window was located. Timothy could see the stars twinkling through the diamond shaped panes. He pushed away the duvet and cautiously swung his legs over the side of the bed. Jumping from the mattress he very quietly tiptoed to the door, cracking it and carefully scanning the hall. A board creaked and Timothy’s heart jumped. It was dark and the nightlight in the hall had burned out. Timothy padded to the door across from his and reached up, pushing it gently open. That room was dark too, but here the boy could hear slow steady breathing from the bed. He hurried to the sound, and reaching up, jabbed the sleeping figure with one finger. It stirred and rolled on its side.
“Timothy?” the voice questioned quietly.
“Grandmother,” he said loudly. “I believe there is a Bogle under my bed.”
The old woman sat up and smoothed her hair. Strands had fallen from the neat plait and hung dishevelled across her face. “A Bogle, Timothy?” she asked patiently, patting the bed beside her.
Timothy climbed up on the mattress and knelt next to his grandmother with his hands firmly braced on his knees. In the half-light, the old woman could see the printed bears on the child’s pyjamas. She smiled and gave her hair another pat.
“Tell me, Timothy, why do you think that there are bogles under your bed?”
“Because, Grandmother, it was speaking with me again tonight, and it wouldn’t let me sleep.”
The old woman’s brow furrowed. She worried about her grandson. Apart from an imaginary friendship with his toy bear, Timothy was not one to fantasise like so many other children of his age. Timothy’s revelation came as a surprise to her. The woman sighed.
“Timothy, didn’t you tell your grandmama that there were no such things as ghosts and monsters?”
“Yes.” agreed the little boy. “This isn’t a ghost or a monster, though, Grandmother. It’s a Bogle. It’s very rude, and I would like you to tell it to go away.”
The old woman studied her grandson and saw how serious he was. She knew that if she didn’t agree to do what the boy asked, Timothy would never go back to sleep. Resigning herself, she swung aside her duvet.
“Timothy, please fetch Grandmama her dressing gown.”
The boy slid off of the bed and retrieved the pale blue dressing gown from the chair. His grandmother patted his head and slipped the garment over her nightdress. Timothy waited for her to rise, and then courageously marched into the hall ahead of her. The old woman noted the burned out nightlight, also noting that, once again, she had dreadful heartburn. She took a deep breath and followed her grandson into his room. Timothy stopped inside the doorway and puffed up his small chest. He tried to look stern, but inside, his grandmother was certain, he wanted to hide behind her. But not her Timothy! She raised her hand to the light switch but the boy stopped her.
“No, Grandmother,” he said firmly. “You must talk to the darkness because the Bogle won’t hear you in the light.”
The woman smiled patiently. Suddenly her chest tightened, causing a small but sharp pain. “Very well, Timothy, but how does one go about getting rid of a bogle? I’ve never met one, you know.”
Timothy stared into the darkness. “You tell it to leave me and Bear alone so that they can go to sleep, and tell it that it is very rude.”
Timothy turned his head. “Grandmother!” he insisted.
“Very well, darling. Bogle!” she called into the room. “I hear you’ve been bothering my little boy and his bear! Well, I should stop that now! Bad bogles never go to Heaven! If you want a friend, be nice, visit during the day, and I’ll have tea for you and Timothy. Otherwise, please stay away!” She looked down at her grandson. Timothy had his eyes shut and was listening intently. Finally he shook his head and frowned.
“It’s no good, Grandmother. It’s not here.”
The old woman leaned against the wall and pressed the light switch. Warm yellow light flooded the room. Timothy blinked and rubbed his eyes. The room was silent. The wardrobe and high chest of drawers shone richly with waxing. The mirror reflected an assortment of rocks, leaves and toys--the type of things most young boys like to collect. The large bed stood against the wall, sleep tosselled and inviting. Bear, the toy bear lay against the pillows. One eye dangled from a thread. Grandmother made a mental note to sew on its eye. Timothy glared into the room, his small hands balled into tight fists. The woman walked over to the wardrobe and paused with her hand on its handle.
In the long mirror she saw a woman in a pale dressing gown looking back at her. This woman was so old. Her skin was greyish, and her cheeks sunken. The skin pulled taut over her bones then falling into loose wrinkles around her neck and eyes--eyes that were still young. Her hair was thin and pure white. Timothy’s grandmother raised a veined hand to that face. The eyes were moist with tears. She hastily turned the handle of the wardrobe door and swung it open. The woman in the mirror moved away with it. Timothy edged over to his grandmother, peering inside the wardrobe from behind her. The clothes were hung neatly, the shoes lined in matched pairs and assortments of small boxes were stacked against the back. The old woman shuffled the hangers and checked the corners.
“Perhaps there is a false back,” suggested Timothy, remembering The Lion, The Witch, And the Wardrobe, which his grandmother had just started reading to him.
His grandmother assured him that the back was quite sound.
“I’m not sure anything is sound.” Timothy walked over to the window, shaking his head.
Below him, the garden was quiet and dark. The Witch’s Ball glimmered dully in the half-light.
“Don’t laugh,” scolded the little boy.
His grandmother turned her head and shut the wardrobe. Again the reflection in the mirror reminded her of ends, dead leaves and winter days. She quickly wiped the impression from her mind and joined her grandson.
“Darling, who’s laughing?” she asked.
Timothy pointed to the blue metallic globe. “The Witch’s Ball. I know the Bogle hides there. Sometimes when I stand by it, and I see everything is blue, I know it’s right next to me, and then it laughs.”
The woman’s eyes followed the boy’s finger to the globe. Something was very wrong. Perhaps the strain was finally telling on the child. Timothy’s mother had died of cancer, and even before her untimely death, had never been a well woman. His father, her son Paul, was an alcoholic and had left Timothy with her only last week for ‘an indefinite’ period. Now the boy’s only company was a withered old woman whom he’d only met twice since he was born.
“An ill, withered old woman,” she thought, and a finger of fear prodded her stomach.
In the garden below, the Ball glimmered on its pedestal in the herb garden.
“Well, Timothy, I shouldn’t think the Bogle would like the Witch’s Ball. It would look into it and see its reflection. Imagine the fright it would get!”
Timothy pressed his nose against the glass. “But, maybe it’s not ugly.”
“Then why does it frighten you, darling?” His grandmother gently smoothed his black hair.
“It doesn’t, Grandmother. It bothers me. It won’t leave me alone. You see, it will not go away, and it laughs at me and won’t let me sleep.”
“Perhaps it’s a dream, darling.”
The little boy heaved a sigh of frustration. “No, Grandmother. You have to be sleeping to dream. I can’t sleep because it won’t let me. So, it can’t be a dream.”
The old woman again looked down on the garden. It sloped back to the wooded copse and then to the meadow. The foliage appeared grey now, with the exception of the snowball bush and the jasmine, whose blooms were brilliant white. The flowers reminded her of death; everything reminded her of death lately. The woman silently rebuked herself, remembering the young life before her. Little Timothy, five years old, his father’s black hair and sombre face, his mother’s pale skin and huge dark blue eyes, her own deceptive build; small and slight, but strong. Little Timothy--all alone--too soon. She reprimanded herself again for her fatalism. It was simply not healthy.
Timothy backed away from the window, leaving a smudge on the pane where his nose had been pressed. The elderly woman squatted in front of him. He inhaled the scent of lavender and violets. She straightened his pyjama tops and smoothed his fringe. Timothy wished he could hug her, but he didn’t.
“Darling, shall I make us some chocolate? We can talk more downstairs.”
Timothy rubbed his nose and yawned. “Chocolate would be nice.” He walked to his bed to fetch his bear.
The two of them padded up the hall over the worn, faded rug and down the steep, narrow staircase. Timothy held Bear tightly, studying everything they passed; the hand coloured photograph of Grandmother and Grandfather, the painting of the flowers, the portrait of the pretty lady, the dark polished wood of the banister, and below, the antiques, musty and carved; upholstered in velvet and heavy fringe. He thought about the ‘trillions’ of knick-knacks’, the heavy imposing clocks with their ominous ticking, the ebony grand piano, the stained glass and carved panels; all lit by the soft yellow light of the stairway. There were so many places in Grandmother’s house where the Bogle could hide. Timothy had the uncomfortable feeling it now was hiding in the big fireplace, laughing silently while peering from behind the great brass firedog. The little boy’s hand sought his grandmother’s and the old woman looked down in surprise.
They entered the kitchen, and Grandmother switched on the light. The room looked cosy and secure. Timothy climbed onto one of the ladder-back chairs. His grandmother began to prepare the chocolate. Timothy shut his eyes, listening, but no, the Bogle had not followed them. He waited, sitting still, listening hard. He could hear the ticking of the clock on the fireplace mantel, and the scraping of Grandmother’s wooden spoon on the bottom of the saucepan. He could smell the steaming milk. Grandmother rattled the mugs as she brought the chocolate to the table.
“Timothy?” she called softly.
The little boy opened his eyes.
“I thought you had fallen asleep.” Grandmother passed Timothy held his mug. Lucifer the grey cat walked in and settled by the hearth.
Timothy didn’t like Lucifer’s name. Mother had read the Bible to him when he was very little, and though he remembered all about the goodness of God, the angels and Jesus, somehow he remembered most clearly the stories about Lucifer. He thought that it was strange that the devil had a name. Timothy was ‘Timothy’, and the devil was ‘Lucifer’. Timothy wondered why the devil was so bad. After all, he had been an angel, and angels must have very good lives in Heaven. Mother was an angel now, thought the boy. But Lucifer, the devil, had become bad, and had fallen from Heaven. Timothy thought that perhaps he had just stepped wrong and fallen off a cloud. When he hit the Earth, maybe he had hit his head and something went wrong with his brain. Maybe that was what Mother had meant by a ‘Fallen Angel’. Or, maybe Lucifer’s father had left him, and his mother had died--but then, angels didn’t die. Timothy also wondered if the other angels called the devil ‘Luke’, which was what Grandmother sometimes called the cat.
It was all so confusing--the devil was very bad, and the cat was very nice, so it continually puzzled the little boy as to why his grandmother named the cat ‘Lucifer’.
Timothy remembered his chocolate. He lifted the mug in both hands and blew at the steam. His grandmother finished scrubbing the milk pot. She smiled and sat down.
Grandmother looked like an angel, mused Timothy, and she probably would be one soon. He knew that once up in Heaven she would never fall.
“So, darling, do you think that the Bogle is gone now?”
Timothy sipped his chocolate. “No, Grandmother, maybe for now, but he’ll come back.”
His grandmother sighed glancing at the bear on the table propped against the wall, its eye hanging loose, the other eye staring vacantly ahead.
“Bear has no chocolate, Grandmother,” Timothy pointed out, noticing the direction of his grandmother’s gaze.
“Oh!” she started. She was extremely tense tonight. Her chest hurt. Very likely it was just fatigue. “Timothy, bears should not drink chocolate.”
Timothy frowned, but did not comment further.
“Darling--” The old woman hesitated, collecting her thoughts. “Darling, there really isn’t a bogle, you know. Bogles are only in faerie tales.”
Timothy stopped, mid-slurp. His eyes flashed.
“Well, darling, sometimes, when we are very, very tired, we think we hear things which aren’t really there.”
The little boy stared. His grandmother shifted uncomfortably. “Timothy, you are in an unfamiliar place, and my house is quite noisy at times. Perhaps what you hear is the wind in the eaves, or the radiators knocking.”
Timothy slowly lowered his mug. His face was pinched.
“Grandmother, there is a Bogle. Why would I make up something that bad? That would be stupid. And, besides, I know it isn’t just noises because the Bogle talks to me--in words--well, most of the time.”
The old woman’s stomach tightened. Her grandson was far too mature for a child his age and so odd. She stared into her mug.
“Would you like to sleep with Grandmama tonight?” she asked, looking up.
“No.” The child heaved a resigned sigh. “I think I will go back to my bed now.”
The old woman’s expression was pained. “You can sleep in my bed.” She even hoped that Timothy would agree, but the boy shook his head.
“No, Grandmother. It doesn’t matter.”
“Then your bogle is gone?”
The little boy pulled his bear from the table. The loose eye caught on the edge and tore loose, dropping to the floor. Timothy’s face was set. He stared at the eye, then stooped and picked it up. His grandmother stood quickly, expecting a childish outburst of tears, but Timothy simply stared at the eye.
“Darling,” The old woman bit her lip. “Don’t worry; I’ll sew it on first thing in the morning. Bear has needed a bit of mending anyway. We’ll even make a game of it. The kitchen table can be the operating theatre and I’ll be the vet!”
Timothy reached up, placing the eye on the table. “It doesn’t matter now. He’ll be blind. Well,” the little boy shrugged. “Maybe the Bogle doesn’t want Bear to see when it kills me.” He hugged his bear tightly and padded from the room. His grandmother stood helplessly by the table. The button eye glinted in the yellow light. The clock struck 4.45 a.m.
“The time of the most births and deaths,” mused the old woman coldly.
Upstairs Timothy crawled into his bed, pulling the covers well over his head. His breathing was shallow, and his tears wet the pillow.
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