The Blue Journal (Fantasmagoria Book 1) Read online

  I.B. George

  The Blue Journal

  To my son, Tudor

  COPYRIGHT

  © 2016 George Bogdan Ioniţă

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without written permission of the author.

  For information regarding permission, send a request to: [email protected]

  Translated from Romanian by Iulia Pepel

  Cover & map by Raluca Popan

  Edition 1 – October 2016

  ISBN e-book: 978-1-365-45075-4 (Lulu.com)

  ISBN print: 978-1539348726 (CreateSpace)

  https://www.facebook.com/IBGeorgeOfficial/

  Contents

  COPYRIGHT

  Fantasmagoria map

  Chapter 1 The Wise Tree

  Chapter 2 Who Is the Professor?

  Chapter 3 Flames and Sparks

  Chapter 4 Cover Your Ears!

  Chapter 5 The Eyes From the Shadow

  Chapter 6 Danger Comes From the Mist

  Chapter 7 Aryana Tanaris

  Chapter 8 Watch Your Steps!

  Chapter 9 To Catch or Not to Catch?

  Chapter 10 Bustle Behind the Cell Door

  Chapter 11 Ice and Fire

  Chapter 12 Ash With Traces of Blue

  Chapter 13 Epilogue

  Glossary

  Fantasmagoria map

  Chapter 1

  The Wise Tree

  Smiling broadly, Mrs. O’Reilly came out from Mr. Monahan’s shop feeling happy that he managed to bring in everything she had ordered a week before. She said goodbye once again and stepped over the threshold, intent on going straight home.

  She barely took a step forward when she suddenly dropped the bag she had been carrying firmly in her arms. She put a hand over her mouth, trying to stifle the shriek she let out in surprise.

  In the middle of the road a white-haired man was ambling unsteadily while cradling a bundle wrapped up in a blanket.

  Alarmed by Mrs. O’Reilly’s cry, Horace Monahan went quickly round the counter from where he served his customers and ran over to the shop’s door.

  He too looked in disbelief at the man who kept walking straight ahead, eyes wondering, and realized that it was his former shop apprentice, Aidan, old Abigail Anderson’s son.

  Two years before, Aidan had gone missing from his native village. The folk thought he might have come to a grizzly end during one of his hunting trips, and even old Abigail had mourned him for several months, getting used in the end with the idea that her son had perished.

  Life carried on for the people of the small hamlet and after a while everyone forgot about the incident. After a few months nobody even mentioned young Aidan. Only old Abigail would go from time to time to the cemetery on the outskirts of the village to place flowers on a grave in which no one rested, as Aidan’s body had never been found.

  Right now though, the village folk looked on aghast at young Anderson, come back from the death, clutching that bizarre bundle to his chest whilst babbling senseless words.

  Everybody wondered what atrocities had Aidan come across that had made his hair go completely white at the age of only twenty seven.

  Some of them crossed themselves superstitiously, convinced that the creature walking straight down the road was a ghost that had taken over Aidan Anderson’s body.

  Horace Monahan was the first among the village folk who, trying to overcome his fear and shock, started to walk towards Aidan with quiet steps, careful not to startle him too abruptly from the spell he seemed to be under.

  “Aidan… my boy… it’s me, Horace Monohan”, he said in a gentle tone, trying to look him in the eyes.

  Aidan didn’t reply. But then, from the bundle he was cradling came the whine of a baby, probably woken up by Mr. Monahan’s deep voice.

  Aidan didn’t react even now. He only stopped to take a little glance at the babe in his arms then started his rambling again.

  Trying to make out a bit of what young Anderson was mumbling, Horace Monahan got even closer, managing in the end to catch some of Aidan’s words.

  “Robert… my son… is the last one… I must hide him away…”

  Aidan’s words cleared old Monahan’s last doubts. It became obvious that Aidan was holding a baby who was very likely to be his son.

  He tried to imagine where Aidan had been roaming for the past two years and what had made him take his son and run away with him when his mind was wondering thus.

  He walked along young Aidan in silence, feeling somehow responsible for his fate. He had always loved Aidan as his own son. Being childless himself, he had taught him everything he knew about the goods he was selling in his shop, as well as how to run the business. He had been planning to leave everything to Aidan when he retired.

  The other folk followed closely behind, keeping at a distance, curious to see what was going to happen. After some time it became clear where the young lad was heading. Although he was unstable on his feet, Aidan came off the main road and started determinedly on the path towards his mother’s house.

  A few moments later he stopped on old Abigail’s doorstep and knocked on the door.

  You could hear small steps inside the house and the door opened with a slight squeak coming from its hinges, showing old Abigail’s face who promptly fainted as she laid eyes on her son.

  Mr. Monahan caught her just before collapsing onto the wooden floor and started massaging her temples and gently touching her cheeks in an attempt to revive her. As soon as she came to, old Abigail took the baby from Aidan’s arms and placed him carefully into an armchair.

  The other people went back to their homes, still talking about the terrible event they had just witnessed. They were convinced that the young man had been bewitched by the Lake Fairies from the nearby pond and that little Robert was the offspring of one of these creatures.

  For the next few days, old Abigail took care of her son, who was feverish and talking incomprehensibly.

  He was talking about an imaginary realm with people and places no one had ever heard of before. The only clear words he said were those that Horace Monahan had heard before, about the little child Aidan had been holding.

  Aidan passed away after a week and old Abigail, left without a son for a second time, focused her entire attention on Robert whom she raised as best she could. She didn’t tell him much about his father, as for his mother, there was nothing to say because she knew absolutely nothing.

  She took all the stuff from Aidan’s bag to the attic and placed it in a small case. There wasn’t much in there: a leather bound notebook with blue pages covered in a bizarre writing, a piece of black stone, a lizard-shaped locket and a compass which, instead of its cardinal points, displayed some pictures: a flame, a drop of water, a cloud and a crescent moon. She always kept the key to the case on a small chain around her neck. She didn’t want Robert to find those things and try to figure out the mystery behind her son’s life.

  Years went by and little Robert was now a tallish boy with light hair and black eyes that shone like smouldering coals. He was always cheerful and full of life.

  And he had just entered the tenth year of his life.

  ***

  The sun glistened playfully through the branches of the tree. Robert was lying down under its shade, closing his eyes one at a time, watching the light through the green canopy. He was always trying to catch glimpses of new flickers and each time he would become more enthusiastic, laughing out loud:

  “Wow, a dragon… Look! It’s spitting out flames!” He shut his other eye. “He
y, a butterfly… with wings of fire!” he shrieked in excitement.

  He had no idea how long he had been lying there like that. Perhaps for a few minutes, hours maybe… One thing was certain though, he really enjoyed this game and he always looked forward to summer when he could play with the sun’s rays among the trees’ branches again. His grandmother had once told him he was a dreamer… so what? His parents had died when he was a young child and now he would spend hours at a time trying to imagine their faces. He’d never met them but that never stopped him from fantasising about new features for them, which he would always conjure up in his imagination. Dreaming was the only thing no one could take away from him and the only thing he was good at.

  “Robert! Robert Anderson!” He could hear Grandma’s voice. “Come and have your lunch!”

  Robert didn’t answer… He felt happy and he wasn’t hungry. Blast! She’s forever interrupting for something or other, he thought to himself crossly.

  Grandma’s voice rang out once more:

  “Robert Anderson, are you daydreaming again? Mind you, child, dreaming shan’t be enough to keep you well fed. You must try to be more down to earth if you want to make something out of your life. Otherwise…”

  Grandma didn’t finish her sentence. She never did! Robert had not yet been able to find out what would happen “otherwise”. Anyway, you couldn’t mess about with Grandma, and when she got cross she could be very bossy, although she had never even so much as laid a hand on him when he’d done something naughty. Instead, she would give you such a lecture that even grown-ups who dared argue with her would bow their heads in shame. And that was a fact: you just wouldn’t muck about with Grandma!

  “I’m coming.” he mumbled.

  He got up lazily and started off slowly towards the house. He went into the kitchen and took his place at the table, watching Grandma Abigail busying herself with the pots over the stove. He liked to watch her go about her work around the house and, without her knowing, he would follow all her moves attentively.

  “Tuck in!” she said.

  “Thank you, Grandma.” he answered.

  He started nibbling away, eating small bites while his mind wondered yonder outside where the beautiful weather and his many play areas were.

  “As soon as you’ve finished eating” said Grandma Abigail, “would you please nip over to Aunt Martha’s and take her something to eat.”

  “Yes Grandma. I’ll shoot off as soon as I’m done.” he answered through a mouthful.

  Aunt Martha was Grandma’s sister. Robert liked to go and pay her a visit because then he could walk past one of his favourite places for playing: the pond on the outskirts of the village. Normally, Grandma wouldn’t allow him to go near there, always telling him it was too dangerous. However, Robert liked to gather the flat, beautifully polished pebbles along the edge of the pond and toss them at the shimmering water. Most times he wouldn’t even notice how quickly the time had flown. He would then hurry over to Aunt Martha’s so as to make up for the wasted hours and still be able to get back home in time for supper.

  When he found out that he had to go to Aunt Martha’s he started gobbling down the rest of his meal. He finished in no time, climbed off his chair and handed his empty plate to his grandma. Grandma looked at him smiling, placed a cap on top of his head, smartened up his breeches and passed him a satchel containing his aunt’s parcel. Robert returned her smile.

  “I’ll be back by supper time, Grandma.” he said cheerfully.

  Grandma put on a serious face.

  “No time wasting by the pond, cheeky!”

  Robert nodded and promptly vanished through the door.

  ***

  The lanes of the small village where Robert lived with his grandmother were covered in dust, which rose up in a cloud every time the village folk drove past in their carts. To get to Aunt Martha’s place he had to go right through the village then turn left onto the path that led to the pond and then onwards to the next village.

  He was running, hoping to get to the other end of the village as quickly as possible, so as to spend longer playing by the pond.

  “Good day, Mr. Monahan” he shouted without stopping.

  Horace Monahan was tidying up the front of his shop, sweeping vigorously at the dust that had gathered outside the store. He looked up, intrigued by the cheerful voice that greeted him.

  “Hullo, Robert” he answered, his face lighting up.

  “Good day, Mrs. McGregor!… Good day, Mr. O’Bannion!…“

  Everybody knew Robert and they all returned his greeting with a smile. They were all too familiar with his story and they felt a special sort of tenderness towards little Robert.

  Robert turned off the lanes in the village and started on the path leading to the pond. The day felt warm and the sunlight was clinging playfully onto his eyelashes. He was nearing the small forest by the village. It had just gone midday and that meant he still had a few good hours left to play to his heart content.

  He stepped into the forest and breathed in the air greedily. He liked that cool, fragrant air. He liked the rays of light trickling through the leaves of the tall trees. He was fascinated by the sounds of birds and other animals around him and the noises coming from the depths of the woods.

  He could hear the stags sharpening their antlers against the tree trunks, the woodpecker tapping the bark in search of food, the hares rustling through the tall grass. He ambled on without hurrying, enjoying the carnival around him.

  At one point he left the road leading to Aunt Martha’s and started on a small, less trodden path towards the pond. The way was hidden by overgrown bushes but Robert was well accustomed to the paths in the woods and knew that he would come out right by the pond once he’s passed those bushes.

  The pond was in fact a small lake which had formed in a drain on the bank of the river that crossed the county. A myriad of fish had found a home there amongst all the rich vegetation that grew abundantly in the water and on its edge. Only animals ventured there to drink, disturbing the mirrored water and frightening the pond creatures.

  Robert parted the branches of the bushes carefully and carried on along the path. Suddenly the pond showed itself in all its glory, like a magical oasis hidden away from prying eyes.

  He smiled, feeling instantly happy, although the scenery around the water might have been considered quite ordinary by most people. Not by him though. It was a place where he could watch the fish, ants, insects or the swaying plants without anyone seeing him. It was a world in which he could make up thousands of stories without anyone contradicting him. And then, there was his favourite game: stone skimming.

  He searched around him, looking for flat pebbles that were just right for throwing at the glistening water. He found some which he promptly stuffed into his pockets and headed for the pond. He dropped his satchel on the grass and started playing, laughing aloud at seeing the fish, some big, some small, swimming in all directions, startled by the circles on the surface.

  When he had finished throwing his pebbles he stretched down on the grass and started watching the leaves shimmering high up in the tall trees. He shut his eyes and allowed himself to be carried away by the gentle breeze of the wind ruffling through his hair. He felt good and he fancied he could lie there in that place forever.

  Suddenly he heard a rustle coming from the bushes ahead. At first he didn’t think anything of it, as he was certain it was just a gust of wind shaking the leaves. He was lying there quietly, eyes closed, when he heard that rustle again, this time a bit louder than before. He suddenly jumped back, alert, his senses sharpened and clutched Grandma’s satchel to his chest.

  “Who’s there?” he called out, slightly nervously.

  There was no answer.

  It’s probably just the hares, he said to himself encouragingly. Yes, just hares, he concluded, trying to pluck up some courage.

  He looked more closely at the bushes ahead. You couldn’t see anything and you couldn’t even hear that
sound anymore. All of a sudden, a dried twig snapped behind the bushes and, instinctively, he took a step back. The bushes moved with a rustle and slowly a white wolf stepped onto the bank.

  Robert came to a standstill. He knew that no one has seen any wolves around the forest surrounding the village for a very long time. Right now, however, there was one standing in front of him, following him with cold eyes, sizing him up.

  What shall I do? he thought to himself, eyes wide open in fright as the wolf headed towards him.

  During the space of a few moments he tried to envisage a way of escaping and running seemed like the best solution. He didn’t think for a moment that, like any other wild animal, the wolf was sure to be a much faster runner than he was. All he knew was that he had to get away from the animal that came upon him. His instinct and the ancient stories heard from the oldest hunters in the village told him to scream with all his might. The old people used to say that some animals felt intimidated by people shouting and would vanish back into the wilderness, taken aback by such a reaction.

  Now! he said to himself and proceeded to run and scream at the same time. He realised that the wolf, puzzled by his attitude, was not pursuing him. He thought then about Aunt Martha and realised that he was running in the wrong direction. He tried to find again the path to the neighbouring village, when suddenly the wolf materialised in front of him, forcing him to turn around. He shrieked and turned again, running breathlessly.

  He didn’t know where he was anymore. He was running aimlessly, his thoughts focused only on getting away from the chasing wolf. He had neither the time nor the strength to look back and see whether it was still behind him, but he was certain that it was. He attempted again to reach the path he should have been on when the wolf appeared again from the bushes, making him change direction once more.

  He saw the sunlight ahead through the trees which were thinning out by now and realised he was nearing a clearing. He gathered up his strength and tried to reach an opening, hoping that the wolf would give up chasing him.