On September 24, at one o’clock in the afternoon, they started their voyage on a bumpy rocky road toward Spotown, in the midst of a blissful revival of taste for life in their luggage. It was a two hours’ drive away.
Atson was driving, faster and faster, car windows down, air sound caressing his ears, sun secretly tangling his shoulder-length light brown hair, his vigilant chicken skin advised him to close the car windows and slow down… All of a sudden, right foot slammed on the brakes, strident infuriating sound, slide tour on a rocky road, wet multicolored leaves scratched, thin air suffocating, the car stopped in stillness. Atson had no time for such foolishness, he whipped the cold sweat off his forehead, unplugged from the car, sat on the side road, waves of chills coursing through his veins, slowly infusing their venom.
In the horizon, gigantic gray clouds gnashed their teeth, the blue of the sky was swallowed and the sun was soaked up. Three thin droplets were left rolling down the windscreen, as if a stray of a reminiscent reality that chased them effortlessly. Powa went straight to the driver seat hands on heart and prayers. Slowly, she started driving.
Atson surrendered to the sweet daydream, old nuanced memories surfacing, mind-body encapsulated. His left hand in his pocket, Atson was juggling with two seashells.
Boldtown was his childhood mess, distress and madness. He used to keep a fair distance, exquisite isolation, created by himself, only for him to revisit. Every morning, a swirling ritual gripped him from the outside, a dreary form of living ― put on clothes in a hurry, huge slow squeeze buttons mocking, shoes left cords loose easy to bare foot or tight boots nagging at him, breakfast made of plain bread and milk, a lunch bag disgustingly full and a school bus delayed. The boy was a simple toy trapped in a giant slow machine, whose gears were cloaked from sight.
His life was one of trouble, which his parents could not comprehend. In the local elementary school, Barloc’s eye was set on him, gestures scrutinized, pushed and pressed against dirty walls, beat to the rock-solid ground, punched in the face, eyes bruised and cheek scratched, total unfair punishments. The case worsened when Barloc whispered threats with great pride, ― If you say something, I would wrestle you to the ground much harder!
A perverse game that lasted long enough to cause nightmares. Shortly, Atson grew an obsessive mind and a crazy need to unveil the obscurities of such destructive behavior.
Fortunately, one day, on his way back home, Atson met a fisherman, Mr. Pralet, a grumpy old man with no patience for nonsense, perfect camouflage of great wisdom. Surprisingly, near the boy, Mr. Pralet was talkative, a valiant man who had survived hostilities in the tempestuous seas. As soon as the fisherman touched his bushy whitely-silver beard, a source of inspiration would navigate his tales, words flowing through his mouth with detailed precision would bring magic to the plots, embellished pieces of art.
Atson became a good listener as well as an excellent observer, a resilient boy, ambition oriented. In the evening, he would find comfort in Mr. Pralet's adventures, especially that day, when the old man told him the story where he was lost in a treasure island.
― Young boy, the ice blue of your eyes are reminders of valuable secrets buried in the depths of the seas, waiting gently for the burst of their glory. One day, you will find yours.
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The boy smiled innocently and asked swiftly, ― What secrets are you talking about? ― a sad voice added, ― I’ve never seen the sea. Not once!
The old man slid his compassionate hand over the boy’s hair and murmured sweetly, ―You will one day. It’s a promise I make you.
A loud laugh struck the vastness of the sky.
― Listen, young boy, today your wet hair is glistening like the sand along the beautiful beach that saw me collecting seashells. That day a boat rescued me.
He smiled humorously, shaggy gray eyebrows lifted and confessed the truth, a wild classical anecdote he adored narrating, ― Remember young boy, stories have many facets. In truth, I was lost in this island only for two little days.
And then, in a moment of contemplation, he emphasized one important detail, ― There I stood, on the shoreline, like a magician, I drew a line on the sand, halted in the silence between the raising and crashing of the waves, and out of nothingness, I managed to play a trick, I pulled a boat from the depth of the sea. There it appeared in front of my eyes.
And then, out of judiciousness, he questioned the extent of his own perception.
― What is the greatest trick a magician can pull?
Amused, the boy smiled at the idea that the old fisherman could be a magician too.
Afterwards, the fisherman amicably invited the young boy to see his seashell collection, walked whistling all the way home with no need of walking cane.
Locked behind cracked dusty windows, the fisherman was not alone, enormous spiders were unendingly weaving wonderful patterns of threads in the gray peeling ceiling. The cobwebs were hanging above while he was living below, where some wonderful riches were still concealed, although, some were already being revealed.
Fantastic worlds were emerging from treasures kept in seashells, fascinating battles were enraging, sea monsters were being defeated, fishermen were setting sail in the sea... An overflowing network of wonders was invigorating Atson’s mind, boosting his spirit of adventure, dissipating haunting memories, erasing nightmares, hopefully, rising fields of potentials at the speed of the rhythms of the tales.
Since life plays by its own rules, three years after their first encounter, Mr. Pralet did not navigate his way through the storm. It was Atson’s first real painful experience, an incomparable burst of grief, a devastating heartbreak. His sole consolation was in the treasure he was left with, two seashells from the old fisherman’s collection.
Late in that night, in his dark bedroom, he sat alone on his bed and held the seashells close to his ear to listen to the sound of the waves. It was as if he could still hear Mr. Pralet’s voice whispering new ventures.
The following week, the boy burst off the shell, he stood up for himself, defined a new set of rules, threatened to throw a punch at Barloc, put a finite end to the bullying, the torments and the lies. Barloc would never intimidate another kid in his entire school life.
The sad boy who used to sit at the back of the classroom, the hero the fisherman foresaw was born in that little kid, new capacities were flourishing, mainly sprouting out fields of future achievements. When he left school that day, his left hand in his pocket, Atson was juggling with two seashells for the first time in his life.
Slowly, Atson opened his eyes and looked at Powa who was driving. She was extremely beautiful, he could not help himself but fall in love with her, over and over again.
The heavy gray clouds puffed the blue sky back, and released the sun from its confined prison cell. Nature answered the call, reshaped its own features with grandiose landscapes sunbathing, glimmers of combined beauty spreading and abounding. Fertile meadows were stretching miles away up, holding in their arms the stunning mountains as precious outbursts of million years’ painful evolution. The snow-crown were already celebrating the highest of all visions.
Misguided, the GPS lost its way, even so, the activation of the map that was inching Powa’s fingers was guiding her in the right direction. An underground movement, a wave of pressure shook the town, announcing their arrival.
The couple Gelan reached Spotown.