I can tell you diary, for this will not break
The promise I was made to make,
This poetic flair was fun at the start
Everyone thought I was really smart,
Now they think I’m doing it in spite,
Even now it affects the words I write!
If the stone is revealed then the spell will end,
Or so I was told by my secret friend,
And if I say aloud what’s in this book,
In that instant I will lose this luck…
Blaine popped the kettle on and stared out of the kitchen window. The sunshine struck the Dales, his daily reminder of Yorkshire’s unparalleled beauty, and he once again ignored the decaying flowers framing either side on the sill above the sink. One vase translucent yellow, the other translucent turquoise. Of the flowers, only an expert florist would be able to conduct a post-mortem.
Milly came downstairs and entered the kitchen. Her bubbling good mood, which moments ago spurred her into skipping, immediately evaporated as she entered. She stared at her father with unflinching animosity. The kettle began its boiled water quaking.
“Morning, darling, how did you sleep?”, he asked.
She gave a “hmph” in disgust and ravaged the cupboards to retrieve a bowl and some cereal.
“This foul mood is not worthy to keep”, he said with seriousness.
“Argh! Not even 10 seconds!”, she growled into the air. “Dad, you’re so bloody annoying!”
He sheepishly scratched his arm and turned to stare out the window again. Today was the beginning of the 4th day he couldn’t stop the rhyming.
“You really don’t believe me, it just… comes out like this all of the time!”, he said, picking out a tea bag from the jar and tossing it into the brown-stained “World’s Best Dad” mug, “Everything I say just comes out in…”, he paused as he was pouring the water and spun to look at her.
She narrowed her eyes. “I can’t believe you are keeping this up!”, she said exasperated.
“Sweetie, what’s the matter?”, Sophie asked as she pushed open the door.
“Dad is keeping up his stupid rhyming game”, she reported with ire, adding an emphatic ‘ugh’ at the end and taking a big mouthful of breakfast.
“He’s just playing”, Sophie said smoothly, but her eyes glinted like daggers as she stared at her husband. “Sometimes he likes to play games a little too long, is all.”
Blaine also felt exasperated. “Oh for goodness sake! What’s it gonna take?”
Sophie stroked her daughter’s hair as she passed her. “Even I’m starting to worry about him. Shall we take him to see the doctor?”
Milly laughed into her cereal and kicked the floor in glee. Blaine decided not to offer any remark. He lifted his tea to his lips, with his mind preoccupied he took a sip and loudly sucked in a breath. Not only had he scorched the tip of his tongue, he hadn’t brewed the tea long enough to allow its full flavour to bloom. He put the mug down a little heavier than he intended, the sound of the ceramic hitting the counter made the two of them stop what they were doing to look at him.
A wet nose hunted down his palm. The golden retriever nuzzled into him with force and he rubbed her fur as fast as he could. “Ay-yup missy! Argh, my hands are all sloppy!” Her slobber had dribbled onto his fingers as he scratched her chin.
He looked up at the seriousness of their two faces; his darling wife who had loved him for 11 years, and his daughter who, until he had been given the stone, had loved him since she was born 7 years ago. Both of them were a carbon copy of the other, and at that moment, both were wearing a mask of absolute disdain.
“I’m gonna go and walk Poppy”, he said resolutely.
“Was that..?”, his daughter began.
Sophie closed her eyes and shook her head. “Another rhyme.”
He donned his coat and scarf by the door, the whole time Poppy’s tail eagerly thwacked the wall in anticipation. Once outside he was instantly relieved by the crisp air, as if every speck of stress was sloughed away by the cool wind like dry dust.
The stone was always with him, nestled in its hiding place. He thrust his hand into his pocket and stroked its smooth surface. Even one hour after receiving it he had doubted the origins of the short man who had given it to him. His eyes had tricked him. He even thought he would feel embarrassed to meet him again. He could never admit that during that first meeting he had momentarily believed he was talking with some fairytale creature.
But the stone was nothing short of magical, that he could surmise. The incessant rhymes were clear proof, but even more convincing was the exceptional, even godlike, amount of luck.
He wasn’t imagining it. A fellow dog walker waved and called as he finished stepping over the stile into the fields, the entrance of his and other dog lovers’ local walking route. She approached Blaine hastily, in her hand he could see was a red extendable lead attaching her to a very excited sheepdog.
“Hello! Is this yours?”, she said indicating a crumpled doggie biscuit bag in her other hand. “Oh my god, yes! What a stroke of luck! I thought I’d have to take this to the police station!”, she exclaimed and handed it to him.
He took the things abashed, then turning the biscuit bag over and saw a wallet and keys along with the bag of biscuits. He casually opened the wallet to check what he expected. Sure enough, just as before, there was an ID card mysteriously with his picture in it, something that linked this materialised good fortune to him. This time his face was framed by the light pink of a driving licence.
This was the third time it had happened, there was no doubt in his mind it was all to do with the stone. He tightly gripped the stone out of sight and restrained his excitement, assuming an air of gratitude and pretending to have genuinely lost these things that didn’t belong to him. He tried to give her some of the money as a reward, but she politely refused and smiled as she brushed her hair against the wind.
As they spoke their dogs played and smelt each other. Only once Blaine noticed her smiling face crease between the eyebrows as she cottoned onto the rhyming in his sentences, and he felt the need to escape the conversation.
In comfortable silence he redoubled his efforts to give her some of the money. “Take it, don’t be shy. A reward as I promised.”
She vehemently shook her head and her hand. “Honestly, I couldn’t take it! Please, it’s yours!”
“You deserve it, pet. For being so honest”, he said as he succeeded in putting half of the £100 in notes into her hand. She looked just as radiant to encounter such good luck as he had felt the first time he had experienced it.
He motioned to the gate behind him, “It’s still a bit slippery, I’d mind your feet.” She was still in shock, and he absently opened his mouth gesturing with his finger ahead of him, already fearful for the next few words that were about to come out. “I’m going to go and walk… in some… peat.”
“Sorry?”
“Nothing! Enjoy the money! Can’t keep talking!”, he swiftly remarked to her surprise with a wave and turned away from her. Cheeks flushed red, he said in a hushed tone to Poppy, “C’mon girl, we gotta keep walking”.
He arrived and rummaged around in his pocket before producing the stone, making sure nobody else was around to see where he was about to hide it. It seemed so simple earlier, so perfect in design. He knew this would be the best place, out in the wilderness where nobody else would find it, but now he had arrived he doubted his choice. He begun fretting. What if they come and move this tree? Then it will surely be dug up, and not by me!
But there was something else, an inexorable gravity that drew him to the stone. The more he thought of burying and leaving its side, the tighter his fingers clasped the cold rock. A childlike jealousy overtook him just to imagine somebody else inheriting his prized luck.
He let Poppy off the lead and stuffed his hand in his pocket. One hand rolled the rock around in its palm, the other idly flipped through the remaining pound notes that he had been given.
“Actually, it’s not that bad of a curse”, he said to the evergreen tree beside him, then a smile broke out on his face to imagine how he would spend today’s little windfall. “After all, this can’t possibly get any worse.”
