Hallo again,
I withdrew this story from Wattpad when I entered an anthology outside of this writing platform. It is published there now, with all proceeds going to charity - but copyright remains with me, so I am 'publishing' excerpts here on Wattp...
"Sarah? Sarah?" I hear the voice, but it's a dream, isn't it? ...Until, "SARAH ANN MOYLE!" jolts me wide awake. The first was Jonjon's, the second my mum's. Once again I've fallen asleep reading a bedtime story to my little brother. As Mum's head disappears behind the door, I'm awakened now, but flustered; searching for a reason for my unexpected sleepiness. Could be because I'm 'thirteen going on thirty', like Mum always says... and follows that with - 'back when I was young'. All that yibbity-yabbity-doo can exhaust a brand-new teenager!
I drag my attention back to the current read. And as I look at Jonjon squashing down a yawn, I realise my unexpected doze-off isn't tiredness at all. His fidgets and head scratching and nose-picking tell me it's boredom we share - but it's unfair to blame the book I'm reading. It IS a delightful story. I loved it when I was young. I don't know, feels as though I need something more... uhrr... lively, maybe? To fire up my imagination, I'm thinking. Like using funny voices to play games with the words. Big bad gruffy voices and little squeaky, scaredy ones. Then we'll both stay wide awake and eager. Won't we? Then I have a brainstorm.
"What? What? Whatsa matter Sarah?" Jonjon says as I bound out of the bed, almost falling in a tangle of bedclothes.
"SHHHH..." I hiss. "If you don't lay down and close your eyes, I won't be able to find the surprise." There's Buckley's chance of him doing that, but it's worth a try. For once he listens to me - and when I hint at a most special book brand-new to him though it's old, he's at full attention. He snuggles down with only nose and scrunched-up eyes showing. As long as Mum or Dad don't come too close to see he's only faking sleep, he'll get away with it. How that little boy loves his books. Always has. Most of the six years of his life.
I sneak up to the attic and the big old oak box with its lift-up lid... just like the time I followed Mum when she went looking for one of Granny's diaries to check an important date. Granny's great carved Oak 'glory box' or 'hope chest', intended for storing all the linens (and dreams) of young unmarried ladies. But Granny had other treasures to keep safe from moths and mice - her precious writing books and photos. It was for similar protection, including sneaky attacks from silverfish and mould.
Memories of that secret snooping time, AND the stories Mum had shared with me when I was younger came rushing back. How I miss them since she stopped reading them to me. A tear or two fall. I didn't break that manuscript into hundreds of separate sheets on purpose. Truly! It slipped. And fell. And I don't know why I started laughing. Deep inside, I wept. I hope she's forgotten... and haven't dared remind her. Ohh, I SO want to prove to Mum and Dad I CAN look after a book and it WAS just a terrible accident. And I need to teach Jonjon what a treasure all books are... but Granny's in particular. I've always loved them more than any other.
Creeping back in our room at last, I find Jonjon struggling to stay awake. The added excitement and tension of my mission to the attic after his regular full-on day has topped him off. Swollen, heavy eyelids and one yawn after the other ensure he'll take only a peek at the books before he snuggles under his quilt without further protest. His sleepy smile shows how he loves that book cover Granny created.
"See Jonjon? Just like I promised, stories for tomorrow night, and the next, and the next. But DON'T tell ANYONE, remember?" With an almost imperceptible nod of his head, his eyelids fall down and he drifts away - to that special dreamworld he adores describing, where all his fantasies come true.
As I slide down in my bed, my trusty reader's headlamp pointing its beaming finger onto Granny's book, I find my eyes refusing to leave the cover. Ohh, I l-o-v-e that picture you chose, Granny. The thought is a mutter on the wings of a lengthy sigh... almost as if she hears me. No, couldn't be. I shake myself.
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I try to imagine when first she saw this strange and lovely photo of a stone path wending its way down from a misty and mysterious world where light filters through bare tree branches. I fancy she felt a crispness in the air, a magical scene lit by the twinkle of a billion stars above. And the Small Knitty Gritty Kids would start wandering down the rough steps from their Dream-time to find their most fantastic imaginings were about to come true.
'Born Again...' Granny wrote. And thanks to her, each tiny woolly soul WAS reborn — by her loving hands — that 'Rescuer Extra-ordinaire'.
Author's Note: From here I've moved the rest of this story to my kiddy website -
