Clara’s Encore (A Short Story)
Part 1 of 3
The Village
Its north and west sides hugged by undulating, pastoral hills and its east and southern sides flanked by winding river and the ancient Wychwood forest, Llyndaran is a village lost in time.
From the moment dawn breaks the horizon and gifts its population with a silky dew through to the twinkling twilight display of the moon’s reflection off the Wychwood trees, it oozes magic. Morning salutations at the artisanal bakery as freshly baked goods are swapped hands are incantations of good fortune, whilst the wiry brush banishing the daily dust from a neighbour’s driveway is in itself a protective charm. Those who have always lived here and those that were lucky enough to have fate guide them here to plant roots all share an unspoken kinship. In Llyndaran, time and ancestry blur, and the bond formed amongst its inhabitants surpasses that of mere neighbours, weaving a tapestry of unity that transcends conventional boundaries.
The heart of Llyndaran beats in tandem with its inhabitants, echoing their joys, hopes, and occasionally, their sorrows. Tales are shared over evening fires, laughter resonates from the local tavern, and children play hide-and-seek among the stone-cobbled streets, their giggles punctuating the twilight. But as with any place rich in history and magic, the balance between light and shadow is delicate.
Happiness isn’t always a guarantee here though. Whilst many residents and
passers by have experiences that are ultimately harmless or even joyful in nature, a minority crosses paths with darker energies with more insidious plans. The following tale is a mere shadow of those whispered stories, a dance between light and dark.
A Visitor Arrives
It was like any other typical autumnal evening in Llyndaran.
The pedestrianised, cobble stones of the village square were alive with the synchronised steps of the annual barn dance competitors, all kicking & tapping their feet to the country and western beat, whilst long tables of excited audience attendees were encouragingly clapping along.
Despite the old country feel of Llyndaran, it had a particularly american atmosphere tonight, from the dungarees and cowboy hats through to the dolly dresses and smell of hot dogs that lingered in the air. Amidst this boisterous tapestry, a modern taxi pulled up to the square, its engine
hum incongruent with the rhythmic stomping of dancing boots. From it emerged a man whose demeanour spelled urban sophistication — Logan Beaumont.
Taking a moment to adjust, he marvelled at the exuberance of such a quaint place, his eyes scanning the crowd for his client, Idris. Among the denim and plaid, a figure stood out like a vintage photograph amidst colourful modern paintings. With her timeless elegance, the mesmerising lady dressed in black and white lace seemed untouched by the American
frenzy. Her gaze, though distant, felt hauntingly familiar to Logan, a fleeting connection before being swallowed by the crowd.
Shaking off the feeling, Logan collected his bags and proceeded towards the bed and breakfast, the promise of a new chapter in Llyndaran awaiting him. As the village continued its spirited dance, Logan’s journey had only just begun.
The Stranger at Breakfast
Logan had rolled the Mont Blanc fountain pen between his thumb and forefinger an infinite number of times since his father had gifted it to him on his eighteenth birthday.
He would find either solace or inspiration in the way the etches and grooves seemed to create a whole new pattern on its shiny surface. However, today it failed. For the first time in its twenty year existence, it had failed. Here in this tiny welsh village that seemed to have manifested from a Tolkien manuscript, it had failed him.
“That’s too many failures in one breath, Logan,” he sighed. “Ever tried. Ever
failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.” Logan muttered the words under his breath, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his lips, its warmth momentarily brightening the ebony strands of his meticulously manicured beard. He looked up at the window and drew back the lace netting, allowing the dawn to fill his quaint room with sunlight. Like the village itself, the whole Bed and Breakfast could have been painted
from any classical piece of literature. His room was the real treasure though. From the centuries old, handcrafted wooden furniture that had stood the test of time and the brussels carpets that dazzled with vibrant, psychedelic colours through to the numerous country themed, iron statutes that decorated the ornate fireplace and surrounding
shelves, he was beginning to understand Idris’ reluctance to come home.
Logan’s stomach grumbled, bringing him back to reality. He’d need some energy if he was going to find his elusive client. It wasn’t the village that would prove most difficult to navigate, but the forest to the south and the only jungle Logan Beaumont ever liked to traverse was the concrete one he’d lived in his entire life. “Follow your bliss and the universe will open doors where there were only walls, Logan” he recited to himself as he pulled on his jacket and opened the bedroom door.
“What can I get you, Mr Beaumont?” Gwen asked. Logan looked up at the
middle-aged proprietor as she stared down at him over the top of her half-moon glasses, smiling sweetly. Her scraggy neck and poised demeanor evoked an image of a vulture, yet her eyes, gleaming with warmth and mischief, hinted at a mouse’s playful spirit trapped within.
“A vegetarian breakfast please, Ms. Gwen.”
“Just Gwen please, Mr Beaumont.”
“Oh, I do apologise Gwen. Then I insist on you calling me Logan.” Gwen’s eyes twinkled again and she nodded her head. “Well now that we’re friends,” she started, her silky welsh accent playing in Logan’s head like a melody, “Why are all you city folk suddenly vegetarians?”. Logan choked on his coffee, the foam coating his thick moustache as he was caught off guard by the pointed question. He wiped his beard with a napkin and coughed awkwardly to buy some time as his brain cogs whirred.
“Well, um…there are numerous health benefits and not to mention the moral…” Logan stuttered for a while before Gwen rested a veiny hand on his arm.
“I was only joking,” she chuckled. “I’ve been a vegetarian for most of my life. And don’t ask how long that is,” she winked, a cheeky grin plastering her lined face. Logan smiled back, his previous discomfort dissipating with Gwen’s unexpected revelation. “You truly have a way of keeping one on their toes, don’t you?”
Gwen’s laughter echoed softly around the cozy breakfast nook, lending an inviting warmth to the room. “It’s the only way to stay young, dear.”
As Logan prepared to dive into the conversation further, his gaze was unexpectedly drawn to a shadowy corner of the room. There, bathed in the soft light filtering through the lace curtains, sat a figure that seemed familiar, yet out of place. Her long, flowing Victorian attire made her seem like she was from another time, a stark contrast to the otherwise modern setting. Her ethereal beauty seemed to render the room silent, and
her piercing, almost translucent eyes caught his gaze and held it. He recalled that fleeting moment the night before, amidst the cacophony of the barn dance when he had spotted her — a peculiar island in a sea of denim and hats. There was an enigma about her, something Logan couldn’t quite pinpoint.
He turned back to Gwen. “Who is..?” he started to ask, but she had gone, her knitted shawl disappearing around the breakfast room door as she hurried to the kitchen. He stared at the mysterious woman a few more moments, conscious not to fall into the creepy bracket. He took another sip of his coffee. As he gazed into the foamy liquid, Logan gathered his thoughts, captivated not just by the mysterious beauty but also by
the unfolding layers of Llyndaran’s tales. He couldn’t help but wonder what other secrets this quaint village held.
TO BE CONTINUED… (please do clap if you enjoyed & let me know in the comments if you are keen for Part 2)
