Edinburgh Scotland, 1940
Katherine tried the door. It opened to the accompaniment of the softly jingling bells that hung above it. It also creaked, which sounded loud in the seemingly empty store.
“Hello?” she called out.
Katherine had always loved to write. It was her escape when the world seemed unfair—or just dull. She had little time for writing now, but she thought perhaps she could find the time and, if lucky, get something published—an article or even a short story (wouldn’t that be grand), and then maybe another. It wouldn’t pay much, but it would augment her meager earnings and help provide a somewhat better life for her girls, Mitsy and Briana.
Of course, Katherine couldn’t afford a typewriter. She did all her writing by hand, using her favorite pen—which had broken the night before, much to her dismay. As difficult as it would be to purchase another, she resolved to do so and somehow earn the money back through her writing. She knew it was an indulgence to look for an antique pen, but….
Katherine looked around at the jumble of things scattered about over tables, shelves, and other flat surfaces in the small, darkly-paneled room. She saw lots of scattered antiques, hanging lamps, dusty, leather-bound books, colorful cups, saucers, statues, and gadgets, all oddly shaped. And all familiar, yet different, each begging to be picked up, dusted off, examined.
Katherine scanned the objects, looking for pens. She hadn’t the wherewithal to indulge her curiosity about many of the dusty objects. Seeing no pens, and feeling uneasy in the shop, she turned to leave. With her hand on the doorknob, she heard something. She stopped.
The sound was soft at first. She wasn’t sure she had really heard anything. But yes, there it was…she recognized the soft shuffle of slippers on a wooden floor.
“Can I help you?” came a deep, soft, elderly voice from behind her.
Startled, Katherine quickly swung about to see a set of deep gray eyes gazing at her from above a wide, friendly smile buried in a small gray beard. The eyes were surrounded by an assortment of wrinkles on a face so old it almost looked mummified. The head was bald except for a red fez. The old man’s body was bent with age and covered by a soft blue robe with large sleeves that dangled low about his body. His leggings were covered with an odd-looking cloth that seemed to shimmer in the room’s dim light when he moved.
“Can I help you?” he repeated with the same friendly smile.
“Yes. I need something to write with. Not too expensive. I like the feel of vintage tools, so I thought I might find a used instrument from days gone by,” Katherine said hopefully.
“I see,” said the man. “I think I might have something of interest.”
His eyes twinkled as he turned and shuffled slowly over to a ladder leaning against a wall covered with shelves. He slowly climbed the ladder, one tortured step at a time, wincing and pausing between each effort, until he reached a particular shelf farther back in the shadows than the others. He pulled back the long sleeve of his robe and reached into the dark. He muttered a few inaudible words as he coughed because of the dust he’d stirred up.
“I’ve got to do something about all this dust,” he said.
He coughed again, then pulled his arm back. Clutched in his bony hand was a small, blue, velvet-covered box.
“Ah, yes. Here it is. Just where I left it…long ago,” he muttered to himself.
He slowly descended the ladder, his descent seeming as pained as his ascent had, until he was standing on the shop floor once again. He turned, and with a triumphant smile, slowly shuffled over to Katherine, holding the small box out in front of him.
“Here it is. I haven’t seen this one in a long time. But I think now is the time to show it to you.” He put the box under her eyes, opened it, and said, “I believe this is for you….”
He placed it in her hand.
Katherine felt an immediate comfort. She looked down and saw the box contained an ornate blue pen. When she looked at the pen, a smile spread across her face.
“Yes, I think you are right,” she said without taking her eyes off the pen. “How much do you want for it?”
“Whatever you decide is fine with me. Cash, of course, is best,” he said softly.
She held the open box in one hand, opened her purse with the other, and glanced inside. She had a few coins and a single one-pound note. The note was all that was left of her last week’s pay packet. She had not yet been paid this week, so she was saving what she could. But this pen…she had to have this pen.
“I have a one-pound note. Will that suffice?” she asked. A worried, pleading look crossed her face as she looked the shop owner in his old, gray eyes.
“Why yes, just the amount I had in mind. Thank you,” he said, his eyes sparkling and a friendly smile gracing his face.
“No, thank you!” Katherine said as she handed over the note.
“Shall I wrap that for you?” he asked.
“No, no, this will be fine,” she said as she closed the pen box and placed it in her purse, which she slung over her left shoulder.
Katherine turned and headed for the door. As she gripped the door handle, she glanced over her shoulder and said, “Goodbye, and thank you again.”
“Goodbye,” the shopkeeper said as he watched her open the door, pass through, and softly close it behind her.
“And,” he whispered, “have a great rest of your life.”
He stood there for a moment and just smiled.
Katherine stepped out onto the street and turned toward home. Anxious, she walked faster. A bus stop was near, so she quickly headed for it. The bus rumbled by, splashing some cold water near her. When she reached the bus stop, she saw people had already lined up ten or fifteen deep at the stop. She decided to continue on foot and hustled onward toward home, some several blocks away.
It was getting cold. Winter was on its way. Katherine wrapped her long cloak tightly about her. Her breath was puffing out in clouds of white as she trudged on. The street smelled of dry straw, oil, and dirt. The streetlamps began to turn on as darkness fell. Katherine passed through the dim light coming from a pub where she could hear men singing, fiddles playing, and the clinking of glasses as they raised their mugs for a toast.
Finally, Katherine reached the steps of her apartment building. She ran up the short flight of stairs, grasping a railing with her gloved hand, and held her purse’s shouldered strap with the other.
Katherine wondered if her kids had made it home okay. She grasped the cold door handle and struggled to push open the building’s heavy front door with her shoulder.
As Katherine stepped into the dimly lit hall landing, she glanced up at the flight of stairs disappearing up into the gloom. The door slammed shut behind her, echoing in the hallway.
An apartment door suddenly opened and a woman’s head appeared. A frizzled gray-streaked black head of hair flopped over the woman’s bloodshot black eyes as she glared at Katherine.
“Where’s me rent?” she screeched.
“Oh, Mrs. O’Brian, I am so sorry. I have not been paid yet. Something ’bout the bank having limited funds,” Katherine replied timidly, while gathering her cloak about her neck against the freezing cold in the hall. Mrs. O’Brian saw no sense in heating it.
“Bank or no, ye owes me rent, and ah intend to ’ave it!” Mrs. O’Brian’s black eyes glared menacingly at Katherine. “If’n you do no ’ave it by noon a’morrow, out ye go!” The frizzled, hairy head ducked back through the open door and slammed it shut.
“But Mrs. O’Brian, I have children, I…. I will try my best to get your rent,” Katherine said to the closed door.
Katherine’s heart fell in her chest as she backed away from Mrs. O’Brian’s closed door.
Suddenly, she heard air-raid sirens going off outside! She bolted up the stairs to her apartment. The boom, boom, boom of explosions could be heard getting closer and closer. Flashes from the explosions lit the hallway with each burst.
Katherine grabbed the key from her coat pocket, put it in the door lock, twisted it, shoved the door open with a bang and dropped her purse on the floor.
She rushed inside and yelled, “Children! Mitsy, Briana! Get up! Get up! Hurry!”
Mitsy, who was ten, and Briana, who was five, were on the floor, curled up in blankets by the fireplace.
Katherine grabbed the children’s coats.
“Quick! Put these on. Now!”
“What, Mommy?” Mitsy asked, getting up and rubbing her eyes. Briana began to cry.
“Get up! We must get down to the bomb shelter! Now!” she said as she pulled the children from the floor and stuffed them into their coats.
Katherine ran out the door with the crying children in tow. Already, other tenants were bursting from their apartments, half-dressed, scrambling to put on their coats and robes while rushing down the stairs. The pounding of feet, slamming of doors, all while the air-raid sirens were screaming and bombs were exploding somewhere in the city, added to the chaos. Some people were screaming, others yelling as Katherine forced her children into the crowd, running down the stairs to the building’s basement.
At the basement door, people crowded the entrance, trying to get down the narrow steps to the relative safety it offered. Katherine held Briana tightly to her chest and kept her body between Mitsy and the panicked residents as they shoved, elbowed, and scratched by, scrambling for the basement.
Katherine managed to get onto the stairs and usher Mitsy down toward the basement. They entered the large, crowded basement room, dimly lit by bulbs dangling from wires here and there attached to a beamed ceiling. People packed the space, leaving little room. Some hugged each other; others sat against the cold stone walls, hugging their legs, trying to get out of the way of those still coming into the room.
Katherine managed to find a small space for the children and herself. She sat down and hugged Mitsy and Briana. Just then, an explosion shook the building, causing loose dirt to fall from the ceiling. The lights went out. People screamed and cried. Many said prayers.
After what seemed like an eternity, the bombing slowed and moved farther away. Someone lit a candle. The dim light cast long shadows over huddled groups of people talking in hushed tones, some still crying.
In the gloom, Katherine tried to reassure her children. “I know this is frightening, but we are safe here. The walls are strong and we are below ground. We can go back upstairs soon.”
When the all-clear siren sounded, people started to get up and move slowly toward the stairs and out of the basement.
“There. You see? All better,” Katherine told her daughters. “Now let’s get back up to our home.”
Katherine gathered the girls to her and stood up. She followed the crowd of people as they went up the stairs and into the building’s main hallway. The building was intact, but dirt and debris were scattered all over the hallway.
Some people still cried and clung to each other. Some wandered outside while others went up the stairs to their apartments. Katherine took Mitsy and Briana’s hands and walked back up the stairs to their apartment. As she opened the door, she saw broken glass from the windows scattered over everything.
“Careful, children. The glass is on everything. Mitsy, go get the broom. Briana, come with me to the kitchen.”
Katherine picked up a fallen chair, set it back upright, and put Briana on it. Briana was sobbing.
“Mitsy, start sweeping the floor and pile up the glass over there.” Katherine pointed to a corner.
“Yes, Mommy,” Mitsy said, her voice quivering, as she started to sweep.
Katherine beckoned Mitsy to come sit, righted another chair, and took some biscuits from a tin. After giving one to Briana, another to Mitsy, and then taking one for herself, she sat down on another chair. She began to nibble on the biscuit.
Katherine had been raised in a prominent British family in India. Her father was in the British diplomatic core and her mother was from a wealthy Indian family. Katherine had wed a Scottish merchant with some wealth, who provided her with the life of leisure and luxury she was accustomed to. In 1932, shortly after she and her husband had moved to Edinburgh, Scotland, where his business was located, Katherine’s parents were killed in an attack by Indian rebels on a European club in Chittagong. To add to the tragedy, she learned her father had squandered the family’s wealth by drinking, gambling, and investing in dubious business schemes.
Katherine’s husband grew bored with the marriage while Katherine was pregnant with Briana. He began an affair with his secretary, and soon after Briana was born, he filed for divorce. News of his infidelity, or rather his audacious step of leaving his wife for his low-born secretary, was scandalous and cost him his business. He soon left Scotland, leaving Katherine and the girls destitute. Since then, she and the girls had lived day-to-day.
In the more than two years since her husband’s departure, Katherine had been forced to take any job she could find. She had no skills or training. The best she could do was work at a laundry and clean people’s houses on the side just to scrape by. She moved into a cheap, shabby apartment, and she and the girls survived on meager meals, mostly of soup and bread.
The apartment was small. It had a cozy little living room, which also served as a bedroom. Beside the living room was a small kitchen. The apartment was small, but big enough for Katherine’s small family. The drab wallpaper was shabby and torn, but she had repaired it. She had rehabilitated the tattered window shades with hand-stitched linens—a neighbor had taught her to sew and given her some used linens that were still in decent shape. The floor was bare and made of worn dark wood, covered here and there with small patches of well-worn carpet. Katherine had one small desk and an overstuffed couch in front of a small coal stove where a fireplace had once been. But everything was clean and smelled fresh. She insisted on that.
But now, this war was bombing what little Katherine had into oblivion. Shattered glass from the blown-out windows was on everything. She got up from the kitchen chair, walked over to a broken window and looked out. The horizon was ablaze, and the bells of the fire trucks racing to the fires rang out. Smoke rose into the night sky, hiding the stars. She thought she was looking at hell.
“What do we do now?” Katherine whispered to herself. “And how am I going to do it?”
Winter was approaching. Some snowflakes drifted past the window.
Chapter 2
Evening of the Next Day
The next evening, after the children had gone to bed, the neighbors downstairs had finished arguing, and the young couple upstairs had finished making love, Katherine settled into the quiet of the apartment. Rain began to fall, gently tapping on the covered windows. A waning moon shown through cracks in the window coverings. The iron hearth, with its red coals, glowed in the dim living room. Katherine had gotten paid that day and was able to make rent, so she felt that for now, she and her children had a home.
The calm and quiet seemed to soothe Katherine’s tired soul. She wrapped herself up in a thin shawl and sat down at her desk. Most of her writing was done in the evenings after she returned from work and the children were in bed. Several articles in the process of being finished lay on her desk. With no typewriter, everything was in her elegant handwriting. She mourned the loss of her favorite pen and wondered if the one she had found at the antiques store would have the same satisfying feel.
Katherine raised her head and sat back in the chair. The candle she had lit earlier had gone out. She reached for the desk lamp and turned it on just to see if it was working yet. No light.
“Of course, the electricity is still out. Wonder when they will get that fixed?”
Katherine got up and shuffled into the kitchen where she fumbled with a drawer, pulled it open, and found some matches. Then she opened a cabinet door and brought out another candle. She struck a match and it flamed to life. The bright burst of light made her wince. She lit the candle and dripped some wax onto a saucer. She stuck the candle into the melted wax and held it until it stood up on its own.
Taking the candle, Katherine surveyed the kitchen, started to open the icebox, and thought better of it.
“No. Best to keep the cold inside as long as possible,” she said to herself. Katherine often talked to herself when the girls were asleep. It quelled the loneliness.
She found some bread and butter, sat down in a chair at the kitchen table, and began to eat.
“Tea, that is what I need!” she said out loud to no one in particular. She got up from the table, grabbed the tea kettle, put it under the tap, and filled it with water.
“Well, at least that is working.”
Katherine set it on the stove. Striking a match, she brought it over to the burner and turned on the knob. She heard the hiss and then a flame burst from the burner.
“Yes!” she smiled. And then as she watched, the flame of the burner slowly diminished and went out.
“Damn.” She put her hands on her hips and a frown flew across her face.
“Did the Germans destroy the bloody gas pipes too?”
Disappointed, Katherine turned off the burner and sat back down on the kitchen chair. She put her elbow on the table and her chin in her hand. She looked over at her desk.
“Well, might as well try writing by candlelight.”
Katherine got up, picked up the candle, went over to her desk, and sat down.
“Oh, just a moment. Where is the new pen?”
In all the excitement the night before, Katherine hadn’t even taken the pen out of her purse. Odd, really, she thought since she had been quite keen to examine it more closely. She quickly found her purse and returned to her desk to sit down. She reached into her purse for the pen.
As her hand touched the pen’s case, a warmth spread up her arm. It was soothing—not frightening, but comforting. Startled, Katherine let go of the box and it dropped back into her purse.
The warmth ceased.
No, this is silly, she thought. There is nothing wrong; the pen was already warm from being near the hearth, that’s all.
Katherine reached down into the purse once more and picked up the pen case. The warmth again flowed through her hand and up her arm, gently. She placed the pen case on top of several unfinished pages. She looked at the case. She felt delighted and smiled.
“It’s a beautiful blue case,” she said out loud to chase away the uneasy, if pleasant feeling.
Katherine felt, not saw, the case smile back at her.
“Oh, my.”
She opened the case and picked up the pen. She felt light-hearted immediately. Her fatigue vanished. She felt compelled to immediately begin writing. Not on the unfinished pages, but a whole new story. She pushed aside the unfinished pages and brought out a brand new, clean white sheet of paper, one of the few she had. They were so expensive.
As Katherine dipped the pen into the inkwell, she noticed it did not take up any ink at all. Her eyebrows went up, but she shrugged, thinking it was already full of ink.
She touched the pen tip to the clean paper and began to write.
In her mind, the words flowed smoothly onto the page in perfect English, forming the opening sentence of a paragraph, the beginning of a story she had thought about writing for some time. As Katherine concentrated on writing, she periodically stopped and raise her head to gather another thought.
However, the pen did not stop.
It kept writing.
Finally roused from her deep thoughts, Katherine quickly looked down at her hand being dragged across the page by the pen. Her eyes widened. The words were unrecognizable.
She tried to make the pen stop writing, but it refused.
“No, no, stop. Write in English! What are you doing?” she asked out loud, a little frightened and somewhat annoyed.
Knocking the other pages and the inkwell on the floor, she took her left hand and grabbed the right, the one the pen held. She pulled on it, trying to hold it still, but it kept on writing until it reached the end of the paper.
Then it stopped.
Katherine lifted her right hand off the paper. She saw the pen’s long stem had cautiously wrapped itself around her wrist and forearm.
“Haaa, aah, aah!” she yelled as she stood up. She shook her hand until the pen unwrapped and fell to the floor. It lay there and straightened out on its own.
She stared at it.
“Mommy, what’s wrong?” Mitsy asked as she sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes.
Katherine went over to the child, sat down on the edge of the bed, and wrapped her arms around her.
“Nothing, honey. It’s all right. Mommy just had a fright. Go back to sleep, darling. Mommy’s all right. Shush now. Lay back down.”
Mitsy nodded and lay back down. She was soon asleep.
Katherine sat on the bed’s edge and stared at the pen laying in the shadows on the floor.
She carefully rose from the bed and quietly cleaned up the spilled ink and strewn papers. She looked at the pen, and with two fingers, gingerly picked it up and placed it in its box. She shut the box quickly so it would not jump out and grab her wrist again.
“This is silly. Maybe it was just my imagination. After all, it has been a dramatic couple of days!”
Katherine decided to try to use the pen again. She sat back down in her chair in front of the desk and opened a drawer. She pulled out a new sheet of paper and placed it on the desktop. Her eyes caught the dull blue of the pen case sitting on the desk. She reached over and picked up the case. It felt warm and inviting to her touch. She relaxed, smiled, and opened the box. Inside, the pen looked to her like a gift ready to be picked up and used.
Katherine reached inside the box, took the pen out with her right hand, and closed the box with her left. She set the closed box carefully down on the desk and brought her right hand over to the paper. As she touched the paper with the pen tip, it gently began to wrap itself around her wrist and forearm. Her eyes widened in wonder—not in fright, but in curiosity—knowing this same thing had just happened minutes ago.
The pen began to write.
“I must be asleep,” Katherine said to herself as she watched it write. “I sat down at the desk after a long day and fell fast asleep. That’s what it is.”
Katherine pinched herself, but the pen kept scratching across the page.
“A deep, persistent sleep,” she said to herself. “May as well see where it takes me.”
Katherine let the words flow out of the pen hour after hour, on sheet after sheet of paper. The candle burned low, and her eyes began to get heavy. Her head nodded forward, and her chin touched her chest. The pen continued to write.
When the clock struck midnight, the candle went out.
The pen stopped.
The words began to lift off the paper, to swirl in the air.
Then they entered Katherine’s head through her right temple like a train disappearing into a tunnel.
She began to dream.
***
Katherine was standing in a thick, white fog. When it began to clear, she found herself in a small room with stone walls and a timbered ceiling. The walls were hung with paintings and tapestries. One tapestry depicted rolling green hills with some sheep. Another had Jesus Christ holding a staff, looking down upon some kneeling shepherds. The room was lit here and there with tall wooden columns holding large candles. In one wall, a big stone fireplace burned brightly. The fireplace threw light that danced against the walls, sending shadows up to the high ceiling. The room felt cold despite the fire. The floor was stone as well, with small, woven carpets scattered about.
Katherine noticed a man dressed in a heavy robe seated before a wide desk. She could just see his right arm and long gray hair draping down his back from her angle, slightly to his right and behind him. Katherine saw him writing, with his thin, bony hand holding a pen that looked familiar.
In fact, it looked exactly like the pen she had found at the antiques store.
How odd, she thought.
As Katherine watched the man write, a grave male voice began to speak in her head. She looked around the room to see if someone was speaking to her, but she only saw the old man. The words seemed somehow to be a language she had once known, but they were pronounced differently and did not readily translate until she started concentrating on what was being said.
I am Francois Jacques LaMar, a Grand Master of the Templar Order, writing in the year of our Lord 1347. As I am of advanced age and know not how much longer the Lord will permit me to stay here on earth, I will lay down on these pages an account of the discharge of my last duties for others to know. I was given a great responsibility—that of keeping the heart, wisdom, and treasures of the Templar Knights out of the reach of the greedy King Philip. His unprovoked attack on Friday, October 13th[SBP1] in the year of our Lord 1307 slew many of my fellows in search of our treasures.
I had dispatched many to scatter some of our treasures among the Priory so the king might be satisfied in his plan. I will relate herein as to the entrusting to God of the remaining treasure and hold to the hope that other brethren who will be guided by his Holy Eye to retrieve it will use it to serve the people of Christ….
We hold a much greater treasure in our hearts and our heads, and the king cannot take them, or suck them dry with taxes. In our hearts, we hold God and God’s great love of all creation, including our meager selves. In our heads, we hold the wisdom of the Templar Knights. I will relate this wisdom as I learned it on my journey to the honored station of Grand Master.
I was born to Artois LaMar and Elione Disimer, Duke and Duchess of Cluny, in Burgundy that my father governed in the year of our Lord 1257. I did not want for anything. I was handsome, wealthy, and spoiled.
***
Katherine’s vision clouded over, then became clear again. She found herself standing in the courtyard of a small castle. She watched as a young Francois wielded a sword against a much larger and fiercer-looking man. She felt, rather than knew, it was the narrator as a boy.
The sun beat down on Katherine’s head, causing her to wince at its brightness. She put a hand over her eyes to shield them. She did not notice she was standing among others who were watching the battle. She tried to get into the shade of the courtyard wall and stepped back onto the foot of a man who was watching.
“Ouch!” he yelled.
“Oh, sorry,” Katherine said.
The man looked about, and not seeing Katherine, punched the shoulder of another man nearby.
The man he punched shoved him in return and rubbed his shoulder. They both turned their attention back to the fight.
How odd, Katherine thought. He didn’t see me? Of course not! This is just a dream.
The air was thick and she smelled the summer grass and flower blossoms. She could hear the clang of the swords as they met in the battle. The narration in her mind continued.
My father, being of a military rank, had the best swordsmen teach me how to use the sword in single combat and with several men at once. I also learned the bow, horseback riding, care of the horse, and the equipment of battle such as armor, shield, lance, battle axe, sword, and more. Father fully intended that I follow in his footsteps.
***
The scene shifted again and Katherine saw Francois being cruel to other boys of about the same age and younger. She saw the young bully being smug and indifferent to the boys’ pleadings and pain. She did not like this young man at all.
I would bully younger boys and others my age, dominating them with my will.
My friends were few and disingenuous, following me around to pick up any crumbs of a favor I could possibly dispense. Which I did not oft do. I was better than they and did not need to give favor to anyone. I thought the world was mine, and I owned it by virtue of my family’s wealth. All others were of lesser value, and I treated them so. That is what I truly believed at that time in my life.
***
Katherine’s vision blurred white as she heard the narrative renew.
The king was determined to unite all of France under his banner and thus began to assert central authority. My father bent a knee to the king’s wishes, as was right and proper, but conflict arose when the king’s taxes, levied to support his military ventures, became too much to bear for the people he governed. My father protested and was removed from the governorship of his province. My family lost their titles and lands almost overnight.
***
The scene shifted again, and as Katherine regained clarity, Francois continued his narration. Katherine saw the young Francois and his family riding in a carriage, leaving his home with a few wagons full of goods and a few armed men on horseback. She saw them ride away as she stood there outside of their home.
We had to flee the province with what belongings we could carry because we knew the next step was to have my father cast into the king’s dungeon.
***
The vision blurred and cleared again as Katherine saw Francois, with his mother and father living in a small, dirty cottage with broken shutters and rags for curtains. She could smell the dust and the filth. She moved through the cottage and stumbled over some broken crockery strewn on the floor.
“Oops,” she uttered, as she caught herself from falling by grabbing a support timber covered in black soot from the fireplace. She quickly covered her mouth with her other hand. But it was too late.
Katherine had been heard.
Francois glanced around the room, as did his mother. They did not see anyone. They shook their heads and assumed it was just wind rattling some branches or another rat scurrying about.
Katherine saw the young Francois’ father in a chair at an old, worn table, with his dirty hair falling down over his face, as he drank from a pottery mug. The drink would drizzle down the sides of his mouth as he gulped it down. By his demeanor, he looked as if he were in a drunken stupor.
Francois continued.
My father sank into depression and turned to mead for solace. He beat me often and treated my mother with malice when she confronted him with his indulgence in drink. I hated him for doing so.
One night, my father, in a drunken rage, set fire to the small cottage we were in, then stood in the doorway, blocking our exit. My mother pleaded with him on her knees to let us flee. He laughed and slapped her down to the floor. I leaped at his throat and squeezed with all the strength my fifteen years could muster. He grabbed me and tossed me outside like a rag as the fire raged.
The roof collapsed upon him and my mother.
Several times, I attempted to run into the flames to rescue my mother, but the neighbors, the heat, and the smoke held me back. All I could do was watch my life burn to the ground.
Katherine found herself standing outside the burning cottage next to Francois. She could feel the heat of the roaring fire and smell the smoke. She saw him drop to his knees, bow his head, and weep.
My parents were gone. My family’s wealth was gone. My inheritance and future title were gone. I had nothing. Those I had bullied and wronged in my youth held no sympathy for my plight. I was alone. Totally alone. I sat down on the ground and wept.
Francois’ narration trailed off. The scene before her grew dark and then black.
***
Words emerged from Katherine’s head and glided down onto the page where they had come from, silently settling down, perfectly, just as they had been written. The pen unwrapped itself from her forearm and lay on the desktop.
Katherine woke with a start and saw she was still sitting at her desk.
Wow, what a dream! she thought with a puzzled look on her face.
Glancing up at the clock, she saw it was three in the morning. Looking down at the desktop, she saw the pen laying straight on the desk next to her hand but still on one of the pages as if it had run out of space to write on.
Several pages written in an old-fashioned script of some dead language were strewn about. The writing looked a bit familiar, but Katherine could not read it.
Maybe it’s Latin? she thought.
Katherine began to shuffle through the pages. On one, she found a bit she had begun to write in English, and she saw the sentences change from her familiar script to the old writing that covered most of the pages. Her eyebrows went up.
How odd? I wonder, are they real words, or was I just scribbling in my sleep? For a moment, Katherine allowed herself to think the impossible. Did the pen write what it wanted to write?
She shook the idea from her head.
No, that’s just too crazy even to entertain. It was just a dream. I was asleep. Of course, my writing is unreadable. Nonetheless, the pen itself may have triggered the dream. I don’t want such a pen.
Katherine decided to return the pen back and exchange it for another. This one was just too strange. She carefully put the pen back in its case and placed the pen case in her purse so she could take it by the store after her workday was done.
Well, I better get to bed. I’ve got a long day tomorrow.
As Katherine got up from the chair to prepare for bed, she noticed her hands were blackened with soot.
Hmm, that’s odd, she thought as she looked at her hands. Where did that come from?
