Hello there.
Thank you so much for joining me for this reading of Moonlight at Mastawis.
First of all,
I would like to apologise for having been rather quiet here on Insight Timer for the past few months if you're following along in real time.
There is a very good reason for it though.
I have been working on this book for about a year and a half and it's finally finished and I'm so excited to share this with you.
So Moonlight at Mistawis is my unofficial fan-written sequel to Lucy Maud Montgomery's delightful 1926 novel The Blue Castle.
The Blue Castle is the most popular of my readings here on Insight Timer.
If you haven't heard it before,
You can certainly look for that and listen to the full story if you'd like.
Although you absolutely don't have to in order to be able to enjoy,
Hopefully,
Moonlight at Mastawis.
This has been written so it can be listened to and enjoyed as a standalone novel.
In case you're not familiar with the Blue Castle,
Very briefly it is the story of Valancy Sterling,
Who is a quiet,
Unmarried woman who's spent most of her life being controlled by her overbearing family.
And she gets an unexpected diagnosis that convinces her that her life will probably be very short.
And she finally starts living life on her own terms and her life goes in a very different direction from there.
And now this book,
Moonlight at Mastawis,
Picks up on that story several years later.
There are 28 chapters altogether for this book.
I'm so excited to start sharing them here with you.
I know in my own life these kind of stories,
Sleep stories,
Have been invaluable for me.
For getting great rest.
That's why I wanted to start recording and sharing these stories with people.
And especially during those times in our lives when things can maybe feel harsh,
Challenging.
I hope that these stories reach out to people and offer a sense of comfort and soothing and old-fashioned sweet times that can maybe help people to get through the more challenging times in their own lives.
So,
For now,
Let's just take a moment here to have a nice,
Deep exhale.
Letting go of the day.
Letting go of whichever baggage we might be bringing along with us into this moment.
For right now,
There's nowhere else we have to go,
Nothing else we have to be doing.
So we can just relax,
Get ourselves comfortable,
And enjoy the first installment of Moonlight at Misdarwis.
Chapter 1 The Thor at Misdarwis There had been a time,
Not so very long ago,
When Valancy had not known what it was to wake up happy.
Now she woke joyfully with the breeze.
It sifted through the pine boughs outside the window,
Soft,
Familiar sighing,
Like a page being turned somewhere in the forest.
The curtain,
Faded and forget-me-not blue,
Lifted at the corners with the lightest breath.
A slant of morning sunlight moved across the floorboards and over a scatter of pine needles left by a husband who had allegedly wiped his boots this time.
Valanci.
No,
Moonlight,
As she was more often called in this beloved house of two,
Stretched her arms,
Her legs,
And the delicious quiet inside her heart.
It was the kind of morning that settled into her bones before she even opened her eyes.
Were home.
It had been just over a year and a half since they'd left Mastawis,
In a whirl of laughter,
Clattering trunks,
And a sense of daring that still felt intoxicating.
They had promised themselves only six months abroad,
Maybe eight,
But one place had led to another,
One marvel to the next,
Until seasons changed,
Hair grew longer,
Shoes wore thin and maps grew soft at the folds.
Now,
Barely four weeks back,
They were still readjusting to the rhythms of Mistarwis Island life.
Life without hotel bells or foreign train timetables,
Life with pine smoke and loons,
And the eternal tickling of water on stone.
They moved through the cottage like people relearning a familiar dance.
Barney kept bumping his hip against the corner of the kitchen counter.
Valancy had forgotten which floorboard near the hearth always creaked when you didn't want it to.
But the scent of spruce,
The lapping of water against the dock,
The flicker of lamplight on old wood.
Some things never changed.
Their hearts,
Too,
Were relearning the tempo.
There was a quiet intimacy to returning.
Home.
Not just to a place,
But to something in themselves that had waited here,
Like a book left open mid-chapter.
Their travels had taken them farther than Balancy had ever dared dream.
In her tiny deerwood bedroom.
They had wandered through Greece and Rome,
Along the Nile.
Beneath the shadow of minarets in Cairo.
In apple blossom time,
They had motored through Normandy,
Gallantly losing their way more often than either of them ever admitted.
In Sicily,
They lay on warm hillsides and counted the stars.
They climbed narrow lanes in the Scottish Highlands where the heather was just beginning to stir.
And walked among stone circles older than memory.
In Istanbul,
They followed the scent of spices through the grand bazaar.
And lingered over coffee in tiled courtyards.
They were rained on in Lucerne,
Windblown in Venice,
And unexpectedly swept into a village festival somewhere in Spain,
In a place whose name neither of them could pronounce.
They travelled lightly,
Laughed often,
And lived like people making up for lost time.
They scribbled postcards brimming with wonder.
Lingered over hand-woven hats at sunlit stalls and ate peaches so ripe the juice ran down their wrists.
And yet,
Miss Starwyce had never left them.
It was home now,
Completely and unquestionably,
To both of them.
The cats,
Banjo and Good Luck,
Were sprawled on the sun-warmed windowsill like a painting of household chaos.
Banjo,
Grey and striped and gorgeously disreputable,
Snored with the steady assurance of someone who had never once doubted they belonged exactly where they were.
Good Luck,
Slender and solemn,
Gazed at the treetops with his usual air of contemplation,
As though deeply considering the state of the world,
Yet unwilling to make a fuss about it.
But Lancey watched them with affection.
My fuzzy philosophers,
She murmured.
She'd missed them more than she'd let herself admit while they were gone.
Letters from cousin Georgiana had told her how they were faring,
Yes,
But Nothing could quite replace the warm,
Breathing weight of a cat in your lap.
Or the peculiar comfort of being ignored by a creature who loved you deeply and would show it in no visible way.
Outside,
The lake was just beginning to give up its ice.
The surface looked like glass,
Held at the moment of shattering.
Long cracks shimmering like silver veins beneath the rising sun.
The air had the sharp,
Cold promise of March's end,
With just a whisper of April behind it.
There was a hush to the world that only came during Thor.
The trees held their breath.
The lake stirred without speaking.
Even the crows were tentative,
As if nature itself were uncertain of the next line in its script.
A tapping at the window startled her.
She turned quickly and saw one of the two crows,
Nip or tuck,
She was never quite sure,
Perched on the sill.
Peering in with what could only be described as indignation.
Late again,
Are we?
She said aloud.
The crow fluffed its feathers,
Turned one beady eye towards her,
And then launched itself back into the blue.
Leaving behind a smear of damp claw prints.
The crows had reappeared two days ago,
From whatever snowy corner they'd haunted all winter.
Resuming their post in the tall pine near the point,
Like they owned the place.
One of them had dropped a snail shell on the roof the previous morning.
And Banjo had treated it as a personal declaration of war.
Barney had taken the canoe to the mainland earlier that morning.
We're down to half a tin of tea and no soap,
He had announced in his most tragic voice,
Standing barefoot in the kitchen,
Which I believe constitutes a domestic emergency.
One of his uneven eyebrows rose gravely.
You just want an excuse to go to town and talk to Fiddlehead Mike,
She'd teased.
And if I do.
.
.
The man has an aura of.
.
.
Mystery.
And dirt under his fingernails.
I admire him.
She'd sent him off with a list,
A kiss,
And the quiet confidence that he'd come back with three unnecessary tins of sardines and some inexplicable purchase that he'd be very pleased about.
She stoked the fire,
Fed the cats,
And brewed a pot of what she insisted on calling Witch's Tea.
A dubious concoction of peppermint spruce tips,
Dried rose hips and whatever optimism she found in the cupboard.
Then she stood by the west-facing window and soaked in the day.
The morning light touching her short black hair and small pointed face.
Her dark eyes with their curious upward slant were especially bright.
There were birch trees in bud,
Damp moss reclaiming the path,
And a squirrel conducting a determined campaign against the woodpile.
The lake,
Stirred and glinted by.
Somewhere across the water came the haunting cry of a loon,
Thin,
Sorrowful and lovely.
She'd dreamed of days like this once,
Back in Deerwood,
Curled in her bed with old books and older fears.
She'd imagined a place of her own.
Her beloved.
Blue castle.
Where she could live unafraid and be utterly herself.
But this reality,
This quiet,
Fragrant,
Wood-smoked happiness.
Was even better.
Than dreams.
She.
Was happy.
And so.
.
.
Of course.
Something.
Had to happen.
Barney returned just before noon,
Whistling tunelessly as he clambered up from the dock.
His tawny hair windblown and his arms full of supplies.
He dropped his burdens on the kitchen table with a flourish.
Soap,
Tea,
A newspaper two weeks out of date,
A mystery novel involving spies and pigeons,
And a tin of red paint.
"'You'll see,
' he said,
Tapping the paint with the air of someone preparing to unveil a surprise masterpiece.
Valancy raised an eyebrow.
"'A new art movement?
Miss Starwyce modernism?
' Barney grinned.
"'Better.
A bold architectural improvement.
I'm thinking.
.
.
The outhouse door.
She laughed and kissed his cheek.
He handed her a final item.
A single envelope.
Pale,
Creased.
Addressed in a neat,
Upright hand that seemed to apologize for existing.
Valancy read the name.
And felt a small uneasiness stir within her.
Cousin Georgiana Sweet,
Shy,
Spinsterish Georgiana.
Who had looked after Banjo and Good Luck while they were away.
Tending to them with a gentle fretfulness and writing faithfully about them.
Her letters had arrived with regularity.
Small missives from a world Valancy had half forgotten.
Full of minor dramas about banjo's moods,
Good luck's fussiness over unfamiliar scraps,
And conjecture about whether or not the cats might be missing their home.
She had always seemed like a wisp of a woman.
Easily overlooked at sterling gatherings,
Sandwiched in silence between louder aunts and pompous uncles,
And yet,
In her own tentative way,
She had a sturdiness.
A kind of quiet persistence that Valanci had come to respect and appreciate.
Valancy smiled despite herself.
Georgiana's letters also invariably contained at least one death.
Two illnesses and a highly detailed account of somebody's funeral arrangements.
For years,
Balancy had privately suspected that cousin Georgiana regarded bereavements as other women regarded garden parties.
Melancholy,
Certainly,
But socially stimulating.
She wondered whose burial might be catalogued in this latest missive.
And felt her usual inward flicker of gratitude that Dr.
Trent's solemn prophecy of her own early death had failed so thoroughly to materialise.
And she had not yet become the star of another soft-voiced tragedy in Georgiana's collection.
Barney had already vanished outside.
Something about a theory involving the crows,
His missing glove and possible sabotage?
So Valanci took the letter to the window seat and opened it slowly.
The birches outside stood like sentries.
The lake whispered along the shore.
Dearest Valancy I hope this finds you well.
And I suppose I must hope it finds you at all,
Given your habit of vanishing into the woods like some sort of romantic heroine.
I didn't want to trouble you when you'd only just returned.
I thought it best to let you settle in again.
And give dearest banjo and good luck.
Time to reassert their authority.
I do hope the boys are doing well.
I must ask.
A favour.
Not for myself,
You must believe that,
But for someone.
.
.
Poo cannot ask it herself.
I wouldn't write if it weren't important.
If you can come to Deerwood.
.
.
Even for a day or two.
I would be ever so grateful.
It's about your.
.
.
Cousin.
Olive.
She may not think she needs you,
But.
.
.
I believe.
She does.
Ever yours.
Georgiana.
P.
S.
Before I forget,
Mrs.
Weatherby's funeral was last Thursday.
It was quite a day.
Beautifully arranged.
Though I do think her son chose rather unfortunate flowers.
Still,
One cannot expect everyone to have an eye for such things.
Valancy shook her head gently,
Folded the letter slowly along its original crease and tucked it into her cardigan pocket.
Her fingers lingered there a moment.
Of course,
She knew about Cecil.
Everyone knew.
Small towns didn't need telegrams or headlines.
News moved in the hush between pews.
In the halls at the post office.
Cousin Olives lengthy engagement to Cecil.
Quietly unraveled.
While Valanci and Barney were abroad.
No fireworks,
No accusations,
Just a cooling,
A slow fade.
A silence loud enough to echo.
Valanci had been surprised.
Olive had always wanted something grander than deerwood.
And Cecil.
Clever.
Handsome.
And very much one of the Port Lawrence prices.
Had seemed such a promising match.
He'd just finished his studies in civil engineering when they got engaged.
And the wedding had been planned for the moment he secured a contract.
Yet.
There had always been something that seemed slightly.
.
.
Unreal about it all.
As though olive were staging happiness.
Rather than actually living it.
But Lancey couldn't say what had changed.
Only that something must have.
The hope chest,
The heirloom veil,
The exquisite trousseau.
What became of all that?
What Valancy really didn't know was how Olive had borne the unravelling.
For a moment.
Unexpectedly.
Old deerwood feelings stirred like ghosts within her.
Olive.
Beautiful olive.
Capable olive.
Olive.
With her smooth golden hair,
Peaches and cream complexion,
And superior little smile,
With an air of having been born knowing exactly how life ought to be arranged.
Valancy could not remember a time when she had not been compared to her.
Olive sat properly.
Olive danced gracefully.
Olive certainly never said peculiar things at the dinner table.
Olive could be counted on to be sensible.
And reliable.
And uphold the sacred family traditions.
Olive had bows galore.
Olive would make a splendid match someday.
According to her doting mother,
Aunt Wellington.
Who always spoke as if arranging marriages were a branch of military service.
And then there was Valanci.
Awkward,
Unattractive,
Timid,
Downtrodden little Valancy.
Forever saying the wrong thing or,
More often,
Nothing at all.
The family had always discussed her,
Over her head and around her,
With the sort of detached concern people reserved for disappointing weather.
Olive herself had never been openly cruel in any dramatic way towards Valancy.
That would almost have been easier to bear.
It was the little things.
The dancing amusement in her eyes,
The whispered side comments,
The effortless exclusions.
Olive,
Had possessed the remarkable ability to make Valancy feel childish and insignificant merely by entering a room.
Although Valancy was the Elder,
By a year or so,
When they were girls,
Valancy had trailed hopefully around after Olive more than once,
Only to realise that.
.
.
She was being tolerated.
Rather than want it.
And yet.
Sitting there now with Georgiana's letter in her lap.
And the lake murmuring softly beyond the window.
Balancy found the old pain strangely faded around the edges now.
She only wondered,
With a sudden,
Curious ache.
Whether Olive herself had ever truly been.
Happy.
Inside all that.
Perfection.
Barney came back inside.
Gloveless.
Muddy.
And radiating satisfaction.
He carried a half-eaten currant bun and a broken pine bough he was convinced was shaped like Newfoundland.
She handed him the letter,
Wordlessly.
He glanced at the envelope,
Then at her face.
His smile faltered,
Replaced by a flicker of concern.
"'What's this about?
' he asked,
Brow creasing as he took the paper.
"'Cousin Georgiana,
' she said softly.
About Olive.
Barney read the letter.
You're going?
She nodded.
I think I ought to.
He studied her for a moment.
Then gave a small Thoughtful nod.
Do you want me to come with you?
No,
She said.
Not yet,
But thank you.
He set the pine bough reverently on the table.
And placed a small paper twist of maple sugar beside it.
Then he kissed her forehead.
Banjo stretched and yawned in approval.
Outside,
One of the crows gave a single rasping caw.
That night,
There was moonlight at Mystawis.
It spilled across the dock like silk,
And shimmered on the black,
Breathing lake.
Valancy stood at the edge of it,
Shaw wrapped around her shoulders,
Eyes lifted to the moon's slow arc.
The air was still and full of listening.
Just for a little while,
" she said softly to the stars.
Moonlight.
Will come.
