Hello there.
Thank you so much for joining me for this continued reading of Moonlight at Misdarwis.
This is my unofficial,
Fan-written,
Independent sequel to The Blue Castle,
Which was published exactly 100 years ago,
Back in 1926,
By Canadian author Lucy Maud Montgomery.
Montgomery never wrote a sequel to The Blue Castle,
And so here we are,
A hundred years later,
And this is my version of a sequel.
I do hope you've been enjoying it,
If you've been listening along.
We have somehow actually reached the penultimate chapter here.
Believe it or not,
This is chapter 27 of 28.
If you somehow haven't yet heard the preceding parts,
You can certainly look for the playlist for Moonlight at Mastawis.
This book is also available as a paperback and an e-book.
And of course,
You can also find my reading of the Blue Castle here on Insight Timer as either a playlist or a long form track.
So for now,
Let's just take a moment here.
To have a nice 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 penultimate installment of Moonlight at Mystawis.
Chapter 27,
A Thousand Shades of Fire.
Dearest cousin Georgiana,
The leaves here have turned to a thousand shades of fire.
When the sun drops behind the ridge and the lake grows still,
The maples seem to flame all the brighter,
As though they were lit from within.
I thought once that life had given me all it meant to give.
A small circle of dull days.
A dreary routine of silences and sighs.
Yet now.
My days are so full,
And my heart so rich beyond measure,
That I can only sit in wonder at what has come to me.
I must thank you,
Too,
For that little nudge you gave me in the spring concerning Olive.
I don't think either of us could have guessed what would come of it.
We?
Are better friends now than I ever imagined we might be.
Almost like sisters sometimes,
I feel.
And I miss her dreadfully about the island.
As for Eliza Gray and her brood,
You would scarcely know the little cottage now.
It is noisy,
Untidy,
And thoroughly alive.
And I find I like it all the better for that.
There always seems to be a child underfoot and something happening that nobody has planned for.
I come away from there oddly reassured.
Olive's sketch of their cottage remains above the hearth in pride of place,
Just as at our house.
The youngest points to theirs every morning with great pride.
I do adore them all.
Barney's book,
Too,
Has grown apace.
His desk is covered in sheets of paper,
Scribbled in his wild hand.
Sometimes he hums as he writes,
And his low tune is truly like the heartbeat of our home.
He read a chapter aloud the other night,
And I confess my awe brought me to tears.
His words carried me into forests I have never seen,
Across hills I may never climb,
Yet I felt them as real as the very breath in me.
He only shrugs when I praise him and goes back to his pages.
As for myself,
I am growing daily.
And I'm very well.
Barney watches me sometimes with such an extraordinary mixture of pride and concern that I have to laugh at him.
I tell him that I have never felt so well or so happy.
I am happy,
Cousin Georgiana.
Happier than I ever thought I could be.
There are moments.
I hardly dare believe it.
Mist drifts over the lake in the morning.
The loons call at dusk.
And my heart says,
As well.
With all affection.
For Lansi.
She laid the letter aside and sat for a moment,
Gazing out of the window.
The sky beyond Misdarwis glowed in fading gold.
Barney had taken to reading his work aloud again.
He would clear his throat with mock solemnity,
Then begin his voice deep and hearty.
The moon is not a lantern hung in the sky.
But a mirror of hidden waters.
When it lifts above the lake,
It is as if another world rises with it.
The waves hush to listen.
The trees lean nearer.
A man,
Alone in his boat,
Feels Less lonely,
Then,
For the silence is not empty,
But full.
The lake does not give back his reflection,
But the moons.
And in that gift,
He learns that life is larger than himself.
If he rose long enough under that silver path.
He may yet find.
That he belongs not to the shore,
But to the shining middle,
Where earth and heaven meet.
When he looked up,
His brows arched as if bracing for her teasing,
But Valancy's eyes brimmed She sat wrapped in a shawl as he read,
Listening without interruption.
Is it very dull?
He asked with a glint in his eye.
Dull,
She echoed.
Bonnie.
.
.
It is like drinking from the lake after a long thirst.
Do you not know that already?
He laughed and tossed the papers aside.
More and more she caught him humming as he wrote,
Little scraps of tunes that threaded through his days.
The cottage was alive with his rhythms.
Outside,
The island slipped further into its autumn beauty.
The maples flamed scarlet and gold,
Then dropped their leaves to whirl in little storms along the paths.
Mist clung low in the mornings and lifted slowly,
As if reluctant to leave.
Valancy kept busy with her quiet tasks,
Yet she found herself pausing often to breathe it all in.
She felt herself growing rounder each week.
And instead of the weakness she had feared,
Found herself stronger than she had expected.
Letters still arrived frequently from Olive,
Sometimes only a page dashed off between classes,
With a sketch scrawled across the margin.
Sometimes a longer letter,
Full of tumbling impressions.
She wrote of new friends at the art school,
And the strangeness of models holding poses that left her stiff from only watching.
The smell of turpentine and charcoal clung to her days,
Yet She said she had never felt more awake.
One letter carried a sketch of her lodgings,
A narrow room with a desk by the window and a vase of late dahlias perched upon it.
Olive wrote,
Aunt Josephine sets porridge before me each morning and I step out into the brisk Toronto air as though the city were a gallery opening just for me.
Another included a swift portrait of a fellow student with a shock of reddish hair.
Valancy admired it with a smile that would not fade.
Cousin Georgiana,
Too,
Wrote back,
Full of tender encouragements.
She rejoiced to hear of Olive's bravery and Valancy's happiness.
She said that she felt younger merely by knowing the two of them were venturing so fully into new lives.
Valancy kept those precious letters,
Tucked into the drawer.
Along with olives,
As a treasured record of a season far too rich to be forgotten.
A few mornings later,
Mastawis woke white with frost.
Valancy woke to find the window panes feathered white at the corners,
And the grass outside silvered almost to the shore.
The fallen maple leaves had stiffened where they lay,
Their reds and yellows dulled beneath a fine crystalline glaze.
Even the dockboards glittered.
Barney came in from outside,
Stamping his boots,
His hair full of cold air and his cheeks ruddy.
We've neglected Windward,
He announced.
Valancy looked up from the porridge she was stirring.
Have we?
Shutter on the lakeside is loose.
Another good wind,
And Olive will come back to find it halfway across the lake.
Olive would consider that.
Very careless of us.
She would write a letter.
A very long one with underlinings.
Valancy smiled and lowered the flame beneath the pot.
By mid-morning,
The sun had climbed high enough to loosen the frost from the branches,
Sending down little showers of droplets whenever the wind stirred them.
Balancy wrapped herself warmly and followed Barney along the path through the trees,
Carrying a basket with a few clean cloths and a bundle of dried lavender that she had decided Windward might as well have.
The little cabin looked strangely withdrawn beneath the thinning branches.
The cedar sign still hung above the doorway in Valancy's lettering,
WINDWOOD,
Though it was a little crooked.
Barney reached up automatically and straightened it.
He set his tools down beneath the lakeside window and crouched to inspect the loose shutter.
Valancy pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The room smelled of cold wood and the faintest lingering trace of olive's face powder.
Nothing had really changed.
The narrow bed stood neatly made beneath its embroidered pillow.
The two bird prints still hung on the wall.
Olive's little striped rug lay crooked beside the bed.
It was odd.
How unmistakably olive the place remained.
There were no dresses hanging from the peg,
No sketchbook lying open on the chair,
No orderly row of hairpins on the sill,
Yet.
Valancy could still picture Olive.
Everywhere.
Sitting primly on the bed,
Complaining of mosquitoes,
Bent over a drawing with charcoal on her fingers,
Appearing at the door in the morning with her hair escaping its pins and pretending she had slept perfectly well.
Outside came the scrape of Barney's screwdriver and a muttered remark,
Apparently intended for the shutter.
Balancy smiled to herself.
And set about making the place tidy.
She folded a loose blanket at the foot of the bed,
Brushed a few pine needles from the sill.
She then bent to straighten the rug and found the movement unexpectedly awkward now.
Her newly rounding middle making itself known.
She straightened with a little laugh.
What happened?
Barney called through the window.
Your child is beginning to interfere with my housekeeping.
Sensible child.
She looked round once more.
There was really very little else to do.
The bed was made,
The bird prints hung straight,
The little rug was back in place.
Empty though it was,
Windward looked less abandoned than merely waiting between visits.
Valancy set the lavender on the shelf beside the bed and loosened the string around it.
She drew the curtains across the windows and stood for another moment.
In the softened light.
Then she stepped outside.
Barney was packing his tools away.
Finished?
She asked.
Unless the North Wind has developed engineering ambitions.
I suppose we shall find out.
He tucked the screwdriver into his bag and held out his hand to her as they stepped away from the cabin.
Behind them,
Windward settled back into the autumnal quiet,
Its curtains drawn,
Its little cedar sign stirring faintly above the door.
They started home through the thinning trees.
By the time they reached the house,
Valancy was ravenous.
This new hunger still amused her.
For weeks,
Eating had felt like a real struggle.
A little toast.
A spoonful of broth.
An apple if she was fortunate.
Now,
She seemed hardly to finish one meal before beginning to wonder about the next.
She stood in the kitchen cutting thick slices of bread while Barney heated the soup.
I could eat twice this much,
" she said.
Barney glanced at the growing pile of bread slices.
Good,
Said Barney.
Making up for lost time,
Valancy reached for the butter.
There was something deeply satisfying about being hungry again.
Soup tasted richer than she remembered soup having any right to taste.
Bread seemed almost miraculous.
And the last of the apple pie.
Disappeared with remarkably little assistance from Barney.
Afterwards,
She sat back with a contented sigh.
That,
She said,
Was excellent.
It was the same soup we had yesterday.
I know.
Later,
He took up his tools and went outside.
For a while,
Valancy heard the rasp of a plane and the light tap of a hammer as she washed the dishes.
Presently,
He came to the door.
Come and look.
For Lancey followed him out.
The crib was really beginning to look like a crib now.
Its little frame stood firm,
The pale wood newly smoothed,
One side still incomplete.
Barney ran his hand along the upper rail,
Feeling for roughness.
Valancy touched it too.
So smooth,
She said.
It had better be.
One corner still needed fitting,
And several pieces lay waiting nearby.
She stood for another moment,
Looking at it with quiet wonder.
It's beautiful Barney.
You're really making it!
Barney glanced at her,
Trying to.
Later,
When the lamps were lit and the frost had begun to whiten the grass again,
Barney went off to Bluebeard's chamber,
With his pages tucked beneath one arm.
Valancy settled near the fire with her sewing,
While Banjo sprawled extravagantly across the warmest part of the rug.
Goodluck was curled snugly against her side,
Purring contentedly.
The kettle began its small,
Cheerful murmur on the stove.
From Bluebeard's chamber came the occasional scrape of Barney's chair,
The opening and shutting of a drawer,
And presently the steady scratch of his pen.
Once he called,
Yes.
Do we have any more pencils?
Second draw.
Ah.
A moment later,
Scratching resumed.
Valanci smiled.
Her hand rested for a moment over the small swell of her middle.
There was bread to make in the morning.
Barney meant to finish another piece for the crib.
There was the last basket of apples to deal with.
And that tear in the kitchen curtain to men before it grew any worse.
She had promised herself she would begin the little knitted jacket tomorrow too.
The fire settled comfortably in the grate.
Banjo twitched in his sleep.
Somewhere outside,
Something small rustled through the fallen leaves.
For Lancey.
Threaded her needle again.
Tomorrow would be busy.
