Direville
Lina Dee
First mystical collections of 9 short stories by LINA DEE about the life of a fantasy city in Western Europe in the first half of the XX century.Direville is an ordinary – even though a bit strange – town – woven out of mysteries that don’t meet the eye of a chance observer who would most likely note a dire presence speaking through the town’s blissful ambiance at a closer look…Author and producer of project – Lina DeeIllustrator – Monaskrel’artTranslated by H. Borodina & I. Stepashkin
Direville
Lina Dee
© Lina Dee, 2021
ISBNВ 978-5-0051-7663-9
Created with Ridero smart publishing system
DIREVILLE
ByВ LinaВ Dee
Edited byВ Helen Borodina
Translated byВ Helen Borodina & Igor Stepashkin
Illustrated byВ Monaskrel`art
“Direville” is a collection of 9 short stories about the life of a fantasy city in Western Europe in the first half of the XX century.
Direville is an ordinary – even though a bit strange – town – woven out of mysteries that don’t meet the eye of a chance observer who would most likely note a dire presence speaking through the town’s blissful ambiance at a closer look…
Each person living there is unusual, and has aВ special part toВ play inВ the life ofВ the community.
However, everyone in Direville – like anywhere else in the world – has their vices, is tormented by fears and is driven by passions.
Life seems quite measured when suddenly, the people’s unusual abilities seem to vanish: no one senses the approaching danger that knocks on their door on the day of the city’s annual Festival.
Her hand had aВ life ofВ itsВ own
She slowly stretched out her hand, the swaying palm opening like aВ fan, starting with the pointing finger.
The fingers, long and well-groomed, with nails ofВ aВ scarlet shade that was aВ perfect match toВ that ofВ her lipstick, tickled the air, recoiling as the forearm pulled the palm back, and froze inВ an indefinite gesture.
The Doll – who was in perfect control over her independent hand – had an incredible fancy for Hollywood chic that she proudly paraded, with her elegant silver dress reaching the floor, and the gorgeous waves of crispy locks falling over her shoulders. Her arched eyebrows perfectly matched the curve of the upper lip, and immaculate eye-liner, interplaying with the thick eyelashes, made her gaze magnetic.
The girl looked like a porcelain figurine on top of a music box as she stood by the window in the same position for hours on end, waiting for something – or someone – perhaps, her Puppet Master, while life pulled at her threads.
At such times, she was very quiet. Her head slightly bent to the side, she listened to the ticking of the clock as she watched its gilded arrows move. She considered this an activity that had a sacred meaning – but what that meaning was exactly, she hadn’t been able to figure out for years. Her milk – white skin, free of wrinkles or bruises, was immaculate.
Approaching her dressing table, she would meet her own reflection in the mirror as if it were someone else – with arrogance and pride. Her manner never changed, as if she was aware of something no one else had any knowledge about…
Someone knocked on the door. The Hollywood Doll turned her head and slowly stretched out her hand, letting the swaying palm open like a fan, starting with the pointing finger, and reached to open the door… But then, stopped, uncertain…
AВ dwarf inВ aВ box
The sea storm has started; the wind raged, and the waves tumbling over each other reached over twenty feet inВ height.
No ships, vessels, or liners could be seen from the shore – only enormous water giants threatening to swallow the flickering beacon again and again.
The wind pushed the waves onto the sand toВ lick away the remaining footsteps. The family that had left them were hurrying home, away from the onsetting storm.
Two little girls were running ahead of two adults. Their loose overalls swung in the wind that filled them like sails and made the children’s hair dance.
Their mother inВ aВ tight lilac dress ran after, her thick long wavy hair gathered into aВ braid. Playfully chasing her daughters, she laughed, happy that finally their family had managed toВ spend aВ free day together.
The pensive father walked quickly behind the three. He was aВ zeppelin pilot. Even off duty, he had his blue uniform on. His jacket was adorned with golden buttons and emblems; he was wearing his service cap, too. Looking adoringly at his wife and daughters, he thought ofВ his own childhood.
The pilot’s name was Peter, his wife’s, Stephanie, and their daughters, – Rosa and Vera.
The wind wouldn’t cease. They were about to start ascending the slope when the wind snatched the father’s blue cap off his head. Making a circle in the air, it landed in the nearby bushes.
Startled, Peter put his hands over his head, while his daughters ran, overtaking each other, toВ get theВ cap.
AВ roar ofВ thunder came from the distance, and aВ seagull flying over their heads let out aВ series ofВ hysterical cries into the darkeningВ sky.
Happy as they were about the day so well spent, now they couldn’t wait to return to the safety of their home and get warm.
Wet splashes weren’t licking the necks, arms and other open parts of their bodies with their cold tongues anymore, but the rain that had begun threatened to turn into a shower at any moment.
The eight-year old Rosa, slipping awkwardly, stretched out on the wet grass, trying toВ get the cap that was now inВ her reach.
She had a big scratch on her elbow, and was on the verge of tears as she rose from the ground, her father’s cap in her hand – but suddenly, a dirty box that lay on its side deeper in the bushes caught her attention.
Rosa slowly approached the object. She suddenly wanted toВ know what it could contain. She squatted, grabbed the box, opened it just enough toВ see inside, and discovered aВ cellulose toy dwarf.
– A little dwarf! – she exclaimed, happy at the find, forgetting all about the scratch on her arm and even her Dad’s cap.
Once colourful, the dwarf, now covered in soil and sludge, had been obviously brought by the sea – but how did it get to that place so far from the shore?
– Perhaps, some big dog brought it here… – Vera, who was two years older Rosa, suggested. She carefully checked her sister’s clothes, and also started looking at the dwarf, wondering how it could have gotten into those bushes, and who had owned it before.
There was something unusual about the dwarf, and the girls sensedВ it.
If not for the strong wind, the gathering darkness and the unraveling storm, the girls would hardly have succeeded in persuading their parents to allow them to take the dwarf home: the adults disliked the idea, saying that whoever it had been that had thrown the toy away, simply hadn’t bothered to go all the way to the trash heap. However, the father decided, that, since his daughters wanted the dwarf so much, they were to wash it and get rid of the box in the morning – on that condition, it could stay and share a shelf with the other toys in their room.
As the family reached home, the children, tired, cold, and soaked toВ the bone, took the box toВ their bedroom toВ clean the dwarf right after they would wakeВ up.
Before going toВ bed, Rosa and Vera checked on the dwarf aВ number ofВ times each, fearing that, like aВ naughty kitten, it could disappear unless properly looked after.
Hours into the night the wind finally began toВ subside. Soon the storm was over, the sea had calmed, and aВ full blood moon came out toВ shine inВ the black nightВ sky.
Vera muttered something inВ her sleep and turned over toВ the other side.
More time passed.
The box rustled; a bright amber light with a scarlet shade enveloped it; the lid lifted, and the dwarf, now alive, climbed out. The little fairy-tale man checked his hazel-colored hat, took a quick nimble stroll about the house, and, returning to the children’s bedroom, hurried to the window, the heels of his tiny dirty boots tapping on the floor as he walked. Reaching the wall, the dwarf sneezed and, shaking off the remaining dust and sludge, jumped up on the windowsill.
Pushing the frame, the dwarf paused, yawned lazily, and then, hopped out. He had toВ get back toВ the shore while the Blood Moon still shone, for it was that very night when he could cross the vast sea, return toВ his ship, and avenge himself on the young sailor boy who had thrown him aboard.
The morning came.
The first rays of the sun touched the children’s beds and danced on the walls.
Rosa, who was the first toВ wake up, ran at once toВ the box. Not finding the dwarf inside, she noticed tiny footprints and chunks ofВ sludge on the floor, leading toВ the crack-open window.
Rosa cried bitterly, pressing the box toВ herself, and her sister awoke, hearing the noise.
– We’ll be waiting for you! – Vera said as she approached the window and put her arms around her little sister’s shoulders.
– We won’t close the window, I promise! – Rosa added softly.
Rosa and Vera stood by the window, greeting the new day. Their parents were, apparently, still in their beds, the house wasn’t filled with the smell of cinnamon rolls and hot chocolate the girls were used to waking up to.
The morning smelled ofВ theВ sea.
An old woman inВ aВ grayВ hat
IВ had heard many different things about her. Some people said she was aВ dark witch who cursed entire families; others revered her as aВ herb-wife, aВ healer who had helped many toВ recover from different ailments. Yet no one living inВ Direville would venture toВ visit her old cottage that stood on the edge ofВ the town, byВ the forest, without aВ good reason.
At any time of the year, the old woman wore a large gray hat with shabby brims, her messy gray-haired curls sticking from under it. Her gaze that sometimes showed was heavy, her brown eyes were always tearing, perhaps from old age; her skinny body and face were covered in wrinkles that gathered on her cheeks, around the thin lips, and on the arms. The old woman’s dresses were always dark; her stretched knitted jackets and woolen shawls, rather worn. Little twigs, leaves and even burdock thistles hung on her clothes and hair. She could rarely be seen smiling, but people said that her teeth were crooked, yellow and ugly.
She led an unremarkable life, spending most of her time in the forest with a wicker basket, gathering stems, leaves and roots of plants, berries and mushroom, picking up bird feathers, and, it was rumoured, corpses of small animals, too, – or worked in the garden and brewed new potions in her kitchen.
She rarely attended public places, and only if she had a need to. I often saw her at Saturday food markets, where my parents sold the best goat cheese and milk in the county. She’d buy those from us, meat, from old Albert, and then, went to the other rows, where she also bought something – always from the same merchants. I ran away from our stall and followed her, as if hypnotized, but always kept at a distance, or acted as if I was going my own course, knowing how important it was to remain unnoticed. Loading her shopping on the back of a clunky bicycle, she always hurried to leave the market before it got filled with people.
***
