This Dark Paradise- a collection of dark tales

The Chime Hours #westcountryfantasycontest

I came forth into this world as the bells were ringing. In the hour of monastic prayer, when voices carried out to the Heavens. Psalms and hymns were exchanged for the salvation of souls. I recall darkness slashed open by flashes of lightning weaving patterns in the night sky. I recall the mid-wife whispering a prayer to echo the monks' that had been muffled by the brick walls of their monastery. I heard the prayers in the tolling of the bells, and my mother crying as she held me close to her bosom. Somewhere in the distance the howling of a woodland creature meshed with the other sounds in and around the room.   

When I was three, I stood by the Lincolnshire shore. Waves splashed over my bare feet. The water curved up gracefully then rained down and danced around my toes. Not too far away from me, my mother stood tossing pebbles in the sea. Her long red hair swayed in the breeze, the hem of her floral print skirt was wet from the waves and sticky with sand. I looked up at her and smiled. She held out her hand for me and I ran into her arms. Storm clouds brewed, but we paid no mind. Soon it would be too cold to stand in the salt water and feel droplets on my skin, but I would still be able to kiss the salty tears from my mother's eyes every time she wept.

When I was six, my mother and I stood on the hill near our home and watched as dark clouds drew around the country like a steel curtain, grey and ominous. The wildflowers we had picked bowed their heads in unhappiness, a cluster of yellows and pinks and greens that had hoped for shelter from the nearing rain. We knew that the animals of the forest would be dashing for cover soon, all but the wild dogs that roamed the fields by our home and watched us with their large, glowing eyes. I sometimes asked my mother why they never came close to us when I called them or tempted them with food and she would simply reply that it wasn't time yet. I wanted those dogs to come to me as the sparrows and the squirrels so easily had.

When I was nine, my mother told me how silent I had been the night I was born. That I had lain like a china doll in her arms, motionless and calm. She said I had been the most glorious thing she had ever seen, even more beautiful than the other pale, ethereal children that had stood at the foot of her bed every night of her life. Even more beautiful than the six babies she had held before me that had been born just as still. My mother told me that since I had entered this world the other children seemed less significant to her, and every one of those children had fallen silent after I had come into her life and into her heart as if they knew that they were no longer loved. Mother had stopped hearing their voices the night the bells had chimed for me. She came to ignore the sorrow-filled look in their eyes as they lingered at the foot of her bed, confused and upset, with little, pale fingers gripping onto the wrought iron footboard. Every time she rocked me and sung lullabies to lull me to sleep, the dogs outside waited to hear every single word.

Now I am twelve, my mother says that this could be the last time we wander the countryside together, that this may be the last time we watch the waves crash over the shore, the last time we sing with the birds or talk to the squirrels. In my heart I know that our time together has come to an end, I had known it since the night I was born, it was told to me in the chimes of the bells as they rang. My mother had known it then, too, for she had been also told of our time together when the bells had rung for her, on the time of her birth somewhere between midnight and the cock-crow thirty-six years ago. Outside the window of our cottage, I watch as a dog steps out of the woods and stands like a statue in the grass, a single big black wishthound, with eyes as bright as flames. Mother says that the time has come, and though her heart will break it will now be his turn to watch over me. She tells me his name is Hairy Jack, but I am barely listening to her now. I am moving to the door, tugging it open with all my might. It is the dog's voice I hear. He calls to me loud and clear. I run outside and drape my arms around his neck. I bury my face into the black, black fur and know that he will take me home though the electric storm that cracks open the pitch black sky.

I am no longer three, nor six, nor nine, nor twelve, for you never grow old on the threshold between the living and the dead. There are those precious times I remember my mother very well, the softness of her voice, the lovely way her lips would curve up into a delicate smile. I remember the way my mother would gently hold me and sing sweet songs to me as she stroked my hair till I fell asleep in her lap. I know that she remembers me, as well. I know that for I hear her voice telling me so every time a bell chimes and the dogs howl. 

Till a couple days ago I knew little about the myths of Westcountry. As I was researching these myths I came across the chime hours and was mesmerised by them and the black dogs. Here are the links  for info on both of these fascinating myths. (p.s. It also helped that my BIL's windchimes were blowing in the wind as I was researching and I pretty much took it as a sign that I had to write about the chime hours. *bows*)

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chime_hours

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black_dog_(ghost)

Many thanks to OwainGlyn and @Jos1eDemuth for hosting this contest. 

#westcountryfantasycontest