Kumar vivek, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
This was my very first attempt at writing fiction. I am serializing it here and editing the piece as I go. It has an interesting premise and good bones. We will see where it goes now.
Mrs. Stone was an old woman with a magical house. Actually, it wasn’t hers. More likely, she was its. Every now and again the house would grow a new room, and the old woman would know it was time to expect guests. She never knew who would come, or when, just that someday there would be someone in need of that room, and it was her sacred duty to keep it ready for them.
She and the house had an odd sort of relationship, almost symbiotic. The house needed her as much as she needed the house. I was never sure where the magic came from for those extra rooms, but my guess is that it was from the bond between them. She needed guests to be happy, so the house supplied them.
As you might expect, after years of organic growth the house was a great shambling thing sprawled across a hillside, like something from one of those magical Japanese movies. In fact, the house was so odd it was a wonder anyone ever dared approach it seeking help. But I guess word had got around that the place was safe after all.
That's why Zephan turned up on a Friday at the front door of the House. He was a broad-shouldered young man with brown curly hair and good-natured eyes. His jacket was worn but well-made of evergreen boiled wool in the traditional style, and his pants were tanned leather, and well cared for. The air was crisp with the scent of fall, for the sun was well past the equinox. Trying to look inconspicuous, he reached for the old-fashioned doorknocker, only to have the door swing wide. Inside was a cheery little parlor with a fire blazing on the hearth and an old lady knitting a great shawl in one of those bright colors whose names never seem to match the color themselves, like puce or chartreuse. "What an odd color!" said Zephan out loud, before he could help himself.
"Do you think so?" The old lady peered at the shawl. "I have wondered myself. But this is what Mrs. Oddsworthy asked for specifically. She does have the most extraordinary taste." She stopped, laid aside her knitting, and rose. 'Oh, but do come in. I am Mrs. Stone. I see you have been invited. I have just the room for you. Do you like blue and green?"
Zephan's mouth, which had gaped a bit during this last bit, hurriedly shut, then opened again. "Yes, I do. But I don't know what you mean. Invited?"
"Come and see." She turned and exited the room through a doorway painted a very bright yellow.
Zephan mentally shrugged and followed silently behind Mrs. Stone. He turned over her few words in his mind. What did she mean by saying I was invited? It was just curiosity that made me come. I wanted to know if any of the stories were true about people coming in and never coming out...
Mrs. Stone turned in mid-stride, as if jerked around by Zephan’s doubts, and said, rather sharply, “I’ll not have you fretting, boy, for this house is as harmless as they come. No one is ever held against their will. You are free to come and go as you will.”
"But why am I invited?”
“Well, I don’t know,” she said crisply, shaking out her skirts and turning to go on. “The house hasn’t told me yet. This way please.”
After passing a few corridors, they stopped in front of a big door painted an intense purple and set back in an alcove. Zephan’s name was on it! This is weird! How did anyone know I was coming? Or my name? he thought.
Mrs. Stone swung the door wide. The room was painted in a cheerful blue with yellow trim. There was a large bed against one wall and an easy chair in the corner, both covered in green fabric the color of new spring leaves. There were large windows with green drapes opposite their entry point. Bookshelves painted white and full of books lined the walls. Zephan eyed the books hungrily. His mother had not been able to pay for his schooling after his father died.
“Well?” Mrs. Stone smiled.
Zephan shifted uncomfortably. “Why do you show me this?"
"Those who are called and choose to stay may use all the House's resources, including this room and these books, which are for you. In return, you must learn. There will be trials, but many have found it to be worth the price. And those who choose to leave are free to go."
"What is it I will learn?"
Mrs. Stone smiled fondly.
"Knowledge. Wisdom. Fortitude. Discernment. Self-sacrifice. The way to a new kingdom that is priceless."
He stood speechless for a bit, trying to absorb what she had said. Then he said, "I must let my mother know where I am and talk about this with her."
Mrs. Stone nodded her approval. “Just knock on the door and the House will let you in.
Zephan opened the door to the cottage quietly.
"Zephaniah? Where have you been?" His mother spoke quietly, without reproach.
"I went to the old house on Hearthstone Hill. You know the one." He dropped his pack by the door and removed his boots.
His mother was a small woman with graying hair neatly braided and wrapped with ribbons. Her brown kirtle dress covered an embroidered blouse. She was seated in one of two chairs in the room beside a fire in the central fireplace. The kitchen table was on the other side of the fireplace. A door led to a small room with a simple bed and rag rug, and a ladder led up to a loft where Zephan slept. She put down her mending and turned toward him. "Really? You went there? Did you try the door?"
Zephaniah was puzzled by her response. "Yes," he said. "Mrs. Stone said to say hello." A pause. "I've been invited.
Zephaniah didn’t expect what happened next. There was silence from his mother, her head turned down and away, as if rejecting his words, when suddenly she lifted her head and turned toward him, her face shining with joy.
"Oh my son, I have waited for this day."
Zephaniah dropped into the chair across from his mother. He waited. She would tell him what he needed to know, what the House was, and why it did what it did.
"I was there for a while, you know. The House told me I would have a son, and he would have a special mission." She smiled gently at Zephaniah.
Zephaniah felt his world rock on its foundations. The fire in front of him swam in his vision as he recalled that strange moment half a year ago. A voice had called his name from another fire. No one else heard it. He thought he imagined it. But now he wasn't sure.
Zephaniah rubbed at his shoulders, trying to release some tension, and then rubbed his hands across his face. He didn't know what to do. Voices calling him from flames! He must be crazy! Except his mother had said he had a mission.
"Mom, please tell me everything you can about the house and that old woman who seems to run it. If I am to go back, I need to know who they are and what they want." He spoke quietly but with a firmness beyond his years.
"Her name is Mrs. Stone. As far as I can tell she is as old as the house and still going strong. She is solid as a rock, immovable in her opinions, flinty-eyed when it comes to mischief, but she has broad shoulders and a soft heart for the sorrowful. Go to her when you are in trouble and you will receive unfailing aid,"
"But the house, Mom?"
"I don't know, sweetheart. All I know is that people staying there are given jobs to do, some of them pretty heroic." She sighed wearily. "I don't know what else to tell you."
"Can I trust them?" Zephaniah asked.
"With your life, " she said quietly.
"What about the house?"
"It is alive, Zephaniah. It knows what you want and what you need, and when to give them both. It is like the world's best parent, only it usually speaks indirectly, not directly. And it is full of love, infinite love, for each one within it. Always room for one more. It always seems to know when someone's coming. It's the house that tells Mrs. Stone about it, you know."
The snap of resin popping was the only sound for a while. Both mother and son seemed far away, in quiet conversation with themselves. Finally, Zephaniah roused himself. "I think I will try it out for a while. If you need anything, you can reach me there."
They rose. She reached up and placed her hands on either side of his face and looked at him for a long time.
"Goodnight, Son. Take care."
"Goodnight, Mother. I love you." A solemn parting seemed appropriate. He didn't know how long it would be before he saw her again.
This story will be serialized. The number of episodes depends on how the story develops. I have a general idea of its trajectory, but not its ending point.
If you liked this start to the story and know someone else who might, please share! And let me know in the comments, please.
Oh, yes - please do continue.
Continue, I don’t know where you are going. Hope it’s a productive mission.