Saffron & Bruno and an Origin Story

...And then he came out of himself...again and again and again and...

Saffron lay on her bed, Bruno in the crook of her arm, and she read a story about a colourful factory owner who eventually gifts his factory to a young boy.  Accompanying the many pictures of ghosts that covered her walls were photographs from a fantastic summer holiday.  Her mother had given her these photos because, mysteriously, in each of them Saffron appeared to be laughing uncontrollably even though there didn’t appear to be anything to laugh at!  Every now and again, Saffron would look up from her book and smile as a memory of custard or colouring in crept into her head.  What a wonderful holiday it had been.

They’d been back from holiday for a few weeks now, and Saffron was back at school and the leaves were threatening to turn red and orange and yellow on the trees.  The evenings were getting darker quicker and the fire in the front room was being lit ever earlier in the day.  As the evenings drew in and the temperature began to fall, there was nothing more Saffron enjoyed that cwtching up with Bruno and getting lost in a good story.

Up above Saffron came the sounds of the evening walking through walls practice.  She was so accustomed to the bumps and the “ouches” she hardly noticed them now.  She did sometimes wonder if the Sixteen Stephens would ever learn to walk through walls…she rather assumed that it was compulsory for a ghost to be able to do that; not so, it would seem.  Saffron closed her book, put it down on the bed, and with Bruno wrapped in her arms, she climbed the stairs to the attic to watch the practice take place.

Whilst she may have been accustomed to the sounds, the sight of sixteen ghosts lined up, facing a wall, and repeatedly walking into it was a sight Saffron always found funny.  She did feel a little sympathy for Stephen Number Four when he turned to greet her and she saw just how red and sore his nose looked.

“Feel yourself dissolving through the wall," Andrew was saying, “Become one with the wall and then become not one with the wall as you reach the other side of the wall…and then remember you are in the attic and so there is a bit of drop when you do eventually get outside…” Saffron giggled.

“Ooooh, heights!”  Exclaimed Stephen Number Six, “You never said anything about heights!”

“You know how we feel about heights,” said Stephen Number Thirteen, “You know we’re not fond of them.”
“To be completely fair,” said Stephen Number Eleven, “It’s not the heights, as such.  It’s more the ground being quite so far away.”
“…And just how hard it is when you go bump into it…” moaned Stephen Number Fourteen.

“…Unless you land on a trampoline,” said Stephen Number Three, “in which case the ground becomes so very far away again ever so quickly!”

“…And I hate it when you land on a hedge or a rose bush, they’re prickly!”  Complained Stephen Number Sixteen.

“You all do seem to be forgetting that you can float,” said Andrew with a weary smile on his face.

“Oh, well,” said Stephen Number Ten, “That’s all well and good for when you’re starting off floating near the floor but it’s quite another matter when the floor takes you by surprise by being quite so far away!”
“Another matter entirely,” murmured Stephen Number Twelve and the rest of the Sixteen Stephens.  Andrew shook his head and rolled his eyes.  Saffron giggled and gave Bruno a bit of a squeeze.  She sat in the middle of the attic floor and watched the ghosts resume their practice.

“Drift through the bricks,” Andrew intoned, “They want to welcome you through them…”  Stephen Number Nine tutted and he could be heard muttering about bricks and welcomes.  Saffron caught Andrew’s eye and she saw the quick wink he gave her.  She beamed.  Saffron never felt happier than when she was surrounded by her ghostly friends.

A little while later, after walking through wall practice had ended and none of the Sixteen Stephens had managed to walk through a wall, the gaggled of ghosts and Saffron and Bruno sat in the attic and enjoyed a late-evening snack.  Night had fallen and the stars were twinkling in the sky, a crescent moon hung in the darkness and the wan light crept in through the attic’s window.  Saffron cleared her throat and the Sixteen Stephens and Andrew looked at her, Stephen Number Eight pausing in eating his seventh scone and Stephen Number Ten ceasing to spin a custard pie on the end of his finger.  Saffron felt all the eyes on her.  She held on to Bruno and blushed a little.

“I wonder whether I could ask you a question?”  She said, at last.

“Is that the question?”  Asked Stephen Number One, “Because, if it is, you’ve already asked it and there’s no point in…”  Andrew hushed him.

“Twenty Eight,” said Stephen Number Twelve.

“Pardon?”  Said Saffron.

“Twenty Eight,” said Stephen Number Twelve, “ I was just trying to anticipate the answer to your question,” he smiled, “Was I right?”  Saffron shook her head.

“Ask your question,” said Andrew, kindly.

“Well,” Saffron felt hesitant, “I wondered where you came from… and how you ended up in this attic and how come I can see you and so can Rachel, and Bruno, of course, but Mum and Dad can’t see you and I just wondered, you see, where you’re actually from, and…?”  Saffron fell quiet and looked at the ghosts.  There was a pause and a silence.

“You want to know where we came from?”  Asked Stephen Number One.

“And, how come we ended up in this attic?”  Added Stephen Number Eight.

“And you want to know how come you can see us but your parents can’t?”  Said Stephen Number Eleven.

There was another pause.

“You want to know our origin story,” said Stephen Number Twelve.

“I don’t know any stories about oranges,” said Stephen Number Fourteen.

“I do know a short anecdote about a mandarin,” said Stephen Number Five, after a moment’s thought.

“Oooh, I know a story about a pineapple,” said Stephen Number Eight, “does that help?”

“I only know stories about custard, really,” said Stephen Number Ten, “I’m not really into fruit that much…”

“Our origin story,” said Stephen Number Twelve, “Not oranges!”  Saffron giggled a little and nodded her head.

“Yes,” she said, “I’d very much like to know your origin story.”  The ghosts looked at each and nodded.  They settled down in a circle, around her, and all looked at Andrew for him to begin to tell the tale.

*

Andrew looked into Saffron’s eyes.  She could feel the kindness and warmth emanate from within him.  She felt safe and ready to hear the story, whatever it may be.  Andrew smiled and then he began to speak.

“Stephen and I go a long way back together,” he said, “We have been friends for hundreds of years.  We first met when we were twelve years old, just a little bit older than you are now, Saffron.  We worked together and we were the best of friends.”  Saffron looked around the room.  The Sixteen Stephens were all concentrating on Andrew.  Some had rested their heads on their hands and were led on their bellies; others were just sat on the floor.  All were watching Andrew as he told their story.  “We worked on a farm, not far from here; just along from where Farmer Filbert has his now.  This has always been farmland.  We used to help the farmer with the harvest.  Stephen was skilled with a scythe; no one could keep up with him as he cut the hay.  And he was brilliant at picking too.  The farmer had wheat fields and orchards and he had a herd of cows and some sheep…” Andrew seemed to get lost in his memories.  He smiled.

“We used to help out with the shearing.  It was a great way to keep your feet warm, letting all the wool gather around your toes.  Sheep after sheep would come in and bleat and moan about having its wool cut off.  We’d scoop it up and get it into sacks, ready for carding and spinning, but we’d always make sure we’d get some around out toes.  The wool would still be warm from the sheep’s body.

Anyway, when we were old enough, they let us shear the sheep ourselves.  That’s when they started to reckon Stephen wasn’t well.  One day, instead of shearing the sheep, he tried dancing with one.  He looked ever so funny but when we spoke about it later, he couldn’t remember it at all.  Then, one late summer’s day at the orchard, some of the apples had rotted.  Stephen began throwing them at the other pickers.  We had a massive food fight.  It was so much fun.  Then when we tried to speak about it the next day, he couldn’t remember anything about that either.  Sometimes he’d eat and eat and eat and then the next minute he’d complain about being starving.  He’d try and be real clever but he’d always get things a little bit wrong.  That’s when I heard the farmer talking about all the voices he was hearing coming from Stephen.  It didn’t make any sense to me.

Well, we stayed working on the farm.  Years, we were there.  Stephen seemed to be getting worse.  Sometimes I’d see him arguing with himself.  Sometimes he’d be squashing pies into his own face and laughing and trying to eat the pie all at the same time.  Some people would try and avoid him but he was my friend.  I’d known him all my life, it seemed.  And then came the fire in the barn…”  Saffron realised she had her mouth open and was clutching Bruno tight to her chest.  She shook her head a little, and looked round.  The Sixteen Stephens were listening with rapt attention, as if they were hearing this story for the first time, too.  As she looked, the Sixteen Stephens began to swim in her vision, sixteen and then one and then sixteen and then one.  Saffron looked back at Andrew again.

“Now, just you remember that we’re all here and we’re all happy and alright, ok?”  Said Andrew.  Saffron nodded and Andrew continued, “I still don’t know how it started but, anyway, there was a fire.  And we all stood and we all watched and it was a real shame but it was only a barn.  And then Stephen started to shout and get all angry that no one was trying to do anything to save her.  They all thought he was being crazy again and ignored him but he kept on shouting and screaming about saving her.  He kept saying he could hear her screaming for help.  The farmer got really angry and slapped him, saying it was just a barn and not a her and for Stephen to get a grip on himself.  Stephen wasn’t listening and he kept shouting about saving her and then he started walking up and down and gesticulating and speaking with himself and I can remember the conversation, different voices, different ideas about how to get her out; and then he was off, racing to the barn.  No one could stop him.  Straight into the blaze he ran, right through the wall; he just smashed his way through it!  They couldn’t believe their eyes.  But, he was my friend, so I went in after him.

I got to the barn and the doors collapsed open.  There in the heart of the building, Stephen was carrying a little girl.  It was the farmer’s daughter.  She must’ve been playing in the barn when it caught and she was trapped.  Only Stephen could see her, only Stephen could hear her.  Only he knew she was in danger.  That’s what he’d been shouting about and that’s why he ran into the burning building.  Of course, as soon as I saw what was happening, I rushed in too.  I could hear the voices of the farmer and his workers yelling and screaming for me to come back but they couldn’t see what I could see.  They couldn’t see Stephen and the girl.

I reached Stephen and he handed her to me.  I turned and carried her to the doorway.  It was getting so thick with smoke; I could hardly see where the entrance had been.  I got her out.  When I turned around, Stephen was trapped.  Some roof beams had fallen down and the bales had well and truly gone alight.  I rushed back to try and free him and then… well, that was that…

I will never forget how brave Stephen was that day.  He saved that girl.  And then all there was was just us.  The ashes of the barn all around and me and him stood looking at each other.  He had the biggest grin on his face I’d ever seen.  And he sort of shrugged and then he shrugged again, and shook himself and he went all blurry; and then he came out of himself, and then he came out again, and again, and again, and again, and then there were sixteen of him: all different voices; all different personalities; all different Stephens.  His eyes were bright and clear.  His faces were full of smiles.  And he laughed, all sixteen of him.  I’d never seen him happier!  It was the most joyous bellow of laughter I had ever heard.  And then he picked up a pie and threw it at himself but before it could hit him, another one of him caught it in his mouth and ate it all whole… and he laughed again!  And his laughter was joined by the higher pitched laughter of a little girl, the farmer’s daughter.  The girl he’d saved.  She could see us, all of us.  And that’s been it, I suppose, from there on in.  If there’s a little girl in the household, the little girl can see us and so can her friends and other girls of her age.  We’ve been here for quite some time now; house after house, family after family… Quite some time, that’s for sure.  And, I imagine we’ll be here for quite some time more.”  Andrew stopped speaking and smiled at Saffron.  Saffron smiled back.  There was a pause and a silence.  Saffron looked around at the amazed faces of the Sixteen Stephens.

“Why are they looking at you like that?”  She asked.

“He can’t remember,” said Andrew, “Whenever I tell this story, it’s the first time he’s heard it…He’ll have forgotten it again in a little while.”

“And only girls can see you?”  Asked Saffron.

“Well, there was one man.”  Said Andrew with a curious look on his face, “Centuries ago… I’ll never forget him.  He was stood out by the gate.  He had a couple of friends with him and they were squabbling about when they were going to meet next, and they were going on about the weather.  He saw me at the window; but only he saw me, I’m sure of that.  He was smoking a long cigar, I remember that as clear as day, and I leant out the window and shouted, ‘That’s a filthy habit!  It’ll do you no good!’  He looked up, hushed his friends’ chatter, and he said, ‘Peace, break thee off.  Look where it comes; will’t come again!?’…or something like that.  There’s been no one else… other than that it’s just girls; girls like you, Saffron,” and Andrew smiled again.  And Saffron smiled too.  There was a pause and a silence.

“He still hasn’t said anything about oranges,” said Stephen Number Seven.

“No, you’re right,” said Stephen Number Twelve, “ …and I’ve been listening extra, very carefully.”
Andrew laughed and so did Saffron, and he gave her as big a cuddle as she was giving Bruno.

*

Saffron lay in bed and watched her ceiling.  She had come back down from the attic and all had been quiet for a minute or three.  Then, there had been the reassuring bump of the first Stephen’s nose against the wall and the “ouch!” that should follow it followed.  She listened and started to feel a bit drowsy and ready for sleep.  Her eyes opened wide when the noise ceased and there was a pause and a bit of a silence.  Then she heard a voice.

“Andrew?”

“Yes?”  Said Andrew.

“That’s a great story, that one you told tonight.  The one about our origins…”

“Yes,” said Andrew, “It is.”

“Andrew?”

“Yes?”  Said Andrew.

“When are you going to tell our grapefruit story?”

“I love grapefruits!” (That must’ve been Stephen Number Eight…)

“I don’t do fruit.  I keep telling you; I’m a custard kind of guy…”  (Stephen Number Ten)
“What about our banana story…?”  Saffron could hear Andrew sigh.  She smiled her last smile for the night, gave Bruno a cwtch, and closed her eyes to fall asleep.

An origin story...not an oranges story...