This summer day though? I’m making sure I enjoy every single second. I want it to be perfect. I squeeze my eyes shut and, reptile-like, I let my skin absorb the warmth of the sun’s rays.
Despite the warm weather, my walking boots are smothered in mud and my jeans are flecked with dirt. I open my eyes and gaze out on a view that’s so eerie it takes your breath away.
Water in the sunlight is the most beautiful thing. The intricate patterns of the ripples, that gorgeous glow the water gives. Look at the right angle and you can see every colour imaginable.
I guess you’re wondering what a fifteen year-old girl is doing, standing on her own staring at water? Well, I’ve been set a summer project and it's got to have something to do with wartime Britain. So I’m studying Ladybower Reservoir and the Derwent Dam; from the time both were created, when the villages of Derwent and Ashopton were mercilessly drowned, right up until the time of the bouncing bomb. Ever since I first saw the reservoir, I was entranced by its mysterious, eerie beauty. There’s something about it that captivates me.
I swing my backpack off my shoulders and sit down on a bench. I yank out a tatty sketchbook, a pencil and a rubber. Staring out across the water, I search for inspiration and hope my artistic skills can do justice to the scene.
I begin to make soft feathery marks on the page, drawing one of the most famously eerie scenes ever. Derwent Woodlands Church emerging out of the water, a ghost, a mere whisper of the past. Of course today, in 2009, I have to draw this from pure imagination. The church clock tower was knocked down sixty-two years ago.
Maybe it’s the story of the drowned villages that makes the place so fascinating. Or maybe it’s the other strange tales that surround the place. I've heard that sometimes, you can still hear the church bells ringing and on the internet last night, I found a news story about a girl who vanished here almost sixty years ago. Apparently, this girl simply walked out into the reservoir and vanished. No body was ever found. She was no older than me. I shiver, feeling suddenly cold despite the sunshine.
I carry on with my drawing, lightly sketching a rough outline. Curious walkers peer at me as they stroll by.
“Shoot.” I sigh as my rubber rolls lazily off my page and bounces onto the path. I go to pick it up without looking and end up cutting straight across someone's path.
“Sorry!” When I straighten up, I meet a dazzling pair of eyes, which are widened in shock.
“Th-that’s okay,” he stammers, staring at me like I’ve just dropped from the moon.
I regard the boy curiously. He’s different to any other boy I have ever seen. He must be around the same age as me, maybe a little older.
All the boys I see back home look exactly the same. Same skin-tight jeans, same hair they’ve spent hours on to get the just-got-out-of-bed look, the same carefully placed 'do-I-care?' look. But this boy's chestnut hair is neat and short, giving him a clean, wholesome look. His clothes are vintage, classic-look and he carries them off effortlessly – a brown v-neck pullover, with the collar of a white shirt peeking out. Unlike all the other clones that are teenage boys, he’s not wearing jeans, just these dirt stained trousers. I idly wonder if he’s on a school trip, maybe.
“Drawing, are you?” He asks me as he pulls himself together, nodding at my pad on the bench.
“Yeah, school project,” I tell him.
“May I?”
“Sure,” I nod.
The boy strides over and picks up my sketch pad. He scrutinises my drawing.
“It’s not finished,” I say quickly, blushing.
“It’s good,” he says. Then he sighs so sadly I can feel my heart cracking. “It was a beautiful church.”
I gaze entranced at the boy. He looks as lost as the drowned village. “You’ve seen it? I’ve been looking for photos,” I say.
He hands me my sketchbook. “No. I haven’t seen any photos of it,” he says slowly.
I frown. “Did you have relations who lived here?”
The corners of the boy’s mouth twitch. “Yes,” he says. He casts his hands around awkwardly. “So, why did you choose to come here for your project?”
I shrug, feeling a little embarrassed. “I’ve always been a little obsessed with it, actually,” I admit. “Ever since I came here when I was little, I tried to imagine what the villages were like. I tried to picture them, tried to hear the church bells ringing.” I shake my head, smiling. “It’s crazy, I know.”
“No, it’s not…” he says so quietly it’s more of a sigh. He stares out across the water, apparently lost in thought.
“It must have been hard to watch your own home drown like that,” I say. The boy just nods and for a nano-second, I think I can see anger in his eyes.
Walkers look at us strangely as they pass by. I guess it must look sort of weird, two teenagers staring out at the reservoir. Maybe the boy’s schoolteachers are looking for him.
I clear my throat awkwardly and ask him about something I have often wondered about. “Where are they buried? I mean, the people who were already…”
“Who were buried at the church?” The boy says, his eyes clouding over, his expression as unfathomable as the reservoir itself. “They were moved to Bamford…Away from their home.”
There’s such an intense bitterness in his voice that I want to nudge his mouth into a smile and wipe all the sorrow away. But I don’t. After all, he is a stranger.
Suddenly, the boy gives me a thoughtful, sideways look.
“Tell you what,” he says slowly. “Do you want to see my home?”
I stare, taken aback. Where had that come from?
“Yeah?” I say, intrigued. I didn’t know there were any houses around here. He must be from one of the villages near Bamford.
The boy gives me a look that sends jolts of electricity zooming around in my veins.
“Come on,” he smiles and all sensible thoughts in my brain turn to mush.
“Okay,” I say dreamily. I mean who can resist someone who looks as dazzling as him?
I pack up my stuff and sling my backpack over my shoulder. “How far away is it?” I ask.
“Not that far,” he says breezily. “Come on.”
He suddenly grabs my hand and begins to tow me away.
He suddenly grabs my hand and begins to tow me away.
 |
| © Copyright David Pickersgill |
His hand feels incredibly warm and rough, yet everything around us is becoming blurred and smudged around the edges. Like this boy is the only thing I can see. Right now, he’s the only thing I want to see.
“So, what’s your name?” He asks me casually, as we stroll down the path together.
“Eve,” I say, feeling more thrilled than I have ever felt in my entire life. After all, I have never met a boy as dazzling and wonderful as him. Every second I spend with him makes me want to know more about him.
“I’m Luke,” he tells me.
We then turn off the path and head downhill through some woods.
“Is it through here?” I say doubtfully, hesitating.
“Yeah, it’s just through these woods,” Luke tells me confidently. “Trust me.” He looks into my eyes and suddenly I do. Those eyes of his, anyone would trust eyes like that. They’re so warm, they make your heart melt. They’re hazel, yet there are faint hints of green and when they catch the light, Luke’s eyes are golden.
Suddenly as if from nowhere, we hit a trail in the woods. Still holding Luke’s hand, I follow him down the trail.
“So what’s your home like?” I want to know, feeling excited.
“You’ll love it,” he assures me with a secretive smile. “Believe me, you will.”
The trail comes to end and all of a sudden, we’re out of the woods. I gasp in amazement.
“Oh Luke!” I gasp, astonished. “You live here? It’s beautiful.”
Cradled in the valley before us is a stunning little village that looks like it has been taken straight out of a painting. Dotted amongst the trees and fields are gorgeous quaint buildings that are the very meaning of character. Towering above the treetops is the village church. Through the summer air, I can hear the sound of the bells ringing.
“Welcome to my home,” Luke smiles. “I’ll show you around.” Feeling blissfully happy I follow Luke onto the road.
Suddenly I feel a strange itching on my leg.
“Are you all right?” Luke asks.
“Yeah, it’s nothing,” I say scratching my leg thoughtfully.
“Come on,” Luke says giving me another of his dazzling smiles.
The itching persists and suddenly I realise it’s not an itching but a buzzing. Curiously I reach down into to my pocket to discover a small rectangular object vibrating around in the palm of my hand. I stare down at it bemused.
Luke looks at it and suddenly, he seems panic-stricken. “Don’t,” he says quickly.
I gaze at him, then down at the object and finally, realisation dawns on me. The rectangular object is my phone.
“Please, Eve,” Luke says desperately. “Just follow me.”
I don’t hear him, though. His voice is growing tinny and distant. I’m slowly tuning out of his frequency.
My gaze returns to my phone and I read a message.
Hi Eve! Coming back from Leeds. Will pick u up in 15 mins.
Luv mum.
“Too late,” Luke whispers. His eyes look infinitely sad.
Suddenly my legs feel icy cold; everything around me is turning sharper and clearer, as if someone has hit the focus button.
“It’s just my parents,” I tell Luke. Then I look up. “Luke?”
Luke has gone.
The magical scene of the village has washed away.
Instead I’m standing knee deep in Ladybower Reservoir. There is no road before me, just water. Even the trail behind me has gone, replaced by an untamed wood.
“Luke!” I yell, my heart beating wildly. I shiver and my teeth begin to chatter. I’m freezing. My shoes are soaked and my jeans have a rip in them from the brambles in the wood. How had I not noticed this before? Where has Luke gone?
“Oi!”
I turn around, sloshing through the water, my heart leaping. But it’s just a puffy-faced man, flushed from charging through the woods.
“What are you doing?” He shouts at me. A group of curious walkers are huddled together on the shore. I stare at them, then at the man.
“Have you seen a boy?” I ask them, in wild desperation. “He’s tall, brown hair, hazel eyes…”
The man stares back at me, shaking his head. “No love. I haven’t seen a boy.” The other walkers just look at me like I’m crazy. “We just saw you charge off into the woods.”
I bite my lip and there’s a painful throb inside my chest. “Oh,” I mumble.
Feeling like my heart is breaking, I wade back to shore. Then I stop and look out across the water. Through the whispers of the trees I can hear something faint and eerie.
I can hear the soft echo of church bells.
©Alex Smith 2011
Alex Smith is 17 and lives in Hertfordshire. Her debut YA novel, Calling For Angels, was published by The Red Telephone, after she won the company's 2009 novel competition. She has since written for The Guardian.
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