“I’ve never seen a night sky so bright.”
I smiled and turned to Harper. Her face still upturned at the sky, which was indeed unusually bright.
“Those are called stars, Harp.” I responded sarcastically, instinctively dodging the smack coming back my way.
“I know that, stupid, I just meant that it has never been this bright before. In town there are so many lights that you hardly get to see the stars.” She turned to me, her face beaming. “I mean look, you can see the constellations! There’s Ursa Major, and just over there! That’s Orion’s belt!” She exclaimed, pointing to various places above her. I couldn’t see anything she was talking about, but I nodded along as if I did. I laid back, listening to her gab about what stars were what and what names they had. I mean who spent the time to name them, right?
I guess I must have dozed off, because I woke to Harper shaking me awake.
“Hello? Thomas? You there? Did you fall asleep on me again?” She questioned.
“H-what? No? no of course not. What were you saying? Something about the stars?”
Harper rolled her eyes. “No idiot, that was like an hour ago. I asked you how your story was coming along.”
“Oh. Yeah, it’s fine. I think I’m really figuring it out.” That was a lie. I hadn’t even started writing yet. Every time I thought I had an idea I scrapped it before I even made it through a page.
“Really? I know you told me last time that you were having trouble with it.” She turned over and rested on her arm, looking at me with genuine concern. “Look, I get that it is hard. Trust me, I could never do it. I’m just not creative like you. Have you considered the offer?” She asked.
“What offer? Oh, to go visit old man Harold?” I chuckled, maybe a little harder than I meant to. “Come on, he’s like what, 350 years old? I get that he was some great writer back in his day but at this point does he even write in the same language?” I laughed, but Harper just kept staring at me. “Cmon Harp, I can do this myself, and I don’t think some old man can help me.” I just didn’t like to admit that I needed help. Everyone in town talked about Harold. The way they spoke of him you’d think he was some deity or something. Just a writer, that’s all he was. Labour workers were not allowed to read his writings, only able to hear him speak, and he hadn’t told a story publicly in almost 25 years. I almost went to him once, a few weeks ago. I got all the way to his front door. It’s this old, sketchy house way down at the end of Gilbert Street, right on the edge of town. Apparently, it was once a bustling area with a ton of developments, but they’ve all been demolished and only Old Man Harold lived there now. He comes into town sometimes, but only to grab groceries and the news. I had heard stories of his madness. Supposedly he was old and senile, no longer of any use. And this was important, this was my entrance into adulthood. Into the profession I wanted. I wanted to be a storyteller. But to be approved, I had to submit a story. It would be judged by a panel, and if they thought it was good enough, then I was granted entrance into the University. Only twelve percent of the population made it in. Both my parents tried and failed, forced into monotonous Labour jobs instead. Some, like Harper, simply chose not to try to get in, instead choosing to just go straight to their Labour employment, thinking that the stress was too much. Especially because you only got one shot at it. You could take it at any time, any age. But once attempted, you were either in or out, and you could not change or appeal that decision. Writing was not the only option offered at the University, with a wide variety of programs offered, such as medicine, spiritual medium, or Science. Most people chose their profession early, around 6 or 7, then spent the rest of their childhood studying or practicing for
their entrance exam or project. I knew I wanted to be a storyteller from the time I could talk. My grandfather was a wonderful teller, and when my father failed to follow in his footsteps, my grandfather basically shunned him, and it was only once I was born that he came around again. I sat and listened to him spinning his tales for hours, soaking in every word. I had all his stories memorized despite never reading them. But every time he read my stories, he would simply shake his head and say “no, not good enough Thomas.” I never understood why it wasn’t good enough. I analyzed it against his own, and my grammar was perfect, my spelling impeccable, and every other person I showed my writing to gushed about how great it was. But still, no matter what, my grandfather simply shook his head and told me that it was not good enough. If I ever asked him why it wasn’t good enough, he’d simply say:
“If you can’t figure that out on your own, then you aren’t cut out to be a teller.”
Those words echo in my head constantly, and after he died, I never got any more feedback, as my father resented writing and stories ever since he failed the entrance test into the University.
“Hey! Thomas! Are you there? Are you even listening to me?” Harper demanded.
“No sorry what did you say?” I asked, feigning a smile to hide my worry.
“I said we should probably get going. It’s getting really late, and I start work in the morning, remember? Besides you need to get to finishing that story. You only have three months left until the Judging.” She said, standing up and walking over to our bicycles. I stood up and walked over to her. She started to pedal away, but I put my hand on your shoulder.
“Hey, I know you’re scared, okay? That I’ll get too busy as a teller and blow you off. But I promise I won’t, OK?” I told her, even though I wasn’t even sure.
“I know Thomas, I trust you.” She responded, turning away and cycling off. Harper and I had only been going out for a few months, yet it was already shaky. University graduates rarely married Labour workers, deeming their work to be of the utmost importance and not having time to spend in relationships. My grandfather married very late in life, and married a much younger woman, also a teller, who was just getting started. It was not uncommon for female graduates to take a year off immediately after graduation to have their child, often marrying much older men who were retired and childless. This was not the case among Labour workers, whose lives resembled much closer to the typical fashions of old, marrying closer in age and having multiple children. It was considered a dishonour for a graduate to have a Labour worker as a child, and likewise it was a great honour for Labour workers children to grow up to be University graduates. In theory, everybody had the same chance of getting into the University, however it was an open secret that legacies often got more leeway. Either way, I was the son of Labour workers, and my grandfather being a graduate did not help my chances. This combined with my grandfather constantly telling me that I wasn’t good enough certainly did not ease my nerves when I still hadn’t even begun a story, with only three months until the deadline.
I cycled home, my thoughts whizzing around my brain, until I was once again seated at my desk, my typewriter filled with a fresh piece of bone-white paper, devoid of any words, devoid of any thoughts. I typed out a few haphazard sentences, even stringing together a few paragraphs, but ultimately as the night turned to morning, I went to bed the same way I had for the past year and a half: An empty paper in my typewriter, and a pile of crumpled pages in my wastebin. As I laid in bed, I knew I only had one option: time to go see Old Man Harold.
It was not against the rules to get outside help, and in fact it was encouraged to seek inspiration from others. Obviously, if you completed the work with no outside help, you received tremendous kudos, but one was considered equal to other University acceptances whether you got help or not. Therefore, there was almost no reason to not get help, but anyone would tell you that I was nothing if not stubborn. Either way, with only 90 days to the deadline, and not a single word typed, it was time to visit Harold. Now everyone in town knew of Harold, of course they did. He was practically a living legend. Admitted to the University at only 14 years old, the second youngest ever. He is the best living writer alive, at least that is what the old timers say. My parents heard him as a child, and they speak of being entranced by his words, but cannot remember exactly what he wrote. Despite his name being legend, he did not allow just anyone to speak to him. Every year he released a list of names, only about two or three, of the students he saw the most promise in. I practically fell off my seat when I saw my own name on there. My parents were so proud, yet the other two students who went to his house came back talking about what a madman he was and vowed never to go back. But at this point I had no other choice, as I was running out of time.
As I cycled up to his house, my mind raced. What if he’s as crazy as they say. Then I’ll really be shit out of luck. I turned the corner onto Gilbert Street, passing by the few houses that remained, until I caught a glimpse of Old Man Harold’s house way down at the end of the lane, covered in overgrown brush, allowed to grow tall from years of neglect. I laid my bicycle at the end of the path, walking up to the house. As I approached, I could feel my anxiety rising, fearing the worst. Once I got to the door, I knocked once quickly before I could turn back, and the door flung open. I peered inside, squinting my eyes in the dimly lit abode.
“Come in, Thomas, I have been expecting you.” Rang out a remarkably clear voice.
“Mr. Harold?” I squeaked out, walking in the door, which closed abruptly behind me.
“Oh, drop the honorifics young man, Harold shall do. Don’t bother taking your shoes off either, I assure you this house is not clean enough to need it. Come on, hurry, we haven’t much time you and I.” He urged. I slipped on my left sneaker and walked down the hall, glancing at the paintings that hung on the walls, although I couldn’t make out what they were supposed to depict. When I reached the door at the end of the hall, I was met with a small room, comprised of a small desk with a lamp on it, papers strewn about the surface of the desk. A fireplace crackling in the corner. I glanced around the room, the walls painted a fiery red, with the shadow of the flames dancing around the miniscule room. Yet the one thing I could not see, was Harold, as he was nowhere to be seen.
“Harold?” I asked.
“I’m right here boy. Come on we must not tarry.” He responded gruffly from somewhere on my right. I turned and nearly jumped out of my skin. There he was, standing so near me that we were practically shoulder to shoulder, yet I swear he wasn’t there a second ago. He walked across the room, with a grace that shouldn’t be possible from a man of his advanced age.
“Well?” He snapped. “Come sit.” He beckoned to me, pointing at the chair next to the desk. I walked over, still trying to process what was happening. As I approached the desk, I realized that it was copies of my stories strewn about on the desk. How did he get these? I only made one copy. As I sat down, I noticed markings all over the pages, words crossed out, comments in the margins, even small drawings in the spaces in between paragraphs.
“I really appreciate this, Harold. I’m honored you even know who I am I mean. I hope I don’t disappoint you; I promise to work as hard as I can.” I sputtered, desperate to cut the silence.
“Of course, I know who you are, Thomas.” He said, still staring intently at the pages. “You’re Simon’s grandson. I knew him, wonderful writer, wonderful writer. Yes…” He mused. Before I could respond he continued: “So you want to get into the University huh. University. I wonder why. Why do anything really? Write, don’t write, what’s the point?” He babbled, almost to himself.
“What?” I asked. Maybe he is as crazy as they say.
“The pointlessness of prose. Of poetry. Thomas, don’t you see? Writing is just words. Words words words. Write write write. So meaningless don’t you think?” He asked.
I was speechless. Is the greatest storyteller of this age telling me that writing is pointless?
“I’m not sure if I understand, Harold. Please, enlighten me.” I asked, desperate to get this on track. He sounded so lucid earlier, why so whacky now?
“You are so worried about writing. So silly, so mundane. You preoccupy yourself with this task, ridiculous. Don’t you see, Tom, Can I call you Tom? Don’t you see the sheer pointless nature of writing?” He asked, looking pointedly in my eyes, as if what he just said made any sense.
“Uh, No. look, I thought I was coming here for help on my story. You know, the one to get into the University like you did. I was hoping you could help me get started.” I said, already regretting my decision to come here. Harold just shook his head, muttered something to himself, then gestured me away with his hand, shooing me away. I waited there for a second, waiting for something else to happen, but he just continued to stare down at the papers on the desk. I got up, and walked out of the room, and out of the house, the door again closing abruptly behind me. I got on my bicycle and pedaled away, feeling more lost than I did before I came.
That night I barely sat at my typewriter, figuring that would only waste more paper. As I lay down Harold’s words played over and over in my head. Pointlessness of writing? But our whole job is writing. Our treaty demanded that everything be wrote down, so that future generations could appreciate our culture and society. Why would such a prolific writer claim it to be pointless, it just made no sense. I pondered it a bit further before drifting to sleep. Dreams are rare nowadays, as I am always so tired, but tonight, I dreamt clearly:
I looked up and saw Harold’s house in front of me, the door already opened. Seemingly on their own, my legs walked up to it and through the door, which closed behind me with as thunderous boom. I made my way through the hall, towards the office. I could hear voices inside, and as I peered inside, I saw my grandfather inside, seemingly in the middle of an argument. However as soon as I got to the door, they stopped and turned to me, their eyes, both piercingly blue, seeming to stare right through me. Harold stood up from his chair, and made his way across the room to me, staring right into my eyes.
“Why have you come back, Tom? Did I not tell you to leave? Yet here you are, still asking me about writing. Did I not tell you it was pointless?” I tried to answer but it was as if my vocal cords were cut, not a sound escaping my lips. “Your grandfather fears that you will turn out just like your father, a failure. What do you think of that, huh Tom?” Harold then turned back to his desk and walked back, sitting down. Before I could respond, I was suddenly whisked backwards out of the house, crashing through the door and down the steps. When I opened my eyes, my grandfather was standing over me. He shook his head.
“Not good enough, Thomas.”
I woke to a start, dripping in sweat. I looked out my window to see it was already mid day. I jumped out of bed, my dream still playing in my mind. I must go see him again, there is no way that was a coincidence. I ran down the stairs and grabbed my bicycle. I sped down the lane, skidding around the corner onto Gilbert Street, racing down the road, and leapt off onto the path. I walked up to the house, the door already wide open. I strode inside, expecting the door to slam behind me, but it closed silently instead.
“Harold?” I asked, my voice echoing around the hall.
“Come in, Thomas, you’re late you know.” He responded from inside the office. I walked in, fighting the urge to sprint. I expected to see my grandfather standing there, but it was only Harold, sitting at the desk. He looked up at me, emotionless.
“You came back. Interesting. Nobody ever comes back…” He mused to himself.
“Did you send me a dream?” I asked. It was technically possible, a technique discovered a few centuries ago. Humans of the old age often spoke of telepathy, but that was always discounted as simply hysteria or delusion. They were right though in fact, and early peoples of our age figured it out. However, it would be unusual if someone like Harold figured it out, as it was usually reserved to spiritual mediums, and most took decades of intense practice to figure it out.
“Yes, I did Thomas. It really is not that hard you know, not much different than spinning a story on paper, both use your mind’s creativity.” He responded, sounding drastically more lucid and clearer than yesterday.
“Why? And what was that whole thing about writing being pointless? Writing is your whole life; how could you say it’s meaningless? It’s not like we write the same thing over and over.”
“It was a test, to see if you cared or not. Your classmates, Julia and Dominic? They left here disheartened by my speech, no doubt calling me crazy or a lunatic. Their heart wasn’t in it. I sent them both similar dreams, yet neither one came back. You did. Why is that?” He asked, sounding genuinely curious.
“Because my grandfather always said I wasn’t good enough. That’s why I want to be teller. I always wanted to impress him, but he was never satisfied.” I responded.
“Yes, I knew your grandfather. Despite his criticism he spoke highly of you, you know. He had high hopes for you, and that is why he was so harsh on you. Harsh or not, he was right, where you are right now, you won’t get in.” He said, a glint of sadness in his eyes.
“Well then teach me, you got in three years younger than me. Surely you have some knowledge of what will get me in.” I said, hoping my desperation was not too apparent.
“Unfortunately, there is no secret formula, Thomas, otherwise everyone would get in. All I can say is that you must be true to yourself, as authenticity is the highest criteria. I was a judge on the panel once before too you know, and I am forbidden to disclose the criteria we look for, however this is what I will say: If you try to be facetious, or stray from yourself, they will know, and they will bar you immediately.” He said sternly.
“Authentic, like, not plagiarising?” I asked. If plagiarism is the biggest worry, then I’d be fine.
“No, not plagiarism, although I would not advise that either. No. The panel is not only made up of tellers, Thomas, each of them are also part-time mediums, which is where I learned the skill.
They know if you are being true to yourself, and if they deem you to stray away from that authenticity, then well…you’ll follow in your father’s footsteps.” He responded.
“Wait, my dad? He wasn’t authentic?” I asked. Dad never told me about his story, or why he didn’t get in. He didn’t like to talk about it, and I never pushed. A person’s attempt at University was private, and personal. Most never shared their attempt whether they got in or not, perhaps out of shame, or perhaps out of fear of giving someone else an unfair advantage, even though sharing your attempt with others was not forbidden.
“I was on the panel when your father attempted, and although I will not share with you what his story entailed, he fell into the trap of trying to tell another’s story, rather than writing from the heart. I will speak no further on your father, so do not ask.” He stated, leaving no room for questions.
“So how do I write authentically then? It is a fictional story, no? So how can I be true to myself if it is not about me?” I posed, confused.
“I will take a page out of your grandfather’s book there my son and say that if you cannot figure that out on your own, then you are not ready to be a teller.” He paused. “I wish people did not rush into their profession. I realize how that must sound from me, who entered barely a teen. But I was the rare few who figured it out early, and it takes most years longer.” I was confused. How was I supposed to write more authentically if I didn’t even know what that meant? I started to ask another question when Harold held up his hand. He coughed twice and looked to almost keel over before steadying himself.
“Quiet now, I am tired. Let us retire for the night and you can come back tomorrow hm?” he once again gestured me away and turned to sit back down at his desk. I did as he asked and left
the room and the home, my mind spinning at the implications that Harold introduced. I got onto my bicycle and pedaled home, streaking in and out of the shadows cast by the streetlights that lined the roads. When I made it back to my room, I sat down at my typewriter, determined to do something, anything. After a while something clicked, and I started writing. I got into a sort of flow state and before I knew it, I had 10 pages typed out. I sat back in my chair and read them. This is the best thing I have ever written! Just wait until Harold sees this. I leapt out of my chair and crawled into bed, my mind at a sort of ease it hadn’t reached in months.
I woke up early in the morning, as the sun was still rising. I figured that Harold probably slept in due to being so old, so I wasted time around the house, cleaning and occasionally sitting down to write a few lines. Eventually, I ripped out my final page and gathered the papers in my bookbag and set off for Harold’s house. The birds were singing, the warm sun glowing down upon my back as I raced to Gilbert Street. Even the trees seemed to dance in the warm summer breeze as I leapt off my bicycle and made my way up to the door. It was closed, so I knocked, three quick rapt knocks and the door swung open slowly, and I had to push it open the remainder of the way.
“Harold?” I asked.
“Yes, I’m here.” He responded, but his voice was faint and without the gusto of yesterday. I strode into the office and glanced at the desk, where Harold sat. However, it looked as though he aged forty years overnight. His eyes were sunken in, his skin hung off his face like a dog, and all his hair had nearly fallen out.
“Harold, are you okay? What happened?” I questioned, racing to the desk.
“No matter, no matter. Just getting old is all. 350 years today, in fact.” 350 years? I knew medicine was far more advanced than the older ages, but 350 years seemed like a lot.
“350? That can’t be right Harold.” I responded.
“It is right, my child. Your Grandfather himself made it to 320 before he croaked. Something about writing seems to elongate your lifetime I suppose.” He responded, completely serious.
Incredulous, I instead switched gears to my writing. “Oh yeah, I wrote something last night. I think it’s some of my best work. Would you read it?” I asked.
“Sure, bring it over to me, will you?” He asked weakly. I brought the papers over to his side of the desk and waited there as he slowly combed through them. Aside from a few grunts and muttering he remained quiet. Once he finished the last page, he bunched them all up together, I reached for them, but he instead tossed them into the flames of the fireplace, which reached high into the chimney.
“Wh- What did you do that for?” I asked. How could he just throw my story away?
“It was good, but not good enough Thomas. I could start to hear your voice coming through, but it was faint. You need to.” He paused and coughed into his elbow, leaving him wheezing for air. After regaining his composure, he continued. “You need to make sure that you are being as authentic as possible. It is paramount that you do not allow yourself to get lazy and drift into bland and boring prose. Make sure you” He again stopped to cough, this time I caught a little blood on his sleeve, which he quickly wiped away. “Where was I? It doesn’t matter, it was good, but not good enough. Keep trying though, it was a drastic improvement upon the last piece of writing I read.” He croaked.
“Okay, I’ll try.” I said, but even I could hear the uncertainty in my own voice.
“I am tired now, leave me be. Come by tomorrow night once the sun goes down and do make sure you write something between now and then, now go, let me rest.” He practically whispered, clearly labouring on every word. I did as he asked once again, and left the house, determined to write something that he would praise. I sped home and raced up the stairs to my room, ignoring the supper that my mother had prepared, which smelled delectable. I practically started typing before I even hit the chair and stopped only when my father peeked into my room to see what the commotion was. I looked down and saw that I had written 35 pages. I assured him that everything was fine and took a deep breath. I read over my work and was satisfied with the product. I saw that it was late in the night, perhaps even early in the morning, and decided that it was okay to retire until the next day, my desire to show Harold my masterpiece almost too great to resist. As I dozed off, the words of my grandfather echoed in my head “Not good enough, Thomas.” And for the first time, I thought he was wrong.
It was torturous waiting until nightfall, but at last the time came and I cycled over to Harold’s, my excitement overwhelming me. When I reached the house, something seemed off. Was that window always there above the door? I nevertheless walked up to the door and gave it three sharp raps with my knuckles. To my surprise, the door did not open and instead remained steadfastly locked. I tried to open it, but the doorknob wouldn’t budge.
“Harold?” I called out. No response. “Harold? Are you there?” I called once again. Once again there was no response, until I heard a faint wheeze and a ladder fell just to my left, grazing my shoulder. I leapt to the right, dropping all my papers. I scurried to pick them up as they drifted around in the wind, then set the ladder up to the window and climbed up. When I reached the top, I saw Harold peering out the back window.
“I’ve never seen a night sky so bright.”
“What?” I asked.
“The sky, so bright, don’t you think?” He asked, chuckling to himself. “Look at the stars. Look, there is Ursa Major, and over there, Orion’s belt.” He whispered, barely audible.
“Sure, I guess.” I responded, climbing in the window.
“I see you’ve written something new, good. I’m too weary to read it now, so I trust you can judge it for yourself.” He wheezed, a hacking cough following his speech. Suddenly, he collapsed to the floor, knocking his head on the hard wood. I dropped all my things and ran over to him.
“Harold! Are you okay?” I demanded, picking him up off the floor.
“After all, if you are true to yourself, it doesn’t matter what those judges think. Your writing is good enough for you, Thomas. That is all that matters, and the judges will agree.” The old man chuckled, and pulled himself up to the windowsill, before collapsing back to the floor.
“We need to get you to a healer! You are sick.” I practically shouted.
“The sky is bright you know. The stars. Let me see them one more time Simon, will you?”
“I’m Thomas, remember? Simon was my grandfather.” I responded as a tear rolled down my cheek.
“Prop me up to see the stars, Simon, please, will you? I want to see them once more before I go…” Clearly, he wasn’t all there anymore, and I did as he wished, propping him up against the windowsill to see the stars one last time.
“I’ve never seen a night sky so bright.”
After I peered out the window a while, I backed out of the window and down the ladder. I decided that because he lived a life of solitude, I would give him his own funeral myself when I got into the University. And so, I finished my story. It was the best thing I had ever written, and truly authentic to myself. I confidently walked into the Judging and in under an hour they agreed and granted me acceptance. I raced home to tell my parents, who were both delighted, and even Harper was happy for me. Because it was her idea for me to go see the old man, I figured she should tag along for my personal funeral. She helped me carefully carry him down the ladder and we found an appropriate place along the riverbank to be his eternal burial.
By the time I finished digging a suitable hole, night had fallen and the stars were glinting and shining. Harper helped me lower him down into the dirt and stood by as I refilled the hole. When I was finished, I saw her glancing up at the sky.
“What are you looking at?” I asked.
“Just the stars. When you’re away from the city they really light up the sky.” She answered, awe-struck. I looked up with her and I had to agree.
“I’ve never seen a night sky so bright