The village was mostly empty. On occasion, one might find a dog or a cat skulking through alleyways or abandoned shops, if only to pass through. The clouds quite favored this area; they always hung low and dense in the sky, and rain was common. The village was quite near the beach, as well, and a substantial breeze was not uncommon. It was a town erected in sheerness for the purpose of industry, and no one seemed to enjoy the idea. It was abandoned, and the inhabitants dispersed to all around the motherland of England. Some of them have met their demise; a few still live on; memories of this town are inconsequential.
There was a girl who lived in Cheshire, outside of Daresbury, quite close to the old, lonely village. Although, for some reason, it was always quite lovely and bright around her quiet abode, and the line of clouds in the distance marked the beginning of Greyland, where the children were never allowed to go. She quite fancied her books and her poetry, but never found anything to do with it. She could read and read and re-read, but the information couldnot be facilitated in her immediate area. Occasionally, she sat around the rim of the well and hoped to fall into Wonderland, or she walked along the road in case a gallant knight should ask her the way to Eldorado. And sometimes, she would climb from her window and towards the summit of her roof, and try to grab the moon.
Greyland was the name of the province in which sat the calm and complacent village. It was initially used for government testing, and was still generally fenced off, if not for a few tears in the fence here and there. For many years, news from Greyland had ceased, and it faded into oblivion. All aligned agencies fell away from it or dropped out of business completely. It was not hazardous at all; it was a meeting place for generals, as well as a barracks for government transport vehicles. Some of the vehicles still remained in their garages. From the tiptop of the steeple tower, it was characterized by warehouses, gridded patterns of buildings, and a few homely-looking cottages, where the officials convened.
The name of that young girl was Lucy. She turned eight on the third of November and celebrated her birthday all week, as her parents could so easily afford. It was always a merrily majestic party; her father called in all manners of performers and musicians from London on the day of her birthday, and the entire town came to partake and bring her wonderful gifts. Her favorite gifts of all were books, of course, and by eight she had compiled a library of them, all of them she had bested with ease. Her parents were quite proud of her; she got wonderful marks in school, never seemed to be sad, and was the smartest, prettiest, and most polite girl in town. No one saw her as snooty or stuck-up; she was quite the contrary.
On the day before her birthday, the lot of her house was stirring quite confusedly. She had a very large house, and there were plenty of places for people to walk around and be busy. An entire quadrant had been added just for a place for the performers to stay. An entire fifth of the house, opposite the performers' corner, belonged to Lucy. She normally spent her days sitting by the great hallway windows, reading, but on that day, she was rather bored, and frankly very tired of having all these birthdays and getting all these gifts. She was, of course, delighted to receive new books, but as well, she was tired of having nothing but them.
So eventually, she wandered aimlessly out to the garden, and decided to play with the dog, Gulliver, for a while. Gulliver was a very weathered and weary animal; he had been around the world and across the universe more times than can be accounted for, and had faced all manners of perils. But now he lived his life out in utter complacency, on the property of Miss Lucy Lincolnshire, the fairest girl who ever was. He was a full Schnauzer, and quite enjoyed anything that Lucy might propose, whether it is fetching a ball or running around the tea patio in circles. On that day, she had collapsed on the edge of her property in exhaustion, and Gulliver right next to her. She recollected her breath as she noticed her father's voice was occupied quite attentively in the distance, telling people what to do, or where to put things.
She sat up and looked frightfully back at the house, hoping her father wouldn't appear. Her head turned in the other direction, and she saw what seemed like an old and worn path into the dark brush of the woods. The clouds of Greyland loomed ominously overhead. Any other uncharitable observer would have seen the clouds as a sign to go inside; Lucy found it too exhilarating to pass up. And so, carefully, and watching the back windows of the complicated mansion, she slipped from the yard and jumped into the brush, Gulliver following close behind.
She hadn't a clue where she was going, or quite where she would end up, but carried on nonetheless. She was hopping over logs, dodging tree trunks, and dashing through minor glades. She felt free, liberated, and engaging on a journey not in a book, not in her head, and not in a dream world far away, but in real life; she was now the master of her own adventure. There was no writing necessary, no maintenance of meter, and no attention to rhyme schemes; this tale wrote itself. With this, she was free to fly through the wood without anyone to tell her to slow down, or to watch her dress for burs, or to keep her hair in order, as though she ever once cared about any of those things.
And soon, she was no longer beneath the warm skies behind her, but beneath grey ones, and she found this to be exhilarating. It was not often that she partook in very much variety. For the most part, she just sat at home. But on this day, she was slightly less perturbed by that which recurred; every moment, she was greeted with a new square of land, which she so meagerly admired, and which she swore to store in her book of memories until she was long gone. At last, she came to a very curious fence. It was tall a topped with sharp barbwire, but the bottom had long since been torn, so that she could surely fit through. She did, but Gulliver wasn't quite so keen on going along.
She recuperated and looked back, only to see Gulliver sitting patiently on the other side.
"Gulliver?" she said. "Aren't you coming?"
The dog was stationary, sitting quite surely in one spot.
"Alright then," she said. "Go home, boy! And don't tell dad! Go on!"
The dog took flight back through the woods, confident of where he was going.
The terrain beyond the fence was rather bleak. There were patches of grass here and there, but it was mostly mud, quite unlike back home, which was very rich with life. She went dashing relentlessly across this great void, towards the buildings in the distance, which were separated from her by a long arm of trees, behind which loomed a tall and quite monolithic warehouse, which had very tall, thin windows. There was a mist upon the ground that covered the land between her and the trees, and she couldn't wait until she was dashing through them. By the time she reached the treeline, she was out of breath and gasping, as she fell upon a safe mound of grass. She watched the clouds move quickly across the sky, towards her house. She knew that they were to clear for her as she deepened into the forbidden land.
She crossed the trees and into the wake of the warehouse, which was quick to greet her. She could see through the windows that there were trucks inside, but no one seemed to be around. Curious to journey even further, she rounded the building and found herself in another blank patch of land, where there were a few prefabricated houses sitting about, beside each other. Earlier on, she had heard that there were houses for people to stay when they were passing through. She was very eager to see whether or not someone still lived there.
Quite rudely, she sprinted over to the front door of the nearest house, and soon corrected her manners. She stopped and composed herself, then knocked on the dark, corroding door. But when her hand met with its face, the part she struck fell right out of place and onto the floor, on the other side: the whole door was so damp and decayed that it was nothing more than mush that had yet to fall over. Soon, the rest of the door fell, and she met with quite an empty and silent house. Because there didn't seem to be anyone there, she invited herself in. The walls were stained, the lights did not work, and the kitchen was an utter mess. Evidently, this place was very old. The dining room was fully upset, and the chairs and the table had been thrown about.
She searched the houses diligently. There was no one around, at least, none that she found. But as she ran into the kitchen of the last house in the last row, she found something quite surprising. There was a man sitting at the table by the window. He looked back at her. He had no hair, and his face was absolutely white. It looked very rugged and dry, almost like rock, and dark veins coursed across it like rivers: his face looked quite like a white canyon with black tributaries in it. His hands were just as white and rocky; his left was sitting on his lap, and the other clenched a cup of tea. He wore a long, dark coat and black shoes. His countenance showed very meek fear, and he was trembling. He had no eyebrows, but the forms of muscle there above his eyes very much compensated. Frightfully, trembling, terrified, he stared at the girl who had just entered into the kitchen.
She stared back. At last she said, "Hello."
The man was at a loss for words. He was very afraid to speak, it seemed, and his eyes darted as his jaw lurched and tried to form words. At last, he said, quite plainly, and in a raspy voice, "Hello..."
"What's your name?" asked Lucy.
He hesitated again, but managed, "J-Jonathan…and, what's your name, little girl?" The eyebrow muscles were steep, and he was cordial as ever to the meager, young girl.
"My name is Lucy!" she shouted. "And it's my birthday tomorrow! But I don't quite want to be there for the party. I always get books, and books are quite frabjous, but they've gotten boring, because I can't really change the stories or really do anything with them, now, can I?"
Jonathan managed to conceive of a very frail smile. "I suppose not!" he rejoined.
"Do you live here?" asked Lucy.
"Yes," he replied, smiling genuinely, his brows still steep and stern. "This is my home." He looked around the kitchen.
"I'm very sorry for bursting in like that," she said, "but none of the other houses have people in them!"
"It's quite alright," he reassured, his voice beginning to crack up again. "I'm quite alright with it. It's always grand to see a friendly face anywhere, and I don't quite see them v-very often these days."
"Oh?" she said. "Why not?"
He put down the cup of tea and politely shifted himself around, to face her slightly more. "W-well," he replied, "people don't often seem to be very f-fond of me. That's why I don't quite live with anyone, you see."
"But why don't they like you?" she asked. "You seem like a very nice man!"
The poor man was touched by her words, and showed it in his eyes. "Why, thank you," he said. "That's very kind of you. But people don't much like me, because...I'm just...they don't think I look very nice, is all. They think I'm quite ugly."
"Well I think you're absolutely beautiful!" declared Lucy, putting her hands on her hips. The strings in the man's heart pulled so tightly upon hearing this, and he shed a very small tear, which carried down his jagged face and rolled over his jawline. "Why," he said, "you are a very kind little girl. And you, as well, are exceptionally pretty. I'm quite sure your father should be very proud of you."
"Thank you very much!" she said, bowing shortly. "Would you like to play with me? I don't play with anyone but the kids in Daresbury, and they're not all that imaginative."
"I would love to play," said Jonathan, who trembled ever lightly. "That would be a very merry thing, wouldn't it?"
"Come along!" she said. She grabbed his hand, and led him outside, into the fogs of Greyland.
