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|Blind Hope (standard:fantasy, 3108 words)|
|Author: Peter Ebsworth||Added: Jan 01 2007||Views/Reads: 1948/1139||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|A bereaved father decides to get his daughter back. Whatever the cost|
Blind Hope by Peter Ebsworth Star Light Star bright, The first star I see tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might, Have the wish I wish tonight. Late 19th Century Nursery Rhyme He had to stop. Just for a couple of minutes, but no more, because she needed him to dig faster, never mind stop. But he was so tired. Releasing the garden shovel to drop onto the mix of flint and heavy clay earth at his feet, he hefted himself out to sprawl onto his back on the thick, wet grass that surrounded the grave. All the while wheezing like a punctured bellows as he gulped the damp night air into his aching lungs and waited for his racing heart to slow. Although everything hurt, the raw, burning palms of his hands was probably the worst of the bad. Protective blisters had formed and bust, leaving patches of unprotected skin to peel raw. If only he had been thinking straight, he'd have brought along some gloves. But then if he'd been thinking straight, instead of riding the crest of an emotional wave, he wouldn't be here at all. Above him, diamond hard stars dusted the moonless night sky, stretching away forever in a universe cold to all the trials of men. A universe that he had spent most of his adult life observing in the belief that it would give him an insight, if not into the mind, then at least into the actions of God. * ‘Mrs Templeton says that God performs miracles every day,' announced Katie, in a very matter-of-fact tone. Quietly, she had come to sit beside him in his attic observatory. Just for a while before bedtime. If she hadn't of spoken, he wouldn't have noticed she was there, so focused was he on the hazy blur of Andromeda. ‘But he doesn't want anybody to know, except for the person that he helps.' A glance at his seven-year old daughter revealed that while she was talking to him she was busy dressing her favourite toy, “Dolly-Polly”, a rather worn rag doll that still maintained supremacy over later, and far more expensive rivals for Katie's affections. ‘Whose Mrs Templeton?' ‘Oh, you're so silly, Daddy, you know Mrs Templeton's my class teacher.' ‘Ah. That Mrs Templeton. I thought that there might be two.' From the corner of his eye, he saw her brow crinkle in a frown of concentration as she tucked one of her doll's floppy arms into the sleeve of a fluffy, pink jumpsuit ready for bed. ‘If I asked him nicely,' she continued, ‘would God let Dolly-Polly smile?' The question made him glance at the faded pink material of the doll's face, noticing for the first time the straight line of cross-stitch that constituted her mouth. ‘Just with me, when no one else was about? That way, I would know if she was happy. ‘Only I would know, so it would stay a secret.' Curiosity pricked, he asked, ‘Did Mrs Templeton say why miracles had to be kept secret?' ‘Yes.' After a long pause, during which he thought that his daughter was going to elaborate but didn't, he asked, ‘And why is that then?' ‘Because if everybody knew about all the miracles, no one would need a Click here to read the rest of this story (293 more lines)
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