Ravens Deep (one) (2 page)

             
But
w
hen would that be exactly?

             
Right now I had more important things to think about, like the journey on which I was about to embark. This new and uncertain course had occurred coincidently because of my writing. In recent months I had been fortunate enough to have several short stories published.  With that small amount of success my confidence level increased considerably and now I felt that I was capable of a defining piece of work, I only needed the inspiration to create it.  That encouragement had come about in the most unusual of circumstances.  I thought back, astonished, only five weeks had passed, it really seemed much longer.

             
I had been working part-time as a hotel receptionist, people were friendly and interesting and I enjoyed my job, but an added bonus of working part-time was the freedom to write.  On one particular afternoon, just as I had been getting ready to leave for the day, one of the hotel staff informed me that collected guest magazines had been delivered to the lounge.  Hotel guests invariably left magazines in their rooms, and we often selected the ones in like-new-condition for other guests or staff. This information had prompted me to visit the lounge before I left the hotel that evening, as I had often acquired research materials for varied writing projects in this manner.  I looked through the pile and saw that they were the usual kind of publications, mainly fashion and various business periodicals, but one,
Ancestry, Your Link to the Past,
did catch my attention.

I retrieved it from the pile and took it with me. That had been it, a simple thing like picking up somebody else
’s unwanted magazine had altered my course in destiny.

That same evening, I sat down to continue my research on an article that I was currently writing, not feeling particularly creative I eventually laid it to one side. I poured myself a glass of wine and picked up the magazine.

              As I began to thumb through its pages, the inspiration for a story started to unfold in my mind as I absorbed as many details as possible on how to research a family tree.  My interest grew considerably as I read more interesting facts, although I was more than a little curious and intrigued by the readers’ letters. Many were from people that were trying to find connections to their lineage and I found them to be sad, amusing or even bizarre. It seemed one individual was looking for his royal connection as he was certain he was of blue blood. That particular letter made me smile and I wondered why some people were always desperate to find a connection to royalty.  But my musings aside, it was when I read the letter from a gentleman named Mr. Chambers, that my heart skipped a beat.  His letter indicated that he was looking for a connection to the surname ‘
Shaw’
in the West Country, Exmoor to be precise.  My father's family had resided in the West Country and our family name was Shaw. I re-read the brief letter.

             
To whom this may concern,

              I am searching for any living relatives relating to the name James Shaw.  They resided in the West Country near the village of Beaconmayes, Exmoor. I have expansive research that encompasses the Shaw Ancestry Line.

              Contact address: 27 Parson Place, London SW3

                                                       
Sincerely,

             
                                          Mr. Chambers.

The letter was short and to the point, there was no e-mail address or telephone number, but I found myself drawn to its content. I re-read the letter several times and felt as though I had to get in touch with this, Mr. Chambers. It was the strangest thing, the whole plot for a story had suddenly hit me like a bolt of lightning and I felt a sudden burning desire to make this connection and to use the research.  It would become the foundation for this work of fiction that was now racing through my head. I also felt certain that it would be a great opportunity to make a connection to any existing family. I needed to find out how to search back through ancestral blood lines in order to complete a family tree for this dark tale that was taking shape, and now I could not think of a better way to educate myself than to delve into my own family history.

             
I took out a pen and paper and began to write a response to the letter.  A deep rooted feeling told me that this had to be a genuine connection for I had heard the name Beaconmayes somewhere in my past, I was certain of it, and the facts staring me in the face were obvious. The region of England known as the West Country was where all my father’s ancestors had resided and both he and his father had shared the same name, James Shaw. It felt from that moment that the story I had spinning around my head would be my defining piece of work -- my first novel.

             
I posted my letter that same day, and each day after I had checked the mail hoping for a reply from Mr. Chambers. Twelve days later it arrived.

             
That was the beginning of the strange correspondence and relationship between me and the mysterious Mr. Chambers. I will call it a relationship for although I had never met him he was like no other person I had ever conversed with, even if it were only through paper and ink.  In the weeks that followed and led up to this present moment, he had given me a rare insight into his life and in return I responded with revelations of my own past.

             
To an onlooker it might have been seen as a risky undertaking, giving a complete stranger personal details and information, but the truth of the matter was, Mr. Chambers did not ever appear to pose any type of threat, he never asked any leading or uncomfortable questions, instead he had the reverse effect, he made me feel comforted by his words and he seemed genuinely interested in my thoughts and views.  He asked for nothing more than that.

             
Our frequent writings mirrored fascinating glimpses into our lives, although mine seemed hardly engrossing, instead it was somewhat dull in comparison with his. Mr. Chamber’s letters were beautiful, almost poetic, yet he wrote in the manner of a much older time, a bygone era which seemed both old fashioned and charming in today’s modern world. Although he never divulged his age I estimated that he had to be at least in his eighties. 

             
I deduced this fact because he had knowledge of so many places and experiences.

B
ut he recalled that he had not travelled for many years, instead he preferred to shut himself away from the world. I could only guess that this was brought about by his age and his indication that he had some kind of illness. My own good manners, and my wish to remain tactful with my mature friend meant that I did not delve into what exactly was wrong with him, for I also sensed from his words that he had no desire to discuss this matter. 

             
He did however reveal that he rarely left his house and he did not receive visitors.  That revelation was fine by me, the mystery and the magic might not have been so vivid had I actually met my mentor in person, for I did not want to imagine a sick, eighty something recluse, penning these exquisite writings. Instead, I preferred to imagine him always as my mysterious Mr. Chambers, for he had indeed become a mentor of sorts. While I struggled to match his perfect English and his fine style of writing, he gently chastised me when my words or phrases were not quite correct, but he would also encourage my efforts. 

             
He described in detail his work as a travel writer, which in turn had led him to research his own ancestry.  Of course, the majority of this research had taken place many years ago, but now he felt it was appropriate to complete his work, and I could fully understand that statement knowing that he probably did not have much time left.  

             
He had lived abroad for years, and he named many places I had never even heard of, mainly in Eastern Europe, he had spent several months in Italy and lived in Paris for a short while before returning to England.

             
Although I certainly found this information interesting it was his ability to capture my imagination that I found to be his most irresistible quality, and he had a way with words that few can ever master with a pen.  We did establish that I was the very last of the Shaw line. My family name would disappear forever should I get married or -- a more sobering thought -- when I died.

             
I quickly verified that we were related, but very distantly. I would have to go all the way back up my line to the year 1812, and all the way down again to find him.  I must admit, I was astonished at the information, to think that I could go that far back in history and find out who my ancestors were. Thinking back, I had never really spoken to my parents about family trees or such, being the only child of parents who were both only children themselves, there had never seemed much point.  Now, how I wished I had asked questions when I had the chance, for there was no longer any one left to give me any answers, except perhaps Mr. Chambers.

             
I tried to do my own research, but the records I found were very incomplete and most only went back to the year 1861.  Instead, I relied heavily on the information I had been given by Mr. Chambers, who told me, he had visited many graveyards, searched out ancient parish records and studied long forgotten archives, and he had done all this research without ever touching a computer.

              “Too complicated,” he had said.

             
He preferred to put ink to paper and partake in writing, but despite the indication that he was old and sick he had beautiful handwriting, reminiscent of an old scripture that had been penned in ink by ancient monks, each letter perfectly formed in graceful curving strokes reminding me of some exquisite calligraphy I had once admired.  Even his choice of stationery seemed appropriate for the style of writing as it had an expensive heavy quality, which seemed to give each letter an air of mystery. I delighted in these letters and I kept every one of them safe and secure in a wooden writing box that had been my mother’s.

             
In turn, I composed each of my letters to him as though they were ancient sonnets.  He brought out certain creativity in me as I tried to match his beautiful words and poetic style with my own imaginative, yet humble offerings.

             
We continued to keep up the correspondence, long after we had established the last details of the ancestry link and I believe that indicated just how special our relationship had become, in as much as I began to feel that I really knew him, and that he certainly understood me.  I had mentioned my hopes for my story that I still had to begin writing, and during the frequent correspondence between us, he had encouraged me relentlessly, always he asked in his letters: 

             
“When will you start your book?”

             
In one of my last letters to him, I had finally confessed that I was struggling with inspiration. I wanted my book to be captivating, intriguing, a tale of corruption, mystery and murder that would shake the foundations upon which our country rested.  I told him that this book was to be a defining piece of work, a true masterpiece that would elevate me into the realm of a serious author. I also revealed to him that London was not inspiring me, as I imagined my heroine in a gothic mansion, a sixteenth century manor house or at the very least, a beautiful windswept cottage with roses around the door.  I felt as though I needed to immerse myself completely and to look at the world from a different perspective, if I was to identify with my main character.

             
It was therefore, an unexpected surprise when I received his strange invitation.

27 Parson Place

London, SW3

Dear Miss Shaw,

              As always your letters capture my imagination, and you continue to hold me spellbound with your words.  Your thirst for knowledge is inspiring, as it is, you possess a rare gift that awakens my senses.

             
Creativity is in your blood, as it was in mine and I can sense the creativity waiting to emerge in you.  If you allow yourself to start this book, I am certain it will become your greatest triumph.

             
Perhaps you would permit someone who once long ago wrote with a passion similar to that which you now possess to help you in finding your inspiration.

             
I still own a house on Exmoor.  It is located close to the village of Beaconmayes and although it is very old it is intact and furnished.  A magical place where you would find all of the inspiration you will ever need.  There is an extensive library in the house and many extremely rare and beautiful books, to fuel both your creativity and knowledge.  I am certain, that in this location you will find the peaceful ambiance you so desire.

             
Nothing would give me more pleasure, than to know that you may emerge from this experience with your masterpiece, as you so eloquently use the term.

             
Although hidden by hedgerows and woodland, on the north side of the property you will find the panoramic view across the moors and down to the sea is unobstructed. The house is named Ravens Deep and has been in my family for generations.  Directions on the back of this letter, and the key to the front door will be found hanging on an iron hook inside the porch.