Maisie

By Julie Elizabeth Powell

Maisie is special. Yes, she is blind, yes she's an orphan and yes, few know her roots. But inside, she sparkles, more than an angel, more than those majestic stars that layer the universe in glory. Some see this sparkle while others deny its existence and insist she is nothing more than a brat, one that even her own parents didn't want.

Maisie also has a secret. One she'd never share because if she did, she knew they'd lock her away in one of those places the others talked about - where all the weird people go.

Even Maisie doesn't understand it all, but knows that one day she'll meet the woman and the boy...those that she believes are part of her dreams, in a land where she can see, where colours are vibrant and the moon shines as bright as the sun.

What is the truth, and will Maisie ever find it?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Julie Elizabeth Powell
• Release date: Jul 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386122883

Julie Elizabeth Powell

I cannot ignore my dreams, so many of them, with names and places and ideas that spark my imagination and compel me to write; to create stories, whether fantasy or horror, or mystery or psychological thriller or murder or even humour and adventure. So, my garden is sown, flourishing, with all manner of growth, and still the dreams come. Julie Elizabeth Powell, my soul lingering within my imagination; maybe you'll join me? Author of 23 books in a variety of genres.

Book preview

Maisie

Written by

——————————————

Julie Elizabeth Powell

pegasus shadow.jpg

Copyright © 2017

Maisie

by Julie Elizabeth Powell

––––––––

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved; no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, photocopying or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.

Websites

http://julizpow.wix.com/julieelizabethpowell

Email

[e-mail]

Amazon

Goodreads

Lulu

Audible

Cover Design: Julie Elizabeth Powell

Silhouette by flatiron from Freepik

Contents

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

Thank you

Further published books by this author are:

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

pegasus shadow.jpg

1

––––––––

Sometimes, Maisie thought she’d been hatched, like one of those chicks that were all fluffy and hard to catch.  Because Mrs. Baines was always telling her that – what with her fuzzy hair and fast long legs.

It was a good job she knew the layout of the place so well, otherwise, she’d be covered with bruises.

More bruises.

Maybe she had been – hatched – because she wondered if that’s why she was so different.

But that was stupid; she wasn’t a chicken, but a girl.  Even if some of the others said she was weird.  Mary Sarah Kincaid was always telling her that...ever since she could remember; pinching her to prove her point, as if pinching was a detector of weird.

And she’d been here all of seven years.

All her life.

The hatched thing, though, she sort of understood why that thought came into her mind – yes, she was different, but Mrs. Baines had told her once how chicks broke through the shell and struggled to be born, and that they can be so helpless that they can’t see and need constant attention, and sometimes are completely bald (though most regular chickens are fully feathered and can see); so maybe that was her?

Not that she was bald – gee, her hair was so...Mrs. Baines called it, abundant – and Maisie could feel the curls bouncing down her back when she ran into the backyard before Mrs. Baines had the chance to ‘tame it’.

Mrs. Baines told Maisie her hair was the blondest she’d ever seen, almost white, and so thought that whipped cream would be hard to beat in similarity.

Mrs. Baines said the funniest things sometimes.

Maybe she was like one of those chicks that needed extra care and then things would get better.

And when they did, she’d be able to see.

Maisie shook her head as she silently descended the stairs – no, she was seven years old and she knew that by now her eyes would have let in the colours, allowed her to recognise the faces of her those around her and see the fields painted yellow in summer, the sky grey in the winter and the budding greens of spring.

But then she had a secret.

No, no, she didn’t pretend to be blind, she really couldn’t see like the others, and yet something lingered beside the aromas, something that played in the back of her mind.

Something that showed her the woman and the boy.

Not that they were in the same place – the woman or the boy or her.  No, each of them was separate and yet something tied them.  And that was when she could see.

So she knew that the others told her the truth of colours, even if Mary Sarah Kincaid tried to kid her sometimes.  Once she’d told Maisie that the daffodils that spotted the meadow in spring were actually blue.  Blue!  And even if Mrs. Baines hadn’t put her right, she’d known – because she’d seen them in the place where the woman was.

In dreams, too, she could see.  So she’d look forward to sleep and the adventures she’d have.  This puzzled her, though, because when the others spoke of dreams, they weren’t like hers at all.  Theirs were sort of mixed up, a bit of this and that, and didn’t really make sense.  Not like hers.

She’d always had them – well, she supposed so.  The first being when she was a baby.  And how did she know that?  Well, the woman had told her.  Maisie remembered being held in her arms while the woman would sing to her and call her an angel, her baby from...now this was the odd bit, for Maisie never could remember the name the woman called it.

Although she couldn’t remember a time when it wasn’t so.  And there was something more, something far in the distance, sort of a oversized white blur, but she’d never been able to work out what it was, and so tried to shrug it away because sometimes she felt she could be driven mad by so many thoughts and questions whirling in her head.  It was probably only a bird, anyway.  Why should that make her heart bump so quickly?  There was more to it though, she knew, and maybe one day...

When she’d grown some, the woman no longer carried her in her arms – of course she was too big – but would run alongside the girl, never puffing like Mrs. Baines did.

Not that Mrs. Baines was allowed to run at all.  Mr. Baines was forever telling her off, saying that these kids would be the death of her.

But he’d smile when he said it, knowing how much joy there was to have with things like running.  And she could always tell when someone was smiling even if she couldn’t see them.

He was alright was Mr. Baines, if a bit grumpy at times.  And that was only because Maisie knew he worried about his wife.

He’d let Maisie picture his face, as did Mrs. Baines; not many people would let her, calling it spooky.  But when she’d run her fingers along the smooth and craggy, and the hills and valleys of the faces, how they looked would remain with her always.

Mr. Baines’ face though was tough, like leather – she knew that since she understood the feeling of her shoes (although her shoes seemed smoother).  He called it leather because he was out in all weathers and never put on cream or any of that nonsense modern stuff, he’d told her.  Anyway, his face had tons of lines, and wasn’t at all soft like Mrs. Baines’.

She smiled now, remembering how soft it was, and round, too.  Smooth like the cream they’d make from the cow’s milk. Mrs. Baines’ face always felt hot, too, as if it was a steaming summer day and she’d been running.

Mr. Baines was right though, that Mrs. Baines shouldn’t do too much, for she had a weak heart.  She felt it once, bumpety-bump, jumping about like one of those Mexican beans Peter Rafferty had let her hold, one day.  They’d tickled as they’d run over the palm of her hand.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Maisie made her way to the kitchen.  Warm and bright – she knew it was bright, for although she couldn’t see, she wasn’t forever in darkness, but would know when it was daylight as it faded into night.

That’s when the doctors questioned her blindness.  After all, why couldn’t she see?  Hysterical was the word she remembered.  But that came from Doctor Skye.  She shivered at the thought of him.

Not that he’d ever done anything bad to her.  It was more a feeling of ‘ugh’, and really, how could anyone explain that?

Hysterical blindness, he’d said.  But Mrs. Baines had put him right. ‘How could the poor mite have been born hysterical?’ she’d said.

Silly man.

‘The shock of being born!’

‘Well, whoever heard of such a thing?’

He’d never let Maisie touch his face, but Mrs. Baines had told her he reminded her of a frog – one that called out to a mate when its throat bulged out like a balloon.  Maisie had laughed at the thought, as she’d held a frog more than once and imagined the rest.

Yes, Mrs. Baines said the funniest things.

The smell of freshly cooked scones bounced to her belly, making her mouth water.

And before you ask, milady, no scones until after tea!

Actually, said Maisie, I wasn’t going to ask.

Fibber!

Maisie’s giggle joined Mrs. Baines’ laugh – a laugh that made the girl feel squishy inside, thinking that if angels laughed, that would be the sound.

The woman’s laugh was different.

That one was lighter, although filled with joy, it was more like the tinkling of bells.

The boy, though, he was different.

His was sad...she’d not heard him laugh.

She didn’t know enough about the boy to know why.  She felt his loneliness.  And she knew what that felt like – sort of.

Yes, she had Mrs. Baines, even Mr. Baines, but that wasn’t the same as having a mum and dad.  Though the woman...sometimes she felt like she could be; a mum that is.  And Maisie felt happiest when dreaming.

Though definitely not when she was near the boy.

It wasn’t as if she was frightened of him or anything, but more like sad – like him.  She thought she knew why, too.  It was because he was lost.

Lost where, how was she to know?  But she wished she could help him.

Then, as her belly grumbled at the lack of scones, she had an idea.

What if she told the woman about him – the boy?

Why hadn’t she before?

She shook her head and shrugged her shoulders.

And what may you be thinking, dear?

Oh, nothing, just silly things.

Mrs. Baines bent to put something in the oven; Maisie heard the squeak of the old door.  Now, I know better than that.  My Maisie never thinks silly things.

Why do you say that? asked Maisie pulling out a stool to sit at the long wooden bench.

Because you have an old soul.

What does that mean?

Hmm, maybe I shouldn’t say this because it might swell that head of yours.  On second thoughts, no, it’d never do that...well, it means that you are wise and strong and have a great understanding of the world.

Maisie smiled.  Really?  What if my head really swells now, will it get so big that I won’t fit through the doors?

The girl felt Mrs. Baines’ hand on her shoulder.  It’ll never happen.  Anyway, enough of that.  Why are you down here?  Shouldn’t you be heading to History class?

Maisie swivelled off the stool with a sigh.  Hmm, yes but...

But what?  I thought you liked History, if not as much as English, well, I know not as much as English...always a nose in storybooks and such.  It’s a good job Miss. Standing insists on those Braille translations.

Yes, yes, it isn’t that...

It was Mrs. Baines’ turn to sigh.  Who is it this time?

Still the same; Mary Sarah Kincaid.

You mustn’t let her spoil the things you love.

I know, only it’s not easy sometimes...and the others have started to join in.  Peter James Rafferty, who used to be okay and let me share things with him, pokes me as I pass; just like David John Michael Mulligan and Jane Stevens.

I’ll have a word with...

No, that’ll make things worse, and really, I can manage.  I can sort of tell when it’s going to happen and dodge a bit.  In fact, the girl stopped on a giggle then added, Peter James Rafferty tumbled out of his chair last time trying to reach me and Miss. Fell made him sit at the front of the class.

That’s not the point, and why he should...

They’re scared of her; of Mary Sarah Kincaid.

This is exactly what I mean about you understanding things.  And, I’ve often wondered why you insist in saying their full names.

Maisie now smiled and walked to the door.  Oh that’s just because of the register – it helps me remember who’s who.

As if you’d ever forget that!

Ah, but it also makes me remember that I’m different.

How’s that?

"I’m the only one that doesn’t have two, three or four names...and that I was able to choose my own.  And Smith doesn’t count because they gave it to me."

Mrs. Baines said nothing as she watched the girl leave the room.

pegasus shadow.jpg

2

––––––––

As Maisie made her way to History class, knowing that Miss. Fell would tut-tut at her lateness but not really tell her off, she thought back to the origin of her name.

She’d been left on the doorstep – a fact she knew was a cliché – yet she’d been left all the same.  There’d been no note of any kind pinned to a soft, pink blanket – nothing to say who she was or where she’d come from as her face supposedly peeked out from the tattered piece of grey cloth that wrapped her tiny body.

Even then, according to Mrs. Baines, her hair had been almost white, and at first, nobody had realised she was blind for those pure violet eyes had twinkled within the bright full moon, her full lips turning upwards, as if she could see her rescuer and was thankful.

Although it didn’t take long for them to realise that Maisie’s eyes, as beautiful and strange as they were, could not decipher the objects around her.

Maisie recalled how Mrs. Baines described that first night for it was she who had found her.  How she had heard an odd whispering, as if the wind was imparting a secret.  She’d scuttled to the door, careful not to wake the sleeping house, and opened the door as if she’d been commanded.

And there you were, my little love, a swaddled bundle – if you could call it that, for that tattered rag had given up any warmth long ago.

She’d picked her up, of course, crooning all the way back to the kitchen where Mrs. Baines had been preparing hot cocoa before she would sit in the cosy room and read while all was quiet.

I never guessed you were blind – not then.  But it’s never stopped you; that’s for sure!

Maisie smiled at those words.

Why should she be stopped?  She could do almost anything, and when she was older she’d do more, too – just see if she didn’t!

She let the delicious memory coddle her.

She’d been lucky – or had whoever had left her had known she’d be safe there?  Nothing was ever found out, but Mrs. Baines had insisted she be part of the Home, which was a school, too – one for waifs and strays, and those whose parents were often too busy for them (though, some, like Mary Sarah Kincaid, sometimes left to stay with their parents for a while), but it was a place that housed kids nobody really wanted.

That was her of course.  For no one had ever come forward, despite being on the news – they’d even had a reporter come to the Home, who’d had an aroma of peppermints.  Mrs. Baines had told her that she probably drank too much and had to hide the smell.

And Mrs. Baines was right on so many things, even if sometimes it made Maisie laugh or puzzle.

She never came back, though – not once to see if you were okay...only interested in a juicy story, like them all.  You slept through the whole thing, though, never once opening those wonderful eyes of yours.  Maybe she’d have done something more if she’d seen them.

Maisie wondered at that – how could her eyes make any difference to anything?  Did blind people get more attention, or was their colour so strange that others would want to know more about her?

She didn’t think so.  And anyway, the others here weren’t interested; except maybe to taunt her.  Mrs. Baines said the others were jealous or afraid.

Maisie would never understand that!  Why would anyone be jealous of her – did they want to be blind, too?  It wasn’t as if she got extra sympathy or anything.  Sometimes she thought that some of the teachers actually were harder on her!  And she was the least scary person she knew.  Not that she couldn’t or wouldn’t take care of herself if she had to.  But there were ways and though she’d like to punch Mary Sarah Kincaid on the nose sometimes, she knew that if she could ignore her she’d eventually leave her alone.

Eventually.

Her name, though, she loved her own name. 

That first night, when Mrs. Baines had sat down (so she’d told Maisie) the baby’s hand had worked beyond the ragged wrappings and trailed towards the open book that lay on the wooden table.  One of the leaves was fanned upwards and the baby’s hand, her hand, had grasped it eagerly.

Proper grip you had, too!  You just wouldn’t let go until I’d lifted it and there it was as plain as Miss. Rogers’ face.

The girl smiled again at the picture Mrs. Baines had painted.  For on the page was the name, one she now owned and had kept for seven years.

"Maisie!  As her in the book, had only one name...yes, an odd thing, but then it was an odd night.  You came out of a whisper, my lovely, and you’ve delighted me ever since.  Mr. Baines, too, if he would admit to it.  It’s a good name, too.  I looked it up later and its meaning suits you: pearl, child of light!  You’re certainly that,