Ewan and me, we can't stay away.

We miss each other as the breath we don't take and, everyone can say so, in that moment, when we are not together, all the town loses its carelessness.

Moreover, yesterday meeting with such a bizarre man can't remain my only secret. Of course, during the strange situation in which I found, I didn't ask his name. Superficial! I promise I'll ask him whenever I meet.

Looking back on it, I'm not sure I noticed him in Bibury, before. Perhaps he recently moved here. Or he spends in our countryside just few days every now and then. After that, no wonder if in that huge cottage he has anything to survive without having to leave.

Today, the delivery route seems to be less challenging. It's the merit of a pilgrimage to Westminster Abbey, that pastor Briggs organized for the faith community. What more favourable occasion? By morning, I'm done with all my chores so I can dedicate myself to stitching up a little tear.

I go round in the town centre, I cross the square and turn in every street, searching him on every corner, till I find him. Drenched in sweat, with an old hat on the head and shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, Ewan is nailing the boards of a fence with a heavy sledgehammer.

«Hi Ewan.» I say, forcing him to lift his eyes against the light.

«Isaac.» He answers, removing the spikes that he holds between his teeth. «What brings you here?»

«I was wondering if your last invitation still was valid.»

Incredulous and stunned by the words he thinks he misunderstood, he spends a moment before let his wide smile spread on his face, by answering: «Bloody hell, what's wrong with you? Did you lose your mind? It's still valid, of course!» then, turning back to the garden's owner where he's working on, he shouts: «Hey Mr. Hoope, I take the rest of the afternoon off, I hope you don't mind. I'll finish tomorrow.»

«No problem McGregor. Have a nice day.»

«Don't worry, I do!» My friend says, looking at me with such shining eyes.

***

I get to the tavern a few minutes in advance. I haven't been here in months after sunset, at least since I started writing about Annabelle. I'm on the fence whether or not to cross the threshold alone but I remain cowed by the chatter that I hear coming from inside.

But I'm not alone for long: Ewan reaches me, polished as I don't remember.

The tavern interior has the sour smell of food, bodies and soot. Tables full of glasses host plump people who mumble and sing songs far from any cacophony that can be defined puritan. Exactly what I wanted to keep away from.

But what will it be for one night?

We take place a bit away from the savage horde of the chorus, in the most secluded corner of the room, where we can converse. When we sit, a portly brunette with a pale skin approaches and it takes me little to guess that Ewan is not completely unknown to her. But I don't want to go into the details of his trousers and everything runs out in a generous grope.

«Good, you old goat!» Ewan begins, giving me a powerful pat on the back. «What has pulled you out from that muffled hole?»

«Nothing. I just needed a good company.» These words sound false like an oxen haggis. Obviously, Ewan doesn't see through. «I met a person, yesterday. That's it.»

«Glory be to Saint Patrick! It war time, boy! So? She's blonde? Or brown? Come on, tell!»

«Ohno, I meant I met a man.»

«A man?» He shouts, jumping on the bench, puzzled. «Wht didn't you tell me before?»

«What did you understand? Let me finish. I met a bizarre person: I delivered him a pack. He has got a lot of clocks, pendulums and chairs and tea cups and...»

«And what does he do with the clocks?»

«No idea! Well, I give him the pack and he asks me how does it get there, you know?»

«You?»

«Not me! The pack! And he told me that if I stop, maybe my characters will revolt.»

«If you stop delivering packs?»

«No! Stopping to write!» 

«On the packs?»

I'm starting to feel lost.

«Let me know...» he continues, undaunted «a strange man with a lot of packs on his chairs asked you to bring his clock and not to stop writing...what?»

Now I'm really lost. I leave mi bench and reach Ewan sitting next to him and trying to make me clearer, helped by the most significant gestures. In ten minutes, I finally get my goal.

«Now, do you understand?»

«Yes. But where does he live?»

«In the cottage out of town, right over the river.»

Ewan laughs noisily, throwing back his head. «Couldn't you tell me right away?»

«Why? Do you know him?»

«Of course, man! He's old Charles.»

«Charles?»

«Dickens, to be more exact.»

«And how can you know who is he? I never see him in town. I didn't even know that those cottages were inhabited.»

«He's a fancy guy, no doubt. But harmless. People say he escaped a train wreck, that his wagon were the only one stood on the tracks when the bridge collapsed. And they say...» he whispers getting closer «that he was so shocked that he lost his mind. His wife dumped him and then Charles moved in that house, retiring to private life.»

«And so, what does he need all those chairs for, I mean?»

«The only one who visit him is a guy from East Side. Weird too. I think his name is something like Lewis Carroll.»

«Never heard. And what's wrong with him?»

«First of all, he's a writer.» He reveals, giving me a dirty look. «And there's a rumour going round, from who read his books, that he writes about talking rabbits, singing cats, growing mushrooms, oysters and queens who cut children's head off.»

«Children's head?»

«Yeah. Those who fell into the rabbits' hole.

«But rabbits' hole aren't enough large for children!»

«Well, maybe the mushrooms people tell about aren't exactly those of his books.»

I stand thinking a while on this suggestion. Then I bounce back from my thoughts. After all, what do I have to care about Charles' friends?

I pull out from my pocket the pouch Charles offered me and give it to Ewan: «Look how wonderful!»

«So this is the reason why you wanted to meet! Let me see.»

As soon as he opens the pouch and reveals the quill, this catches his attention and it's almost like it shines with its own light.

«What are you doing with this?»

My eyes seem having no filters.

«No, not Annabelle again!»

***

I clean and tidy up my desk, on the mezzanine. Now it must host the new quill, it needs a little respect! No one would move in a dirty and messy place, so I take off the old sheets, I collect the charcoal powder and get ready to prepare some new ink. I place the new quill in the centre of the desk and put in front of it a new sheet of paper. For a special guest you need a special support.,

I feel the joy quivering in me. My heart is pounding in the chest and my hands tremble. I comb my hair, adjust the collar of my jacket and check if my nails are cleaned, then I gently remove the tool from its holder. I dip it in the ink, first apologizing for the liquid's bleakness. But the quill seems to understand that all this poverty is about to end and welcomes the colour without smudging and when I put it on the paper, I feel a completely new sensation: it's sliding and lightweight, almost imperceptible. The dash is very fine and the serifs of the script get out from the tip as delicious dancers.

It will be a real pleasure for my Annabelle being described by such a beautiful tool.

Her eyes, like lapis lazuli, brightened all her face and when she turned to him, he began to feel wanting for breath.

Then he thought that so was death: it stole senses and led glorious men following without any delay. And so much he still wanted to look at her and to touch the gentle beauty of her skin. But he was satisfied to look at her once again not because she was of an unusual beauty, not for that elegance and that grace that they imagined only in the princes' dreams, but because in the graceful look, when she had approached him, he had glimpsed something so caressing and tender that he could not look away ever again.

Dear readers.

Nothing remains to do but thank you getting at this point.

I love taking care about details and gift a little reality among my words: nothing is left to chance. Dickens is really him, in pen and ink. Allusions were found inevitable, pardon...

Now, it's time to see where we end

Meanwhile, I'd be so glad if someone would like to leave his own opinion.

See you soon!