Chapter One

Memories

     I woke up to white.

     White walls, white sheets, white bed, white– wait, no, my uniform wasn't white. Neither was my bag. This made me sigh in relief, I wasn't as blinded by everything.
     Rubbing my eyes, I took a better look around, and recognised where I was. The school infirmary. I didn't come here all that much, but often enough to recognise it at least. The white was enough of an indicator, but with 3 other beds– empty, I might add–, shelves and paintings decorating the bland walls, the white clock above the door; yeah, this was the resting room of the infirmary for sure.

     I groaned, not entirely remembering why I was in the bed. I only remembered reading for the class–

     Reading for the class...

     The voices. The fa–

     My thoughts were interrupted when three people came into the room, chattering to themselves, and I sat up slowly to get a better look at who they were, since I was in one of the beds furthest from the door.
     I recognised the school nurse immediately, but the man and woman that were with her caught me off guard.

     "Mum? Dad?"

     Their heads turned to me, the small chat with the nurse ceasing, and worried looks came over their features as my mother sat on the bed next to me.
     "Are you alright, sweetie? Your teacher said you collapsed in front of the class while reading, luckily you didn't hit your head though..." She moved a strand of my bright hair out of my eyes, tucking it behind my ear. I don't know for how long I've been passed out, but it was long enough to frazzle not only my long locks, but my parents too.

     I thought back to the words of Miss Finchley, and frowned, "Thinking too much might make you faint!"

     So that explains it... I let my imagination get the better of me. I should be happy, but I felt disappointed in a way, as if I had made a grand discovery, only for it to be debunked. I wasn't even sure what the discovery was, I just knew that it was a great one.

     I opened my mouth to reassure my mother, but my father spoke first, with even more worry laced in his words than my mother, "June. We need to leave, now, we don't have time..." 
     This confused me. Looking between my parents, I could see they were exchanging a silent conversation with one another. I saw a tear slip from my mother's eye as she nodded and stood, taking my back, and my father came up to me to help me stand. Surprisingly, my shoes were still on.

     With a hushed whisper, they thanked the nurse and practically dragged me out of the school and into their four-wheel drive. They didn't give me a chance to ask what was going on, and whenever I tried to open my mouth, they're faces were enough to make me shut up.

     They were scared.

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     After a few hours of driving, we arrived on the coast of Wales. I looked down at my phone, stopping the music I was listening to and taking out my earphones, only the look at the time.

     19:28.

     We had left the school at around three in the afternoon.
     I never got the chance to change out of my uniform, the only times we stopped driving was to go to the bathroom or for my dad to grab a coffee. I never once asked them what was going on. Their looks of dread said enough.

     With an arm wrapped around my shoulder, my mother led me down to the bay, whilst my father stayed by the car to get some things. The docks were fairly empty, the only boat that seemed to have life inside was a white speed boat. Before we could get any closer to the boat though, my mother stopped me, giving me a small smile before going over to the captain of the small ship, exchanging a few words with him that I couldn't hear, and nodding every so often. 
     A thud from beside me brought me back to reality as I looked at my father, a suitcase and a rucksack on the ground beside him. He had a forlorn expression as he looked out to the see, and he finally spoke to me for the first time today.

     "Cairnholm. It's the only place you'll be safe. With the bird." His words only left me in a deeper state of confusion, but he continued on, now looking at me with his spectacled eyes. "Do you remember your mother's father?"

     I took a quick glance over to my mother, shaking my head. My grandfather had died when I was four, and the only memories had of him was his picture at his funeral, or one particular holiday to France. 

     An old man sat in the colourful room. Colourful, as it was illuminated, brought to life with the hundreds of paintings that were scattered around, laying on the floor to dry, leaning against the cream coloured walls, or hanging from the ceiling to dry. The man's face wasn't visible. Only his back, and his thin, silver hair. He was facing an easel, humming to himself as his shaky hand dragged the brush over the rough surface.

     A sorrowful smile took over my father's features when he saw my negative response, but he went on. "If you don't remember him, I'm sure you at least remember his undying love for art." He chuckled, and I joined him, his dramatic words making me giggle.
     "He would be proud of you. You may not share the same type of art, but he always saw a spark in your eye, even at a young age." He hesitated. "He spoke fondly of Cairnholm. He always said he wanted to bring you there, to see the old children's home, but I suppose he never got the chance to.."

     My parents never did tell me how old grandpa Lucian had passed. I was old enough to know, but I knew it was a tough subject. It didn't stop me from being the curious person I am, however. I remember at a young age, rummaging through cupboards and looking through old photo albums to see what I could find on my family. Ever since I was young, it had only been me, my mother and my father, and no matter how much I loved my parents, my eyes always held a spark of envy in them when I would see other children my age with brothers, sisters, cousins...
     That curiosity lead me to finding one of my grandfathers paintings. "His last painting.", my mother said. It was a beautiful piece. A forest scene with a lone, white stag in the centre, that seemed to glow as it was surrounded by blue butterflies, a small stream flowing to its left. I loved it as a child, and still do to this day; when I was 5, I brought it in to show and tell, and told them my grandfather was a famous artist and that he was my hero— of course the other 5 year olds had no idea was I was so obsessed with the painting, but the teacher seemed almost as enraptured as I was.

     "Tallulah..." I turned my head to the gentle voice of my mother, her frown making the edges of my own lips tilt downward. "I know this is sudden, but we will explain. One day, just not today. And I'm sure you're intelligent enough to understand on your own accord." She handed me a letter, the edges were slightly tethered and the already brown paper had a darker ring on it— someone had left their coffee on it accidentally.
     "Give it to the bird, and she'll guide you. You'll know her when you see her." My father chimed in.

     The bird. He kept saying that as if I would understand what he meant.

     I'm sure my father saw the frustration in my eyes, since he leaned forward to hug me. I buried my face in his shoulder. I'm not sure what I was feeling. Confusion for sure. With a twinge of frustration. But also sadness and fear, as if I were afraid it would be the last time I saw my parents.

     ... surely not. They wouldn't just send me alone to some place I don't know and not come back for me after.

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     I sat on the speedboat, fidgeting uncomfortably. I didn't like boats all that much, although it wasn't the primary source of my unease.

     The look in my father's eyes and my mother's tears were... also the driver was particularly keen on making conversation, but I wasn't all that interested and his accent was slightly difficult to understand, so I just nodded and smiled, wishing my social anxiety wouldn't keep me from replying.

     I looked forward towards where we were headed, causing my long ginger hair to blow back out of my face. I had to squint, but I could spot a small island in the distance. Despite my discomfort, I smiled ever so slightly, thinking of the stories my mother told me as a child, of an island where villagers were terrorised by monsters who liked to play in their village at night and toy with time itself to reverse the damage they caused. I giggled at the thought, remembering how my father would suddenly burst into the room, acting like a big scary monster, before kneeling down to the ground and acting all innocent as mother explained how the monsters were just children, children so extraordinary that normal people feared them, even though they were just trying to help and have fun.

     My nostalgic smile turned sad at the memory. I wish they could have came too, but apparently this mysterious bird would explain everything.

     I took a deep breath of the salty sea air.

     Perhaps this is a chance to start anew. A fresh start. Granted I'm only 17, but I've never had much of a social life, or life at all for that matter, being one of the more reclusive people in the city I live in— or city I used to live in, I suppose.. 

     A fresh start. That sounds nice.