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Oil Lamp
As Arabelle reached out her shaky but plump hand, she began to shiver like a flickering flame of a burning candle.
Arabelle Alden was in the basement of her parents’ house, the wooden floorboards groaning under the weight of the Alden family’s collection of artefacts her family had owned for generations. She crawled and scrambled her way through the musty and oppressive obstacle course, panting as if she were a dog, her hands enshrouded in grime and dust.
Black and white images suddenly flashed in front of her. A man in a sailor’s attire. His face looking uncannily like her own. His portly figure bent low over a map, his greasy hawked nose almost touching the parchment. A quill pen and an ink pot. A dim oil lamp illuminating the room panelled with wooden planks.
Out of the corner of her eyes, Arabelle noticed a faint glisten pulsing like heartbeat amid all the family treasures.
She held out her hand, fumbling for the source of light.
A lamp. An oil lamp. Cracked glass surrounded the weary wick inside. It let off a bubbling sound, the smell of an ever-burning campfire, sweet and reminiscent of days with her grandpa roasting marshmallows. She remembered her grandpa telling her about his father- Joseph Alden, Arabelle’s great grandpa. Her grandpa said that he was lost at sea, his body not found to that day. He was a famous explorer back when grandpa was still a teenager, and great grandpa’s name appeared all over newspaper articles. The only memory of his existence was a cracked oil lamp.
‘Only a true Alden ancestor shall unlock the real story. Those who do not have the courage, the bravery, shall not be granted permission. You are the chosen one.’ A deep grand voice suddenly echoed in Arabelle’s ears.
Tingling, a weird sensation enveloped her. She shivered. A flash of light sent her out of consciousness.
Thump. Thump. Clip-clop. Clip-clop.
She found herself on a ship. Her brain was still rattling in her skull, bewildered as to what to do. A strong gust of wind whipped. Her thick golden locks swayed in the turbulent wind as the sails ruffled. A grey blanket of fog wrapped around her. Gripping the railing, she panted in and out the salty ocean spray, her light complexion paling further. She gazed at the boots thumping on the wooden deck. The smell of rotten fish made her dizzy, pipe smoke adding to her confusion.
‘All hands on deck!’ a husky voice groaned over the kerfuffle as a man donned a buttoned blue jacket over a dirtied white shirt and knee length pants.
‘Yes, sir!’ Mingled voices roared. Deckhands in ‘apple pasty’ shaped hats and petticoat breeches began hauling ropes.
A smorgasbord of thoughts dashed through Arabelle’s head. She had never physically seen this scene except in films. Was she starring in a movie?
Footsteps scuffled the odorous wood. The noise was overwhelming, as shrill as a whistle. Her heart beat like a rollercoaster. Tingles in Arabelle’s hands spread like a fire in her body. At last, Arabelle was able to move. Rickety, she climbed down the ladder to the lower deck. She noticed newspaper was strewn across a wooden table. ‘7th of August, 1879’, one newspaper read, another with ‘14th June, 1879’ as the date.
‘1879?’ gawked Arabelle, her hands cupping her gaping mouth, eyebrows raised. ‘Just one minute ago, it was 2022!’
‘Of course, it’s 1879! Have you lost your mind?’ a deep voice bellowed, a middle-aged man’s head peeking out of the open cabin door. ‘Wait, who are you?’
‘Arabelle, sir.’ Making a pitying face, she responded, pleading for him not to shout at her.
‘Walk the plank!’ The man’s gold-rimmed glasses slid down his protruding nose bridge, as he let out an ear-deafening order.
Arabelle, unsure of what it meant, stuttered ‘I t-t-touched something belonging to Joseph Alden. Something reflective and bright. C-c-can’t remember.’
Instantly, like a conjuration, the man’s personality switched like a world record javelin throw. Calmly, he spoke in a gentle voice. ‘Arabelle, I’m Captain Joseph, the captain of HMS Gale. I’m not sure what has brought you here, but enjoy your stay in the nineteenth century.’
Wandering around, unsure of what to do next, Arabelle began to precisely observe the ship’s build. Nuts and bolts screwed wooden planks together in intricate hugs. Bundled up hammocks were hung on the walls. A kettle was in the centre of a mess table.
Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop. Plunk.
Cautiously, Arabelle turned around. The sound did not project from the kettle. So where was the eerie noise coming from? Lacerating water gushed in through an open porthole, soaking Arabelle’s brand new mary janes in wintry water, making her freeze.
‘Captain, batten down the hatches!’ Arabelle bellowed, voice competing with the gale wind.
Immediately, Captain Joseph strutted out and climbed up the stairs, holding a cracked lamp. Like a mouse eager to help, Arabelle quickly followed. Up on the deck, the lightning split emblazoned the sky. The barque heaved and tossed in the rising murky swell as the rain-shroud passed by, hissing its tears. The masts creaked eerily, snapping in half and scattering across the deck. Muffled screams ricocheted through the storm barrier around them. The ship, a battling soldier, swayed. Little by little, the grand ship, now a meek mouse, was parallel to the choppy ocean attacks. The storm was a raging monster.
It was all in one go. The growling sea, the stinging feeling of salt in Arabelle’s eyes, the dry burning sensation of salt down her throat. Splattering on impact, Arabelle curled into a ball, now in the indignant army of deep blue. Flailing her arms, she paddled furiously, willing to stay alive. The captain, in his drenched uniform, was also gasping.
To the right, a warm glowing sensation emanated in the pitch black. Instinctively, Arabelle swam towards it, hoping it could giver her some relief from the unbearable cold. Her hand brushed against a smooth scorching hot object, and what happened next, she could not comprehend.
She held onto a floating lamp. The whole world reversed. Captain Joseph began swimming backwards, as did all the sailors. Everyone was flung back on board.
‘Thank you, Arabelle,’ Captain Joseph shoved Arabelle in front of all the sailors. ‘You have saved us all, but it is too dangerous for you to stay.’
‘I n-need to get back to the twenty-first century,’ Arabelle echoed. The whole crowd gaped, but Captain Joseph knew what Arabelle was talking about.
Tapping his oil lamp three times, he said ‘14 Groven Way, Philida’, Arabelle’s exact address. ‘I am Joseph Alden, your great grandad! My son, your grandad, uncannily resembles you. Go home now. Tell your parents how you met me.’
Obediently, Arabelle reached her hand out. The world spun around her. Back in the basement of her house, she realised all the modern comforts of the twenty-first century: electricity, gas, lifeboats… She was glad to be back. Yet, she was also glad to meet her great grandad.
A final sentence, whispered in her head, from Captain Joseph said, ‘It was merely the dizziness from travelling back to your own realm and time. Don’t worry. I would protect you.’
As Arabelle reached out her shaky but plump hand, she began to shiver like a flickering flame of a burning candle.
Arabelle Alden was in the basement of her parents’ house, the wooden floorboards groaning under the weight of the Alden family’s collection of artefacts her family had owned for generations. She crawled and scrambled her way through the musty and oppressive obstacle course, panting as if she were a dog, her hands enshrouded in grime and dust.
Black and white images suddenly flashed in front of her. A man in a sailor’s attire. His face looking uncannily like her own. His portly figure bent low over a map, his greasy hawked nose almost touching the parchment. A quill pen and an ink pot. A dim oil lamp illuminating the room panelled with wooden planks.
Out of the corner of her eyes, Arabelle noticed a faint glisten pulsing like heartbeat amid all the family treasures.
She held out her hand, fumbling for the source of light.
A lamp. An oil lamp. Cracked glass surrounded the weary wick inside. It let off a bubbling sound, the smell of an ever-burning campfire, sweet and reminiscent of days with her grandpa roasting marshmallows. She remembered her grandpa telling her about his father- Joseph Alden, Arabelle’s great grandpa. Her grandpa said that he was lost at sea, his body not found to that day. He was a famous explorer back when grandpa was still a teenager, and great grandpa’s name appeared all over newspaper articles. The only memory of his existence was a cracked oil lamp.
‘Only a true Alden ancestor shall unlock the real story. Those who do not have the courage, the bravery, shall not be granted permission. You are the chosen one.’ A deep grand voice suddenly echoed in Arabelle’s ears.
Tingling, a weird sensation enveloped her. She shivered. A flash of light sent her out of consciousness.
Thump. Thump. Clip-clop. Clip-clop.
She found herself on a ship. Her brain was still rattling in her skull, bewildered as to what to do. A strong gust of wind whipped. Her thick golden locks swayed in the turbulent wind as the sails ruffled. A grey blanket of fog wrapped around her. Gripping the railing, she panted in and out the salty ocean spray, her light complexion paling further. She gazed at the boots thumping on the wooden deck. The smell of rotten fish made her dizzy, pipe smoke adding to her confusion.
‘All hands on deck!’ a husky voice groaned over the kerfuffle as a man donned a buttoned blue jacket over a dirtied white shirt and knee length pants.
‘Yes, sir!’ Mingled voices roared. Deckhands in ‘apple pasty’ shaped hats and petticoat breeches began hauling ropes.
A smorgasbord of thoughts dashed through Arabelle’s head. She had never physically seen this scene except in films. Was she starring in a movie?
Footsteps scuffled the odorous wood. The noise was overwhelming, as shrill as a whistle. Her heart beat like a rollercoaster. Tingles in Arabelle’s hands spread like a fire in her body. At last, Arabelle was able to move. Rickety, she climbed down the ladder to the lower deck. She noticed newspaper was strewn across a wooden table. ‘7th of August, 1879’, one newspaper read, another with ‘14th June, 1879’ as the date.
‘1879?’ gawked Arabelle, her hands cupping her gaping mouth, eyebrows raised. ‘Just one minute ago, it was 2022!’
‘Of course, it’s 1879! Have you lost your mind?’ a deep voice bellowed, a middle-aged man’s head peeking out of the open cabin door. ‘Wait, who are you?’
‘Arabelle, sir.’ Making a pitying face, she responded, pleading for him not to shout at her.
‘Walk the plank!’ The man’s gold-rimmed glasses slid down his protruding nose bridge, as he let out an ear-deafening order.
Arabelle, unsure of what it meant, stuttered ‘I t-t-touched something belonging to Joseph Alden. Something reflective and bright. C-c-can’t remember.’
Instantly, like a conjuration, the man’s personality switched like a world record javelin throw. Calmly, he spoke in a gentle voice. ‘Arabelle, I’m Captain Joseph, the captain of HMS Gale. I’m not sure what has brought you here, but enjoy your stay in the nineteenth century.’
Wandering around, unsure of what to do next, Arabelle began to precisely observe the ship’s build. Nuts and bolts screwed wooden planks together in intricate hugs. Bundled up hammocks were hung on the walls. A kettle was in the centre of a mess table.
Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop. Plunk.
Cautiously, Arabelle turned around. The sound did not project from the kettle. So where was the eerie noise coming from? Lacerating water gushed in through an open porthole, soaking Arabelle’s brand new mary janes in wintry water, making her freeze.
‘Captain, batten down the hatches!’ Arabelle bellowed, voice competing with the gale wind.
Immediately, Captain Joseph strutted out and climbed up the stairs, holding a cracked lamp. Like a mouse eager to help, Arabelle quickly followed. Up on the deck, the lightning split emblazoned the sky. The barque heaved and tossed in the rising murky swell as the rain-shroud passed by, hissing its tears. The masts creaked eerily, snapping in half and scattering across the deck. Muffled screams ricocheted through the storm barrier around them. The ship, a battling soldier, swayed. Little by little, the grand ship, now a meek mouse, was parallel to the choppy ocean attacks. The storm was a raging monster.
It was all in one go. The growling sea, the stinging feeling of salt in Arabelle’s eyes, the dry burning sensation of salt down her throat. Splattering on impact, Arabelle curled into a ball, now in the indignant army of deep blue. Flailing her arms, she paddled furiously, willing to stay alive. The captain, in his drenched uniform, was also gasping.
To the right, a warm glowing sensation emanated in the pitch black. Instinctively, Arabelle swam towards it, hoping it could giver her some relief from the unbearable cold. Her hand brushed against a smooth scorching hot object, and what happened next, she could not comprehend.
She held onto a floating lamp. The whole world reversed. Captain Joseph began swimming backwards, as did all the sailors. Everyone was flung back on board.
‘Thank you, Arabelle,’ Captain Joseph shoved Arabelle in front of all the sailors. ‘You have saved us all, but it is too dangerous for you to stay.’
‘I n-need to get back to the twenty-first century,’ Arabelle echoed. The whole crowd gaped, but Captain Joseph knew what Arabelle was talking about.
Tapping his oil lamp three times, he said ‘14 Groven Way, Philida’, Arabelle’s exact address. ‘I am Joseph Alden, your great grandad! My son, your grandad, uncannily resembles you. Go home now. Tell your parents how you met me.’
Obediently, Arabelle reached her hand out. The world spun around her. Back in the basement of her house, she realised all the modern comforts of the twenty-first century: electricity, gas, lifeboats… She was glad to be back. Yet, she was also glad to meet her great grandad.
A final sentence, whispered in her head, from Captain Joseph said, ‘It was merely the dizziness from travelling back to your own realm and time. Don’t worry. I would protect you.’