The 2009 Children's Fiction Writing Award WINNERS

‘The Dark Roses’ by Nabeela

Here I am, sitting on an old oak stump and pondering; my future, my past, but most of all the present. It seems to me as though I have an epic mystery on my hands, a mystery that makes up and weaves intricately the fibres of my existence.

It is autumn. The leaves fall around me, drifting to the ground and littering the forest floor, a colourful array of dull browns, bright orange and yellows, and pale greens. A chilling breeze sweeps through the trees and gnaws at my skin. It’s nearly Halloween, the perfect time for a conspiracy. I guess that at times you just have to take it all in stride. They say life is a rollercoaster. Well, they are right. I cannot believe how many things one person can be thinking at once. Running through my head are multiple stories, multiple thoughts, a vast array of emotions. The colours shift from bright to dull as they spin across my mind, and as I am immersed in my thoughts I can hardly feel the bite of the increasing cold as I stroke the smooth, hard cover of the book I am holding in my arms.

The sun is beginning to lower even further into the horizon, and the sky is darkened with streaks of indigo that are almost sinister. Rising from the stump, I lift the heavy leather-bound book that has rested in my arms and start to walk away, but something catches my eye. A glint of silver. Leaning closer, I see the source of the sparkle nestled amongst a cluster of dried leaves. I kneel down and reach for it cautiously, grasping the cool, flat, reflective object. A mirror.

I glance into the mirror tentatively, balancing the heavy volume on my knees. My reflection appears in the surface, and I am shocked by the image, in which I appear generally pale. I gasp, and the book topples off my knees and lands open on the ground. A gust of wind passes through the clearing and suddenly the pages are turning. I see a variety of images; long, spidery writing; a family tree; some old maps. The wind dies down and the pages lie flat; the book open to one page. It is a portrait. I recoil and drop the mirror in alarm. The portrait is of a woman. She is slender and has dark, beautiful hair and a smooth olive complexion. Her lips and cheeks are bright red, and though her face appears less full and more sullen, it bears a striking resemblance to another face. Only the eyes are different; dark and dramatic. I resist the urge to glance back at the mirror and instead shut the book abruptly before taking it and standing up. I walk away with long, quick strides, eager to get home.

I creep into the house and slip into my room, closing the door behind me and hearing the lock click into place. Fingering the embossment on the cover of the leather-bound volume, I realize that the grooves form a flower; a rose. I flop onto the mattress and shove the book under the bed. I try to avoid glancing at the mirror on my wall, so as not to remind myself of that face, but the image is already imprinted in my mind.

My name is Beth Edwards. I am fourteen years old and am a fairly normal person, depending on your perception of the word “normal.” I go to school, play the piano, and take figure skating lessons. I have long, black hair and an olive skin tone, but I look nothing like the rest of my family, especially since they are all pale, with blue eyes. Mine are a rich hazel colour. When I was old enough, I came to the conclusion that I was unquestionably adopted. My parents didn’t deny it; they told me straight away that they had adopted me when I was a baby because they had loved me so much.

I didn’t ever doubt the depth of my parents’ love, but I did sometimes wonder about my birth parents. Often, when I was younger, I would stare off into the blue sky and wonder where they were. If maybe they were staring at the same brilliant sky and wondering where I was.

Eventually, I stopped caring about the fact that I was adopted, having come to the conclusion that I had an amazing family and a better life than I maybe would have had. I was perfectly content to listen to music, hang out with my friends, and do regular “teenage” stuff. If you are a carefree person, you hardly notice that ignorance is bliss. It’s not until the day things change that you realize how lucky you were.

Things changed for me not too long ago, when I came home to find a large package waiting on my doorstep. The address was correct and my name was written in all caps across the top. I figured there could be no mistake and was excited about what might be inside the brown paper. Consequently, I felt a moment of disappointment when I opened the parcel to find it was only a book. I discarded the parcel on my bed and forgot about it momentarily, before being reminded of it later in the evening. It was then that I decided I might as well take a look at the book, seeing as someone (though I didn’t yet know who) had taken the pains to send it to me.

Sitting on my bed, I lifted the book onto the bedspread and flipped it open. Hearing the crack of the leather cover, which had obviously not been opened in a while, I felt a thrill of curiosity run through me. I felt the smooth texture of the yellowing parchment between my fingers and realized this was precious, an antique. Turning the page, my eyes lit upon a white letter-sized envelope stamped with a red seal bearing a coat of arms. I picked up the envelope and turned it over, to see my name again embellished across it, in all capitals. With shaky fingers, I fumbled with the seal. I managed to open the envelope and pull out the sheet of paper containing these words:

Since my family lives in Montreal, I am well versed in French and was able to read the letter with ease. It read:

After reading the letter I was at a loss for words. I reread it a number of times to ensure I had read right. I had a lot of thoughts running through my mind and decided it would be in my best interest to take a walk to give myself time to think. Placing the letter under my pillow, I cradled the leather collection in my arms and wandered towards the park, where I proceeded to sit on the oak stump to think.

The sunlight streams in through the window, basking me in warmth. I blink and open my eyes tentatively, hoping I dreamt up the image of the woman whose reflection nearly matches exactly that of my own. Rolling over, I find myself staring at myself in the mirror, and the startling images of the night before hurtle back at me; namely the dark, mysterious eyes. Haunted by my own reflection, I shut my eyes and climb out of bed, being careful to face the wall opposite to the mirror.

Opening my eyes I realize that it is Sunday, and it is only eight o clock. I had the opportunity to sleep in, but seeing as I was already awake, I shrug nonchalantly and kneel down next to the bed. I peer under the bed frame, and sure enough (and to my chagrin) there lays the leather volume resting on the dusty floorboards. I take a deep breath and slide it out carefully. Blowing the dust off the cover, I gather it in my arms and prop myself onto the bed cross-legged, the book resting in my lap. I close my eyes for a brief moment and then crack the cover open.

The first page is embellished with an inscription in an earlier version of French, which I understand as:

Under this inscription is a coat of arms — the same coat of arms that appeared on the seal of my mother’s letter. I draw a shaky breath and turn the page, unsure of what to expect.

There is a detailed family tree, illustrated beautifully, and now fading from time. It is clear that the family tree is that of Anne; it shows her name linked in a gold thread to two parents; Sir Thomas Boleyn and Lady Elizabeth Howard. It shows that she also had two siblings, Mary and George. The thread then links Anne to Henry VIII, King of England. I remember studying this family in Humanities last year; Henry VIII had six wives. Anne was the second one. Yet another thread links Anne to two children; Elizabeth and Helen. I am momentarily confused because as far as I can remember Anne Boleyn only ever bore one child who survived, Elizabeth, and never a son, which was why she was beheaded.

I sit up and grab my laptop off of my desk. Turning it on, I glance back at the open book. Helen’s name is linked with Elizabeth’s — what did that mean? Also, “Helen” is circled in blue ink, evidently from a later date. I am still unsure what to think about the situation, so I decide I should do a little bit of research.

I open the Internet on my laptop and hesitantly type in the name Anne Boleyn. A multitude of documents and images come up regarding her life and death, her “rise and fall.” The rise of Anne Boleyn consists mainly of her ascension to the throne and marriage to Henry VIII. The fall of Anne Boleyn commences with the birth of Elizabeth and her failure to produce any other children, specifically male heirs. She was beheaded by Henry mainly because of this, and she was found guilty of other false charges. She was known to have dark, olive skin and long, black hair. I’m starting to understand where this is going...

I pause a moment and then type another keyword: children of Anne Boleyn. I click on the first link; it gives a brief description of Anne’s life and then proceeds to the birth of Elizabeth as her first and only child. It explains how Anne had several other pregnancies in which the babies all died, the last one being the male heir Henry VIII had hoped for. There is a link to the life of Elizabeth, which I click on. The website is dedicated entirely to Elizabeth. It explains how she is from the House of Tudor, the red rose, daughter of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn. It goes into detail about her illegitimacy as a child of Anne Boleyn and the King and then her restoration to the line under the will of Henry VIII. It states how she became queen at the age of twenty-five and had a long and generally peaceful reign.

Nowhere is there any indication that Anne had any other children who survived infancy. My head is spinning. I turn back to the book and look at another parchment page. It appears to be a diary entry. Dated the 8th September, 1533, it is written in a quick, spidery hand in black ink. I lean forward and begin to read.

I finish reading and let the parchment fall back into place. Helen. That’s my family. The dark hair, the skin, the names. The dates. It all clicks into place and I am shocked at how quickly my identity has changed, or rather, been uncovered. I flip through the rest of the book and find several more of Anne’s diary entries, a portrait of Helen at nineteen, and maps tracing the movement of the lineage of Helen Boleyn across the world, leading to right here, Canada. There is a variety of different types of writing, and photographs in black and white, and even in faded colour. The images all portray women with the same traits: black hair, olive skin. We are the Boleyn Girls, the dark roses.

I walk over to my dresser and slide my school picture out from under a vase of dark roses. Cutting the edges neatly, I wedge it in with the rest of the photos. It is a perfect match, the skin, the hair, and now the eyes — all harbouring a secret in the dark depths. I know I am not really alone, though I am still unsure why.

Sitting down and closing my eyes, I mentally check off what I now know about my female forbears. We are of royal descent, dating back to Henry VIII, the king who had six wives. We are descendants of the second wife, Anne Boleyn. Our existence is rather conspiratorial because, as far as anyone knows, Anne’s only child was Elizabeth I. In actuality, Elizabeth had a twin; Helen. My mother, yours truly, and all the other descendants of Helen bear a resemblance to Helen and, by relation, Anne. I don’t actually know why, but it’s a secret.

For me, the last few days have been extremely interesting and hard to grasp. Reality suddenly seems VERY unreal. Firstly, to have been contacted by your birth mother, and then to realize that you are actually of royal descent — related to one of the most prominent royal families in history — is quite a blow to a fourteen-year- old’s emotional psyche. I am still a little confused about what is going on. I’m not entirely certain of who I am, but I do know that my name is Beth Edwards, I am fourteen-years-old, and I am a Boleyn Girl.

A dark Rose.