A tale by any other name

Adora was the archetypal woman who had it all: beauty and brains, wit and wisdom, and “a voice to die for!” as her boss would say. By anyone’s standards - she was the perfect catch. She also had a flourishing career in radio, an alpha Romeo for a lover, and drove a sports car with not a dissimilar name.

The day Adora decided to move to Herwit’s End, she was equally thrilled. The cottage looked as fabulous in person as it did on paper. ‘A double storey, round house with seven long, narrow windows that bathe both floors in light, and a witch’s hat for a roof, which clatters when it rains,’ it said on the brochure. The fruit trees in front also sang, as the letting agent said they would, and the lawn was so luscious, it too had a bounce to it.

It was about at this point that Adora’s hitherto perfect life started to unravel. Her astrologer, Ephemeris, had said it might, some two years previously, but it was long enough ago that Adora had now forgotten his enigmatic words. “There will be an occasion in your future,” he said, “when you will pursue a path so curious that you will open up a veritable can of worms!” He added with some seeming delight, “but it will make for quite a story!” Unbeknownst to Adora, she had already started down that path a few months before she moved to Herwit’s End.  

“I’m downsizing,” she told her boss, as she handed him her resignation letter. “Selling my house, and freeing myself up to explore other avenues. Perhaps I’ll pursue my painting,” she mused. In truth, Adora wasn’t quite sure what she was going to do, but she knew deep inside that her work had ceased to be the same source of contentment it once was, and she needed something more. And so it was that Adora came to venture down the path of the unknown and renting the round, double storey cottage in Herwit’s End, at the bottom of Erasmus’ garden.

One morning, slap bang in the middle of Summer, Adora was up with the larks. She was intent on capturing the early morning light as it fell on the fruit trees. She opened her narrow wooden box, and took one of the smallest brushes in her hand. She dappled some tincture across the canvas. Sometime later, she was still standing in front of the easel when Erasmus appeared. He had seen her painting from inside the main house. He carefully studied the illustration. “How intriguing,” he said. “It’s as if the light is alive in this painting, Adora.” 

Some six months later, Adora was still standing at her easel, but she had become disheartened. She had tried working with all sorts of techniques and ideas but there was a growing stack of unsold canvasses. It seemed she would never make a new living. That evening, Adora put down her brush. 

For some time thereafter, Adora tried to return to the radio. She was well networked, after all. But as with her painting, it seemed her efforts were in vain. Almost every endeavour ended prematurely, and the eleventh hour always seemed to hold some unexpected turn. After twelve moons and many reversals, Adora despaired, enraged and angered by her poisonous lot. Even Romeo had met someone else. Adora shouted at the heavens. The larks perched silently now and Adora cried a river of tears.
Then one evening, after the clouds had stopped clapping, Adora heard a tiny twitter from the fruit tree. She walked outside. As she did so, Erasmus also appeared, to listen to the growing song. As if reading her mind, Erasmus said, “Don’t fret, Adora, as you have all that you need: talent and skill, a creative's blessing, indeed. It’s just that once you opened your paint brushes' box, didn’t you realise, your demons, too, were unlocked? In truth, you've only now arrived at Herwit’s End, and only now can you really begin again. It’s as if you'd been blessed by the great Pandora, and all that's left to grasp is hope now, Adora!”