Sydney Dance Company presents
“Inkheart”
Inspired by Cornelia Funke & Iain Softley
Choreographed by Lucy Guerin
Visuals by Britt Gaiser
The Writer sat herself amongst the collection of her books and stories, folding a blanket over her lap and rested herself into the corner of her library.
The
y e b tre he t f s o ger n i f
spind ly
the
window were r e a c h i n g out and
bl ac ke ne d
The
t a p p i n g th e glass with q uick, harsh scrapes wi th ash, from a
c
n
o o
s
t
e
hou sef ire
l
l
a
f r
a
i
n
rs ago. many yea
t
i
o
n
s
f a l l i n g upon the glass with soft steps.
She looked over at the fireplace across the room that wasn’t exactly doing its job. The dim heartbeat of the hearth was faltering within the rocky vessel. She often left the fireplace in that state, as if someone else would come and fuel it. The Author felt comfort in the familiarity of the warmth, yet she didn’t remember anymore what it was that kept that spark.
lay
betwe
.
In
the
hand
aged
her
libr
ary
s,
she
did
n’t
to
feel
alo
so
ne.
Sh
e
i wh
sp
a
b
ig
h
s ou
e
h wit
many
empty
ro
o
ms
en
n ope
d
he
r
au
nt
’s
hou
se
in
Eas
ter
n
It a
ly
,
nd
ay
te
la
fw
h
eri
Is
l ha
ug
inh
ea
re
ro
pter
had
Tr
su
th
Cha
e
27.
pag
es
we
re
bo
un
d
in
cerul
ea
n,
l
eri
ep
foi
tt
de
gold
ing
le
a
wi
th
fad
ng on
it’ s
to
rs
in
he
sp
es
e, a
o
pag
f.
st
ed
al
ud
t
he
el i
ck y n
ot e peeking out
of the
first
page re
a
di
ng
Elinor
in
fai
nt
pe
nc
il
.
He
r
au
nt
’s
cop
y.
The
Author
er
The
Living alone, she didn’t have someone else to help her collect the memories for her.
The Writer was
always
searching
yet found it
in the present.
easier to stay
It was too difficult for her, knowing her memories were not just locked in the corners of her mind,
d i f a
n g
a
w
a
y
b u t into nothing but darkness and hollows. Alzheimers.
That was something she couldn’t forget. Alice would tell her stories of her childhood, but they always seemed far away.
They were someone else’s story, so in the today she stayed.
Not
The
reali
Auth
sin
or
g s he had
awok
e
to
doz
ed
her
off
num
by
b
th
e
fi
wi
ng
nd
er
ow
,
t
ip s
against
the
pages.
No,
it
wasn
’t
tha
t.
e Sh
om
su
fr
co
i nl
uld
th
gh
t
e
fee
l
weigh
th
e
t
blue
ab
overhead
ov
,
She
e
ta
da
e rkn
her,
sting
was
ss
around
d an
the
he
sha
the
sal
r,
t
underwater.
do
p
the
wy
on
s re
su
re
ripples
he
r
tong
of
ue
.
Blinking her eyes to refocus, the water was gone.
iter
co
d s till
fe
el
t h e mo
e on of th
ti
Wr
ul
T
he
waves fa r
above her,
and reaching up to her damp— no, cold— hair. It
was
a
dream.
Wa
it
ing
for
a o we the pull of sleep t
r
f of
h ,s
e
he
ar
d
e som
thin
oom. g in the r
A voice.
ost muffled , alm eep d a ugh milar eno s, , si es e b l e may th Di st ne o u m i n j to be her father’s. it n h e, er m ear h b vo d y l i nd but she cou a ic m e tha and r, t so unded familia
to the y over autiousl coming c e g b n i o k Wal seemed t h c i opped. h t w s e words, elves, sh h s e h t f o from one
Scanning
books
a
that
within
she
felt
an
lay
the
a
pile
flat
mahogany
tug
of
case,
towards
indigo
hardcover.
She
l cou
d
hear
the
pa g e s
whispering
to
her.
Looking at violet paperback in front of her, was her book.
She’d found herself reading it so many times to herself in an effort to try to remember the keystrokes she had made, her t
but also why she felt so attached to the pap and sentences. er folds
Perhaps she had
it was because once written it.
rains of thought,
She couldn’t she had read placed so
remember the last time it, or why it had been on the shelf.
absently
of
fant
asy
,
of
a
fa
th
er an
d
da
ug
ht er
wh
mart
o
s
rea d
to
the
ks
fire
boo
-br
ea
from
th
er
Du
st
cters
fi
chara
n
d
r
d
l,
en
ul
ge
an
hi
al
red
co
sm
f
and
li
ch
n ma
Th
,
e.
Ca
pri
corn
and
his
he
n
story
il
a
ev
was
e
It
Gwin.
But
most
impo
rta
ntl
y,
a
mo
ns
te
r
ca
ll
ed
“T
he
Sh
ad
ow
”
.
“
as once told us it w You
real.” Her oldest daughter, Alice, had laughed with her other two siblings in the library of The Writer’s house.
And yet, flicking through the pages and reading it over and over again, as if looking through frosted glass, she could feel the warmth of familiarity as her mind deciphered the words. father’s Her rested still
but stopped had voice palms. her in book her
ul
ee d s
herse
ea lf as the twelve-y r-old girl. And as quickly as that feeling had arri
ve
d,
it
ot
co
f steam and missing carriages of sentences and words. s o
e
e ch
etimes It might’ve been that she had written it so well, but som sh
with ink-like s fuzzy pl had vanished, her train of thought
Settling
t he
back
alcove
her
into
cont in ue
rain
d
to
by
the
wind
o w,
f a l l
upon
Her blanket wa s
da
mp
,
alm
the
glass
and
e t cam ost as if i
No,
The
or Auth
shiv
ered.
r. underwater with he
it
had
to
be
the
rai
n.
She heard her father’s voice again, following it and turning to one of the early chapters, reading the words that echoed back in her head. With a whisper, she repeated them.
r r e a t h e “Gwin looked up at the f i r e b
with
small,
t w i n k l i n g eyes,
scu
r
n ryi
p g u
le s s i h
eve
, tucked away fr om th e
co
ld
.”
, a now lifeless hollow
f
l b
i r
c i
k
e
r
g
h
t
e l
d y
w
place
lo
Th
e
re fi
envel
warm oping the room in a
, a
e mb
r
g
and acknowledging the small, red , furry animal that now sat in the centre of the library.
Lo
ok
in
g
up
ou
t o f f ri gh
t,
th e sm
al
l be
in
g ra
n up
to er
h , sn
if fe d
he r cl
ot he
s a nd
wi
th
a s q
ue
ak
,
ne
st
le
d
it
s
f el
in he ap. r n
The Author
Or
di
dn
perh
’t
kn
ow
aps,
wh
y
th
how
er ed
she
mar
e n th ten up i d app e eare nd d so tame, or how it e
som
eho
w
felt
as
if
she
knew
this
libr
a cre
tu
ary.
re
.
ng Readi
the
sentences
once
again,
she
“ G w i n ? ”
h Anot
er
intelligible
But
now
squeak.
she
was
sure.
knew.
With her fingertips still buzzing, Meggie began to read.