by Graham West
***
The following day, I found myself at the old man’s house. He looked pleased, almost relieved, as he waved me through the door with an extravagant sweep of his arm. I ventured forward cautiously, like a child being ushered into the headmaster’s study. The room suited him. It was almost as if I’d known what to expect. My ageing host could never have survived in a dwelling that did not somehow reflect his eccentricity.
It was large, gloomy and the walls were lined with books from ceiling to floor. An old brass lamp lit the corner, casting eerie shadows across the dusty crimson drapes that hung across the window at the far end. On what I assumed to be the dining table, partially hidden by a clutter of Sunday supplements and old journals, was an old typewriter. I was hardly surprised to find such a museum piece in his possession. Indeed, if old Tint had any relationship with modern technology, it would have astounded me.
He was watching me; sometimes I was sure he could read my mind.
“It serves me well,” he said, smiling affectionately at the machine. “It’s a family piece passed down by my father. He treasured the old beast. Old Bessie still looks wonderful, don’t you think?”
I nodded. “You write?”
“A little. I’ve penned a few articles for those editors who bother to ask. The ones who appreciate the less sensational view of the paranormal.”
As he spoke, my eyes drifted over the shelves, crammed with titles from Shakespeare, Dickens and Roust to Darwin, C. S. Lewis and Tolkien. A King James version of the Bible had been placed mischievously alongside a couple of modern works, including The Holy Fiction—a controversial book written by a young media-conscious scientist who believed religion was the root of all evil.
Tint’s eyes fell on the same book. “It took me two days to plough through that drivel,” he said witheringly. “It was a complete waste of time. The man is an utter fool, and his work—because it fails in that which it sets out to do—does not prove there is no God.” He paused to shrug, cloudy eyes glittering with amusement. “So I placed it alongside the Bible.”
I laughed, because I could hear my father laugh. Somewhere, somehow, I sensed his approval of this strange old man.
Tint’s face flushed, waving his finger in the direction of the book. “Of course, I do not take everything in the Bible literally, but I have drawn great strength from it over the years.” He turned to me. “I have no argument with the sceptics. Only with those who seek to disprove that which cannot be disproved.
“You, my friend, are nothing more than a sceptic, and I’d wager that even if you did not believe, you would leave others to their faith.” He paused again. “I want to show you something.”
I felt a strange sense of anticipation. Tint’s words carried the weight of experience and an intelligence that wrapped the listener in a warmth a child might feel upon being swept up into its father’s arms. If he had something to show me, it was worth seeing.
“You don’t have an aversion to dogs, I trust?”
I shook my head, and he left, closing the door behind him.
I was alone, the silence broken only by the ticking of an old wooden clock sitting over the fireplace. Yet the room was peaceful and comforting. I felt like a young boy, hiding from the modern world in a time capsule that possessed an energy of its own. I wanted to stay here, protected from the warped minds of the politically correct and the moral decay that confronted me every time I turned on the TV.
“This is Ricky,” Tint said, finally returning with a huge German Shepherd dog that looked like a cross between a wolf and a bear. Ricky cocked his head, eyeing me with caution.
“It’s time for his walk,” Tint informed me. “Would you accompany me?”
I smiled, instinctively taking a step back and giving Ricky some space.
Tint grinned. “He’s as soft as putty,” he said. “He’s probably more scared of you than you appear to be of him.”
Somehow, I doubted that.
Tint’s dog stayed obediently at his side as we walked around the back of the house and took a footpath that led us onto lanes bordering acres of flat, open farmland.
“I’m so pleased you agreed to pay me a visit,” Tint began. “I felt a great burden as I stood by your wife’s grave. I trust you were not alarmed by my gift of flowers.”
I didn’t get the chance to reply.
“You see, we humans are all cursed by greed. That’s why I offer my services free of charge, though it is costly to keep that old house on its foundations. I have never taken any, even when it has been offered, so you can rest assured that you will never have to dig into your pockets or consider a gift of any description…for it will be fervently refused.” Tint smiled. “I like to make that absolutely clear from the start.”
Ricky sniffed the air as we passed an old stone cottage on the left.
“I’m really nothing more than an old man still grieving the only woman he ever loved. I have never understood this modern attitude to marriage. We seem to have such a casual acquaintance with the sacred vows and family life. Morality is constantly being questioned by these so-called activists. We have, I’ve noticed, become overrun by modern thinkers with a predilection for perversity, afflicted by political correctness and bound by the letter of the law.”
“My father would have loved you,” I said, almost vomiting the words in my head.
Tint barely flinched. “I’m sure we would have found much common ground, Robert. You are his son, and I feel an affinity between us. A spiritual bond if you like.”
Tint must have noticed my alarm, because he smiled and added, “Oh, I’m not talking about love. At the very core of our beings, beyond the interference of those things we watch and read, we possess beliefs that we can either nourish or suppress. I’m suggesting that we share those beliefs. You are an honest man, I know that. I pray to God that I can guide you out of this darkness.”
Tint fell silent for a moment as we approached an old oak tree that stood alone, its branches overhanging the road like menacing tentacles waiting for an unsuspecting soul to wander beneath. As we approached the tree, Ricky stopped suddenly. Tint pulled, but the dog strained against the lead, his paws spread out in front of him.
“Come on, boy, come on,” Tint urged.
I watched as Ricky, now almost on his belly, began to whimper.
Tint turned to me. “He sees something in that tree. I’ve never been able to get him past it.” He bent down and patted the dog. “Let’s go home, boy,” he whispered.
As we turned to walk back, the old man explained, “After Ricky refused the second time, I suspected something, so I did a little research. The library is a great place for local history—a whole section of it.” Tint pointed at the old stone cottage we’d passed earlier. “You see that place? A young woman lived there—1989, I think it was. The poor lass was found hanging from that tree early one Saturday morning. Apparently, according to the girl from the local stables, they have trouble getting the horses past the old oak as well.”
I looked up at the gnarled branches silhouetted against the silver blanket of sky, wondering if I concentrated hard enough whether my sixth sense would kick in there and then, revealing whatever Ricky saw. The ground on which I stood was the same ground that this poor young woman had walked, rope in hand, heart heavy. I felt a weight in my chest, as if, for a brief moment in time, I was sharing her grief. Yet I saw nothing.
***
Tint poured me a brandy fished from an antique cabinet in the corner of the living room. We had not discussed the paranormal during our walk. Tint had, instead, preferred to talk about the desecration of the local farmland and the new breed of landowners who sold out to the developers at the drop of a hat. I thought he’d probably been allowing me time to digest what I’d seen.
He lit his pipe. “I’ve heard it all, Robert,” he said. “We all dream. Some of our dreams are lucid and real, while others are quite bizarre. I know that many believe our subconscious infiltrates our conscious under certain co
nditions, such as stress and grief.” Tint turned to me. “I was a teacher. An atheist. A man so sure of the progression of nature that I taught it to my students. They embraced my theories the way you would expect the spawn of an immoral, restless society to do. That was until I met Kieran Porter.”
Tint hesitated, inviting me to take a seat in an old, brown leather armchair facing an ancient TV set in the corner.
“Porter was my favourite.” A wisp of smoke rose from his pipe. “I loved the boy’s enthusiasm—his pure, youthful energy…” Tint stared into the middle distance. “I think he knew…we had an understanding.”
“And he convinced you that there was an afterlife?” I asked.
Tint smiled ruefully. “Oh, yes. But not with words.”
I was intrigued. “What happened?”
Tint blew a cloud of thick swirling smoke into the air. “It was a Friday afternoon, and I dismissed the class early—it was a particularly warm day, late June. I figured if they wanted to revise, they would be better doing so in the fresh air. The class filed out, grunting their appreciation as they passed my desk.
“I continued writing for some time after they’d gone, and when I finally looked up, I saw Porter sitting in the far corner, staring at me. He smiled warmly and rose in complete silence. He stopped briefly at my desk and looked at me with a strange, distant sadness. ‘You are wrong, Sebastian,’ he said. ‘You are so wrong.’
“I looked down at the papers strewn in front of me—only briefly—and when I looked up, he had gone.
I frowned doubtfully. “And that changed your mind?”
“As I said, it wasn’t his words.”
I was staring into the face of an old man ravaged by age, yet with eyes still brimming with the passion of youth.
“I walked out of the university grounds to find the road sealed off by the police. There had been an accident. One of my students came running over to me, cheeks streaming with tears. She told me Kieran was dead.
“My blood ran cold as I embraced the young student, holding her the way I would have held my own daughter. She was still sobbing as she informed me he had been killed in a road traffic accident on his way to the lecture.”
Tint sighed. “I thought the girl must have been mistaken, of course. I told her so. Porter had been in the lecture. I’d seen him. But this young girl gazed at me as if she were looking into the eyes of a complete fool. That’s when I realised.”
I thought I saw a tear in the old man’s eye as he paused to take another draw on his pipe.
“I was shaken to the core,” he continued. “I grieved for that young man, yet I could not accept that he had appeared to me after his death. It wasn’t possible—not to a man such as myself. The voice of sanity in a world steeped in superstition and spiritual ignorance.
“I checked and re-checked the time of Kieran’s death, and questioned my own experience, but I knew in my heart that that young man had stood before me. There was no plausible explanation—at least, none that didn’t sound more ridiculous than the theory that there might just be a life beyond the grave.”
A rueful, crooked smile crossed Tint’s craggy features. “The very foundation of my beliefs crumbled, and I was left with nothing. My dear wife believed I had taken young Porter’s death badly but, of course, I was also grieving for my theories, too. Theories which had died with him. What arrogance! What utter bigotry!”
He cast a loathing glance at the scientist’s book that now sat on his shelves like an imposter. “I should burn that book at some stage,” he mused. “Then again, I would probably have continued to live in similar ignorance had Porter not…”
Tint’s voice faded as he blew another cloud of smoke into the air. “It took me nearly three weeks before I finally told my wife about Kieran.” His eyes filled with tears. “That dear, sweet woman just looked at me. I remember her very words. ‘My dear,’ she said, ‘I have prayed for this day!’”
“So, your wife was a believer?”
Tint smiled softly. “Indeed she was. And I never knew. You see, Robert, I loved her dearly, but I had never stopped to consider that she might not share my dismissive attitude toward the spiritual life. I was filled with remorse, and in an effort to right the wrongs, I offered to accompany her to the local chapel.”
Tint was back there in his head, remembering with affection. “It was a long, slow process, but I figured that if there was a life after death, then maybe God himself existed in some form or other. That, I suppose, is how it all began, although I would hardly call myself a fundamental believer—in the accepted sense of the word.”
I took a sip of brandy and felt the smooth liquid warm my throat.
Tint continued, “The Reverend Jenson, a good and godly man, I concede, does not approve of my gift. He believes that mediums—although I do not consider myself to be one—are of the Devil. He watches me with a keen Evangelical eye, anxious in such a sweet way that I do not contaminate his flock.” Tint laughed. “I toe the line, of course. I think the young reverend and I have reached an understanding.”
“So, what exactly do you believe?” I asked.
Tint sighed. “That is precisely the word I have trouble with. Exactly means just that; exact. It is a word I would never use when it comes to spiritual things. I believe in God, but not in the conventional sense. We must remember that He is a spirit—a force—not some benevolent, old, grey-bearded man sitting on a golden throne. But beyond that, all is shrouded in mystery.”
“And Christ?”
Tint nodded slowly, smiling as if he had wrestled with the question his whole life. “If you are asking me if Jesus was the Son of God, then I have to ask you, in turn, if anyone can be sure. It is a matter of faith.” Tint paused. “I would like to think that He walked this earth with that spiritual energy within Him, but I am not so sure about the virgin birth. I like to believe that Christ was adopted by God to carry out His work on Earth.” He grinned. “That is just my own opinion, of course.”
Tint took another sip of brandy. “Anyway, I have told you something of my life. I am assuming that now you want to discuss your daughter—is that right?”
I smiled. “Sure.”
Tint pulled a crisp, white handkerchief from his shirt pocket and dabbed his lips. “Let’s assume that this spirit—Amelia Root—is real. Jenny is a troubled girl wishing to connect with her mother and sister. I believe we can open ourselves to the spirit world just as we can choose to close ourselves to it.” Tint pointed at the bookshelf. “Just as our friend chose to do.”
He clasped his hands tightly, considering his words. “Jenny believes that Amelia is an ancestor—of her own bloodline—so think of it this way: if Amelia is an ancestor, then her spirit may just have been waiting for an opportunity to come through. Like someone waiting on the other side of a door. Your daughter merely opened it.”
“And you think her desire to see her mother—”
“Was the door? Perhaps.” He smiled. it all sounded so logical. “Jenny obviously has a sensitivity to paranormal activity even if she, like me, was not aware of it until now.”
“So, what do we do?”
Tint emptied his glass. “I know a genealogist. He’s retired, unfortunately, but he loved his job, and I’m sure he would be quite happy to trace your family’s ancestry. We need to find out who Amelia Root is—then, maybe we can find out what business she has with your daughter.”
It sounded good to me. Tint was practical—I liked that; I liked the lack of hocus-pocus.
He shook my hand as I left. “I’ll be in touch. In the meantime, try to build a few bridges with that girl of yours.”
***
I drove home feeling lighter in spirit. Sebastian Tint reminded me of an old prophet whose words were weighted with wisdom. If he’d told me the world was flat, I would have believed him. Of course, I knew in my head that he was no more than a man with a wise brain and a big heart, yet there was something about him that I warmed to. Even if he could not help Jenny, I wa
nted him in my life.
I arrived home to find a used plate on the draining board. At least Jenny had eaten. There was hope; a faint, flickering light.
I slept well that night, a peaceful, almost blissful sleep, undisturbed by dreams.
Chapter Eleven
Tint called early the following day, suggesting that it might be wiser if I allowed Jenny some time on her own. “Don’t aggravate the girl. It’s much better that we wait. You’ll know when she’s ready.”
I told him I had no intention of telling my daughter that I had spilled the contents of her diary to a complete stranger. One black eye was enough.
The old man chuckled. “I’ll have a word with Jack—he should be in contact with you shortly.”
I was sceptical. Shortly could mean days but it could also mean weeks; however, the following morning, I received a call. It had just gone nine.
“Robert Adams,” I said sharply, gulping down the last of another cup of coffee.
The caller introduced himself with an air of military formality. “Hello. Staple here!”
“The genealogist?” I asked, feeling a tightening in my stomach.
“Retired,” he quipped, “but happy to help.”
There was a pause. “So…what happens next?”
“We need to meet—perhaps we could discuss this over a drink—you know—oil the wheels?”
“Sure. Where?”
“You choose.”
“Do you know The Keys? Fulwood Road?”
“I think so. Anyway, I’m okay with my satnav—I’ll find it.”
“How about tomorrow lunch—say twelve?”
“That sounds fine.”
“What shall I bring?”
Jack cleared his throat. “Everything you know about your family tree—and that of your late wife. If this Amelia Root existed, we will find her. I don’t give up easily!”
Chapter Twelve