Chapter 5
In the open field near the edge of St. Vic’s campus, Thomas stood holding a cricket bat. Although the day was still cloudy and cold after the drizzle, Thomas wiped sweat from his forehead thinking, How did he get himself into these situations?
Arnie, the paper-wad thrower from class, stood in the pitcher’s position. His school uniform was already rumpled and dirty from the game. Arnie glared at the pristine Thomas, and his face twisted into a malicious smirk.
Pudge sat in the grass on the sidelines and actually looked more nervous than Thomas. Pudge’s eyes were wide, and his mouth hung open as if anticipating the candy bar he forgot he held.
Thomas looked at Pudge, eyes pleading for help.
“You can do it,” Pudge mouthed silently.
Thomas turned his gaze back to the pitcher. I can do this! He thought. Then Arnie wound up expertly, took two quick steps, leaped into the air, and hurled the ball.
As the ball came speeding toward him, Thomas gritted his teeth and swung.
However, at the last moment, he closed his eyes… so the ball hit the wickets.
The schoolboys in the field jumped and cheered, then rushed to Arnie. They slapped him on the back and ruffled his hair.
Watching the rejoicing boys, Thomas just stood there, holding his bat limply. He turned to his own teammates. They all walked off, grumbling under their breath.
“Hey, guys,” Thomas pleaded. They just kept walking. One or two looked back at Thomas, then shook their heads in disgust.
“Guys?”
“Don’t worry, Thomas. They’ll get over it.” Pudge consoled him as he threw an arm around Thomas’s shoulder.
“Hey, Thomas!”
Thomas and Pudge turned to see Arnie, surrounded by his rejoicing teammates.
“You ought to have your pop practice with you!” Arnie taunted. The boys all exploded into laughter, even as they continued leaving the field.
Thomas’s eyes narrowed as he watched the boys leave. He tried to think of some smart, sarcastic comeback, but nothing came. He stood clenching his fists.
“Come on, Thomas,” Pudge beckoned.
“No.”
“They don’t mean nothin’ by it.”
Pudge reached out his hand to restrain his friend, but he was too late.
Thomas flew across the field, and before Arnie had a chance to react, Thomas was on him, pummeling him with his fists like a windmill.
“Take it back!” Thomas screamed.
Despite the barrage, Arnie finally got a good punch in striking Thomas in the mouth and sent him flying.
Arnie scrambled to his feet, flanked by his teammates. “What’s wrong with you, Colson?” He demanded and then rubbing his jaw turned and stomped away.
Thomas wiped his bloody lip and watched them go.
Chapter 6
Thomas and Pudge walked briskly up the cobbled street of their small English village, Little Salked. It was located in Cumbria a county in North West England. Thomas surveyed the stone cottages that hugged tightly to each other on both sides of the road. They were built of a hardy tan stone that was quarried from the land many hundreds of years ago. He often felt as if he was living in an episode of one of those British children’s TV shows about a really useful steam engine.
Every few steps, Pudge glanced at Thomas. He knew his friend was angry but didn’t know how to snap him out of it. Oh well, Pudge thought, might as well use the old traditional. He hauled off and punched Thomas on the shoulder.
“Hey!” exclaimed Thomas, grimacing and rubbing the sore spot. “What was that?”
“That was the T.O.T.,” Pudge said matter-of-factly.
“And what, may I ask, is the T.O.T.?”
“The Old Traditional. I find it useful to knock young lads out of their sulking.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, really! It is about time you snapped out of it. It’s just a game. It’s not that big a deal!”
At that, Thomas turned on Pudge.
“To you! You weren’t the one up there. You weren’t the one they were laughing at!”
Having realized he had struck a sore spot, Pudge just stammered, “Your lips bleeding again.”
“Forget it.” Thomas turned, wiped his lip, and started walking again. Leaving Pudge dumbfounded.
“Why do they call it cricket, anyway?” Thomas called back over his shoulder.
“I dunno,” gasped Pudge as he ran to catch up.
“It’s a bug.”
“What?”
“A cricket’s a bug. Who’d name a game after a stupid bug? Baseball makes sense. You got a base, you got a ball... baseball!”
“Huh, I never thought about it.”
Thomas turned to Pudge and with a glint in his eye, said, “Well, while you’re thinking about it, I’ll race you to my house. Ready? Set? Go!” And he was off like a shot, flying up the sidewalk.
Pudge lumbered after him. “Hey, that’s not fair!”
Chapter 7
Thomas sat in his father’s old wooden office chair, staring at the screen of the desktop computer in his father’s home office. Clearly, the room of a busy archaeology professor, its walls were covered with books and framed photographs of ancient digs around the world. Dusty artifacts cluttered the shelves. It was one of Thomas’s favorite places to hang out.
Thomas studied a design on the computer monitor. A symmetrical symbol, an endless knot: three smooth and intertwined leaves seemingly looping back on themselves within a circle. Unity in diversity. To some it represented the Holy Trinity: A profound mystery only to be accepted by faith. As he accompanied his father on explorations in the Celtic lands of this ancient country, Thomas had seen this symbol carved on many crosses and at important archeological sites.
On the desk beside Thomas, a plate of cookies and two glasses of milk waited.
Thomas’s concentration on the graphic circle was broken by heavy breathing. Pudge sagged in the office doorway, doubled over, holding the doorjamb for support and gasping for breath.
“What took you so long?” Thomas asked nonchalantly without taking his eyes from the computer screen.
“Thanks a lot,” Pudge said, still gasping for breath. “You know I’m not as fast as you are.”
Thomas ignored the comment and just motioned to the snacks. “Have some cookies.”
At that, Pudge’s exhaustion suddenly vanished; he stood straight up and blurted: “Mmm, cookies!” Pudge eagerly took the plate of cookies and a glass of milk.
With a sigh, he plopped into the large leather chair across from Thomas and began munching. “What’s that?” Pudge managed, through his mouthful of cookies.
“What’s what?”
“That thing on your computer.”
Thomas swiveled in his father’s old chair. “That,” he said, “is a Celtic circle.”
Pudge rolled his eyes. “I know it’s a Celtic circle. What do you think I’m daft? I actually grew up around here. Why are you staring at it?”
“This one, I believe, is supposed to symbolize the Trinity. It’s the last project my dad was working on. He thought it was somehow related to the stone circle outside of town, Mairead Fhada.”
“You mean,” Pudge held up his fingers, making air quotes. “Long Meg and her Daughters? That’s what everyone around here calls it. What did you say your dad does?”
“Professor of archaeology,” Thomas said as he swiveled the chair with a creak back toward the computer.
Thomas picked up a dog-eared book its pages sprouting yellow post-its.
Pudge read the dust jacket. “The Stone Circle En…ig…ma…”
“Enigma, Pudge. It means puzzle, mystery.” Thomas called from behind the book.
“Sounds like an episode of Dr. Who.” Pudge began to hum his best rendition of the famous British TV show’s theme.
“Look at the author,” Pudge exclaimed, chuckling, staring at the author’s photo on the book jacket. He was a man in his thirties with
a white beard and a very pale complexion. “That guy needs some serious sun!”
“He had a skin condition you goofball. He’s the author, Dr. Michael Avery, He was Professor of Medieval Studies over at Edinburgh. He died when my dad was in college.”
“Well, he gives me the creeps!”
“You are daft!”
Pudge thought on that for a moment. “Hmm, Hey! Let’s go over to my house and play some video games.”
“Not right now.”
Pudge continued munching as he watched Thomas reading.
“Thomas, am I your best mate?” Pudge said to the back of the book.
“No,” Thomas responded matter-of-factly.
“Why not?”
“I already have a best friend.”
“Your dad?”
Thomas lowered the book.
“Yeah. You know, friends don’t play all the time. Sometimes they have work to do.”
Pudge let that sink in. Then he hesitantly asked, “Have you heard anything?”
Thomas stopped looking at the computer, turned to fix his eyes on a photograph of himself and his father—Daniel, from an archeological site.
Thomas’s mother took the photo when they were all on a dig in Israel. Daniel and Thomas were both smiling, and Thomas proudly held up a bit of dusty pottery.
Thomas remembered Pudge’s question and said, “No.”
“You think he’s coming back?”
Thomas turned on Pudge. “What do you mean by that?”
Pudge realized he had crossed the line again. “Nothing... I don’t mean anything. I was just asking if—”
“He’s coming back,” Thomas interrupted. “And I think it’s time for you to go.”
Reluctant, but catching Thomas’s drift, Pudge stood and moved to the door.
“See you tomorrow?”
Thomas ignored his friend, just continued staring at the computer.
“Thomas?”
“Yeah.”
“I hope he does. I hope he does come back.”
Thomas softened a bit. “Yeah... thanks.”
Chapter 8
Thomas lay prone on his bed, reading a text on his cell phone. It read: “Caroline and Thomas, I must go now—no time. Be back soon. Please forgive me! Love you, see you, keep the faith!”
How long had it been? Thomas thought. He slowly reread the note. “Love you, see you, keep the faith”? It was increasingly difficult to find any warmth or tenderness in his father’s traditional salutation.
In fact, now, as Thomas reread the text, it just made anger rise in his heart. If my father really loved me, how could he leave me? Thomas squeezed his eyes shut, Trying not to allow the tears to spill onto his cheeks. They came anyway.
He peered up at a framed photo resting on his nightstand. It was one of his favorites, of much happier times. In it, Thomas stood smiling with his mother, an attractive blonde lady, and his father, Daniel Colson, in front of an old Irish castle.
Seeing the photo, reading the text, remembering the trouble at school—it all finally got the best of him. Thomas flung the phone across the room, then balled up his fist and drove it into his pillow.
There was a knock at the door.
Thomas sat up quickly, wiped his face and tried to regain his composure. “Yeah?”
“Thomas, can I come in?” asked a woman’s voice from the other side of the door.
“Yeah, Mom,” Thomas remembered his busted lip and shielded it with his hand.
The door opened to reveal Caroline Colson, Thomas’s mother. She was thirty-four, and her deep green eyes reminded Thomas of a clear lake reflecting the surrounding forest. They also revealed a mother who loved her son deeply.
As she sat on the edge of Thomas’s bed, he knew her heart was still hurting. He felt ashamed of himself and his anger. Yes, he was missing his dad. But how must his mom feel? Her husband was gone, and to who knows where?
“You okay, honey?” Caroline asked.
“Uh-huh,” Thomas replied without conviction.
Caroline nodded. “The headmaster called today. Is there something you want to talk about?”
“Not really,” he mumbled, still hiding his injury.
Caroline reached gently and moved Thomas’s hand from his mouth. Her eyes widened.
Silence filled the room, then she responded softly, “Okay... well, it’s late... time to get ready for bed. Come down in a minute and I’ll kiss you good night.”
She stood and, giving him a little smile, walked out of the bedroom.
Caroline had only walked a few feet down the hall when she heard Thomas’s voice:
“Mom?”
She turned with concern. Thomas stood at the edge of the doorway. Even though he was almost as tall as her, she couldn’t help but see him as her baby son, still small and vulnerable.
“Is Dad...” Thomas struggled to say the words. “Is he coming back?”
Caroline rushed to her son and wrapped him in a warm embrace. She couldn’t hold back the tears as her heart broke for her son.
Caroline gave Thomas one more gentle squeeze. Then, grasping his shoulders, she looked deep into his eyes and said with as much confidence as she could muster, “He said he would. And your father always keeps his promises.”
Chapter 9
Thomas reclined on the couch, ready for bed in his favorite soft sweatpants and old Wolverine shirt that was almost worn through.
Caroline walked out of the kitchen carrying a container of ice cream, and with a big flourish, exclaimed, “Ta-daa! Chocolate-chip-cookie dough.”
Smiling, Thomas got up from the couch. “My favorite!”
“Get the spoons. Let’s eat on the porch.”
The night sky was brilliant with stars. Their cottage was situated on the outskirts of the small village of Little Salked a few miles from Penrith in Cumbria. Thomas’s father had rented the cottage there because it was only a little over a mile to the stone circle, Mairead Fhada.
Thomas and Caroline sat on the front stoop, both wrapped in blankets, sharing ice cream out of the carton.
“This is one of the nice things about our stay here,” Caroline said. “We didn’t have this view back in the city.”
Thomas pointed at the night sky and exclaimed: “Mom, look! There it is!”
Caroline noticed the star below Orion’s belt twinkling brightly.
“Yes. The famous Bud’s Star.”
“Tell it to me again.”
Thomas’s mother gazed at him, under his big blanket. She sighed and began:
“Once upon a time, there was a knight who was the bravest in all the land. This knight was also brilliant. In fact, he went on a quest to seek knowledge at the most excellent university in the land.”
“While on the path to a Ph.D., he discovered something else—love. And that love was the irresistible Princess Caroline, who swept that knight right off his feet.”
Thomas chuckled at that.
Caroline continued: “Soon they were married. Then the knight became a professor, the princess became a writer, and on a cold winter night, they had a beautiful baby boy.”
She leaned over and kissed Thomas on the top of his head.
“When they took him home, the knight and the princess held that little boy close and looked up at the stars. They picked out a star and made a wish, and the knight said: ‘From this day forward, this star will be known as Bud’s Star, because ‘Thomas’ is too formal.”
Caroline gave Thomas another squeeze, as they continued gazing at the stars. A silent sweet moment shared only by a boy and his mother.
“Why did he leave us?” Thomas said, breaking the silence.
“He hasn’t left us.” Caroline searched for words. “Your father’s research is critical. I’m sure he will be returning any day now.”
“But he’s been gone over a month, and his note said he would be back soon. Pudge said when his dad left, he didn’t come back.”
“Thomas, you know your dad is nothing l
ike Pudge’s father.” Caroline leveled her gaze at her son. “Wherever he is, and whatever he is doing, it is for us.”
Thomas looked away. “I know,” he whispered.
“Now, let’s get ready for bed. Go on. I’ll be up in a minute.”
Thomas stood to go, then turned to his mother.
“Mom?”
“Yes, dear?”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Knowing that Thomas turned and walked back into the house.
Thomas slept peacefully in his bed; Caroline watched over him. She bent to kiss her boy. “Sweet dreams, my big, little man.”
As she drew back, her foot hit something on the floor, she stopped. What’s that? Something was protruding from under Thomas’s dresser. She reached and pulled out Thomas’s cell phone, the one he had thrown across the room.
She touched the screen, and at one glance, she recognized her husband’s text, and her eyes welled up with tears.
Chapter 10
Caroline sat at the kitchen table. Next to her sat a forgotten cup of coffee, long gone cold. Thomas’s cell phone sat on the table in front of her. Caroline’s face was lit by the blue cast of the message from her husband. She read it one last time. She powered off the phone.
A sharp knock at the door startled Caroline out of her deep thought. Who could that be at this time of night? She flipped on the kitchen light, then peeked out the window, recognized the person there. She quickly opened the door.
“Leland!” Caroline exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
There, in a rumpled wool overcoat, stood Dr. Leland Marcus, one of her husband’s senior archaeology colleagues from Edinburgh. He pulled off a stocking cap to reveal a shock of white hair. His face was ruddy and wrinkled like an old paper sack.
“I’m sorry, Caroline,” he said in his rich Irish brogue. “I know it is late, but I must talk to you.”
“Please come in.”
Marcus entered, shrugging off his coat and throwing it over the back of a chair. He set his leather satchel on the table and surveyed the kitchen. “The boy?” Marcus asked as he rummaged through his bag.
OTHERLANDER: A Long Way From Home Page 2