by Julian Cheek
Sam was slowly, and, to him, surprisingly, getting angry with the man. What right does he have putting all this down to me? Who does he think he is?
“Whoever you are,” he began, recklessly, “I owe you nothing! You can do nothing to me, and neither can this place. It all means nothing and soon, I will wake and you will all disappear and I will carry on with my existence, for what it’s worth.” Sam was getting increasingly angry, aware that he was perhaps using this man in front of him as a target for all the confusion his mind was battling to understand and come to terms with. But he didn’t care. Why should I? he thought, when everyone around me expects me to be someone else?
As his anger mounted, he failed to see subtle changes in the man above him, and, had he been more aware, perhaps he would have known to keep quiet, but, it was too late now. The man had beckoned Pania to move behind him while Sam ranted, and turned fully to face him now. Legs widened to take the additional weight, arms locked beneath the still form of the woman he carried. His eyes searching and finding a table nearby, the pieces of crockery that had been sitting on it long since broken in pieces around it. He carefully and protectively lay the woman on the table, arranging her arms across her body, tidying pieces of torn smock and cleaning away bits of mud and dust on her face, the face of his mother. And all the while, his face became as thunder before a storm. Threatening, dark, disturbing. Very serious! Then, at first, very softly, but with increasing tempo, he started to speak.
“Sam. I do not know what demon possesses you at the moment. I do not know why only venom comes out of your mouth, but I sense that whatever it is, you believe it! Completely! All I do know, is that we were friends as children and friends for life, until today. Today, you took away the one who set me on my path, the one who cleaned me up when I fell, who comforted me when I was lost. Today, you took my mother away from me. From us! And today, Sam, you died to me also!” And with that, he released his arm from under the form of his mother, and started down the grassy mound towards Sam, slowly gathering pace as his loss translated into pure, love-fuelled anger.
Shouting out loudly as he hurtled now towards Sam, his last words to him were, “… and as for me and who I am. I am Ma-aka, head of the Watamka Clan. And you. You! “Sam-of-the-Shades”, you are Enemy and you belong where we cannot enter.” And with that, he pulled out a club, which had been concealed in his cloak, and swung it out at Sam with all his strength, hitting him squarely in the chest. Sam felt his ribs crack and, not for the first time, had a sensation that, surely if this was another scene where I was falling, am I not going to just wake up back in bed?
He did.
Sweat
He awoke sharply, his legs kicking out at some unseen character, and in so doing, fluffing his duvet up into a mess over his knees. Bloody hell, he thought, that was not a nice dream!
Sam was in a cold sweat, breathing heavily, but eventually he calmed himself down on recognising his familiar surroundings. His hands subconsciously moved down to his chest and, on feeling no bandages, moved on down to rearrange the duvet around him. He breathed in the silence, enjoying its peace for a well needed moment. As often happens with dreams, the detail of what had just transpired evaded his thoughts and he did not think to question why not only the characters, but the location and “feel” were the same for his recent dreams. Even the recurrent mist fields failed to make an impression on his mind.
His chest throbbed, but again, he put that down to his stomach slowly recovering from food poisoning the night before. Seems so long ago, he thought.
The events of the last night had faded somewhat but the broken mug and dark stains of the spilled coffee on the carpet stared accusingly at him. Outside, the day was grey and miserable. Yet again, the weather had stepped in and a cold front coming across from the ocean had ensured that rain was the major state of play. Sam got up, grimacing slightly at the pain in his stomach, and proceeded to the bathroom for his morning ritual of trying to wake up whilst not looking at himself in the mirror.
David’s door was open, which in itself was unusual as normally his parents kept his room firmly shut as a testament to his absence. He walked down the corridor towards the door, hearing slight noises coming from within. His mother was inside, standing at the mantelpiece over the fire place, her hands moving slowly over the marble, tracing the contours of the edges. Her eyes studying the nuances of the changes in colour from one place to the next, deep in lost thought. She was humming something or other as if to a child, but softly, almost under her breath. No rhythm or order, just noises, random and lost. She moved towards the window, easing a picture frame on the wall slightly to be straighter than it already was and then stopped in front of his old bedside table, now empty of his stuff other than a lamp and a picture. The picture was of the two boys when they were much younger. It was one of the few pictures he was aware of where his mum was smiling. Smiling out of the picture and holding both boys, one on either side, protectively. She reached out and picked it up, studying the image for a while, before her finger snaked out and rested on the glass in front of David, rubbing the surface. Then she drew the picture to her chest, folding her arms over it and sank down onto his bed looking down at the pillow, clean and soft, and unused.
Sam softly retreated from the room, letting his mother deal with whatever demons were currently ripping through her mind but also allowing her that private time, to hopefully allow mourning and healing to occur. He knew that if he were to invade her space, especially in that sanctity she sat in, his dad would hear about it and retribution, unfair and unsought, would be swiftly dealt. For his part, Sam argued that it was no use sharing his hurt with his parents about his feeling of loss, as had been clearly demonstrated many times since that horrible day. When he tried to express how he was feeling, he was shut down immediately by his dad for disturbing and upsetting his mother, or his mother glazed over and lost herself in a world he felt partly guilty of creating.
His dad’s approach to mourning was to deny himself any form of emotion as, in his world, David’s death was solely his responsibility, mad though that was. His dad could no more have stopped things happening, than King Canute could have stopped the tide rising. But to him, he saw his wife, a shell of what was once a vibrant and lovely lady, go through her day lost and alone and unreachable. It made him feel, if anything, impotent. He was supposed to be the carer, the defender. What type of defender allowed their child to suffer needlessly and all the while, stood silently by seeing death take him? What type of carer allowed his wife to be destroyed? What type of father allowed his feeling to push his surviving son away such that, for all intents and purposes, he too was lost to him? And so, his own internal battles had only one form of release, and that was to strike out at anyone who even dared to question his position and lack of feeling. Sam got it fully. With both barrels!
Sam got his college bag from under the mess of clothes in his bedroom and trudged down the staircase and out the house, getting to the bus stop just in time. Moving to the back of the bus, he slumped down, the greyness of the new day reflecting his mood and he stared morosely out into the world. A world he felt detached from. A world with greyness and rain and death and sadness. A world full of aliens who neither saw him nor heard him. “Come on, Sam,” he said to himself. “Where is this darkness coming from today? Snap out of it. No one else will give a rat’s arse about things, so just man up and get through today.” With that rebuke posted, Sam breathed in deeply, looked up and out into the greyness, and tried to think about other things.
The little girl, Pania, came to mind suddenly. Where on earth did that image come from? he thought. Why a grubby little girl who seemed to look up to me? And that guy. Warrior, or something… What was that all about? Sam allowed the train of thoughts to progress and, with a shock, he realised that indeed, the last few dreams he had had, that he could remember, all seemed to have the “Warrior” bloke and similar geography. And that creature, Babu! That was it, Babu. I remember. What a weird one
that was.
Sam could not, at first, answer the unbidden question in his head, Why is it that I am dreaming that I am important in that place? Importance led on to people who were seen to be “important” in the media, and this led to thoughts of David, who was obviously more important in the household than him. And then it clicked. Of course! The dreams are a reflectance of my feeling inadequate. No wonder I am seen as some hero there, for whatever reason. That decided, he promptly forgot about the dreams and, as the bus was now pulling up in front of his college, got his bag together and followed the crowd of grey people clambering off the bus and walking in cold dreary steps towards the uninviting entrance to Greyshott Sixth Form College.
“Boring day. Boring lessons. Boring teacher. Boring life. Just a bore, really…” Stop it! he reprimanded himself, not for the first time, and proceeded into the college doors, disappearing into another world he wanted nothing to do with.
That afternoon, after college was finished, Sam decided to walk home rather than “hurry back to mommy” by catching the bus. The weather had cleared slightly, and darkness was a few hours away at least, so a walk, after the trials of geometry and trig, would be much appreciated. His route, as normal, wounds its way up a slight hill, passing through a fairly built-up housing area, a few trees lining the sidewalk and the odd dog lover taking “Fido” for its afternoon constitution and, more often than not, failing to pick up the crap it had left behind. For some reason, those little “parcels” really got his temper up. Why can’t they bloody pick up their mess rather than let someone else do it? he thought.
At the top of the rise, the housing stock segued into the start of the town where the college got its name from.
Greyshott, or “Greyskull” as he was often tempted to call it, was a small, non-descript rural hamlet, with a high street, as was standard in just about every small town in Christendom it seemed, housing a number of small shops together with a larger department store. The village church (and adjoining pub – yet another necessary attachment that made England’s rural life what it is known for… boring!) nestled into a small corner behind some huge oak trees, their branches, like witches’ claws, hanging out over the street, ready to swat the unwary foreign visitor back to whatever country they had escaped from in the first place.
“By the power of Greyskull,” he proclaimed, on arriving at the start of the official town. But today, as every day, whatever Master of the Universe was in residence, was certainly not parked out in this particular place. It remained small, and cold and, to him, unwelcoming. Unwelcoming that is, other than the one place he did feel welcomed. Timber’s Tea House always seemed to have that special something about it. The warm yellow glow spilling out from within always seemed to be there, regardless of whether it was a bright sunny day, or the coldest, dampest day in history. The condensation on the windows seemed to give a sense of weariness to the place, but this didn’t stop people entering its quaintness. Once inside, the smells that escaped from the kitchen were something to enjoy. It had fast become one of the town’s “must-visit” destinations and it was often the case that the Sunday church community meandered down to Timber’s for a well-earned “full English” after the morning service, rather than go to the pub next to the church, much to the landlord’s annoyance.
Its proprietress, Alice, never seemed to get flustered and indeed, seemed to spend inordinate periods of time chatting to its customers and never seemed to spend any time in the kitchen, and yet, with just a skeleton staff, and a dog, she produced the nicest, tastiest, stomach pleasing English breakfasts he had ever had the fortune of tasting. Originally, Alice was also known for always having a half finished cigarette dangling from her mouth as she served, and whilst this unusual “attachment” took a while to get used to, her cooking skills quickly overcame the hardiest of opponents against smoking. Now, however, as the laws had changed, she was often parked outside having a quick puff, rather than risk having her establishment closed down by the authorities.
She was there as he approached, standing outside, leaning against the door jamb, one leg cocked up behind her, resting against the timber frame, cigarette dangling from her mouth and the smoke gently curling up into the air. She had already seen him and was looking at him through squinted eyes against the smoke, looking at him intently.
Sam, over the years, was aware that she seemed to do that a lot with him and, at times, this “attention” was unwelcoming and a bit creepy. She gave him the impression that she knew him at a deeper level than most others, although how she could and why she would want to, escaped him. But she seemed to be able to look inside him and communicate with him in ways that did not have words. Of course, in his boyish moments, he would joke that she obviously fancied him, as if to ignore those feelings that someone seemed to “care”. Alice was in her mid-forties. Not married. No other relations that he was aware of. One dog, Bumper. She always seemed to live in her kitchen frock and her long silver hair was tied loosely with a green ribbon. She rarely wore any make-up but her eyes, a piercing and honest deep bronze, did not seem to need any enhancements, as they cut through and seemed to see what one was really about, rather than the façade so many people built around themselves. There was something different about her, Sam sensed. Something other-worldly. He could not put his finger on it, but he was sure she knew more about him, and potentially others, than she gave away, and this lent her a certain “strangeness”. A strangeness, however, that Sam took comfort from.
“Good afternoon, Master Gilbert,” she intoned. “And how is the intrepid traveller today?”
That is the other thing, he thought. It was a little odd that she seemed to say things as if she knew where I had been, or what I had just experienced. She must be a witch underneath all that appearance, he thought, jokingly.
“Fine, thanks,” he replied. “Just off home.” That in itself, he realised, was a stupid response. Of course he was on his way home. Where else would he be going to in this direction and at this time?
She smiled at him, sensing this internal argument going on. Pushing herself expertly off the door jamb, she threw the cigarette butt into the bin and, turning once more into the open door, said, “Well in that case, you must take something with you,” and disappeared inside. Sam felt he could never actually argue with her. What she said always seemed to be logical and right. He followed her in, distracted and curious at the same time. Alice disappeared behind the counter and re-emerged with a small plate, on which sat a perfectly formed and utterly eatable cinnamon whirl. “For you, sir?” she questioned, holding the plate out towards him, her eyes sparkling in jest.
“I, I … er, I don’t have any money with me,” Sam exclaimed embarrassingly, looking both at this delicious pastry and Alice at the same time.
“That’s perfectly OK, Sam, “she said. “It is going spare in any case. Bumper doesn’t eat pastries, and you seemed to need a little pick-me-up, so, here,” offering it once more to him, “take it and enjoy. Who knows when you may next have a chance to rest and eat?”
What a strange thing to say, Sam thought. She must be pulling my leg. But, looking at her now, her eyes had lost that sparkle and instead, were looking straight at him with understanding and, if possible, instruction. As if to say, “I see YOU, Sam-of the Shades. I see you and I am next to you.”
Sam grabbed the presented pastry and turned quickly away from her and towards the door, throwing a brief, “Thank you,” back into the depths of the tea house before exiting and walking as fast as possible away from his fears, which had sprung up and bit him when he was least expecting it, and from a place he considered to be safe.
Alice’s form filled the door threshold shortly thereafter, gazing after Sam’s rapidly disappearing body whilst, once again, clutching the necklace around her neck and teasing its shapes as she muttered something under her breath, almost imperceptible to those around her. Her eyes flashing a purple glint for a second before she turned back into the warmth of the store and the other customers.
“Sam,” said Sam. “You’re such a dweeb! Who would want to hang around you anyway?” His rapid departure from the tea house, and away from Alice, now settled down into anger at himself for running away for no reason, other than from his own fears and loathings. The cinnamon whirl, at first a delight to behold, now cold and lifeless in his hand. The stickiness assaulting his short-lived happy moment. He threw it away in disgust, unable to accept the gift. Unwilling to allow himself a respite or to accept that someone seemed to care.
He got to the house and walked rapidly up the pathway to the front door, sensing that for some unknown reason, anger was bubbling around inside him suddenly and that he did not like where it was going yet was almost powerless to resist its outcome. He went straight upstairs and went into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him, which rattled the implements on the wash hand basin in protest. The mirror caught his full attention. A red-faced youth looked angrily back at him, goading him almost. Without controlled thought, he heard, more than directed what happened next.
“Why did you have to die?” he said to David, represented as the image looking out at him from the emotionless mirror. “Why did you have to die and leave me here with THEM? We were mates. Best mates. Brothers. And now I get all the anger. I get all the hurt. But it’s not my fault!” The last spat out in anger and frustration.
The mirror image looking back at him, and in his mind’s eye, looking back at him with derision and pity, made his fingers unlock themselves from the edge of the wash hand basin and, almost as an automatic gesture, turn themselves against him.