by Julian Cheek
Everyone looked at this wizened old lady, who appeared to have no fear of this person who had come unannounced into their village, and waited on what she had to say. Her face was lined with age and bronzed through many years of being out in the sunlight. Her hair, like many of the women, was worn loose and it cascaded down over her shoulders, tied at the ends with small bones and twigs. She wore a fur pelt and she held a long, thin pipe in her hands, still smoking from the substance within it. Her eyes, however, were crystal clear and full of deep and hard fought intelligence.
“My name is Ngaire,” she began, holding the attention of everyone with her poise and inner strength. “I have walked these roads for countless years and speak to both man and beast. I have seen events which made the earth shake and I have witnessed The One who came from the Shades to destroy ‘The Nameless One’. While it was still dark this morning, I sensed a calling and I have travelled in haste to get here. I have headed and I have now seen… But not for the first time! For you,” looking now directly at Sam, “you have been here recently. And death and destruction is at your door. If you were indeed He of whom we speak, you would have stopped the Bjarke from ransacking and killing the peoples of Watamka and you would have fulfilled your destiny. But this person I see before me is cloaked and I cannot fathom his aura. You cannot be him, for HE was bright and brave and true. But you, you have had placed on you a burden that is unfair and unjust, and we must therefore wait for The One to arrive again and pray that his coming would not be delayed.”
As if a potential prophecy had been awaited and then not been fulfilled, the people listened to Ngaire and began to relax as they understood that Sam was perhaps not who they thought he was, and that he was just a stranger. An innocent stranger that they should make welcome after all.
But Ngaire was not finished.
“And yet,” she continued, “you come here from without and the mists listen to you.” At this she pointed back behind Sam, where his passing could still be seen through the mist bank moving off into the distance. “You walk and the mists part, yet you walk without companion.” Summoning her breath in slow resolution she continued, “How is this possible? Where is your Padme, Sam?”
The people again stopped their discussions as this point re-emerged, having been lost in the last few minutes of surprise and all turned to look at him with renewed fear.
“I have no idea what a Padme is,” began Sam, “and I have no idea why I would need one. I have seen my fair share of crap, thank you very much and I do not need anything else to ‘accompany’ me in this world.” Sam was getting a little annoyed with these people who appeared to be imposing their ideas onto him. Just like at home, again, he thought.
“Without a Padme,” Ngaire began, “you cannot exist! And yet here you stand. Breathing, aware, of apparent sound mind…” Sam did not like that comment. “I must consult with the Ethereals,” she said, causing yet more gasps from within the throng. “I must ask how this is possible. How you can be here unaccompanied. This is indeed a mystery, Sam, and I can see that you are truly unaware of what this means about you and your existence here.”
Sam was rapidly getting tired of this discussion and wanted nothing more than to move on and wait to wake up. “Well maybe you would be so kind as to enlighten me what a Padme is, then,” he said. “And then perhaps I can tell you where mine is!”
Ngaire, unaffected, continued. “A Padme melds with you on your birthing. When a Turangai, a person, in your words, first enters the world, they form a bond with a creature. This bond starts a life-long relationship and it is the creature’s role to protect them and assist them in their walk. To train them in their belief and to fend off all who would try to attack them, for they are chosen by the Ethereals for us when we are still being formed. No one can exist without their Padme and no one has, till now!”
Sam, smiled inwardly as he recognised that once again, dream worlds played funny tricks on one’s mind and that this was therefore yet another proof that pretty soon (but not soon enough) he would wake up and carry on with his life.
Sam knew what he needed to do and, without much thought to the consequences, said, “I am afraid I have to upset you there then. You say everyone must have this ‘Padme’ thing and without it they cannot exist? Well I have no Padme and yet I exist here before you. I am breathing. I have sight. I have movement. What I don’t have, is a Padme and neither do I have any desire to have one, whatever it is. So,” he said with mounting determination, “if I have no Padme, and to have one is essential, then either that fact is untrue, or I am not real, or you are not real! Which means that this place is not real and in fact,” pushing now to the edge of the fire which had been glowing merrily up till now, “I bet that if I pick up a red hot coal from that fire…” gesturing to the coals within, “nothing would happen to me.”
And before anyone could move to stop him, Sam bent forward and reached out to the closest glowing coal he could find, and picked it up.
A coalescing electric blue energy field shot out from his fingertips as he came into contact with the burning coal. The field blasted out in a circumference around him, knocking those closest to him away in a blur of scattering bodies and objects and his hands flared into white hot orbs, glowing and pulsing with an intensity that shocked him to his core.
“What the f…” he began, looking at his glowing hands for a brief second, before he passed out with the pain.
The radiator
Almost instantly, the shock of what had just happened jolted his body into an automatic reflex movement, jumping away from the perceived danger and moving his hands protectively against his chest. His hand burned and he could feel the pain screaming out from it as a warning. He opened his eyes.
The bathroom was just as it should be. The light still glowed above his head. The mat still lay, now dishevelled, under him. The radiator, however, did not look the same. The towels that normally rested over the unit were now scattered over the floor and he sensed his hand throb acutely in awareness of this situation. “You stupid, stupid idiot!” he began. “No wonder your hand is in agony. Fancy falling asleep here of all places, and leaving your hand to rest on top of this very hot and very efficient radiator! No wonder you are in agony.” Sam realised that the source of his pain was NOT as a result of him picking up the red hot coal from the village, but instead was as a result of his utter stupidity of leaving his hand on a hot radiator and then falling asleep with it there, waiting for nature to take its course and burn the stuffing out of his extended digits!
“Muppet!” he scolded himself.
He clambered up to his feet and went to the wash hand basin, holding his hands under the cool cold water from the tap, thinking about what had just transpired. You know, Sam, he thought, when you are dreaming, you think that place is real, but it isn’t, and this is shown to you time and time again, when you wake up and a logical explanation always stares you in the face. Well, my son, today you have outdone yourself and I jolly well hope your hand stays throbbing for a long time to hopefully teach you not to be so bloody stupid! Why would you want to live in a fantasy world like that anyway? One is forced to walk about with a weird creature hanging round your neck all the time. What happens if that creature dies of natural causes? Do you die then? Nice!
Sam sensed that his anger was bubbling up again and he forced himself to calm down. Turning the tap off, he moved his hands to the towel draped over the towel rail to dry them. The throbbing was still there and a distant pain still reminded him of what a dangerous position he had put himself in. He admonished himself roughly, looking down for any scars as a result of the close burning he had just encountered. Luckily there did not appear to be any lasting damage to his hand and he flexed his fingers to test the joints. Strange! Sam thought. My hand seems to be glowing! And indeed, his right hand not only throbbed with the blood pressure coursing through it, it seemed to also emanate a subtle glow that he was sure was not there before he dropped off for a quick power nap. He studied h
is hand carefully, but all seemed to be in order now and he turned his attention to other things.
Exiting the bathroom, he noticed that all was quiet around him. Mum and dad are not yet at home, he thought to himself. Dad is out at work and who knows where, or when he is due to arrive? Mother? Well I have absolutely no idea where she is or what time she is back to start to prepare dinner. Surely they must have come on by to see how I was. They would not have left me there all day without either waking me up, or moving my hand off the radiator, would they? The last, he sensed, not said with much conviction. Sam trudged down the staircase, looking under the gap in the staircase out into the living room ascertaining if indeed anyone was home. There was no one. “Nothing prepared,” he started. “No dinner laid out. Nothing started in the cooking department. No table laid. Same ol’, same ol’.”
But today, something was different. Today, Sam looked up across the living room furniture and spied “it”. A recent addition to the mantelpiece looked back at him. A picture of David smiling out at the room. Hands on hips and bending forward. His torso bare and dripping with water. A big smile shining out from the prison of the frame, mocking him! Sam remembered the day that picture was taken. David had just competed in a swim-a-thon and, naturally, as he always seemed to do, David had won. Mum had taken the picture of her lovely son and was “oh so proud, wasn’t she?” Of course, other than a few other knick knacks, the mantelpiece was bare of adornment. No picture of Sam shared this “hallowed” surface with their beloved older and better son… In fact, looking round now, he noticed that there were absolutely no pictures of him, anywhere! Without intending to, Sam was overcome by a deep and uninvited jealousy.
Without thought he launched himself at the mantelpiece, grabbing the picture frame and staring at the image within.
“It’s not my fault you died!” He glared, accusingly at the image smiling back at him. “It’s not my fault you were and remain their favourite. What did you do that I couldn’t? Why were you planned when I was obviously just an accident?” All his pent up anger and frustration and hurt coalesced into these pointed questions and he was aware of tears pressing out from his eyelids. Tears he really did not want to acknowledge or, for that matter, did not want to be expressed, given his anger. But there was no one around that evening. No one to admonish him or tell him to be quiet. No one to tell him that he was not to blame.
“Why couldn’t I have died, rather than you?” he said, more quietly, as if, for a moment, communicating with the one he had always felt closest to, now cruelly ripped away. “Then everyone would be happy!” he continued. “Their Wunderkind would be alive and their bloody abortion would be dead. Dead! Dead! Dead! I HATE YOU!”
He hurled the picture from its place on the mantelpiece, smashing it and the pieces around it onto the floor and the coffee table. The frame exploded in a cascade of glass and wood against the table and fell in pieces onto the floor.
He often looked back at this moment with a particular jolt, as he distinctly remembered the feeling that his spirit had somehow slipped out of his body and was looking down at his form carrying out the action, and yet he was powerless to stop it. His mind was saying stop, Sam. Stop! But his emotions were yelling do it, do it, DO IT!
His emotions won. With anger exploding from his demeanour, he turned to find something else, anything, to vent his frustration on. The coffee table was nearest. Picking up one of its legs, he tossed the object off to one direction, its frame spinning around as if lost in space, the glass inlay failing to keep a grip to the wooden frame and flying off to shatter against the wall. The reclining chair, “dad’s beloved sanctuary from life!” followed suit. Sam’s hefty kick lifted the frame backwards to fall against the glass doored book case, which spewed its contents and shards of glass onto the carpet. Books, tables, chairs, fire surround. All succumbed to Sam’s uncontrollable anger and frustration.
In short order, he brought havoc to the room, hurling abuse at the top of his lungs to whoever cared to listen. To his friends for never seeing him. To his parents who lost him years ago. To David, who should have been there to help him, but wasn’t.
“Why did you die?” he sobbed, slipping down the wall to lay on the carpet. “Why did you die, and leave me here all alone?”
His slump down the wall caused the last object on the mantelpiece to finally lose its grip and the heavy candelabra, toppled end over end, striking his forehead a hefty blow and sending him reeling off into the stars.
Ōmakere, the place of abandonment
“Oh my head!” he moaned softly, reaching up to rub his forehead and searching in the dark for the candelabra. “…. The dark? Why is it dark all of a sudden?” Sam slowly opened his eyes and looked around, scanning the room as he started to notice that things were not quite as they should have been. He noticed at first that rather than a well worn and comfortable living room (albeit it should have been in utter chaos), now, a dusty, hard worn dirt floor greeted him, and a field of many fires burned all around him, fires that were moving slightly, agitatedly. These small fires focussed themselves into torches held by many hands illuminating a crowd of deeply lined and worried looking people.
From calamity to this! he thought. I must be going mad. But this feels so weirdly real!
One of the torches detached from the rest and came towards him. “Master. Master! You must rouse yourself and help us. Our time is at hand and we look to you, as before, to save us. Get up and get ready. Our enemy is at the door!”
Sam looked up at the man who had addressed him. His look was returned by cloudy eyes in a well worn, tempered face. The man was rugged in complexion with long white hair loosely tied behind his back and the grizzled look of someone who had been around for a long time. The man was looking intently and somehow reverently at Sam and his arm was outstretched towards him, reaching and beckoning Sam to take it and regain some semblance of order in this chaotic world he had landed in. Sam just stared at the outstretched hand as if in a trance, noticing the veins, aged and destroyed in places, the dirty nails, broken through poor diet and the thin arms disappearing into the folds of a torn tunic. For a brief moment, the man’s arm fascinated him.
Gathering his wits, Sam tried to stand up but the floor quickly started to ebb and flow beneath him as a dizzy spell ruptured this moment. The man quickly and expertly reached out to gather Sam up and as Sam straightened, he was amazed that he was almost a full head taller than the gathering around him. The people, on seeing him stand, all reached out their hands towards him in supplication. Yearning, looking, hoping. Men, women, children. Some looking around in abject fear, others holding hands protectively. Children gripped the apron tails of their mothers, gazing either shyly or with uncertainty at this strange person in their midst. A few were crying with either tiredness or sadness.
Sam saw all this in a blink of an eye, but it would take some time before he was able to assimilate what on earth was going on. This was definitely not the living room but for the time being he allowed the flow to carry him onward.
“Come,” said the man again, trying to manoeuvre Sam forward and away from where he had been lying. “Come, Sam. You must carry on your work. We need to protect the young.”
All Sam was aware of was that his mind was quite detached from the goings on around him, almost as if he was moving through treacle. Almost, he thought, as if I am walking through a dream!
“What work?” said Sam. “What am I supposed to be doing and why am I here in this strange, other worldly place?”
Sam felt it first through his feet rather than through hearing. A slight vibration coming through the floor, sending tremors pulsing up his legs and throbbing through his nervous system… A distant, low toned buzzing sat at the periphery of his senses. He noticed a few people towards the extremities of the group around him, start to turn around looking for the source of this “irritation”. Slowly, the buzzing increased in volume and intensity and took on more definition. A strange cackling noise wafted between the d
rone that gathered outside and now Sam was aware that this noise seemed to be coming from all around, and it oozed something. Something sinister.
Louder and louder it became, growing in depth and anger, seeming to descend into the surroundings like a storm of bees until the buzzing in his head had become so intense that he had to reach up to cover his ears, crouching down to escape this audible attack.
And suddenly, the noise stopped!
The crowd froze in place. Eyes now locked on Sam; in expectation of what, he had no idea.
Beyond the crowd, gashes started to appear in the darkness allowing light to filter through, illuminating the once darkened place, which, Sam now realised, was a very large and very big tent. These gashes, Sam realised, were the flaps of the tent being lifted up, taking on a circular route as each one lifted away until the “circle” was complete. A large group of men were slowly revealed surrounding the tent, their demeanour leaving little to the imagination and their sharp evil looking blades, held with intent in their hands, made sure that their message to the crowd was very clear indeed. These men were not here for a chat! Slowly they entered the tent, first in one place, then through more and more openings until at least 20 men, well built and of varying heights, surrounded the people, who in turn, surrounded Sam.