The Awakened

by Julian Cheek

  “Margot. Be quiet. It’s about time he answered for his bloody ineptitude.” And Paul propelled Sam into the middle of the room amongst his “creation” and glared at him with uncontrollable malice.

  “What on earth did you think you were doing?” Paul began, not even allowing Sam to defend himself, or even to check whether he indeed was to blame for this in the first place. “Your mum and I are not even allowed to go out for a minute without you coming in here and, for some cracked and spiteful reason, feel you have the right to trash our things as if they belong to you. Do you think it is bloody funny to smash our things? Do you think it is funny to leave the house in a state of total turmoil, lacking even the smallest modicum of respect to be careful and have a bit of care for this house?” Paul had to stop for breath, casting a quick glance at Margot, his eyes demanding her silence. “Look at what you have done to mum,” he continued. “It’s not enough that she has to suffer every day. No. So far as you seem to be concerned, every attempt she makes to try to move on, you feel the need to disrupt and destroy her peace.” Paul pointed down to the destroyed pot plant and the remains of the picture frame. “So, can you please explain why you felt the need, this time, to break that which wasn’t yours and why you insist on stuffing up mum’s life?”

  Sam felt the venom pour into him from this person who was supposed to be his dad. He was still reeling from his own throbbing from the fallen candelabra. He didn’t need yet more pain.

  “Paul,” began his mother, “I am sure Sam didn’t…”

  “I am not finished!” Paul said with definite finality. “You know what?” he continued, glaring at his unemotional son, “it would be a whole bloody lot better if you weren’t here. Why don’t you just go away and leave us in bloody peace for once in your little sheltered life?”

  Paul knew before the words had stopped echoing off the walls and fallen objects around them that he had gone too far. He wished that the few seconds just past had never existed. Hell, he wished a lot of things had never existed. What a bloody better life they might have been enjoying… But it was too late.

  “Paul!” exclaimed his wife in shock. “How can you say that? Is it not enough I have lost one son without you tearing my world up with yet more cantankerous bullish and, basically, crappy attacks at Sam who probably didn’t intend to do any of this in any case?” She turned to Sam, for once, her eyes clear and her emotion focussing purity to their last remaining son. Sam was already turning to walk out. Too much pain and demands on his young shoulders. He mumbled something saying he was going upstairs. He did not want any of them to see him in the state he was in. He just wanted to escape this place. Escape the pain, escape everything to feel alive and happy again. For him, at this moment, his only sanctuary was a room upstairs and a door firmly and forever closed.

  Through the walls and carpeted floor of his room, he was aware that his parents were still refusing to climb down from their positions. “… But dear,” he heard his mother say, “you know he didn’t mean this! Why on earth did you lay into him like that?”

  “Marg,” replied his dad, somewhat gruffly, “it’s about time he bloody woke up and got his head out of his cloud, sorted his life out and started to help out around the house once in a while. All he does is…”

  “Paul, stop! Please,” she cried out.

  And then…

  Sam heard his dad’s footsteps move towards the front door, his voice rising in untameable anger. “Why can’t you of all people stop for once and see that I too bloody miss him!” he screamed. “It was not my fucking fault he died!” And with that, the door opened and then slammed shut, rocking the frame and Sam’s world into a shattered place he felt would never be fixed.

  Sam couldn’t cope with any more emotion. For him, he had reached the tipping point and he just stared mutely around his room, not able to assimilate what had just happened. In the silence, he saw his room, for once, for what it was. His poster clinging to the wall was more than ready to be replaced. His bed was all scruffed up from the morning and his desk held an assortment of things that were just that, things. This was his world, he realised. A world of stuff, a world of misery. He even needed “crutches”, looking down at his Xbox, to get him to escape.

  It was this which caused a “click” to occur in his head, and he saw a simple, yet until that moment, never brought to the surface, idea. An idea which was now so obvious, he felt, if it were possible, he should have acted this out eons ago. He glanced up at his window, thinking. The rain was again beating against the pane, which he thought was quite apt. The rain was cleaning the window, and he was about to clean his own space as well.

  Without another thought, he rummaged in the back of his cupboard, found his old backpack and proceeded to throw in a few clothes, a torch and passport. His wallet and phone went into the back pocket of his trousers and his jacket was taken off the hook of his bedroom door and placed over his shoulders. Without a backward look, he opened the window, threw his backpack down onto the garage roof below, clambered out himself, jumped off the garage into the rear garden, and walked off into the darkness.

  Breaking out onto the street, he was, for a while, undecided which way to go. The street lights seemed brighter heading into town, so he headed off towards it, pulling his hood up over his head to keep the rain off. A wonderful, uplifting sense of elation permeated through him, and he allowed a smile to grow as he walked away from the turmoil and pain, and hopefully, at long last, was going to be allowed to walk into a better place with no demands and where the sun shone just that bit brighter.

  The glow of the town slowly drew him closer. The houses slowly got larger and more grand as he entered the outskirts of the main shopping precinct. At this hour the streets were deserted. One lone fox in the distance spied him, had a last sniff at something on the floor, then disappeared under a fence and away. Otherwise, things were blissfully quiet. Sam was happy just to walk. There was no agenda, no place to be, no time by which he was expected anywhere. He just walked, looked at the passing architectural landscape and enjoyed, for once, the serenity that wrapped around him, healing and soothing his raw emotions.

  At this hour, everything was shut. Even the welcoming ambience of Timber’s was absent, with only the slow glow of the letters above the shop front filtering onto the light patterns thrown onto the street by the other units. Unconsciously, he glanced up at the windows above Timber’s but the curtains were drawn and darkness was the only shadow in those windows. Why did I think about Alice then? Sam mused. She “got” me at least, he thought.

  Opposite the main entrance doors, a bus shelter stood. For years just a drop-in to wait for a bus, but tonight, a refuge from the weather. Sam walked towards it and sat down on the bus bench and started to plan his next move. The lights of the shelter were faulty, it appeared, as the fluorescent tubes behind the advertising banners were flickering, almost hypnotic. He certainly was not interested in the wonderful “smells of the forest pines” advert on the wall, but his gaze unfocused itself and became mesmerised with the flickering, warming light behind. The flickering of the lights and the gentle wash of the rain against the sides were enough. Before he knew it, his head fell slowly onto the side panel of the bus shelter and he fell into a peaceful sleep.

  Had he been more aware, he would have sensed the movement behind him. The soft padding of someone coming up behind him. Someone who did not want him to know they were there. But sleep had taken a firm hold of him so he didn’t see Alice slowly come up behind him, then slip beyond the side panels until she stood in front of him. Silent. Studying him. Then, as if prompted, she glanced down, undid the necklace around her neck, and placed it carefully around Sam’s, then left.

  Ngaire, “Silver Fern”

  The flickering lights continued to pulse into Sam’s awareness and the sounds of noisy trucks passing close by assaulted his peace bubble. He tried to turn in his half sleep to shield his eyes and ears from this invasion of his senses. His movement was enough to tip him
off his perch and to land in one unceremonious heap on the sodden grass! “Grass?” He was so shocked that he immediately woke up. “But there is no grass here,” he continued, confusion racing through his mind as he tried to assimilate this impossibility with the fact that he was indeed, lying in a large and very wet patch of nature’s finest grass. “Where on earth……?” he began, looking all around him in fright.

  The cause of the flickering he had sensed earlier now became apparent. Lightning was flashing through the air off in the distance, followed by loud thunder claps and deep reverberating rumbling. Trucks! he registered. But this lightning storm was like nothing he had ever seen before and it certainly wasn’t lighting up any familiar townscape he knew, and definitely no bus shelter either!

  At that moment, the heavens decided to open up and rain lashed down on him with unmerciful fury. Sam had no choice. He stood up quickly, looking in vain for his backpack, and for the safety of the shelter, but both objects eluded him. Still in some shock, he proceeded to move off and down what he felt was a slight fall in the topography. The lightning, he now noticed, illuminating a very real and very dense mist bank all around him, robbing him of any sensory powers in terms of sight. He instinctively stretched out his hands to try to feel his way out of wherever he had “landed” and was surprised when even his arms disappeared into the impenetrable bank of mist. Slowly he stumbled down range, and felt, more than saw, that his feet had got him onto a rutted path, which he slowly followed. Small rocks and muddy water covered his feet from time to time as he lost his footing in various places. Still, when he did volunteer to look back, he was shocked to see that, rather than the emotionless banks of mist enveloping him, a swathe of “mist-less-ness” preceded behind him, familiar in an “other-worldly” way.

  Sam continued stumbling slowly down the semi-illuminated path, trying to filter the sound of the lightning whilst trying to engage his befuddled mind to tell him where on earth he had “landed”. Darkness was his only companion and all sense of three-dimensionality had long since been scattered to the four corners. There were no sounds to assist him, and the lightning continued to flash strong patterns into his retinas, after each bolt.

  “There!” he cried. Just off to one side and noticed through his peripheral vision, a small light, constant and fairly fixed in place glowed out through the mist. Sam headed in its general direction with haste, careful to watch around him for debris and puddles. Gradually the light took on more definition and started to illuminate the structure to which it was attached. A small, wooden house set on rickety posts emerged from the mist. The light, (he could see now that it was a flame from a wick, protected by some miracle from the wind and weather, by a dirty, broken glass surround) gave out a mysterious, silent glow seeming to make the whole structure float above and through the mist. Surrounding the timber building, a dangerous looking porch reached out, cracked and missing boards dotting the surface. He stopped at the last tree, looking intently through the lashing rain for any sign of life from within, but nothing moved.

  The light continued to beckon warmly and, with some trepidation, Sam crept closer, slowly climbing the steps up to the porch and moved towards the door. Breathing deeply and casting one last glance around and behind him, he turned to the door and knocked.

  The dull thuds of his knocking seemed to him to be incredibly loud and he realised that the lightning had stopped just as he knocked. Beyond, he heard the unmistakeable sound of a chair being scraped back and footsteps heading towards him, slowly, loudly, scarily. Sam was just about to turn and flee when the door opened.

  An old, incredibly bent and stooped lady peered out at him from within. A fur pelt over her shoulders was tangled with a cascade of silver hair, and twigs and bones appeared to be tied randomly in amongst the braids. She was also smoking! A long, thin pipe was gripped between her lips and she was puffing its rich mixture, smoke trailing up and around her, and Sam. Beyond, Sam was aware of a healthy warm glow coming from a fire which was crackling madly, a rocking chair, a large mirror and odd ornaments were arranged around this source of heat. It felt homely and Sam, without questioning, sensed he was safe here.

  He looked down at the lady and was somewhat surprised to see her lined face going through a series of weird expressions as if trying to fathom whether this bedraggled creature in front of her was friend, foe, or a nightmare from her deepest recesses.

  “Sam?” she said, tentatively, “is that you?” If Sam had been fazed leading up to this, given his confusion as to where he was, hearing a strange old lady address him as if she knew him was certainly enough to stop him in his tracks. How on earth does this woman know me? he thought, and he started to step back away from her and think that perhaps the mist, rain and gloom beyond were now more inviting and “safe” than this woman’s house of welcome.

  The woman unbent herself slightly and said, “Sam, I am Ngaire, the healer. But you used to call me Silver Fern.” And with that, she opened the door fully, turned and shuffled back towards her rocking chair, somehow knowing that Sam would follow.

  Sam followed. Entering the house and closing the noise of the weather behind him, he moved into the heart of the house and went to the bench that the lady (Ngaire?) was pointing to, and sat down.

  Ngaire busied herself pouring some water into a pot before setting it on a stand over the fire. She grunted slightly as she then sat back into the rocking chair, which sprang back under her weight. She reached to her side and pulled out an old box from which she got a match and proceeded to relight her pipe. A contented smile etched her face as she started to feel the draw of the smoke in her lungs and the wisps permeate her space. She remained silent, not looking at Sam, which he found intimidating, until the pot was whistling. She pushed herself slowly off the chair and offered Sam an outstretched cup. “Tea?” she offered.

  “Yes please,” was the only thing he could utter at that moment.

  As she got the tea leaves and hot water working together, she looked sidelong at Sam, almost in a quizzical, questioning way, trying to gather her thoughts and her confusions at seeing him outside her door and on a night like this. Eventually, she offered him the steaming cup, turned around and sat herself back in her rocking chair. Plucking up her courage, she began.

  “Sam, what is going on?” What a strange question, he thought. To this he had no answer, wondering why she had chosen that particular question to start a conversation and he looked blankly back at her. She was looking intently at him. Focussed. Aware. Perceptive and, somehow, compelling. Compelling something in him. The glowing, homely embers radiating warmth into his bones and the “safe” surroundings almost won him over. Almost! He caught himself and laughed inwardly. Another dream, he thought. Oh well, best just get on with it and wait to wake up again.

  “Silver Fern,” he began, “I am afraid I don’t know who you are, or this place, but…” (And this with some smugness), “as this is a dream it doesn’t really matter, as soon I will wake up and none of this will exist!”

  Ngaire responded with a strangely mellow voice. “I cannot speak for your dreams, Sam, but I do know that I am very real, as is this place.” She paused as he raised his cup to his lips. “As is that steaming cup of tea you are about to drink.” (That said with a downward look away from him, a small smile hidden beneath her hair which had fallen across her face.) Sam was already in mid sip when this was uttered and it was hot. Too hot! The brew burnt both his lips and his mouth as it flowed down his throat and he coughed and spluttered loudly as a result, quickly putting the steaming cup down on the table and trying to regain some dignity as Ngaire-Silver Fern looked on, chuckling.

  Sam regained some feeling to his mouth and looked up at the old lady. “Somehow you know my name, but that is OK in this weird place. I am wet and cold, but that can be explained away. This is just a reflection of the inner me, so let’s just have some fun with this and see where it goes. Besides, I cannot die in a dream, so it should all be fine ultimately. A bit of a mind trip but o
therwise, fine! So tell me, Silver Fern, why do you know me and why do you give a damn?”

  Ngaire did not respond at first. Instead, she reached down and found her pipe and busied herself with filling it once more with her rich smelling tobacco before the heady smell of oak wafted towards him as the pipe was lit and she drew her first puff. Then she settled back in her rocking chair, and began.

  “Sam. The story you are about to hear is heavy in its telling. The questions, many. The answers, I suspect, very few. But the reasons for this will only be discovered when we start to travel down the route we are about to embark on. But, you have been brought here this night, once more. And I cannot stand in the way of the Ethereals and question their motives or reasons. All I can be is a servant to them.” She paused. “And a friend to you, Sam.” With that, Ngaire started to explain to him all that she had witnessed and seen relating to Sam, and Sam’s world started to reform again after so very long.

  Ngaire, the healer, started to heal him.

  “Our works are governed by beings from a higher plain,” she began. “Their rulers are the Ethereals and few there are here who have seen them, let alone been able to communicate with them. Their presence is felt more than seen, if that makes sense?” Sam found himself nodding. Ngaire continued. “The Ethereals created all that you see and can feel in this world. They have sometimes been known to walk in the world to touch that which is in need of them, but I have never seen this. (This said, it seemed to Sam, with some sadness, and possibly regret?) They are the ones to whom we owe our lives, our joys and our faith. For my part, they have blessed me with the art of ‘seeing’ and being a vessel for them, such that healing can occur to those who are ready and willing to receive. Sometimes, though, I feel this can be more of a weight around me than a gift!” Ngaire said the last with wise humour.