by Anne Barwell
"What the hell?" Donovan glared at the path of destruction Blackthorn had left behind her. "Stupid cat," he muttered. "Are you okay? Something must have spooked her."
"I'm fine." Tomas bent to help Donovan clean up the mess, picking up the larger pieces of glass while taking care not to step in the rest. Cats did not follow rules, preferring to do what suited them on their own timetable. Attempting to understand them was a waste of time. Something may have spooked her, or she might have just decided that leaving through the window was a more interesting option.
Collecting a brush and pan from the cupboard by the back door, Donovan efficiently swept up the rest of the glass and threw it into the bin under the sink. Walking back to the pantry, he pulled out another coffeepot. "I used to be a Boy Scout," he explained in response to Tomas's raised eyebrow.
"I met one of your neighbors yesterday," Tomas said, deciding he did not want to dwell on the thought of Donovan as a Boy Scout.
"Yeah?" Donovan filled the new pot with water, placed it on the hotplate to brew, and began spooning coffee into a paper filter. "I knew there was a reason for that shade of pink before, buddy," he said triumphantly. "What's her name?"
"His name is Cathal." Cathal had told Tomas to call him Cat, that his friends called him that. Tomas hadn't decided whether Donovan was a friend yet.
"Weird name." Donovan looked Tomas slowly up and down, the spoon that had been in his hand landing in the sink with a loud thunk. "Sorry, I don't know him. Did he say he came from around here?"
Had Cathal ever answered that question? Tomas frowned, trying to remember, his brain helpfully supplying images of Cathal and the brief sensation of his lips against Tomas's but not the words he needed. Suddenly Tomas wasn't sure about anything. One of his favorite fantasy books was missing. Cathal had been fascinated by the pictures, hand-drawn watercolors of fairies, dragons, and other mythical beings. It was a book Tomas had found in an old secondhand bookstore years ago, buried behind a stack of old magazines, the only book by this particular author. Attempts to find another had been met by blank looks and dead ends. The story itself was magical and had drawn Tomas into a world he still turned to when he wanted to escape his own.
"Is that coffee ready yet?" Tomas asked, avoiding Donovan's gaze, and with it, his question. Cathal had borrowed the book. Tomas wanted it back. He had never loaned it to anyone before. It was one of his most treasured possessions. "I don't want to be late."
"A date, huh?" Donovan checked the water level in the kettle, put it back on one of the gas hobs, and turned it on. "I can make instant if you're in a hurry. It's not as good as the real thing, but I can bring you out some decent stuff later."
"No!" This was something Tomas needed to do alone. Besides, if Cathal didn't show up, he would feel like an idiot. Illusions were easier to hang onto when they were not shared, and Tomas felt weirdly possessive about this one. An inner voice chastised him for being rude. It sounded familiar, and rather than attempting to work out why or argue with it like he would have normally done, Tomas was too tired to care. "I'm sorry, that was out of line. I didn't get much sleep last night."
Donovan grinned. "You're gonna need the decent stuff to get through the morning then." He waved a hand toward the coffee machine. "Another ten minutes while I make you some bacon sandwiches to take with you." Walking over to the fridge, Donovan took out a packet of bacon, sprayed the frying pan with cooking oil, and began cooking the breakfast Tomas had not asked for.
"Do you always take notice of what your guests actually want or don't want?" Tomas sat down at the table again, picking up what was left of his coffee. He stirred it again, leaving the spoon in the cup, and drained it.
"It's part of my charm." Donovan buttered bread and pulled a roll of greaseproof paper out of a drawer. Tomas closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, opening them with a start at Donovan's next words. "Must be quite the guy if he's done this kind of a number on you in under twenty-four hours. That's damn impressive."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Tomas said very calmly. "Cathal borrowed a book from me, and I need to find him so that he can return it." His stomach rumbled, and Donovan smirked.
"It's important to keep your energy levels up for the writing." Donovan took the bacon off the heat, added it to the bread, slapped another slice on top, and then repeated the action. "Don't worry; this is the lean bacon you Brits like, not the streaky kind I'd cook if Heidi would let me get away with it. Besides, she'd take a piece out of my ass if I didn't feed you right."
Tomas opened his mouth, his ability to find a sarcastic comment to suit the occasion deserting him completely. "Thank you," he said lamely.
"You're welcome." Donovan wrapped the sandwiches in the greaseproof paper and filled the Thermos with hot coffee, adding milk and sugar. He put them down in front of Tomas. "The offer is still there for the beer sometime if you want to talk. You're still paying though."
"I'll think about it," Tomas said, with no intention of doing anything of the sort. He had nothing to talk about and better things to do with his time.
"You do that," Donovan replied, already turning his back on Tomas to start clearing the breakfast dishes. "Say hello to this Cathal guy and invite him over some time. I like to know my neighbors, even the ones who don't bother to introduce themselves or take up the offer of a beer." He retrieved the washing-up detergent from the window ledge and began filling the sink with hot water, still not bothering to turn around. "See you at dinner, Tomas. I'm guessing you won't be in for lunch. Heidi usually leaves sandwiches in a plastic container in the fridge if you get hungry. Help yourself."
Tomas dropped his mug into the soapy water on his way past, pausing to pick up his bag. Glancing at Donovan's back, he shrugged and walked out of the kitchen, not sure how to answer. It was easier not to bother.
Walking briskly to the front door, he opened it and stepped outside. The radio was already blaring from the kitchen, the volume loud enough to be annoying, and a stark contrast to the peace and quiet that beckoned. Shoving the sandwiches into his pack and holding the Thermos under one arm, Tomas closed the door behind him, focusing on what might lie ahead for the day rather than on what he had just left behind.
* * * *
The sun was out, yet the air was crisp and the breeze had a bite to it. Tomas was glad he had worn his jumper, although he had left his jacket hanging on the back of the door in his room. Something moved to his right, and he turned, eyes scanning his surroundings for any signs of life. He still couldn't believe how he had missed the hedge the day before; it outlined the perimeter of the field except for the gaps in the middle of each of the four sides to allow access. His mind must have been focused on something else.
A loud meow interrupted his thoughts, and Tomas groaned. "No, you don't," he muttered, reaching up to retrieve Blackthorn just as she leapt off the top of the hedge toward his head. She stared at him and meowed again, struggling to free herself. He bent and placed her on the ground. Immediately she rubbed around his ankles and looked up at him. "Okay, you can stay," he told her, wondering why the hell he was talking to a cat, especially one who would not listen. Cats were like people in that regard at least, although he always suspected they understood much more than they were given credit for.
If cats could look smug, this one certainly gave a good approximation of it. Tomas wondered why she had attached herself to him. He was no one special and wasn't even the human who fed her. Adjusting his messenger bag over his shoulder, he began walking across the field, keeping his pace slow so as not to appear to be in a hurry. Tomas preferred to take things leisurely, everything in its time; it was part of the casual, disinterested demeanor he projected to the rest of the world.
Once past the shadow of the hedge, Tomas paused and shaded his eyes against the early-morning sun. He caught a glimpse of someone in the distance, blond reflected in light, a touch of white lifting and falling in the breeze.
Cathal?
"Hello, Tomas." He met Tomas's gaze directly, unflinchingly, but he didn't shift his position. Whatever had taken his attention before seemed to be gone, or he had lost interest in it.
"Cat." Tomas nodded a greeting. "I wasn't sure you would be here." He gestured toward the book. "Are you enjoying it?"
"I am sorry about last night," Cathal said. "I could not get away." His tone was polite but still had the wistful quality in it that Tomas had heard the day before. "I hope you did not wait long."
"It wasn't a problem," Tomas reassured him. "It is just as easy to write here as in my room at the inn."
Cathal's fingers caressed the cover of the book still in his hand; they were long and slender, nails well cared for and neat, although he had some calluses which suggested he was not averse to manual labor.
"You are a writer." Cathal's words did not sound like a question, but more a statement of fact. He smiled. "Many hear the words, but few listen, let alone step out in faith to share them with others. I believe that it is important to share what you have, to give of yourself rather than hide who you really are, but unfortunately the worlds in which we live are complicated."
"Worlds?" Tomas raised an eyebrow.
Cathal shrugged and smiled. "No one lives in only one world, Tomas. As a writer, you know that." A black streak ran toward them, and Cathal chuckled and shook his head, taking a step away from the tree to drop to one knee. Blackthorn purred, pressed up against him, and he patted her. "Are you here to see me, or did you come with Tomas, I wonder?"
"Do you know her?" Nothing that cat did would surprise Tomas at this point. She certainly seemed to have her paw on the pulse of whatever went on in the inn and the surrounding area. "Where do you come from, Cathal? Donovan had never heard of you, and I doubt he misses much."
"Cat." Cathal frowned. "Yes, I know her." Blackthorn growled, and Cathal grinned, although when Tomas looked around he couldn't see the reason for either of their reactions. She then rolled over onto her back so that Cathal could tickle her stomach; he obliged, and she purred loudly. "Everyone misses something. Donovan and I have not talked. You are looking through different eyes than he is. You see a world he does not." One lock of hair fell over Cathal's face. Leaning forward, Tomas brushed it back without thinking. It was soft, fine under his fingers. Cathal raised his head to look at Tomas. "Touch is something that should never be taken for granted."
"I'm sorry." Tomas removed his hand immediately and went to take a step back. Cathal shook his head.
"No." Cathal sounded apologetic, almost sad. "You have nothing to be sorry for. You misunderstand." He watched Blackthorn roll over and curl up into a ball, her tail wrapped around her. "It should not be taken for granted because it is something that needs to be given freely, and between people who trust each other."
Tomas's eyes narrowed. "Has anyone ever touched you in a way they shouldn't?"
Cathal shrugged. "That would depend on your definition of shouldn't." He glanced at Tomas and then averted his eyes. "I have a history of doing what I shouldn't. Rules do not work if they are too rigid, and some need to be broken for the greater good." Blackthorn meowed. "Yes, I know," Cathal sighed. "I'm sorry."
"Cat?" Taking the step back anyway instinctively, Tomas's backside connected with the trunk of the tree, and he slid down to sit down on the grass beside it. Ignoring the dull ache spreading across his bottom, he tugged at a clump of grass, examining the blades one by one, his brain trying to make sense of what Cathal had just said and failing.
"Are you all right?" Cathal sounded concerned. Tomas did not look at him.
"Who are you?" Tomas had always prided himself in getting straight to the point rather than wasting time with small talk. "I ask you questions and you talk in riddles. Either I'm missing something or you're not being honest. Where do you come from?"
"My name is Cat. I already told you that," Cathal said quietly. "I cannot tell you where I come from, although you could figure it out if you allowed yourself to think beyond the boundaries of what your world dictates to be normality." He sat down on the grass next to Tomas and placed the borrowed book in Tomas's lap. "I could be whoever you want me to be, but for you I am simply who I am. No more. No less."
"You are still speaking in riddles," Tomas pointed out. He had asked a question and expected an answer.
"Riddles are like puzzles. I can give you the pieces, but how you put those together is up to you." Cathal shook his head. "I'm sorry, Tomas. I cannot do any more than this. I still have to follow some rules. I do not know you well enough to risk any more, but I would like to be your friend." He smiled, but it was sad. "Some questions I can answer, others I cannot. It is the way things are."
"Friendship is built on trust." Tomas shrugged, his gaze settling on the book in his lap. His fingers brushed against the worn edges, seeking solace in something familiar. "You are asking me to trust you, but you will not do the same in return."
"Cannot," Cathal corrected. "It is the way things are." He looked down, his gaze following Tomas's to rest on the picture of the dragon that was the centerpiece, the other illustrations mere shadows bordering it. "I enjoyed the story. The main character risked everything to be true to himself, to follow the path he was meant to, not the one dictated to him."
"Yes, he did." That was one of the things that had drawn Tomas to the character of Christian. The setting was wonderful, dragons and knights, mythical lands to explore, but it was Christian who had haunted him, spoken to him, made it impossible for Tomas to put the book down or part with it. That and a hope that one day he might find someone or something he would feel that passionate about to fight for in that manner. "He was prepared to give up forever for the person he loved."
"He lost her," Cathal said quietly. "Would you give up forever if you loved someone like that, Tomas?"
"Would you?" Tomas countered.
"I have never been in love. It is not a question I can answer." Cathal pulled up several blades of grass, arranging them in a circle on the ground in front of him. "None of us know how we will react unless we come face to face with any given situation. We can hope and guess, but we cannot be certain."
"That sounds very cynical." Tomas picked a daisy and placed it in the middle of the circle, pointing to it. "The flower represents the dragon on the cover of the book. He is surrounded by an unbroken circle of shadows, an eternity that can't be changed." Tomas removed a blade of grass, breaking the circle. Letting it rest on the palm of his hand for a moment, he took a deep breath and blew, watching it be carried away by the wind. "Now his future isn't so certain. It only takes one blade of grass or one gust of wind, and everything is different."
"Or merely the idea that things can be different." Cathal smoothed over the remainder of the circle of grass, using his hand to flatten it so that it no longer existed. The flower he picked up and put in his pocket. "I'm keeping it safe," he explained.
"Safety is an illusion." Tomas couldn't help but smile at the serious look on Cathal's face. "Nothing lasts forever, only in our imaginations, and even we grow old and die. That flower will wilt now it has been picked. You've already squashed it by putting it in your pocket."
"I thought I was the cynical one." Cathal met Tomas's smile with one of his own. "Not everything grows old and dies, Tomas. I expect in Christian's mind, his love remains the same, his memories keeping her alive. They say if you don't forget someone, they never truly die. I don't think he would have forgotten her, the same way she never forgot him."
"He might have found a way to come back to her, for them to be together." Tomas preferred a happy ending in his fiction; reading was supposed to be a means of escape from the realities of life, rather than reinforcing the futility of it all.
"So romance is
allowed in fiction but not in reality?" Cathal raised an eyebrow.
"I know the difference between the two," Tomas said firmly. "And never the twain shall meet." He picked up the book to put it safely in his bag. "So you don't think there was a possibility that things might have been different after the book ended?"
"Once a book ends, the story is finished." Cathal's tone suggested that this was a statement that was not open for argument or discussion.
"Some books have sequels." Tomas had never taken any notice of that tone when anyone else had used it. He wasn't about to start now.
"The story is finished," Cathal amended. "Some stories take longer to tell than others. Unfortunately often the true story is rushed and not told properly, and so the endings are lost. This one was finished."
"I never thought this one was," Tomas argued. One of the reasons he had searched for more by this author was that he had been convinced there had to be more.
"You were wrong." Cathal stood and brushed the grass from his trousers. "Christian lost his love. Alice grew old and died without him. They never saw each other again. That is what happens when lines are crossed and rules are broken."
Tomas snorted. "And you would know this how?" This was his favorite book, the only story for which he had ever allowed himself to hope for an ending that was different to the one written. "Just because he didn't write a sequel didn't mean there was not meant to be one. Sometimes they get lost or the writer just runs out of time because life happens."
"Time is merely a concept used to measure things that have a beginning and an end, and there was no sequel." Cathal tilted his head as though listening to something Tomas could not hear. "I'm sorry, but I have to leave. I will be here tomorrow if you wish to continue this discussion. I would prefer we spoke about something else."
"You seem to have one hell of an insight into an author of a book you haven't read before." Tomas did not want to change the subject.