Wayfarer

by Anderson, R. J.

  He was playing the line over and over, cementing it in his memory, when something small and brown flickered at the edge of his vision.

  Peri’s missing bird?

  Timothy thrust the guitar aside and jumped up just in time to see the thing zoom out into the corridor. Beyond the doorway a blur of distant movement caught his eye. Aha! He pelted down the hallway to the bathroom—to find nothing but his own reflection in the toothpaste-speckled mirror. He’d been chasing himself.

  Maybe the bird had flown out the window? He’d only raised it a couple of centimeters after his shower, but now it gaped wide. Timothy was reaching out to close it when he saw Peri walking across the lawn.

  He was about to call down to her, but then she stopped and glanced back over her shoulder, as though anxious not to be seen. Instinctively, Timothy ducked out of sight, and when he dared to look again, Peri was standing at the foot of the oak tree, one hand raised to its massive trunk. She knocked once—and then, to Timothy’s surprise, she knelt down on the muddy ground and bowed her head.

  It couldn’t be what it looked like. She must be pulling a weed, or picking up a bit of rubbish, or setting another rabbit snare. But as he watched, she took something out of her pocket and tucked it between the roots of the tree. Then she folded her hands in her lap and her lips began to move, as though she were praying.

  No, that was ridiculous. He’d met nature worshippers, but Peri surely wasn’t one of them. As far as he’d been able to tell, neither she nor Paul was particularly religious: That was one of the reasons he’d looked forward to coming here, knowing they wouldn’t judge him by what he did or didn’t believe.

  So…what exactly was she doing?

  Timothy squinted out the window until Peri rose, brushed the mud from her knees, and began walking back toward the house. But she’d left something behind: a little parcel, sticking out from the base of the tree.

  He had to know what was in it.

  Timothy stood still a moment, eyes fixed on Peri’s retreating figure. Then he spun around and ran back down the corridor to his bedroom. Pulling on his jacket, teeth gritted in anticipation of the cold, he slipped downstairs and eased out the front door, closing it quietly behind him.

  Outside, the air felt heavy, the smell of rain-soaked earth overpowering. A damp chill seeped through the soles of Timothy’s shoes as he edged around the corner of the house and through the garden gate, keeping low so as not to be seen.

  The garden looked empty: Peri must have gone back inside. Timothy waited a few more seconds, just to be sure. Then, moving so stealthily that even the sparrow hopping across the lawn didn’t turn its head, he crept toward the oak.

  “Timothy!”

  Peri’s voice rang out from behind him. He’d been caught, but there was no way Timothy was going to give up now. He lowered his head and started to run.

  She came after him, but Timothy was faster. He sprinted across the wet lawn, then caught his foot on a root and fell sprawling. Dazed though he was, his eyes darted at once to where Peri had knelt and left her offering just a minute before….

  But the little package was gone.

  “Timothy, what is wrong with you?” demanded Peri as she strode up to him. “I told you to—”

  “I saw something fly past me,” said Timothy, getting up and wiping his mud-smeared hands on his jeans. “Upstairs, in the house. I thought it might be your bird, so I tried to chase it down, but then it flew out here and…I tripped before I could catch it.”

  Peri’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t see any bird.”

  There was nothing Timothy could say to that. He stood there looking at her, trying not to shiver as the icy wind bit through his jacket and raised a fresh layer of gooseflesh on his skin.

  “Look,” Peri went on after a moment, “I don’t know why you came out here, or what you thought you were going to find. So I’ll just say this.” Her face hardened. “Stay away from the Oak.”

  Not the oak tree but the Oak, as clear as if she’d written the capital letter in the air between them. She wore the same ferocious expression Paul had painted in her portrait, and Timothy stepped back, wary. “What do you mean?”

  “I saw you poking at it yesterday, when you first got here,” she said. “It’s very old, and fragile, and you’re big enough to know better. So you can just keep to the house from now on, and leave the Oak alone.”

  Heat rushed into Timothy’s face. Was that what she really thought—that he’d been trying to damage the old tree? Pick off the bark and carve his name into its skin like some ignorant lout with no respect for nature or other people’s property?

  “I’d never do anything to hurt it,” he protested, trying not to think of the fact that only yesterday he had—albeit by accident. “This is because of the suspension, isn’t it? Just because I got into one fight at school, you think I’m some kind of troublemaker?”

  Peri folded her arms and looked at him, her mouth a straight line. She didn’t speak, but all at once Timothy understood.

  “No, I get it,” he said with sudden bitterness. “You don’t want me here. That’s why you never even asked me, isn’t it? Five months at Greenhill, and I never heard from you or Paul once. And now that you’re stuck with me you’ve been trying to make the best of a bad lot, but what you really wish is that I’d never come here in the first place.”

  “Timothy, it’s not—”

  “Yes, it is. I can tell.” He was shaking now, though with cold or anger he couldn’t tell. He felt hollow inside, like an empty cage: His last hope of security had flown and there was nobody he could count on now, not even himself. “Fine. I’ll go. I’ll stay out of your way. And I won’t touch your precious Oak again.”

  “Timothy!”

  She sounded distressed, but Timothy was in no mood to listen. He turned his back on her and stalked off toward the house.

  He didn’t come down to supper when Peri called him, or answer her tentative knock at his door. But when he heard the drone of the stair lift, Timothy realized that he’d taken his rebellion too far. He opened the bedroom door to find Paul sitting in the corridor just outside, hands gripping the wheels of his chair as though preparing to ram the door down.

  “Sorry,” said Timothy, before his cousin could speak.

  “It’s not me you should be sorry for,” said Paul curtly.

  “I know. I’ll apologize.”

  “That you will.” Paul wheeled into the room, his cool gaze sweeping over the clothes scattered across the floor, the unmade bed. “Peri’s willing to make excuses for you, but she doesn’t know your parents. They’re good people—and I know they raised you better than this.”

  Somehow Timothy could tell that when Paul said this, he didn’t just mean what had happened between him and Peri. He looked down at his feet.

  “It can’t have been easy for them,” Paul went on, “sending you away. Obviously, they thought you’d get a better education here, but it can’t have been cheap, either. I’m guessing Uncle Neil doesn’t make a lot of money, church support or not.”

  There was a dead bluebottle on the windowsill. Timothy brushed it off and leaned his forehead against the cold glass, suddenly weary. “It wasn’t just them. I wanted to come.”

  It had seemed like an adventure, back then. But nothing had turned out the way he’d hoped. Academically, Greenhill was an excellent school, but the so-called Christian atmosphere didn’t seem to have done much for Timothy’s schoolmates. At best they’d kept an uncomfortable distance, not knowing how to talk to a boy who looked English but didn’t care about any of the things the rest of them considered important, like the plots of Hollywood action movies or how to play the latest video games. At worst they’d mocked Timothy openly, finding fault with his clothes, his accent, and most of all, his love of Uganda.

  Timothy’s confidence in the transforming power of Christianity had begun to weaken, his doubts growing as he encountered scientific books and articles that argued against his faith. Then the Gospe
l Hall he’d been attending—the closest thing he could find to the Brethren chapel he’d been part of in Kampala—closed down after one of the elders was caught stealing from the missionary fund. When Timothy’s isolation became unbearable, he’d prayed fervently that Paul and Peri would invite him to Oakhaven, but they hadn’t called or written once. By the time he’d seen a bus advertisement telling him that God probably didn’t exist, Timothy was ready to believe it.

  “So is it really that terrible for you, being here?” Paul persisted. “Or is it just the school you hate?”

  “Greenhill’s all right,” said Timothy, his eyes following a pair of crows as they flapped past. “I mean, the teachers are decent, and I’ve been getting good marks and that sort of thing. I just…don’t fit in.”

  “The battle cry of the McCormicks,” said Paul dryly. “I see your genes have done you no favors there. But was it really necessary to get yourself suspended to prove the point?”

  “What makes you think I—”

  “Oh, come on, Tim. Even as a kid you were a calculating little beggar. Don’t think I hadn’t noticed you timed that stunt perfectly so you’d end up being sent here, instead of moping about in Tunbridge Wells with my mum and dad. What are you figuring, then? That if you make yourself odious enough at Greenhill, your parents will have to pull you out and send you to a different school instead?”

  Timothy shifted uncomfortably. “It’s not like that.” Well, maybe it was, but he hadn’t planned that far ahead yet. All he’d been able to think of while he was at Greenhill was that somehow he had to get away from there before he went insane.

  “What is it like, then?”

  The words came automatically. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Right. Because no one has ever felt the way you do.” Paul blew out a sigh. “Fine then, I’ll leave you to your beautiful misery. But if you’re planning to sulk your way through the next three weeks, I may as well drive you into town right now and book you into the hostel. Peri’s got enough on her mind at the moment—she shouldn’t have to deal with your attitude on top of everything else.”

  Humiliation scorched through Timothy. To be thrown out of Oakhaven, the one place in England he’d counted on always being welcome…It was the worst thing he could imagine right now. And why? Just because he’d touched some old tree and dared to be curious about what Peri had been doing in the garden? What kind of sense did that make?

  “Anyway,” remarked Paul over his shoulder as he pivoted the chair and rolled toward the door, “if you can stop brooding long enough to eat, Peri’s kept some supper for you. Otherwise, we’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Timothy waited until the hum of the stair lift receded before slamming the door and throwing himself down on the bed. Anger seethed inside him, and it took all his resolve not to snatch the alarm clock off the nightstand and hurl it across the room.

  So that was all he had to look forward to at Oakhaven? Three weeks shut up in the house, with strange things happening all around him that he wasn’t allowed to question, let alone investigate? There was no way Timothy could stand it.

  May as well drive you into town right now and book you into the hostel….

  He grabbed his backpack and pulled out his wallet, leafing through its contents. The bank card was good for a couple hundred pounds, plus he still had fifty—no, sixty—left over from Christmas. If he was careful, it might just be enough to get by. And if he got stuck, he could always make some money by playing his guitar.

  In which case there’d be no need to come back here, except to pick up his suitcase…Timothy shoved the wallet into his pocket, then dumped the schoolbooks out of his backpack and started stuffing clothes in. Halfway through the process he paused to tear a page out of one of his workbooks and scrawl a hasty note:

  Thanks for the food, sorry for the trouble.

  See you in three weeks.

  Timothy

  He was just shoving the last pair of his socks into the backpack when the light above his head winked out. Annoyed, he dropped the pack and opened the bedroom door—to find the lights in the corridor still glowing brightly.

  A fuse must have blown, but he wasn’t about to go downstairs and ask Peri to fix it. Timothy left the door open and returned to finish packing as best he could. But then the corridor lights flicked off as well, and in the distance he heard the thin chuckle of running water.

  No worries, Timothy told himself, though his heart was skittering around in his chest. You left the tap on by accident, that’s all. Feeling his way through the blackness, Timothy followed the noise to find a steady trickle coming from the bathroom faucet. He turned it off—and at the same instant, the lights behind him blinked back on.

  Timothy didn’t believe in ghosts. But something was playing games with him, and the knowledge sent electric eels down his spine. Slowly he walked back to his room, braced to confront whoever—or whatever—might be waiting. But he had just reached the doorway when all went black again.

  That was it. Timothy leaped into the darkened bedroom, zipped his backpack, and flung it over his shoulder; then he snatched up his guitar case in one hand and his shoes in the other, and fled.

  It was an almost impossible effort to slow down and tread lightly on the staircase, but somehow Timothy did it, reaching the front door with barely a creak. As he wrestled his feet into his running shoes he held his breath, sure that at any moment Paul or Peri would come out of the kitchen to challenge him; but no sound came from the far end of the house except the clatter of dishes and the blare of the evening news.

  Timothy eased the door open and squeezed out onto the step, clutching the guitar in front of him like a shield. Then he stepped cautiously over the wheelchair ramp, hurried through the front garden, and sprinted down the road toward the village.

  The train station at Aynsbridge wasn’t far, not for a seasoned walker: It took Timothy only forty minutes to get there. But by the time he struggled through the door with his guitar case he felt as though his arm were coming out of its socket, and he was glad he hadn’t brought anything heavier with him.

  He bought a ticket and sat down to wait, his leg jittering nervously, until the last stripe of sunlight bled into the horizon and the sign above him read:

  LONDON BRIDGE: 1 min.

  As he walked to meet the train, the man sweeping the platform gave him a quizzical glance, and despite the chill, Timothy felt sweat prickle along his hairline. Any minute now somebody would march up and demand to know what he was doing traveling so late on a school night, and where his parents were—

  But this was England, where other people’s children were other people’s business, and no one spoke to him or even moved in his direction. The train screeched into the station, and he jumped onto it. The doors hissed shut, the carriage jolted into motion, and just like that, Timothy Sinclair was away.

  Four

  A rack of brochures stood by the station exit. Timothy flipped through them, looking for hostels. There seemed to be quite a few within walking distance, but the closest was the Trans-National, a few streets away. Stuffing the pamphlet into his pocket, he picked up his guitar case and headed off.

  As he walked, a slimy rain began dripping down the collar of his jacket; taxis honked at him and buses rumbled by. He passed clumps and straggles of pedestrians, all walking briskly and not sparing him so much as a glance. The guitar case dragged at his arm, and the straps of his backpack chafed. Timothy was gazing blearily into the distance and thinking that the hostel had looked a lot nearer on the map, when suddenly he tripped, staggering against a shop window. He looked down and saw with dull surprise that his shoelace had come untied.

  Now that was odd. He’d done it up on the train, and he was sure he’d double-knotted it. Setting down his guitar case, he dropped to one knee to fix it—and someone bumped into him from behind.

  “Oh, sorry!” said a light alto voice, and a hand came down on his shoulder. Timothy spun around to see a willowy girl with skin the co
lor of tea leaves and dark hair falling in braids to her shoulders. His heart felt weak, and his lips moved in soundless disbelief: Miriam?

  No, of course it wasn’t. This girl’s nose was narrower and longer, her lips less full. “It’s okay,” he said, feeling his ears grow hot at his own mistake. “I shouldn’t have just stopped like that. Sorry.”

  The girl laughed, a rich throaty sound. “Well, if we’re both sorry, then it can’t be anyone’s fault, can it?” Under the glow of the streetlamp her teeth flashed white. “I’m just glad I didn’t smash your guitar. Off to a gig?”

  He had a fleeting thought of lying and saying yes, just to impress her. “No,” he admitted. “Just the hostel.” She looked only a couple of years older than he was, well-dressed and alone; it was probably safe to tell her that much. Besides, even if her accent was pure London, the friendliness in her voice reminded him of home.

  “Which one, the Trans-National?”

  He nodded.

  “Ah.” She looked amused now, though he couldn’t imagine why. “Well, best of luck.” Without waiting for a response she walked off, her hips swaying lightly but her shoulders perfectly straight. It was the same way Miriam walked when she was carrying something on her head—a skill he’d never been able to duplicate, no matter how hard he tried—and Timothy watched her with a wistful lump in his throat until she raised a hand to her ear and began speaking into it:

  “Rosie? It’s Veronica. Listen…”

  The sound of her voice faded as she crossed the street. Funny, he hadn’t seen her take out a cell phone…. Timothy shook himself back to attention, finished tying his shoelace, and started off again.

  When he reached the Trans-National, its doors were half blocked by a cluster of young people in ragged jeans, smoking cigarettes and chatting in a babel of languages. Whoops and giggles rang in his ears as two of the boys shoved each other around in a mock fight. Timothy dodged past them and plunged inside.