by Paul A. Rice
He breathed out, saying: ‘Whew! I think this is all catching up with me, I’m sorry but I just felt a bit weird then, it’s like…I felt like I was going to faint, sorry!’
The woman and her husband…‘He might not be her husband, why do I think that?’ As Michael’s thoughts ganged up on him, his guests – married or not – came over to where he sat.
She took a seat on the arm of his chair, whilst the man crouched in front of him, squatting on his haunches and looking him straight in the eye. The guy looked as though he would have easily been able to stay in that position all day, he looked like a hunter. The boy couldn’t stop the thoughts skedaddling through his mind. The woman reached across to stroke the dark fringe away from his forehead, as though it was the most natural thing for her to do, as though she had done it many times before. He didn’t mind – in fact, it comforted him. Michael felt as though she had always done it, felt as though he had always known her, he closed his eyes and rested for a while.
***
The feeling of warmth woke him, it and the shaft of sunlight piercing the gap in his bedroom curtains, which lay across the floor like a golden blade. Michael lay on his side and watched the shimmering sword of light, the almost imperceptible movement of the world caused the beam to creep across the floor, he watched the tiny dust particles swirling as they wafted through its brilliance – he felt at peace.
Awakening, he stretched and then raised the counterpane to peer down at himself; he was naked except for his boxer shorts. Looking across the room, he saw that his suit was hanging neatly from the handle of the wardrobe. Black shoes placed squarely underneath the dangling trousers. The memories from yesterday seemed distant, somehow fuzzy, and the boy let them drift through his thoughts. It almost seemed not to have happened – then the recollections came rushing in.
‘The woman, she was…they must still be here!’ Michael thought, wearily raising himself onto one elbow. He needed to get up, the place was a mess. The thoughts were draining. ‘I’d better tidy up, school, oh bugger!’ He yawned and forced himself into a sitting position. His whole being felt drained, surrendering to his body’s need for rest, the boy flopped back onto his pillows and stared at the ceiling, thinking: ‘Where do I start?’
As if in answer to his unspoken thoughts, a voice from the doorway gave him just the excuse he needed. ‘How about a cuppa followed by a nice lie-in, eh, Mikey?’ Michael raised his head and stared at the large man who now stood in the doorway with a yellow tea tray in his hands. The man grinned, saying: ‘Morning, kiddo, no need to move, no need at all. There’s a brew here, one sugar isn’t it, and how about a few bits of toast to soak it up?’ He moved across the room and placed the tray on the bedside table.
The smell of warm toast made Michael’s belly rumble, he couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten. He sat up again, saying: ‘Yeah, that sounds great! Thanks a lot, I’m starving. I’ll come down and tidy…’
The man stopped him short. ‘You just stay there and chill out, go back to sleep, relax,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing that needs doing right now. Get up when you want – everything is taken care of.’ The man smiled again.
He looked to be as solid as a rock and had a sort of ropey appearance to him. Well-worn but as tough as old boots, is what Michael guessed. ‘Yeah, okay, thanks!’ he said, turning to pick up the mug of tea. Looking up, he saw that the man had gone. He slurped on the tea, and once the dryness from his mouth had been washed away, took a bite from the first piece of toast. There were six pieces on the plate and they were soaked with butter, just as he liked it. Michael couldn’t stop himself from launching his hunger at them. In no time at all there remained only a few crumbs in witness to their presence. He washed away the toast with his tea and by the time he had finished, his eyes were already starting to droop.
With a yawn, he lay back down against the pillows and closed his eyes.
In a few moments, Michael was sound asleep again.
Hours later, he rose from his bed and took a trip to the shower; he wasn’t sure what time it was, even if it was the same day. The sword of sunlight no longer lay across the floor by his bed, and he felt the chill of evening in the air.
He refreshed himself thoroughly before making his way back into the bedroom to get changed. Once dressed, clean jeans and his favourite rugby sweater, Michael tidied the bed and then stood thinking for a while. He felt fresh, alive somehow. The feelings of sorrow he felt regarding his parents, particularly about his mother, remained, although, in a strange way, they felt distant, as though wrapped in cotton wool – like a precious gem, only to be taken out on special occasions. He looked back at his bed, thinking of all the times she had tucked him in, and then, with a wistful shake of the head, opened the door and made his way downstairs.
The house was immaculate, the plates, left-over food and drink, plus the glasses and cups, had all been tidied away. The kitchen positively sparkled and the other rooms had been given a sound cleaning, too. An enormous bunch of pure-white Lilies erupted from a tall vase, standing magnificently in the middle of the dining room table. The vase was not one had had seen before, the spiralling row of shiny green pyramids etched into its heavy glass sides would have definitely caught his eye, of that he was sure. In fact, he almost had to drag his gaze away from them as they seemed to pull him in, mesmerising his thoughts.
A sense of having been here before filled his mind. Sniffing deeply at the rich scent of the fresh flowers, Michael turned and walked across to the telephone table and picked up the note, which he had seen neatly folded into the corner of the small mirror above. He opened the piece of paper and read.
***
‘Dear Michael,
We hope you are rested and that your mind is clearer.
Sorry for overstaying our welcome, but we guessed perhaps you would be tired, so we hung around to lend a hand and tidy up a bit.
Aren’t the flowers beautiful?
We’re only staying down the road and will be here for a while.
If you feel up to it, then give us a call and maybe we could have a walk around the lake, or perhaps we might do something more exciting!
J & K’
***
Whoever had written the note also left a telephone number along the bottom left corner of the paper. He read the words again, and then made his way into the kitchen with the piece of paper still clutched in his right hand. Michael had a drink of fresh orange, the cold juice cleared his mind whilst he sat and stared out of the window and into the garden for a while. He had no idea as to whom they were, the man and woman, or why they had stayed to help. It was a terribly decent thing to do, though, a giving thing.
The reality of his situation bumped into him once more and he realised he was alone, totally alone. Even a courageous boy such as he would have felt the slow coldness of fear, that rising tide of helplessness, seeping into his mind. Michael was an extremely courageous boy, but nonetheless, the fear still came into him. Without thinking any further, he reached for the telephone.
Looking down at the note, he tapped the numbers it gave into the handset, reading them out aloud as he did so: ‘Oh-seven-seven-nine-one…’ The line rang once, and that soft voice answered almost before the first ring had finished.
‘Hi, Michael, how are you feeling – rested, I hope?’
He almost heard her smiling, saw those brown eyes lighting up with care. In panic, he said, ‘Uh…yeah, yeah, I’m really good, umm…’ he fumbled for words, ‘…thanks so much for what you’ve done around the cottage, the flowers are awesome, the house smells like a florist! Do you want to come around, you know, have a cup of tea or something? A walk sounds good, too, it’s no problem – in fact I’d like that, yeah! That would be cool, I mean, that’s if you want to…’ He verbally stumbled again. There was so much he wanted to say.
Stuff like: ‘Just who the hell are you guys?’ or maybe: ‘How did you know it was me ringing?’ Instead, here he was burbling on about flowers. Michael was j
ust starting to think about apologising for his mindless jabber, when the woman on the other end of the phone spoke again. Once more, he heard the richness in her voice – the chocolate.
‘Listen, Mikey,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry too much about stuff, it will all be a mess in your head right about now, things will get easier in a while, I promise you. We’ll be over in a short while, put the kettle on, my love.’
‘Yeah, okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll do that right now, see you in a bit then, come around the back.’
The woman replied: ‘We’ll be there soon, see you in a bit. ‘Bye, Mikey.’
Then, with a click, she was gone.
He looked down at the receiver and shook his head, ‘…my love?’ The only woman he had ever heard call him such a name was his Mum. Shaking his head once more, Michael rose to his feet and made his way over to the sink. As he filled the kettle he began to wonder if this entire head-shaking business was to be part-and-parcel of his life at the moment, this crazy new life.
He had memories, fleeting shadows behind shower curtains, man-dog and…they came rushing back to haunt him. The loud splashing of water jerked him away from those troublesome thoughts – he looked down and saw that the over-filled kettle was busily pouring into the sink below.
‘Right…come on, Mikey, wake up! Jeez, what are you on?’ He smiled at the sound of his own loud, self-rebuke, emptied the kettle until the water was at an acceptable level, plugged it back onto its base and pushed the switch to ‘On’.
Whilst waiting for it to boil, he laid out the mugs and other essential items. His mind was racing, there just seemed to be something about the woman, something about her reminded him of…‘Reminded me of what – who is she?’
A soft knock on the back door was to be the beginning of an amazing voyage, one that would take him to the things he craved, the answers.
Michael looked up and saw his two welcome, but as yet unknown, visitors standing and smiling through the glazed back door. He strode across, twisted the Yale lock, swung the door open, and beckoned them in. ‘Hi! Glad you could make it,’ He stuck his hand out and the woman took his grasp.
Her hand was cool to the touch, cool but firm. ‘Hello, Michael,’ she said. ‘You seem to be a lot better since the last time we saw you – I’m Jane, by the way.’
Turning to the man behind her, she let him squeeze past, whereupon he also offered an extended hand to the boy. ‘Hi Mike,’ he said, ‘I’m Jane’s better-half – Ken’s the name!’
Michael took his warm hand, feeling the rough skin and the power as they grasped palms. ‘Working hands,’ he thought to himself, before stepping back from the doorway and beckoning them into the kitchen, saying: ‘Come on in – the kettle has just boiled.’
The three of them sat at the table and looked at each other.
Michael had that strange sensation again, the one making him feel as though he had been here before. His guests were both casually dressed in jeans and sweaters, the clothes matched their demeanour: casual, confident, relaxed. Michael kind of wished he was able to feel the same way. He felt tense, strung-out, like he did whenever the Headmaster called his name out in the corridor at school. ‘Wildeman…tuck your shirt in!’ A small flutter of excitement, fear perhaps, scrabbled around the inside of his stomach. He felt hungry but at the same time he also felt somewhat sick. He picked up his drink and nodded at them, saying: ‘I hope the tea’s okay, are you hungry?’
They declined his offer of food and instead the three of them sat, sipped their tea, and looked at each other for a few minutes. It was Ken who broke the silence.
‘So, Mike, I expect you’re wondering what the hell this is all about, who we are, and, most probably, why you feel so weird?’ he said, and grinned widely.
Michael grinned back. There was a sudden release of pressure from within him. Ken’s words opened whatever valve it was that had been blocked and he felt himself relax. He placed his mug on the table, and said, ‘Yeah, I guess I do, things have been so strange recently, not just the thing with Mum, that was bad, is bad, but there are other things, too…’
They both smiled and the woman reached out to place her hand over his. The movement reassured him even further, he sat back and without any control over the tears, which proceeded to pour down his face, Michael allowed some other floodgates to open, his own emotional ones. His two guests sat quietly and waited until he had rid himself from some of the demons.
After a while he looked up, smiled, and then began to talk.
Michael told them all about how it had been for him. The dreams, his father, the blackness, he told them of his mother and her battle. He told them everything. The tale ran from his mouth without restraint. Michael drenched them with his story, cascaded his words upon them. Like the desert, his two new companions sat and soaked up the torrent of his inner feelings, his storm of sorrow and surprise, of growing, not knowing, and of grief. Very much like the desert would ‘feel better’ after such a storm, so did Michael feel better. His outpourings released all of his innermost thoughts and emotions, his hopes and wishes, everything – they all left him in that single moment. Left his dark and frightened soul, escaped, and went out into the sunshine of the couple’s understanding gaze. Michael emptied himself into them.
When he had finished, the boy looked up, he was surprised to see that at some stage, Ken had made them all another drink, at least one, and there were several used teabags piled up neatly in the small saucer, which was used to hold them before they went in the bin. Jane smiled at him – he felt himself blink in surprise. ‘I must have waffled on for ages…’ he said.
‘Feeling better now, sweetheart?’ Jane asked, looking at him and rubbing his shoulder in a caring way. ‘It’s always better out than in, that’s what my Dad used to say.’ She rose to her feet, saying: ‘Well, boys, I don’t know about you but I’m ready for that bite to eat, are tuna sandwiches okay for everyone?’
Michael nodded gladly, they were his favourite.
Ken excused himself. ‘I just need to get something from the Sp…from the car,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back in two minutes.’ He went out into the garden, turned left and disappeared towards the driveway that lay at the front of the house. In no time at all he returned. He was carrying a black case, which Michael assumed was for a laptop. Ken placed the case on the floor and turned to help his wife bring some food to the table. ‘Thanks, hun,’ he said. ‘I’m starving, I didn’t think I was, but they look pretty good!’ He nodded his head toward the stack of bread and tinned fish that were now starting to fill the centre of the table.
Michael laughed and agreed. ‘Yeah, I can’t remember the last time I ate!’ he said, pulling his chair forward.
Jane said, ‘Tuck in, boys – don’t wait for me!’ She sat in her own chair and looked at Ken, who, in typical fashion, had taken charge and was making sandwiches for them all. ‘You’d make someone a wonderful wife, darling!’ she teased.
Ken looked at Michael, whispering: ‘She’d be lost without me being in charge, Mikey. You’ll get used to it, mate, Jane just thinks she’s the boss…’
They all laughed and started tucking into the food.
Michael had been right; he was starving and had soon polished off a whole heap of the sandwiches. When they were done, Jane put the kettle on again whilst Michael and Ken cleared away the dishes. As they sat, Ken reached down and lifted his case onto the table. Unzipping the bag, the big man extracted his computer and laid it on the wooden surface. It was the same size and shape as a laptop computer, but looked somehow different to Michael. Ken flicked the lid open, and then completely surprised the boy by speaking to his computer…
‘Screen display on, please!’ Ken said, turning to glance calmly across at the boy. ‘Don’t worry, Mike,’ he said. ‘You’ll get used to it, and there’s a whole lot more for you to get used to as well, but it’s all good stuff, all amazing!’ He winked, saying: ‘Just watch and learn, Mikey, watch and learn!’
Then, having finished
with his tapping at the keypad, Ken looked up and said, ‘Okay, here we go then, everybody ready?’
The boy nodded in reply to that seemingly-unanswerable question.
The screen shimmered and Michael looked into his life, the one he never knew he’d had, and certainly one he would never even have imagined he was going to have. Most definitely he didn’t. He sat in silence and did as Ken had said – he watched in amazement, he watched in awe, he watched and learned.
He learned the things that Ken and Jane had travelled across time to come and teach him. He learned of all the things that a very old man, from a completely different place, had decided it was time for him to learn. When he appeared on the screen in front of them, George had only four words in introduction.
‘Hello Michael, my child…’ he said, with a huge smile on his face.
They remained at the screen for more than two hours and the story was a fascinating one, even to Ken and Jane, who had seen some of it before – many times. The screen took them back to the beginning. As Michael Wildeman watched, he saw the history of his family. He saw George’s great grandparents, George’s father, the old man’s brothers and his sisters, all of their descendants and many of their ancestors. He saw his own late father – Michael sat before the screen and watched the life Jack had lived, the Demons he had battled and the final, bitter ending, which came upon his father on some remote mountain ledge. He saw Jack’s fateful leap – that desperate plunge over the edge – saw the blackness erupt into the air above his father’s plummeting head.
As he watched its stinking putridity infest his mother’s body, her soul, Michael cried out: ‘Stop, stop it, please stop!’ Turning away from the screen, he rose hurriedly to his feet and stumbled into the garden, leaving the back door open as he lurched onto the lawn outside. He knelt on the soft greenness and stayed there with his head hung low.