Charlie's Dream

by Jamie Rowboat

  It took Charlie a moment to notice, but Shamir had gone totally quiet. A notably pasty look on his face had dramatically replaced his wide smile and frequent questions.

  "Are you okay?" asked Charlie, touching him on the shoulder.

  "Huh," said Shamir, drawn out of his thoughts. "I'm okay, I just need some air," he said, staggering to his feet and heading for the front door. Moments after leaving, Charlie heard the thump of someone hitting the ground and when he raced outside, he found Shamir slumped on the grass. Charlie did his best to drag him back into the cabin, but he was too heavy and he had to make do with getting Shamir comfortable on the front doorstep. Fortunately, it was no longer raining, so Charlie sat with him for a while, without knowing quite what to do. Shamir was breathing normally, so Charlie wasn't particularly worried, but it was clear that he needed to do something to revive him. After thinking for a while, he hopped inside the house and prepared some of Shamir's sweet smelling Dandelion tea. With a small cup in hand, he returned to the sleeping wizard and carefully rested the cup beside him. Eventually, the end of Shamir's nose began to twitch, before his eyes suddenly popped open. He glanced around a few times before focusing on the cup of tea, which prompted a huge laugh to rise from his stomach as he realised where he was lying.

  "I should have tea out here more often, it's really very pleasant," he chuckled.

  "What the hell was all that about?" said Charlie, kneeling down beside Shamir.

  "I'll tell you inside, but I must say, the cup of tea was a stroke of genius. What made you think of it?"

  "Oh nothing really, it's the smell I remember waking up to here. Why I thought it would help bring you around is completely beyond me," said Charlie, helping him to his feet. Once inside, they made themselves comfortable on the lounge and Charlie poured them a fresh cup of tea each.

  "Gemma Granlin is my sister Charlie," said Shamir.

  "Whoa, are you sure?"

  "Believe me, I know. As soon as you started talking about this old lady that you know, my heart started to flutter without any real reason. Then you mentioned the name of her nursery and I knew for sure. You see, that was our original surname before we were adopted. It came from the French language and was originally 'Grandligne'. It was changed when we lived in England and we always agreed that we'd never use the name unless we lost contact and needed some clear guidance to find each other."

  "Good grief," said Charlie in amazement.

  "We haven't seen each other for more than a hundred years. She moved back to England from India in order to continue her work as a botanist. Since she moved back to England, we've had no real contact and I was beginning to think I would never hear from her again. I'm sorry, I didn't mean for things to go like this today. You must think I'm very strange and that this whole affair is just madness." said Shamir.

  "A crazy dream is how I'd put it at the moment, but if Gemma really is your sister, then the coincidence is just too bizarre to overlook. The whole story sounds utterly unbelievable anyway. Wizards who live for hundreds of years and elves who live in a magic valley. But, you know what? I'm just starting to get interested."

  "That's my boy. Now please, Charlie, tell me everything you know about her, absolutely everything," pleaded Shamir.

  Charlie sat in Shamir's faded leather chair and tried to remember everything he could about Gemma. He racked his brain for stories he'd heard from his parents and he tried to recall as much as he could from his own time with her. He didn't know how large it was, but he knew she owned a piece of land outside town, as well as the nursery. It had been quite big news in the community at the time. No one knew who had bought the three large parcels of land on the outskirts of Chelmsley. Everyone thought it must be a developer from out of town and braced themselves for the inevitable housing estate. As time went on, peoples' interest waned, the land remained happily untouched and no one ever noticed the occasional visits by someone in an old Mercedes.

  "What a fine jigsaw we have assembling itself," said Shamir, after Charlie had scraped every possible memory from his brain.

  "That's okay for you to say, but at the moment I seem to be stretched between two separate parts of the picture. I want to stay with the experience, but I have a life that I can remember and I miss being in it. What about my parents? It must be horrible for them, and Marie, I can't bare to think about her, she'd just agreed to be my girlfriend. How long will this all go on?" said Charlie.

  "Charlie, I know this is really hard for you, to be wrenched out of your life in such a violent manner. The truth is, you cannot exist in both places for very long, a few days, maybe a week, any more would be too much of a strain," replied Shamir gravely. "But take heart, you have made it into this world, and the stronger and more real your grasp of this place, the greater the chance there is of us getting you home safely," he continued.

  "So, you don't think I could just go home now?"

  "No, Charlie, I think you are here for a reason and when you have achieved what you need to here, you will know it's time to leave and it will be supported. If the timing is not correct, even your love for Marie and your parents will not be enough to get you back."

  "Okay, so what now?"

  "I think we should get out into my garden and do some planting. We need to stop thinking about all of the possibilities for a while and do something simple and natural, if you feel up to it?"

  "Yeah, okay. I'm a bit overwhelmed by it all right now. Perhaps some time in the fresh air will do me some good," said Charlie, with a faint smile.

  "Yes, Charlie, I think it would do us both good," said Shamir tenderly.

  They put on some old clothes that Shamir had prepared and crossed to the far side of the garden, where a large stone wall separated the cottage garden from the main area. As Charlie opened the little red door, the scent and colour that greeted him lifted his spirits immediately. Rows upon rows of succulent-looking vegetables were interspersed with vividly-coloured flowers that bloomed in every imaginable colour. Poppies, wall flowers, Lupins, Delphiniums, Lavender and Anemones grew in great wooden pots made from wine barrels that had been split in half and stood like scruffy-haired sentinels at the end of all of the flower beds. Huge patches of other Summer flowers swayed and bobbed in time to the slight breeze that lapped over the boundary wall. The movement kept the feeding bees and butterflies in a constant dance as they waltzed on the nectar-laden heads of each flower. The pathways that linked the whole garden together were made from the softest mulch and it just beckoned to Charlie to take off his shoes, something Shamir had done the moment he had entered the door. Heavily-laden fruit trees, which were dotted all around the place, provided dappled shade for great pots of luscious wild strawberries that dangled their arms down from the great stone jars.

  There was a shed that had one side constructed completely from glass. The wall had been made from handmade panes of different coloured glass, which were quite irregular in their shapes, but which had been put skilfully together in a transparent jigsaw. This was lined on the inside with five or six levels of shelving that supported endless trays of tiny seedlings, which stretched for sunlight and readied themselves for the adventure of outside. As Charlie entered the ramshackle old greenhouse, he quietly sat on a stool by the door to watch Shamir in action. Shamir's fingers moved quickly and nimbly through a tray of tomato seedlings, lifting some and reinforcing others. The ones he lifted out, he placed in other trays for distribution to his friends and he had a growing collection of these trays by the door. He patted and shook the others into their expanded positions and having carefully added some extra soil, he placed the tray back on the shelf and watered it thoroughly with a small watering can.

  "Can you help me carry these seedlings out to the garden?" asked Shamir, turning round with a tray of lettuce in his hands. "It's time to take them for a trip outside to see if they're ready for transplanting," he continued.

  "Sure," said Charlie, being snapped out of his little daydream. They loaded a few trays onto two w
heelbarrows and headed through the labyrinth of paths that zigzagged across the two acres of garden that lay within the high stone walls.

  "How many elves help you maintain this place?" asked Charlie.

  "Well, there are four or five elves who work on it permanently with me, but then we have periods of harvesting and planting when many others are involved. Do you like it here?"

  "Mmm, yes, I do. There's something about this place that is very comforting. Maybe it's just more familiar and an easier scale to deal with. I don't know, it just feels gentle here, the rest of the valley is just too much to take in at the moment. It's like my dad reckons, if you go to a new city, find a small orbit of friends and shops, or the complexity and size of the city will overwhelm you."

  "Ah yes, I think I'd like your dad, he sounds interesting. Do you know, it's been years since I visited a city. The last time was nearly a hundred years ago, when I visited Gemma in Paris. What a time we had for those few years, and what a city. We danced and partied, created and loved, the whole place was absolutely electric for years."

  "I didn't know you had travelled in the outside world," said Charlie.

  "Most certainly, yes, I have travelled there many times. I have visited most of the major continents over the years. But it has always been a dangerous process to enter or leave the valley, so I curtailed my expeditions just before the First World War."

  "Uhuh, I see," said Charlie, struggling to lift a huge pumpkin onto Shamir's wheelbarrow. "What type of fertiliser do you use on all of these plants?"

  "I recycle the scraps from the house as compost, but what they react to best is a lot of love and attention. Just like us, they don't like being taken for granted. If they feel that someone is listening to them and hearing their needs, they are only too happy to produce lots of beautiful fruit. It's easy, really," said Shamir, with a cheeky grin.

  "You make everything sound so simple," said Charlie.

  "With awareness, everything is simple. Instead of trying to work out everything for yourself, by listening, you are putting yourself in touch with the universal power that creates and maintains it all. Provided you are then willing to listen to its advice, you have a lot more freedom and power than someone who tries to struggle along using only their own will as guidance."

  "Mm, that all sounds fine in theory, but how do you make it work?"

  "Okay, well let me show you something simple that might help," said Shamir. With that, he picked up a small tray of lettuce seedlings and handed them to Charlie.

  "Now, sit down with the tray on your lap."

  Charlie did as he was asked and, when he was comfortable, Shamir stood behind him and gently put his hands on his shoulders.

  "Close your eyes, Charlie, and release all of your thoughts by focusing your mind on the breath that is going in and out of your body. Don't worry if your brain fights you for a while, just keep letting go of your thoughts and see what replaces them."

  Charlie sat totally still for quite a few minutes and let his thoughts go as best he could. There was a brief moment of peace amongst the trying and, suddenly, an answer came out of the stillness. When he opened his eyes again, Shamir was sitting cross-legged in front of him.

  "They don't want to be planted today," said Charlie, with a smile. "They'd prefer to wait for the full moon next week. But they're grateful to be considered and are looking forward to their time in your garden. Amazing, is it really that easy?" asked Charlie.

  "It is, my friend, it is," said Shamir nodding.

  By the time they finished in the garden that evening, they were both exhausted, yet satisfied. Charlie had practised talking to a whole range of plants, with varying degrees of success. As Shamir pointed out, he was probably a little bit too excited to listen all the time.

  "Strange as it may seem, it takes time to develop the skills needed to listen consistently," said Shamir, as they cleaned their hands in the tiny stream that ran through the centre of the garden. "But to succeed at your first attempt is a very promising sign."

  Once they had finished clearing up, neither of them had enough energy to bother about supper, or any more talking for that matter. So after a couple of pieces of cheese on toast and a mug of hot chocolate in front of the fire, they were very happy to get to bed. As they lay in the darkness awaiting the touch of sleep, Charlie turned onto his side and whispered across the room in the direction of Shamir's bed.

  "I'm pleased I came to the valley, Shamir, even if I don't really understand what's going on."

  "Thank you, Charlie, thank you," came the faint reply.

  Chapter 8

  When Gemma woke, the warmth from the young woman next to her was like a hot water bottle. The first glimmers of light were appearing in the fig tree's uppermost leaves and the birds were singing madly to celebrate the end of the nightlong downpour. For a while she thought about an early morning stroll, but she was planning quite an expedition for them that day, so she allowed the comfort of sleep to beckon to her again. When she woke up, her hot water bottle was gone and there was the unmistakable smell of toast and coffee in the air. Gemma loved the smell of fresh coffee being made. It reminded her of living in France when she studied Art in Paris before the First World War. She had lived on the West Bank for ten glorious years in a large three-storeyed townhouse that she shared with a succession of artist lovers, friends and, of course, her beloved brother Shamir. As the war became inevitable, she travelled South with a small group of brilliant young painters to live in a tiny village called Nanserre.

  "Hello sleepyhead," said a voice, pulling her out of her daydream. It was Marie, and she was crouching down beside the bed with a small wooden tray in her hands.

  "I wondered how long it had been since anyone gave you toast and coffee in bed," said Marie, as Gemma propped herself up on an extra pillow.

  "My darling girl, you are a marvel." she said with a grin.

  "I'm sorry about the quality of the china, but it was all I could find," said Marie.

  "I know, there's very little in the cottage any more. I tend to camp here nowadays. The time when I lived here on a regular basis has long since gone and now it's somewhat run down. When my friend George Colney died some years ago, I retreated here to grieve. Since then, it's always been associated with that period to me and I've pretty much stopped coming here."

  "I know that name, Charlie's parents bought the Croft from him just before he died. I remember them mentioning him."

  "Yes, that's right, he was tremendously kind to them about that. He was under a lot of pressure from his sons to take a higher offer for the land, made by a developer who wanted to subdivide it. He was offering almost double what they could afford, but George could see how much the old barn meant to your parents. His sons have never forgiven me, they were convinced I turned George against them in the matter."

  "And did you?" asked Marie, timidly.

  "No, I didn't need to. George was very much his own man, he made a fortune by his relaxed attitude towards money and by always doing what made him feel good. He was amazing in so many ways, although his family could never see it. They were too consumed by their greedy anticipation of what they would inherit when he died. At one stage, they tried to have him declared unfit to control the family fortune, in an attempt to stop his philanthropy. Even though he was the one who had created all of their wealth."

  "So, what happened?" asked Marie, incredulously.

  "Hah, in the end, he asked the whole family quite innocently to meet him at their solicitor's office one morning in June. Then, with the lawyer adjudicating, he challenged them all to an IQ test, which he won with a score that registered him as a near genius. After that, he gave them all a piece of his mind about their intentions and signed his entire estate over to the local orphanage right in front of them. His family were horrified, I'll never forget it."

  "So you were there, but why?"

  "Moral support."

  "So, what happened next?"

  "Humph," said Gemma, before going
quiet for a second. "He died the next day. We'd gone to dinner at his favourite seafood restaurant in London to celebrate his eighty-second birthday. It was a tiny place, called Manzies, with sawdust on the ground and amazing fresh fish from the markets. It was hidden down a laneway behind Leicester Square, George just loved the place. He finished his meal, gave me an eternity ring that he'd found in an antique store in Covent Garden, signed the cheque and dropped stone dead from a heart attack right in the middle of the restaurant. His sons were utterly outraged. They tried to contest the will of course, but in the end they were left with their homes and nothing else, and the local orphanage will never have to look for patrons ever again."

  "It sounds like he really loved you," said Marie tenderly.

  "Yes, he did and I loved him a great deal too. You know, we were lovers and friends for nearly thirty years, but he never knew the truth about me."

  "Really? That's incredible, but what about his wife, wasn't she around?"

  "No, she died giving birth to his second son, an occurrence which was a lot more common in those days."

  "Did he really know nothing about your life? Didn't you find it hard to keep it from him for all those years?"

  "Hmm, you really ask the most piercing questions. But that's okay, I like it, it keeps things moving. We all have a past and George knew that mine was lurid and extensive. Without actually lying to him, I was able to share pretty much everything about myself,without the need for specific dates. The way I'm talking to you is a unique experience for me. When you have lived for as long as I have, you explain things in ways that people can put in context with their own view of life. How could I have said to George that he meant the world to me, but so did the lovers that I had met in the previous two centuries?"