by Jeff Kamen
Like the others on that route, gathering quietly along the crest, he came to a halt as he saw what stood on the horizon.
Cold tears hung in his eyes as he looked at it, but he was not unhappy. Knowing he was witnessing the migration of something that was not of the earth, yet which seemed to be on the verge of redefining it, for the flutterers were swirling away in winding cloudheads, the skies hanging misty with their trails.
Streaming from a tall crooked thing like a cyclone. A climbing structure, forked and reaching, clawing round the sun.
He stood there for a long time. Simply looking out. Studying the traces of an unfinished masterplan. A sign from beyond, towering at the end of the road.
Others on that pilgrimage continued walking, but he did not move. Instead he watched them going by, noticing a man and woman sitting in an old battered cart. He saw the woman turn to the man and murmur something. Saw them kiss, look back out together. Others around him he saw weeping, and knew just how they felt. For it was as if the want had left their faces, replaced by an emotion close to grief. As if they too had been deeply drawn to the miracle, were lost in it, in contemplation of what they had been, or were in the process of becoming. People involved in something they would cherish all their lives, whatever happened to them, whatever came their way.
He knew then that there was nowhere further to go. Nothing for him to do but live each day as though guided by that deep musky scent; nothing but travel through life as though towards its rooted and woody core.
He looked out a while longer, thinking of the balloons soaring high above the planet like a silent fanfare ... arching away like rockets, like golden flares of light. Then he turned away, and on finding a place by the roadside he slumped down exhaustedly and watched the crowds walk by, watched the flutterers circling overhead and flitting on ...
~O~
He slept all day through. Then on into the night, curled upon the ground as people went past carrying lamps. A few stopped to check on him, but on seeing he was at rest and had supplies, they left him to sleep.
A long sleep and one he wished never to end. For in his mind’s journey she was there, always there ... always coming to the gate. Receiving his news with her eyes, nodding to show that things were well with them, and that she understood. And he was leading her by the hand towards the path and trying to explain himself ...
Showing what he’d brought for her, showing all the wonderful things he had for her garden ...
Then as he came around in the predawn gloom, searching for her blearily, he heard a distant rattling. His eyes went to the nightfires on the hill, and then he turned, listening. And then he stood. The rattling grew louder.
Clutching his belongings, he edged backwards, watching as a covered cart came round the turning on its way downhill. He could not see the driver, only a hunched figure in a blanket, and he was retreating further, terrified that the figure would jump out, leer down at him, seize him with its nails, when the driver eased up and pulled over, drawing the harnessed pony to a halt.
The driver was a young woman. She asked him where the road led to, speaking the common language in a manner which suggested she had little hope of receiving an answer. So relieved was he that he did not reply at first, and she was about to drive away when he asked her to wait a moment. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I ... I just woke up.’
As he spoke, she tilted her head. As if to observe him more closely. Tall and unkempt and bearded as he was. ‘Funny,’ she said. ‘Your voice. Reminds me of someone. Where you goin?’
He told her that he was headed coastwards to begin with; and although he’d not meant to imply anything by this, she nodded to the passenger seat and invited him to join her. He went round and climbed up gratefully, wrapping himself in a blanket of his own as she drove off into the breaking day.
Down they drove and round they turned, the flutterers swarming them, swarming the camplights of the resting pilgrims. Following the creatures’ wild and earnest spirals, they discussed what they thought they might bring to the outlying lands, and he told her he’d seen them travelling out to sea. They discussed this too, musing on the consequences, and from time to time as he talked she watched him from the corner of her eye.
‘Beautiful,’ she said softly. ‘Aren’t they?’
He smiled in agreement, and as they continued their discussion, a sleepy female voice arose from behind the canopy. ‘Raj,’ the voice said, ‘who are you talking to?’
He turned to the driver awkwardly, but all she did was shrug.
‘Just givin him a lift,’ she called back. ‘He’s goin the same way.’
‘Who is it?’ said the woman, and there was the sound of baggage being moved.
‘He’s okay, don’t worry.’
‘Listen,’ he whispered to the driver, ‘you sure this is all right?’
‘Yeah, she’s just bein careful.’
There was a scratching at the canopy, then the woman said, ‘Where are you from, then?’
He turned. ‘Where now, or where originally?’
‘Originally.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s ... it’s a long story. I’m not sure you’d believe it.’
‘Try me,’ the woman replied, pulling the sleeves open, and with a sweep of black hair she came climbing through.
The End
Acknowledgements
My thanks go to Rob, Ed, Jon and my dad Hugh for feedback and guidance, and to my wife Omeima, my mother Berenice, and to Jo, James and the rest of my family and friends for their encouragement and support. A special mention goes to the old Leeds crew, a creative melting pot of individuals who inspire people to this day; much of the spirit of that time has permeated the text.
Thanks as well to SpiffingCovers for the artwork.
Any errors in the book are my own.
About The Author
Jeff Kamen lives with his family in London. This is his debut novel, about which you can find out more at his website: www.jeffkamen.media