Most of the time, he didn’t dwell on it, of course. But there were times in his life when, for some inexplicable reason, he couldn’t stop wondering what she must have been like, and he would try to imagine how such a love would feel. One time especially had stuck in his memory.
He had escaped his school building to have his lunch in the quiet of a nearby secret stream – not that most people would have called it a stream, the flowing water carrying empty plastic bottles, and with concrete walls for its banks. But hidden amongst the lifeless tower-blocks and grey overpasses, it was invisible to traffic and pedestrians alike, meaning Michael could sit in peace. There he could close his eyes, block out the noise of the traffic, and pretend he was by a mountain brook or meadow rill.
He had been especially angry and upset that day. He couldn’t remember why, but it was probably something another student had said to him. He knew he would find solitude next to the stream, so he had gone there to eat his lunch alone. Sitting in silence, chewing on his chicken sandwich, and throwing silent curses at the universe for his fate, he spotted for the first time a small plant growing from a crack in the concrete wall on the far side of the stream on which were scattered three small flowers. Each carried a triplet of blue petals, reaching out like trumpets, that deepened in colour as they approached the flowers’ centre. A large bumblebee was investigating each flower in turn, walking across the small petals to seek the pollen nestled inside their bright clothing.
He was suddenly struck by the remarkable plant that was not just growing, but was giving of itself despite its difficult life. As he stared at the flowers and the bee, his thoughts strangely turned again to his mother – a longing to know her almost bursting through his chest. As he lay in his bed this morning, he still remembered the feeling that had come over him that day, being filled with a sense that she had loved him beyond measure. He had wanted the feeling to last forever. And so he imagined the world around him stopping, allowing him to remain with his pretended moment of happiness unhindered by the march of time. He even thought that he could see the wings of the bee slow and then freeze perfectly still as the creature hung motionless in mid-air between two of the flowers.
But the universe hadn’t intended him to remain in that moment. Perhaps the chicken in his sandwich had been spoiled, as nausea suddenly overcame him, and he vomited. When he finished retching and looked up again at the flower, the bee was gone, but the feelings of that moment had remained with him. He had remembered it often; a comfort to him in times when he felt especially low.
The memory of that day quickly crossed his mind as he reached across to the alarm clock to silence it, slowly rising from his bed. There were so many lingering memories of his dream, and he wanted to leave his flat early to ensure that he had the time to consider them all on his way to the library.
He had a quick breakfast and showered, pulling on his jeans and a plain dark chocolate brown shirt that matched his eyes. A quick look outside confirmed that it was a bright sunny morning; the skies lighting on dry streets. It was nothing like his dream – there had been no thunderstorm overnight – and so he didn’t wear his jacket today. Although there would be a slight autumn chill in the air, the twenty minute walk to work would warm his body. Today’s walk would be a little longer, but no matter. He nearly forgot to grab his rucksack, but remembered just as he was about to walk out the door; quickly collecting it from next to the solitary armchair in his tiny living room. He would need it today for the books he would be bringing home.
He hurried down the three flights of stairs to the front doors of the flat block, taking two steps at a time, and threw his rucksack over his shoulder as he set off down the street.
“Good morning Michael,” called a voice from the alleyway next to his flat block.
“Hi Col,” Michael replied. “You okay this morning?”
Michael glanced over his left shoulder at the homeless man who had made the alley his home. Preoccupied by his dream, his smile was forced today, but was nonetheless warmly returned. As much as Michael was annoyed by those who considered fashion a statement of personal value, he enjoyed the company of those whose lives enforced a degree of humility. Within a couple of days of moving in to his small flat he had met Col, and every morning and evening since then they had greeted each other. He liked the honesty that he would get from this middle-aged man – a man who had held a responsible position working for a large utility firm, but who had lost everything, including his home and family, when he’d had a breakdown a few years ago.
Michael admired Col for his lack of bitterness. He had given so much through his life, and then when he experienced some tough times society didn’t just ignore him: it stripped him of everything; abandoning him to whatever oblivion he would choose. But Col didn’t choose oblivion. Despite it all, he found a way to be a happy man, always suggesting hope and optimism to his new young friend. Often when Michael had spare time in the morning they would stop and chat for a while, but Michael – although earlier than usual – was in a hurry today.
“You’re off early today,” called his friend. “Something important?”
Michael paused for a moment, not sure how to respond.
“Um, well. I don’t know really. Just some things I want to look at on the way to work I guess.” He hesitated for a moment, and then added, “If it’s interesting, I’ll tell you about it later.”
“Sounds exciting,” Col called back. “I’ll see you tonight then.” He waved and turned back to whatever he had been doing in his makeshift shelter.
As he resumed his walk, Michael reflected on just how much he liked his homeless friend. In all his life, he thought he probably only had known two friends – both of them homeless. The first was an old man who lived near the house he grew up in with Rob. Ever since he could remember, the old man lived in the nearby streets. Michael hadn’t ventured from the covers of whatever book he was ensconced in very often, but when he had, the old man was always nearby. Most people kept their distance from him, as if his homelessness made him contagious. But Michael found a strange comfort in being nearby, and though they rarely spoke, he imagined the man to look like a grandfather would, finding it more comforting to be near him than to anybody else.
When he had told Rob about his job at the library earlier in the year, Rob had looked relieved and told Michael that he could support himself, giving him two weeks to find somewhere else to live. It was an absurdly short timescale, but he found the place in which he now resided within a week. Rob gave him enough for the deposit, and while Michael knew he had only done so in order to get him out sooner, Michael didn’t care.
His new place was tiny: the living room was really no more than a short wide hallway large enough for only one armchair, and the kitchen could hold only one person. And it was in desperate need of a complete refurbishment: the wallpaper was peeling, the carpets were stained, and there were holes in the old kitchen lino. But he was happy to have a place on his own: a place where he wasn’t accompanied by someone conspicuous by their neglect of him. His solitary regret when he moved, however, was that he would no longer see the old man.
But Col had quickly filled the void, his tender watchfulness making him more of a father to him than he had ever known. There was something about him that made him seem familiar, a type of paternal soulmate. A day never passed that Col didn’t welcome a friendly discussion with him, making him sometimes wonder whether his homeless friend displayed such warmth to everyone, or whether he treated Michael with special attention. But he didn’t care. A quick chat would always lift his spirits – even today when his mind was preoccupied with other matters.
Michael’s walk was brisk as he reached the first brief stop on his day’s commute: the Church of St Peter. He paused in front of the corner of the building that housed the stained glass image of the Virgin Mary and her son. He didn’t need to go inside as he knew well the image, and a quick look confirmed that from the outside of the building it was impossible to see what pict
ure the stained glass formed – certainly from the distance of the pavement where it had been so clear in his dream.
Thoughts of his unknown mother were already too near the surface and so he didn’t dwell outside the Church, but quickly started again to his next stop.
The morning rush hour had already begun, and so his journey slowed as he got nearer to the shopping precinct. Streets he needed to cross filled with cars, and travel on the pavement grew increasingly frustrated by the growing crowds of people. The knot in his stomach wouldn’t allow the urgency of his dream to fade, and the delays caused by the seething masses built an unwanted irritation within him – an annoyance that didn’t subside until he finally got to the shopping precinct and to the clock.
He paused a dozen paces from it, noticing carefully the hour hand pointing directly at the twelve. From where he stood, the minute hand was pointing to the five, but he began to walk around the outside of the clock and the minute hand appeared to move with him as the black tiles that were inlaid in the pavement aligned at one angle, and then at another, depending on where he stood: to six o’clock, seven o’clock, and so on as he slowly continued his circuit.
When he reached the far side, he walked to the middle of the clock face and stared at the twelve. The hour hand was still pointing there as he knew it would, but from this position none of the appointed tiles aligned to show a minute hand. And there was no scorch mark anywhere to be seen that would evidence lightning.
Okay, he thought, that’s the second one. He started to walk towards the alleyway that from his dream he knew would be directly in front of him, but stopped as soon as he gazed ahead. The alleyway was there, but there were no black gates. There were no gardens. He had been sure they would be there. The Church and clock were real, he thought to himself. Why not the gardens?
He stood staring for a moment, when he heard Beth, “What ya doin’ Michael?” she called, her Welsh lilt sounding like a song in the morning sunshine. “Stood here all alone like you’re lost.”
“Hi’ya Beth,” he called back. Beth worked with him in the library and would be on her way to work too. Michael was suddenly surprised at how long he must have been examining the clock if it was nearly time to start work, but a quick look at his watch told him that he still had a few minutes.
After a moment, he realised Beth had lived here for longer than he had and would know the area better. “Do you know what’s behind that alley?” he ventured, “Are there any gardens there, do you know?”.
He was still looking at the alley, so he didn’t see the surprise on her face as she replied, “How on earth would I know what’s behind an alley? What do you think I get up to at night that I would know about alleys, you silly boy?”
Her voice was more playful than annoyed, though, as she continued, “Anyway, you can see the roofs of the houses just down there, so there can’t be any gardens, can there?”
Michael realised Beth was right as he saw the orange roof tiles where there would have been treetops if his dream gardens had been real, and felt a twinge of disappointment that there would be no gates or trees he could examine; no sword or evidences of a Woodland Star.
“Come on.” Beth called, “We’re goin’ to be late if we don’t get a move on. And we don’t want Maggie gettin’ cross with us, do we?”
Maggie was the senior librarian. Short, in her mid fifties and carrying a perpetual scowl, she could be fierce when she wanted to be. Beth was right: they really didn’t want to get her angry at the start of the shift as it would make the rest of the day miserable for everyone. But as they set off together he tried to reply in a joking way to match Beth’s mood, “At least we’d be late together. Do you think that would confuse her if we were both late? Maybe she wouldn’t know who to get angry with.”
She laughed at that, “Yes, that would be funny wouldn’t it?” Then a mischievous grin crossed her face, “Can you imagine the gossip if we both arrived late – together?” She emphasised the last word. “A Monday morning and we’re both late. I know I’m late sometimes, but you never are. So if we both were late together that would get them all talkin’, wouldn’t it?”
Even three months ago Michael would have wondered whether Beth was flirting with him, but he knew that she was just being her normal playful self. Or at least her flirting wasn’t intended as anything other than some light fun.
He was sure it had been different when he had first started at the library, though. Michael was slightly taller than average, and with his dark hair and eyes most girls took a second or third glance at him. Not that he noticed, and when well-meaning adults had occasionally referred to his good looks over the years he would outwardly smile, while inwardly believing they were offering unwarranted compliments to boost his self-confidence. But Beth had given him more attention than most girls, and for a while he thought she probably had been attracted to him.
However, while he couldn’t completely ignore the response of his hormones to her tight-fitting blouses, or to her skirts that were just short enough to draw his eyes, she was far too interested in the gossip surrounding celebrities and the world of fashion for his liking.
And for her part, while she had thought him very attractive to look at, Beth had soon discovered that while books represented only a way to earn a salary for her, they were Michael’s life. She had unsuccessfully tried to lure him to a few parties using practised head tilts, flicks of her false blonde hair, and fluttering eyelashes. But she eventually gave up. He wasn’t interested and she realised that he really wasn’t her type. They could enjoy each other’s company at work, but they both knew that anything more than that would be a disaster.
And so they together headed off past the rest of the shops, round the corner and past the Guildhall to the library in companionable chat about their weekends; Michael avoiding all discussion of the dream that occupied his mind.
As his shift started, however, he found it impossible to ignore the images that kept returning to his mind. There have to be answers in the books here, he told himself; and whenever he had a moment to himself he searched for clues that would tell him what his dream meant.
Mid-morning Maggie caught Michael drawing and scolded him.
“I’m sorry Maggie,” he pleaded, “I really am. But can you tell me whether you’ve ever seen this?” He held up a sketch he had been attempting of the Woodland Star from his dream. “Maybe it’s in a book about some old pagan symbols or something?”
Maggie looked annoyed that her rebuke hadn’t led to the level of contrition she expected, but took a quick look at the drawing. “Hmm. No, I haven’t seen anything quite like it. It’s a hexagram of course, but I’ve not seen the interlocking lines or strange things on the points before. Where did you come across it?” she demanded.
“Oh, it’s just something that’s been on my mind.” He didn’t want to tell his boss that he was chasing dreams while at work, so he lied, “I don’t remember where I saw it.”
“Well,” Maggie continued, “Yes it could be a pagan symbol, but I’d also try some books on Judaism; or perhaps Hinduism or some of the eastern religions. Many of them used the hexagram too.”
Giving her sternest look, she rose to her full five foot stature and demanded, “But not in work time, young man. During your breaks or lunchtime. Do I make myself clear?” She waited for his affirmative reply before she left.
She caught him twice more during the day, browsing through books when he was supposed to be putting returned tomes back on their shelves, and each time he promised to be more conscientious, only to return to one last book as soon as she was out of sight. He felt no guilt over it, though; with nothing to go home to, he would often work late without pay, so he didn’t feel he was cheating anybody of his time.
He decided to try and be more careful to avoid the gaze of Maggie though as he didn’t want any more curses from her than necessary. He was sure that she had hired him only because of a government incentive of some description. He had been unemployed for nearly
a year, and that combined with his age meant that when he had started at the library there was almost certain to be a bureaucrat somewhere moving the statistic that was Michael from a column that politicians found undesirable to one more favourable.
But he didn’t care. He loved working with books, and he wanted to keep his job – so he tried to be more discreet as he hunted through volumes of ancient symbols and medieval swords.
He secretly stashed a number of books he wanted to examine more thoroughly throughout the day so that Maggie didn’t think he was using his work time for personal things, and when his shift ended, he quickly went around and gathered them all up. He just managed to squeeze them into his rucksack, finding it heavier than expected when he lifted it for his journey home.
With the weight of the heavy tomes on his back, he was breathing heavily by the time he got back to his flat. He waved his usual greeting to Col.
“Did you see what you were looking for this morning?” his friend called to him.
“No,” Michael quickly replied. But then the thought occurred to him. Michael knew he must have seen the Woodland Star somewhere or it wouldn’t have appeared so clearly in his dream. Col was well educated, and perhaps he had come across it and would be able to help Michael’s search.
“I need to put these in my room,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder to his backpack, “But is it okay if I come back down after? I’d like to ask you something.”
“Of course,” came the reply, “I’m pretty sure I don’t have any prior engagements tonight.” Col smiled.
Michael usually walked up the stairs, but he took the lift today – his rucksack weighing him down. But as soon as he had dropped his cargo inside the front door to his flat he turned and ran back down the stairs.
“Wow, that was fast,” said his older friend when Michael appeared at this side. “You’re keen on something today, aren’t you?”
Dreams and Shadows (The Aylosian Chronicles Book 1) Page 3