by Andy Andrews
When he opened his eyes a few moments later, he sensed immediately that something had changed. At first, David was uncertain about exactly what that might be, but he quickly determined that it was the light. The light in the room was brighter. And the circle of light around the table had broadened. No, he decided, it was broadening. As David watched, ever so slowly, the light inched away from him on all sides, creating an ever-widening circle.
At about twenty feet from the table, as if illuminated from the side, but again with no source, upright objects began to appear. David turned to look behind himself. To the left, right—everywhere he looked—what appeared to be sticks or poles were slowly being revealed in the expanding circle of light.
He didn’t leave the chair. David didn’t move at all except to occasionally glance around. Fascinated by what he was watching, he worried that if he did move, the light might stop. So he waited. Sticks? Poles? What is this? David wondered. Then, all at once, he knew.
When the light revealed the vertically placed sticks to the height of about eighteen inches, a “top” came into view. Another inch or two of light and David recognized fabric that looked like . . . well, the fabric looked like the very cushion upon which he was sitting. When the seat backs came into sight, David realized that he was surrounded with chairs— chairs identical to the ones around the table.
It took some time, but the circle of light gradually revealed another row of chairs behind the first. They were raised at least eighteen inches higher than the first row. A ring of chairs circled by a loftier ring of chairs. There were several areas of steps or stairs situated between the levels.
The area being illuminated continued to increase until David could clearly see four rows, each higher than the one before it. Though the light dimmed considerably after the fourth row, there were quite obviously more seats beyond those he was able to distinguish from his position at the table. David was able to make out a fifth and sixth row, but behind those, he had no idea how high they went, and in any case, the light was no longer moving.
Unexpectedly, David smelled smoke. Frowning, he looked around. It was cigar smoke. David recognized the aroma immediately. He loved cigars but had sworn them off years ago for Ellen. What was a fragrance to him had been a fetid stench to her. With a bit of poking and prodding, David had finally admitted that Ellen’s allergies trumped his desire for burning leaves, and from the day he had surrendered, he never smoked another cigar. Even when he was alone.
Now that acrid bouquet was beckoning him again. Turning to his left, David saw a wisp of smoke drift against the shadowy background behind him. Attempting to follow the trail with his eyes, David peered into the darkness and located its source. There, at about seven o’clock behind him on row six, stood . . . someone.
That someone was dressed in black, making it difficult to discern, but when the cigar was puffed, its fiery red glow allowed David to catch a glimpse of a pale, balding old man’s face, framed by thin strands of snow-white hair. And a hat. A black one.
The man loudly cleared his throat. David stared into the darkness, trying to see what he obviously could not. Moving forward, the man came down two steps. David saw his legs and a walking cane that was as black as the man’s pants. “Well, well,” the man said in a raspy voice with a thick British accent. “If you are who I think you are, it is an honor to make your acquaintance, sir.”
“Thank you. It’s nice to meet you as well,” David responded without a clue to the identity of the person with whom he was suddenly chatting, for he still could not clearly see the man’s face. Nonetheless, he stood and strode forward as the man moved unsteadily toward another step.
Working his way down several more stairs, the old man— the chubby old man, David could now see—wore a black derby, pushed hard onto his head. His cane probed forward as he made a very deliberate descent, purposefully concentrating on every step. Of course, with his head down, the hat continued to obscure his face. Which was why, though the man was now fully in the light, David had yet to get a good look at him.
Finally, the old man reached the floor and tucked the cane under his arm. Removing the cigar from his mouth, he shoved his right hand forward to shake. With a great smile, he thrust his face out over his shoulders and roared, “Ponder! Good man!”
It was Winston Churchill.
A shiver ran through David’s body. It was happening again. He was older now and more prepared for the shock of meeting someone from another place and time, but it was still incredible. Here was the man whom he had read about and seen on newsreels. Here . . . in the flesh. David grinned and pumped Churchill’s hand vigorously.
“You are the hero of the moment, I understand,” Churchill said cheerily as he moved toward the table.
“I’m sorry?” David responded, sounding confused.
“Oh, come now,” Churchill chuckled. “I know all about the great David Ponder. I’ve been briefed, as we used to say at 10 Downing. Word is, you’re in the hot seat.”
“I suppose that’s true,” David said slowly. “Gabriel . . . ,” he started to say, then interjected, “You’ve met Gabriel?”
The great man’s eyebrows rose. “Indeed.”
“Gabriel said that because I am the only Traveler living in the . . . ah . . . present time . . .” Flustered, David stopped again. “But I suppose it’s not the present time for you.”
“Certainly, it is the present time for me as well,” Churchill said, nodding. “Difference is, nowadays, I do a lot more watching and a bit less doing from my vantage point.”
David wanted to ask the former British prime minister exactly what that vantage point was but decided to save the question for later. Instead, he attempted to get back on track. “So anyway, Gabriel told me that because I was currently living on earth,” David said, noting to himself that this conversation was already the craziest he’d ever had in his life (and that was saying something), “that I would be the . . . well, as you put it . . . the one in the hot seat.”
“You are the leader of our little gathering,” Churchill said as he chose the chair to the right of David’s and sat down. “Go on now; you can say it. ‘I am the leader.’ Say it.”
“I’d rather not,” David replied.
“Say it, old son!” Churchill demanded sternly. He held his scowling pose for a moment and dissolved into laughter. “Ha!” he exclaimed loudly. “I was only joking, of course, but the look on your face was priceless.” Taking a deep breath, Churchill visibly relaxed. “Call me Winston.”
“Really? All right. If you’re sure,” David said cautiously. He didn’t know what to make of Churchill. The man wasn’t what he had expected. Then again, he had to remind himself, who expected to see Winston Churchill in the first place?
“Yes, I am sure,” he said, closing the matter. “Sit down. May I address you as David?”
“Yes, please,” David agreed as he sat down in the same chair he had previously occupied.
“Well then, David,” Winston began, “Are we indoors or out?”
“Excuse me?”
“Indoors or out, man?” Churchill barked. “My hat!”
David’s line of sight rose from the prime minister’s rheumy brown eyes past the white thatch of wild eyebrows to see that he was still wearing his hat.
Churchill roughly grabbed the derby and tossed it onto the table, rubbing the top of his head with a hand. Peering upward, he remarked, “Inside or outside? There doesn’t seem to be an answer to that here. A decent man doesn’t wear a hat indoors. Is it too much to ask to know whether one is indoors or out?” He paused only for a second.
With his chin jutted out, Churchill glared up again. “And where is that light coming from?”
David laughed out loud.
“I mean it!” Winston said, trying to suppress a grin. “No wind either. Have you noticed that? Where’s the wind?” He stood up and shoved his head forward as David had seen him do when he introduced himself.
To no one in particular, Winston
said, “I think we need a good thunderstorm every now and then. Some lightning. A lot of wind.” His bottom lip was poked out, and David saw the old man steal a glance at him from the corner of his eye. “Do this place some good, it would. Keep everyone alert. Nothing like a good storm, I say, to clean the place up a bit.”
David looked around. “It all seems pretty clean to me,” he said with a smile, fairly certain that Winston was acting grumpy because he enjoyed it.
“Yes, it does,” Churchill agreed as if he were disappointed and settled back into his chair. “Cigar?” he asked, reaching into his pocket and drawing out a fresh one.
Why not? David thought. I am going to smoke a cigar with Winston Churchill. “Absolutely,” he said to the prime minister as he reached for the offering. “Thank you.”
Churchill lit the cigar for him, a simple act that delighted David, and the two men began to lighten their mood. “I’ve followed your career since your travel, you know,” Winston said.
David was surprised. “No,” he said, “I didn’t know. I really had no idea that kind of thing was done.”
“Well . . .,” Winston said, drawing out the word and gesturing with his cigar, “sometimes it is and sometimes it isn’t.” He squinted. “But I was especially interested in you. First, because of Lincoln. That was your sixth stop, if I remember correctly. I envied you that.”
David tilted his head.
“Yes,” Churchill continued, “I admit it. I did. Still might, actually.” He scowled furiously, making David laugh, and just as quickly picked up his relaxed narrative. “I am—have always been—an unabashed Lincoln admirer. Read about him as a youngster. Love the man. Everything about him. And he was ugly. Like me. What better encouragement for a young politician, eh?” He and David laughed heartily.
Catching his breath, Winston continued with the cigar clamped tightly in the side of his mouth. “In any case, when I got word that a Traveler was about to meet with the old boy, I knew I couldn’t miss it.”
“You watched us?”
“Yes . . . yes! We don’t see everything, of course, but Travelers who have ‘slipped the surly bonds of Earth’—that, by the way, is a phrase I borrowed from another one of us— those of us who have passed on are allowed a certain . . . mmm . . . latitude, if you will.” Churchill stopped and puffed the cigar furiously. “Where was I?”
David grinned. “You watched me with Abraham Lincoln.”
“Yes! Hmm . . . Well, I became interested in you. Lincoln discussing forgiveness. You . . . going to church every week because of the principle of forgiveness, yet living your life as if you’d never heard of the concept!” Churchill banged his hand on the table, making David jump, but he nodded in agreement because it was true.
“So I was curious,” Churchill went on. “And I asked myself, ‘How will this young man respond?’” Leaning toward David, he added, “And you were a young man then.” He fell back in his chair, fingers drumming on the table. David had never seen a person sitting down who seemed to be in such constant motion.
Churchill cleared his throat and continued. “I kept watching. Saw you with Gabriel in ‘the place that never was.’ He took me there, too, by the way. Dreadful place. Did me a lot of good, though, as I am certain it did you.” He waited for David to nod, and when he’d gotten the reaction he was waiting for, he talked on.
“Very curious. Yes. Of course, I wondered what you’d do with the Seven Decisions. All the Travelers receive them, you know, in one form or another . . .”
“I didn’t know,” David said.
“Yes. Yes. So I was justifiably proud of your success and generosity when you got things moving upon your return to your own time. It’s a bit of a fraternity, see, and we can be somewhat puffed up about each other. That being said, it is what we expect after all.”
David tilted his head and, without saying anything, conveyed to the older gentleman that he didn’t quite understand.
“It is expected!” Churchill repeated in a loud voice. “For God’s own sake, man! You have the Seven Decisions for bloody Success right in your hands. All you must do is move! So we anticipate the success of a Traveler!”
Winston puffed hard on the cigar until regaining a calmer demeanor then said, “Yes. Your success was virtually preordained. Therefore, I was proud, but not surprised. My curiosity about you, however—and the curiosity of your fellow Travelers—was piqued when you lost it all.”
“Yes,” David said wryly, “my curiosity was piqued at that point as well.”
“Ha!” Winston exclaimed. “Well put. Consequently, I was simply riveted by your comeback! Marvelous, actually. And here we all thought the Old Boy,” Churchill pointed up with his finger, “had made a mistake. Ha again! Should have known better. You put us in our places. Bunch of Doubting Thomases we are—” Suddenly, he stopped in the middle of his thought and asked, “Have you met Thomas? He’s here, you know,” and immediately got back on course. “In any event, as a result of your greater success the next time around, my own accomplishments became a subject of discussion.”
“Why was that?” David questioned.
“Because,” Churchill said slowly as if talking to a dull pupil, “I was a ‘second act man’ myself!”
David smiled. “Okay, tell me what a ‘second act man’ is.”
“Certainly,” Winston nodded. “A ‘second act man’ is a term I coined myself. It describes perfectly a person—gentleman or lady—who has succeeded modestly or even greatly during the ‘first act’ of their life, only to suffer some tragedy during the intermission.”
“Go on,” David prodded.
Shifting in his chair, Churchill took his cigar out of his mouth and used it for emphasis. “Now, most folks—those who are only ‘first act people’—spend the rest of their lives in a slow decline, thinking and talking about what was and what might have been. Very sad.” He paused a moment, then shoved the cigar back in his mouth and puffed it to life again. “I say, ‘Very sad.’ Ha! Very sad for them!”
“But not for you?” David urged with a hint of a smile. He thought he knew where this was going.
“Of course not for me!” Churchill bellowed. “I was a Traveler. I knew the truth about my situation. The tragedy in man’s life is not that he quits; the real tragedy is that he almost wins but never begins his second act! Strong people are sometimes allowed a taste of success—a sip of the good stuff—to whet their appetite for the long haul.
“But there is more to learn . . . more to become. Therefore, after the first act, some of us are given the gift of a vacation in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. There, in that Valley—where all of life’s fertilizer seems to have leaked into a single spot—is where we become more. In the Valley we are allowed to think and brood. We experience loneliness and gain humility. We learn to focus our thoughts on others and not weep for ourselves.
“Then and only then do we gain glorious perspective. And as one Traveler put it, perspective brings calm. Calm leads to clear thinking. Clear thinking yields ideas. And from ideas, we get answers.”
“Then the second act begins,” David said quietly.
“Yes,” Churchill agreed gruffly, moving in his chair a bit as if to shake off the suddenly somber mood. “Yes. Then the second act begins. And the second act makes the first look like so much chicken feed. We are allowed to take the memory of success—the certainty of knowing what can be done—add to it the fertilizer of wisdom and experience and fresh ideas and . . . Well, you are living proof of what happens.
“Or what is supposed to happen. It’s disgraceful, you know, when it goes the other way.” The cigar came out of his mouth again, and he was using it as a pointer. “I’ve seen many a man or woman having experienced the encouragement of success, given the benefit of time in the shadows, only to watch them simply refuse to come out of the Valley! Shocking! And none more surprised than the Almighty Himself! I know! I’ve been there. Seen Him upset about it. It’s a terrible thing.”
Churchill
shoved the cigar back into his mouth and leaned back. He drew on it a few times, but the cigar had gone out. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out an old Zippo lighter and refreshed the flame. Snapping it closed, he said, “Love this piece. Wouldn’t trade it for the moon. One of your boys gave it to me.” He passed the lighter to David, who looked at it admiringly.
“I visited an air base at the beginning of the fight. One of your boys came from Baltimore, Maryland, to train our pilots. His name was Tyler Mason. He was on loan to the RAF. Young fellow gave it to me and said he was going home the next day. Said he wouldn’t dare smoke at home. Said his wife—Helen, he told me her name was; funny I never forgot it—wouldn’t let him smoke.” Churchill smiled. “I called him a sissy, and he laughed.”
Churchill got a faraway look and said, “He never got home to that wife. Captain Tyler Mason. Killed in a Luftwaffe bombing raid thirty minutes after I left.” He paused and reached for the lighter, placing it back into his pocket. David was quiet but watched him closely. “Yes. They were after me. Nazi intelligence had somehow pinpointed my location . . .” His voice trailed off. “I never called his wife. Never wrote either. Too busy . . . or something.”
“I’m sure she’s fine now, wherever she is,” David said.
“Yes. Surely she is,” Winston agreed and took a deep breath. “How did I get on that subject? Oh. The lighter.” He frowned momentarily but recovered, saying, “I was congratulating you on your ‘second act.’ Brilliant.”
“Thank you,” David murmured.
“Second acts can be quite stunning.” Winston stuck out his chin and declared, “Mine was, of course,” which caused David to smile. Continuing, Winston said, “Actually, I’m a bit surprised that there doesn’t seem to be much information about my earlier successes in all the books about me.”
