Solomon's Exile

by James Maxstadt

  Solomon’s Exile

  James Maxstadt

  Solomon’s Exile

  Copyright © 2019 by James E Maxstadt

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2019

  ISBN-13: 9781790470051

  James Maxstadt

  Visit at jamesmaxstadt.com

  Cover art: SelfPubBookCovers.com/Saphira

  To my family, who have always supported my weirdness and sometimes participated in it. And, as always, to Barb.

  Other titles by James Maxstadt

  Tales of a Nuisance Man

  The Duke Grandfather Saga, Part 1

  Duke Grandfather Saves the World*

  *or at least a small part of it

  The Duke Grandfather Saga, Part 2

  Rejected Worlds: A Short-Story Anthology

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  CHAPTER 62

  CHAPTER 63

  CHAPTER 64

  CHAPTER 65

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  The first thing he noticed when he woke up was that the light hurt. It burned through his eyes and into his brain, igniting a fire that wouldn’t go out. This was strange, since light had never hurt him before, no matter how bright. At least…not that he could remember. He screwed his eyes shut, blocking the light out, and slowly opened them again.

  It helped, some. His eyes watered and stung, but he was able to hold them open long enough to adjust, and take stock of where he was.

  He was lying down, shivering, on something hard and unyielding, with his knees pulled up to his stomach. He moved, and the newspapers that were tucked around him shifted, letting in the cool morning air, raising goosebumps on his arms. This was another odd thing…he wasn’t sure that he had ever felt cold before.

  He realized that he was in an alley somewhere, but had no idea of exactly where that was. He only knew it was an alley because of the visual cues around him. The garbage cans, with their lids askew, or missing entirely, lined up in a row against the side of a building. There was a fire escape ladder dangling out of reach, the rusty metal blending in with the dirty, gray brick behind it. There was a runnel of noisome water flowing from a metal dumpster further up the way, running past where he lay, and myriad papers and other trash scattered around. So yes, an alley.

  He had no recollection of how he had come to be in this alley, or why. Was he homeless? That didn’t feel right, although as he probed at that thought, he felt a keen sense of loss, so maybe he was. Perhaps he had recently lost his business, or his home, or his wife, or…but no, that wasn’t it. He didn’t know what it was, but it wasn’t that. Something was gone though, something important.

  If he couldn’t remember how he had come here, then perhaps he could start with who he was, and work his way from there. He pushed himself into a sitting position and put his back against the green metal dumpster he had been sleeping behind. It shielded him from the street at the closest end of the alley, and was still some distance back from the other end.

  He felt strangely calm as he realized that he had no memory whatsoever. Not who he was, or where he had come from, or why he was here now. He would imagine that that thought should send panic through him, but it didn’t. Instead, it felt like a mystery to be solved.

  He looked down at the shabby clothes that he wore and couldn’t even tell what color the pants had once been. Now, they were just filthy, covered in grime and turned a mottled grayish brown color. His shirt was a dirty, blue t-shirt, that had seen better days. On his feet were a pair of torn old sneakers, one of which was coming apart and had been tied back together.

  He looked at his hands and his legs, and saw how filthy they were, as if he hadn’t bathed in a long time. Some of the atrocious smell wasn’t from the alley, he realized. Some of it came from him.

  He knew that in order to figure out who he was and what was going on, he needed to concentrate, focus on the problem. He sat up straight, back against the dumpster, ignored the smells, and the sounds of the city, and closed his eyes.

  Breathe. Stay calm. Focus.

  He repeated this mantra several times, doing as instructed, his chest rising and falling with each deep breath.

  What did he know? Name?

  He considered. It was something…with an S in it…he remembered that. Francis? No…it started with an S, he was…and it was an old name … Saul? ... Simon? .... no … Solomon?...no…

  Wait, yes. Solomon. That was it. His name was Solomon. He smiled slightly, eyes still closed.

  Now he knew one thing. He had one piece to the puzzle. He was Solomon. Solomon what though? That proved more difficult, and no hint came to his mind. Where his last name should be, was simply a blank space, as if he had never had one. But that made no sense, everyone had a last name. Was Solomon his last name? No…that wasn’t it either.

  Move on. Family?

  Yes…there was family, but…not like a traditional family. He opened his eyes and watched as people walked by the far end of the alley. They weren’t like them; whatever his family was, they were different.

  His hands went to his face, tugged on the greasy whiskers hanging from his chin, ran over the prominent nose, up through the unkempt tangled hair. He pulled a strand forward trying to see it. No luck, of course, and he realized he had no idea what color hair he had. Still, he knew enough to know that he looked like all the others that he saw walking by, but also knew that he was somehow different.

  Was he an alien?

  That thought made him chuckle, which quickly threatened to turn into full-blown laughter. He suppressed it, afraid that if he started, he wouldn’t be able to stop, and down that road, he knew, lay madness. Despite his outward calm, he was starting to feel like he was barely holding it at bay. Giving in to it was a one-way ticket, and he couldn’t do that.

  But what if he already had? Maybe that
was why he couldn’t remember anything except for being named Solomon.

  He didn’t feel mad. And yes, he knew the old saying about crazy people never knowing they were crazy. But he knew it wasn’t normal, or socially acceptable for that matter, to be filthy, and to sleep in an alley next to a reeking dumpster that you hardly noticed because of your own stench. He knew that there were other memories to be discovered, things he was missing. If he was truly mad, would he know all that? He didn’t believe so.

  Onward, then. What else did he know? He closed his eyes again, controlled his breathing, and considered.

  Nothing. He knew nothing other than that his name was Solomon.

  He opened his eyes and checked his pockets, the inside of his shirt, and in his shoes. There was nothing there that would tell him anything else. He didn’t even have socks on.

  He rose to his feet, vaguely surprised at how easily he did so.

  He had slept the night on the cold concrete of an alley, and by the feel and looks of his raiment, (raiment? Where had that word come from?), he had been on the streets for some time. Why then, did he feel so good? He didn’t feel overly hungry, or weak, or have any great desire for alcohol or drugs, or feel that he had overindulged in either of those things.

  He should feel worse, shouldn’t he?

  If he could only remember.

  He looked to the end of the alley again. That way led to city streets, with cars, buses, and delivery vehicles passing by. People were walking rapidly in both directions on the sidewalk, with places to go, people to see, and jobs to get to. There was nothing that drew him to go that way, knowing that he would only garner stares of pity and disgust.

  He stood and looked around the dumpster to the other, closer end. There was more of the same in that direction, but beyond the street at the end of the alley, was green. There was grass, trees, and flowers carefully planted in beds that lined paths winding away. There were people walking along those paths, while others were jogging, or sitting on the benches that were placed in between the flower beds.

  He knew he’d get the same type of looks from people that way, but the green drew him. He wanted to be among trees and feel grass on his feet. That was where he was supposed to be, somewhere with growing things, not here in this alley, or in this city at all.

  That feeling hit him so powerfully that he had to lean against the dumpster that he had yet to move away from. Wherever he had come from, it was green and growing, and the feeling of loss that he had experienced before returned. But now it was heartbreaking, it felt like a hole where his heart should be. It was enough to make him weep, although he still didn’t remember what it was he was weeping for.

  After a few minutes, he decided that enough was enough. He wouldn’t find any answers staying in this wretched alley, so he hesitantly stepped out from his shelter and shuffled along to the end. He paused before leaving, already noting the carefully avoided eyes of passersby. He wished he could tell them that he wasn’t going to ask them for money, or assault them with end of the world prophecies. He only wanted to reach the park.

  There was a traffic light in front of him, and he waited, along with other, cleaner people, for it to turn red, and crossed with them, his eyes focused on his destination. He ignored those around him, as they ignored him. He wound his way along until he reached the trees, and then stepped off the path and up to them.

  The day was warming, and he felt a little calmer now that he was near the green. He sat down against the tree, feeling the rough bark through his thin shirt, but enjoying the sensation. For a long time, he simply sat, watching people make their way through the park, some with an obvious goal in mind, others simply enjoying the day.

  Solomon had no plans for what to do, or where to go. He had no idea what he would do for food, or where he would spend the night. At the moment, he was content enough where he was. If he had to be lost, and in this city, rather than home, (wherever that was), then he could at least be among the trees.

  He settled back and looked up. The leaves fluttered and moved in the breeze, as he watched the squirrels run through the branches, chasing one another and the birds that landed, then flew off again, on mysterious errands. As long as he could do this, he could be content.

  Maybe he was crazy.

  He wasn’t sure how long he sat there before he heard the scream.

  Solomon wasn’t even aware of jumping up, but he was running in the direction that the scream had come from. It was an automatic reaction to the sound of someone in peril.

  He came around a curve in the path, to a large lawn where people were sitting out, enjoying the sunshine or playing games. On the path was a young woman, who had come with her small children, a boy and girl, and it was she that was screaming.

  In front of them was a huge dog, emitting a palpable sense of menace, snarling and slowly moving closer. Others were up and yelling, but no one had approached the massive beast. It had mangy, dark gray fur, and a long snout. Its lips were curled back to reveal huge, bared, teeth, and saliva dripped from its jaws.

  Solomon didn’t hesitate but ran in front of the woman and her children, putting himself between them and the dog. The dog snarled louder, but stopped approaching and began pacing back and forth, its eyes fixed on Solomon.

  “Go on!” Solomon yelled at it. “Get!”

  The dog didn’t, and its pacing brought it closer to him. He felt the woman behind him start to move away.

  “Don’t,” he hissed at her. “If you run, it will chase you. Give me a minute.”

  He turned his full attention back to the snarling beast in front of him. It still showed no signs of running away, and ignored everyone else, its attention now entirely fixed on Solomon. He could see the muscles bunching, and knew, as surely as he knew anything, that it was going to attack.

  “Come on then,” he said, his voice quiet and calm. “You won’t be the first Hunting Hound that I’ve faced.”

  As he said it, Solomon knew it was true. The Hunting Hounds were sent out after certain prey, he remembered. He didn’t know by whom, or why this one was here, especially in a public place in broad daylight, but it had been sent. Which meant it must either be after the young woman behind him, or one of her children. He knew, too, that he had faced Hounds before, and had come out victorious.

  The dog leapt forward and Solomon threw up his arm. Jaws clamped down on it and teeth punctured his skin. He ignored the pain and stepped forward, stopping the dog’s momentum. He reached down with his other hand, grabbed the front leg of the hound and twisted. He felt a pop, and the teeth released his arm as the dog howled in pain, and fell to the ground. It tried to rise, but its one leg didn’t work right anymore, and it stumbled off to the side and fell to the ground.

  Solomon stepped near intending to launch a vicious kick to the things ribs. It lay there, panting, not even trying to rise, and watching Solomon’s approach from the corner of its eye.

  “Go,” Solomon said, feeling that killing the thing would be a dishonorable act. It was merely a puppet, a slave sent by its master.

  The dog dragged itself to its feet, looking at Solomon as if it understood what was occurring. It gingerly put its weight on its injured leg, and then ran unsteadily away. People watched it go, not trying to interfere, as it disappeared though the trees. Solomon could have sworn that it vanished as it stumbled away, becoming less substantial, almost ghost like, but chalked it up to a trick of the light.

  Solomon turned to the woman and her children. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, we’re fine,” she said to him, watching him warily. “Thank you. It came out of nowhere…”

  “It’s gone now,” he said. He smiled at the children, but they sank back behind their mother.

  “Let me give you something,” the woman said, reaching for her purse.

  “No, really. But thank you.”

  He turned and began walking away, aware that several people were staring at him, pointing, and talking in whispers. All he wanted now that he
knew the woman and her children were safe, was to return to his private spot under the trees.

  A few people trailed after him, calling him a hero. He smiled quickly, but kept walking, his head down. Others asked why he had let the dog go, or why hadn’t he killed it, didn’t he know that it would attack someone else? Those, he ignored.

  He returned to the tree and sat back down, refusing to answer any questions and shutting his eyes to block out the sight of people staring at him. After a bit, they became bored and went away, and he was left in peace again.

  Until the mother and her children approached.

  “Please,” she said, placing a sandwich and a can of Coca-Cola on the ground beside him, “at least take this. I don’t know what else to do.”

  Solomon looked down at the sandwich and then at the woman. It was a kind gesture and shouldn’t be rebuked.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  She nodded, smiling sadly at him, took her children’s hands and walked away. The small boy looked back at him and shyly lifted a hand. Solomon waved back.

  He spent the rest of the day under the tree, eating the sandwich and drinking the Coke when he felt hungry and thirsty. His arm hurt where he had been bit, but that faded as the day went on. When night fell, he expected police to come through the park and chase him away, but none did. He’d been surprised when no-one had come to question him about the dog, but they hadn’t done that either.

  Finally, he lay down and closing his eyes, fell into a deep sleep.

  The trees towered around him, soaring into the clear night sky. The fountain bubbled and splashed, throwing up a mist with rainbows sparkling in the light of the lamps. There was music everywhere, shapes gliding along in time with it. There was a warm hand in his, and he was gliding along as well.

  The hand slipped from his, and the trees swayed in a breeze that grew into a wind, and then into a tempest. Cold rain fell from the sky and the music hit a discordant note and stopped. When he turned, the fountain was frozen, the water still.