The Lord of Always

by David Brian

  I shook my head. “What has this got to do with your wife dreaming of passenger planes? Or machines at war with men? Hell! Putting all you are saying aside, what the heck are those flying flashbulbs I encountered today?”

  “Frank, try to imagine being the tiniest droplet of water, adrift on the surface of an infinite ocean. Each point of this ocean exists as a possibility and place in time and space and creation. Eventually, this droplet, which is you, will evaporate. Imagine this as death if you will, this droplet of water evaporating, drawn up toward celestial clouds, where it will plead for admission at heavenly gates. Though, rather than gaining admittance, it is far more likely to reside in the ether, until such time as it rains down to once again become one with this ceaseless ocean. Consider this: when these drops, these pleroma – which you would call souls – fall, they may end up at any location within this great ocean, or at any depth. Humankind likes to talk of a soul, and to imagine heavenly reincarnation, it always has. Although they tend to miss some very important points: people may be reincarnated to any moment in this thing we call time; they can be reincarnated to any point of reality – cast adrift on a ceaseless ocean of opportunity, and there is no guarantee they will even return to a point of humanity, at its deepest core there is no difference between a dog and the flea on its back, or a lion and the bison it brings down; you need to understand, it is only location which separates earliest man from super-smart machines that will one day rule the universe, or alien civilizations so advanced you would consider them gods.”

  “So you’re saying I could die and be reincarnated in ancient Rome…or as a Martian invader?”

  “Well, it’s been eons since the last of the Martians visited this rock. But, in theory, yes, this is exactly what I am saying. Two thousand years in the past, or a thousand years in the future. It’s all the same.

  “I’ve never given any thought to reincarnation, but now that I do; wouldn’t being reincarnated into the past change some aspects of history?”

  “Of course. Though time is far from the linear route men of science proclaim. This will sound like a contradiction, but time is a constant with every event that has happened – or will ever happen – existing simultaneously; and time is also fluid, as is every other aspect of existence. Ergo, and contrary to what the new age of scientists currently teach, an event happening today can just as likely impact something which happened forty years ago. Remember: an ocean of possibilities.”

  “Ridiculous!”

  “You think so? Imagine time as a housing estate, which you are traveling through in your car. Each house being an event experienced as you move on by it. Now try to imagine one of these houses suffering a disastrous gas leak, resulting in an explosion. Debris from this house will fly in all directions; in this scenario it will impact the past as readily as it does the future.

  “Okay, supposing you are right, this is all still bat-shit crazy. And it doesn’t explain how two days ago you were living in Northampton, and now you have an identical cottage down here in the countryside?”

  George smiled. “It may be two days to you. To Molly and me, many lifetimes have been shared since our time in Northampton.” He gestured toward his wife. “Endless choices and possibilities exist for each and every soul, but we two love it here in Boscastle. We love this place. We adore this life; and this beautiful woman before you enjoys being Molly Smoke. This is the ninth time we have lived in this little cottage. Neither will it be our last time sharing this existence. Northampton was just another experience. It was a different lifetime. A different possibility, if you will.”

  “So, let’s just suppose I believe anything you’re saying; who are you? Who are you really, I mean? And what the hell are those things which have my wife? You say Molly… or is it Mary…? Either way, you say she is a reincarnated soul who you trailed through various times and lifetimes, yes? So who are you, George? Who are you really, I mean?”

  His demeanor was unreadable. “I am George Smoke. You know this.”

  “But –”

  “Those things you saw in the woods, and later at Penhale House…for eons, people unfortunate enough to meet them, though rare enough to survive their presence, have mistakenly described them as angels.”

  “Angels? That’s a joke, right?”

  A raised palm once again silenced me. “You know me as George Smoke. Anything else is…irrelevant, at least at this time – and in all likelihood beyond understanding.”

  “I watched you wind back time… didn’t I? That’s beyond understanding…and as for angels?”

  “Frank…they are certainly not angels. As for exactly what they are, the answer to that may come later. For now, though, remember this, I am a friend. This is all you need to keep in mind. I shall do everything in my power to see that Rosalind is returned, unharmed. Do you understand?”

  I couldn’t explain how, but suddenly I did understand. There wasn’t a need for further questions – I had no idea what those things were which pursued us in the woods and back at Penhale House. In fact, I was more confused than ever about them. And, honestly, at this moment I wasn’t even sure if George was truly human…but it didn’t matter – because George Smoke would sort this. I couldn’t explain it, but this man who I doubted may even be human, he gave off an aura of confidence which made me trust him, implicitly. George would do his best to help me save Roz; of this much I was certain.

  “Now, shall we?” he said, rising from his seat.

  I was on my feet before he left his chair. “Are we going back to Penhale House?”

  “Soon,” he replied. “But, secondly, we need a plan. And thirdly we’ll need some supplies with which to deter these obstreperous buggers.”

  “You forgot firstly.” I said.

  “Firstly, lad, we need to get ourselves back out in that beautiful garden and make the most of this glorious sunshine.”

  “We don’t have time for that,” I protested.

  George’s features wrinkled into a grin. “Haven’t you been listening to anything I’ve said, Frank? We always have time.

  Chapter 21

  I sit on the seafront, enjoying the warmth of the sun on my back and the crystal blue of the ocean before me. Seagulls chatter overhead, optimistically circling the young couple seated at the opposite end of this bench seat. The couple is wrapped up in their own affections, snuggling as they share a portion of fish and chips. They do not talk to me; although they cast the occasional judgmental glare. Perhaps they wonder why a man of such advanced years is holidaying alone.

  Why am I alone?

  The thought has barely struck me when I notice the police car slowing to a stop by the curb. The two officers in the car have their eyes set firmly to where we are sitting, and I wonder if the two young lovers have committed some misdemeanor. My shoulders tense as one of the officers exits the vehicle, her compatriot speaking into his radio as he continues observing us.

  The officer has blonde hair and wears a pretty smile; I suspect she is just going to advise the couple not to feed the pesky gulls.

  “Hello, Frank?” She leans in closer to me, and I notice how kind her eyes are, and that they are as blue as sun on the ocean.

  “I’m sorry, but do I know you?”

  “Do you mind if I sit down, Frank?”

  “Of course,” I shuffle to make room on the seat.

  “Thank you. It’s a lovely day.”

  “It really is.”

  “And you’ve been enjoying the sunshine.”

  “Yes. The weather’s gorgeous.”

  “Have you been here before, Frank, or is this your first trip to Weymouth?”

  “Weymouth? This isn’t…”

  “This isn’t what?”

  “This, it isn’t…” I should be in Cornwall.

  “Aren’t you wondering where Rosalind’s gotten to, Frank?”

  The young lovers have stopped eating chips, and their attention is now fixed on the two of us. The concern on their faces is unmistakable.
r />   “Roz? You know my Roz?” How can she know Roz?

  “Yes. Well, we’ve talked briefly. She’s a bit concerned, Frank…worried…that she’s lost you.”

  “Lost me? She hasn’t lost me. She’s probably just idling round the gift shops.”

  “I’m afraid not, mate.”

  I look up to see the other police officer standing over me. His stature is daunting, but his demeanor is personable.

  “What do you mean,” I ask. “I left her looking at the gift cards, so thought I’d come find a seat down by the beach.”

  The policeman nodded. “It seems you’ve wandered farther than you intended, Frank. Roz is still waiting around near the gift shops, in case you come back. I’ve just spoken with her on the phone; those shops are two miles along the seafront from here. She can’t understand how you’ve managed to walk this far under your own steam.”

  “What?” A flash of panic suddenly overwhelms me; it is dangerous in this place, isn’t it? “I need to find my wife.”

  “That’s not a problem,” says the lady. “How would you like to have a ride in a police car?”

  “To Cornwall?”

  She let’s out a solitary laugh. “No. Not Cornwall. We’re in Weymouth, Frank. Rosalind is in Weymouth, too.”

  “Aww, bless him!” says the girl on the bench as the police officers help me to my feet and guide me in the direction of their cruiser.

  I don’t understand any of this. They say they are taking me to Roz, but she is in Cornwall, isn’t she? There is a moment of clarity, and I remember that I am slipping away. Fear grips me: I don’t want this.

  Chapter 22

  Two hours earlier I’d been sitting in George and Molly’s conservatory listening to revelations about the nature of reality… or maybe I hadn’t, who really knows?

  I had reached the point where I was struggling to separate fact from fiction, what was real and what wasn’t. During my time in the army I traveled various time zones, and I suspected I was now suffering a similar form of travel fatigue. The event George previously instigated, winding evening into a bright and sunny afternoon, it had unsettled my sense of equilibrium, at least with regards to the reality of the world around me. I fought against the feeling of distant disassociation, but it was as though I was merely a watcher of events unfolding, just a casual observer of causal happenings.

  The first part of George’s plan involved drinking copious amounts of tea, during which he bemoaned the onset of old man bladder, which required frequent sojourns in the lavatory. The irony appeared lost on him.

  As we left the cottage and headed down into the village, George informed me that these not angels which had taken Roz, were dangerous, though they also had certain flaws, which – with the right weaponry – could be turned to our favor. I found it somewhat bizarre that, in order to fight supernatural predators, he intended we pick up supplies from a village store.

  Even more surreal was George’s proclamation; if we acted swiftly in gathering the items needed, we might make the most of this opportunity and nip into the Cobweb Inn for a quick pint of scrumpy.

  I hoped he was joking, though I wasn’t sure.

  Abano’s was situated directly across the road from the Inn, and although the premises wasn’t large, it was the closest thing Boscastle had to a super-store. Manuel Abano had arrived in the village ten years earlier, and had proven himself to have a good head for business. Manuel had long ago taken to using the double garage connected to the rear of the property for additional storage. If a customer ever needed an item he didn’t stock, he damn well made sure to have it the next time they called. He even managed to import a crate of Barolos in time for George and Molly’s fortieth anniversary party, almost five years ago now.

  George had a lot of affection for Manuel, but still proclaimed the best thing about his coming to England was the attractive woman who had arrived with him. Abrienda Abano was midway into her thirties, and was all dark eyes and olive skin, with a mass of wavy hair stretching halfway down her back. She had curves, but as always seems to be the way with Latin women; the curves were in all the right places. As we entered the shop Abrienda greeted us with a warm smile, and I had to agree Manuel was a lucky guy.

  “Handsome Geeorgiee!” she squealed, with a pitched exuberance. “And you brought a friend; another handsome boy.” Beckoning George closer she reached over the counter and flung her arms around him, in an anaconda embrace. She clasped herself to him with a fervor which wouldn’t have been amiss had he been a much traveled, and now returned lover.

  Georgie reveled in it.

  It occurred to me, if anyone else had called the old fella Georgie he would likely have growled at them or at the very least scowled slightly. Instead, he colored like a strawberry, squirming with equal measures of delight and embarrassment in the warmth of the woman’s embrace.

  I couldn’t help but find the situation endearing – even after many years in England, Abrienda still hadn’t mastered the correct pronunciation of George’s name. What tickled me the most was watching his face redden each time she referred to him as handsome. For someone who had been around as long as George claimed, I guessed he had never spent much time playing the field.

  After pleasantries had been exchanged, which included me also receiving an overly affectionate hug, Abrienda pointed us in the direction of the stacked shelving toward the back of the store. I picked up a wire basket, but George said it was inefficient for our needs. Instead he pointed me toward the flatbed trolleys. I wheeled one through the shop, stopping alongside the mezzanine racks running the length of the back wall. The shelving contained a variety of goods, but George pulled a sizeable box from under the shelf, placing the empty carton on our trolley as he immediately set to loading the container with squeezy-bottles of washing up liquid.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I asked.

  “What does it look like? I’m stacking supplies.”

  “Dish washing liquid?”

  “Did you intend on helping, or are you just going to stand around watching the old fella doing all the lifting?”

  I took my cue and joined in hoisting white plastic bottles into the box. George offered no reasoning for the choice of supplies, and I decided not to pursue the issue. We loaded perhaps fifty or more bottles when George, without notice, pushed the trolley farther along the racks. He started hoisting ten-pound bags of salt onto the flatbed. I joined in assisting him without bothering to ask questions. I doubted I would receive answers, satisfactory or otherwise.

  It wasn’t lost on me that, even though George claimed to have visited the store for more than thirty years, he still required Abrienda’s help in locating the salt and washing-up liquid. I pondered whether his observational skills were always so lacking, but doubted this to be so, certainly when pertaining to items which could be drank, smoked, or read.

  George stretched his torso across the mezzanine in an effort to root out one final bag of salt lodged in the drop between the shelf and the wall, and as he did so a momentary flash dazzled me. The brightness exploded from somewhere beyond the glass frontage of the shop. George saw it too, and we both looked to the window and the street beyond, searching out a cause for the burst of luminance.

  No explanation was obvious.

  George wriggled free of the racking, brushing dust particles from his shirt as he turned to the aisle facing the counter.

  He called out: “Abrienda, did you see what caused that fla –”

  The question died in his throat…

  The guy behind the counter was a beast. Appearing to be as wide at the shoulders as George stood tall – and George was a tall man. The unkempt beard hinted at personal care being a chore rather than a choice, and the hideous monobrow – resembling one of those huge bristling caterpillars – was an all consuming focal point of his features, and one which seemed to confirm my initial observation.

  As it turned out, the man’s huge frame and disheveled appearance presented a more formidable d
emeanor than was justified.

  “What can I do for you, fellas?” he asked with an unexpectedly pleasant manner.

  “What?” George mumbled.

  “Is that Manuel?” I asked. Surprise running through me at the proposition; could a beast such as this man earn favor with the delightful Abrienda?

  “No,” George hissed, through pursed lips.

  It was at this point I noted the shelf behind us. Only moments ago, it stood empty, our having cleared it of salt sacks. Now it was fully laden, stacked with tinned vegetables and salted meats. Furtively I scanned the store, and in doing so recognized obvious changes; several aisles now ran horizontally across the shop, whereas moments earlier each aisle fed directly toward the front of the store. I looked for Abrienda, but she seemed to have vanished.

  “I asked what it is you chaps are looking for. Speak up, fellas. I’m sure I can point you in the right direction. We’re always plenty well stocked in here,” the words seemed to bellow from the jovial man-mountain.

  My thoughts raced: Abrienda had gone. Yet surely, given the affectionate banter she shared with George, she wouldn’t have just up and left without saying goodbye. Besides, it was obvious from my companion’s expression something wasn’t right…

  The guy behind the counter, George didn’t recognize him. This much was plain to see. Yet he was wearing a white shop-coat, and talking as though he belonged in this place.

  George wheeled our trolley to the counter.

  “This is a nice shop you’ve got here, friend. What’s the name of this store?”

  Hearing the worry in George’s voice made my heart sink further. Something was very wrong here.

  “We call it Polly’s. Polly and I have been down here in Boscastle for almost two years now. Business was slow to start, and seasonal of course. But things are starting to pick up now.”

  “Good to hear.” George smiled.

  It wasn’t a convincing smile. Sickness clawed the pit of my gut.

  “What’s going on?” I whispered. George ignored the question.