The Lord of Always
Page 24
I looked to my right, over and away toward the Valency Valley. Its peaks and troughs silhouetted beneath the charcoal skyline, and I wondered why I hadn’t noticed such a splendid panorama during our earlier descent into the village. It occurred to me that something seemed different now. I could have sworn that earlier on this evening there had been a terrace of homes on the other side of the lane, a row of cottages built on the cusp of the incline, buildings which obscured the glorious splendor of the descent into the valley. I shook my head and cursed the scrumpy induced fuzziness affecting my thoughts.
“Are you alright, Frank?” asked Roz, her speech betraying the fact she too was a victim of the powerful Cornish brew.
I smiled and pulled her closer. “Yeah, I’m fine, Tub. For a moment there I had a thought, something running through my head. But it’s gone now, and I’ll be buggered if I can even remember what it was about.”
“Couldn’t have been very important then, Hub.”
“I’m sure you’re right. It was nothing…nothing important.”
Epilogue
It was nothing important. It was nothing important. Those words again, they continue to swim through my brain even as I hear the concern in voices which speak in little more than whispers; even above the sound of the rapid shallow-breathing which struggles to sustain me against the fever consuming my body.
Hearing their voices now is a moment of clarity amid a swirling, turbulent debris of events; the birth of my first child whom Roz and I decided to name Peter, for reasons which had been denied us; the first day of my National Service; the horror of those events in Cornwall; followed by more pleasant fare spent in that coastal village, as lovers celebrating a first seaside vacation; returning from our Cornish holiday to find we had lost a much cherished friend and neighbor, old George Smoke having died, stolen away during the night by an aneurysm. My mind slips further, and I feel both the terror and exhilaration of that first morning as my mother delivers me to the school gates; it seems just the blink of an eye, and then I am enjoying a summer break, exploring the wild tracts and hills of Danes Camp, playing with friends on ground once held by invading Vikings hordes; standing at the bar in the Salon nightclub, my heart skipping a beat as Roz enters, and knowing in that first moment that she is the only girl for me; feeling excitement climbing through my chest as we collect keys to the little red-brick terrace in St. James Place; receiving my army discharge papers, and then relief at finding work as a trainee engineer; holidays spent traveling Britain, and then, in later years touring Europe, seeing the sights in Italy, France, Spain, and numerous other locales. I watch it all, as with each out of sequence memory I change, growing older as rapidly as I become young again; but none of it holds me in fear, because I cling to memories of my Rosalind, like a drowning man refusing to let go the flotsam that gives him hope. All of these jumbled moments and more, bombarding me with a tangled montage of events and emotions; a picture of my life.
Hearing such pain in their whispered worries sears at my heart, it is not right my illness upsets them so; but the sound of their voices, even when tainted by such tremors of grief, also offers me a degree of comfort. Having family by your bedside as you approach your end, it is all any of us can ever ask.
I do not fear my demise.
I welcome it.
Still though, I shall miss my family.
My wife and daughter take it in turns to move closer, each placing the gentlest of kisses on my face and whispering that they love me. They tell me they will return soon.
After they have said their farewells, my son takes a seat at my bedside. He cups my hand within strong fists and I can feel his hurt. I want to tell him not to worry. I want to tell him it will be easier for them when I am gone. I want to tell him I appreciate and love every one of them. I want to tell him I never wanted nor intended being a burden. Mostly though, I want to tell him that as my end-time approaches, I am able to experience more clarity than I have known over the previous few years. But I am beyond any ability to express myself; instead I continue sucking rapid breaths, and I cling to this moment with my boy who I named in memory of a boy who never existed.
Eventually, Peter tells me he needs to go home for a short while, but that he’ll be back very soon. He assures me his mother and Barbs will also return shortly. Then, he kisses my forehead and tells me he loves me, and that he always will. As he leaves I feel a turbulence of memories again rising within me, and I wonder if this rushing assault is the dreaded life flashing before your eyes.
I welcome its approach.
Moments or minutes or hours pass, I do not know which. Time no longer offers any reference. A firm hand closes atop my fingers, and for a moment I assume my son has made a quiet return. Then a face moves close to mine and whispers softly. “It is time, Frank. Are you ready, old friend?”
I have neither the strength nor will to open my eyes, but there is the slightly sweet mix of pipe tobacco on the man’s breath; there is a flicker of fear which runs through me with realization I have reached the end, and then, even through closed eyelids I see the all encompassing white light. I am overcome by the warmth and harmony engulfing me, and I welcome this release.
***
I pause briefly, choosing to take a moment and survey my surroundings, before stepping down onto the station platform and manhandling the over burdened suitcase from the carriage. The yellow sun is still early in its climb to surmount a clear blue canvas, but already its rays are warming the day, and the rising temperature is beginning to suffocate the bustling platform.
I pull a hankie from my trouser pocket, brushing a hand through my hair, and then mopping at beads of sweat forming on my brow.
For the briefest of moments I am overwhelmed with a sense of déjà vu.
This all seems too familiar.
I shake the feeling from my mind as I hear Roz stepping from the train, and I turn to offer a hand of assistance to the woman of my dreams. We have been a couple for three years, but we are now husband and wife. Our future can only be bright.
As I take hold of my wife’s hand, I see her furtively scanning the platform, and I can sense her mind racing as she searches.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Well, this is really weird,” she says.
“What is?”
“I could have sworn I saw George,” she says.
“George?” The name tugs at a strand of something buried deep within me.
“Yes. George. George Smoke, the old guy from the top of the street.”
“Why would he be here?” I ask.
“He wouldn’t be. At least, I shouldn’t have thought he would.”
“Well, where was he when you saw him?” Even as I ask the question I realize something frantic is gnawing my mind. Déjà vu once again touches me, and my stomach churns as though I am about to be confided with the greatest of secrets.
“He was over there.” Roz points toward a building which I recognize as a ticket office, but something draws my eyes beyond the timber construct. Toward the exit steps at the far end of the platform, the sun is still rising in the morning sky, and its rays rest directly behind the tall figure standing at the top of the steps.
The man has stopped to spark a smoking pipe, and as he grips the base of the bowl he turns side on, and I notice the shapely stem of the pipe silhouetted against the backdrop. I blink as my eyes begin to protest looking directly toward the light and, though I only avert my gaze for a matter of seconds, when I look again the figure has gone. A random thought crosses my mind, as I wonder if he was smoking his tobacco from the bowl of a Calabash…
About the Author
David Brian is an internationally published author of several novels, novellas, and short story collections. He writes Mystery/Suspense/Horror and Dark Fantasy. His novels include the Amazon bestseller The Strange Case at Misty Ridge. He is inspired by authors such as Richard Matheson, Clive Barker, James Herbert, Daphne Du Maurier, Lisa Tuttle and Stephen King. A father of four, he l
ives in Northamptonshire, England, with his partner Karen and a Staffordshire terrier named Ralph. Now that the children are adults, he gets to spend more time by the ocean. When he is not writing or reading, you’ll often find him down on the beach, watching seals playing in the shallows along the North Sea coast.
If you would like to connect with David, or follow him on social media, he is active on the sites listed below.
http://www.davidbrianwriting.co.uk/index.html
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