by Nette Hilton
No horror film rolled. No memories of broken, lost souls. Just shadows, moving gracefully against each other.
This would be a nice study for a painting.
They’d been with him while his body was bathed and rested and fed and soothed by white, clean sheets. His mother. Father. Chaim and little Danya. Others too. So much he had wanted to go to them and let their soft ghostly hands enfold him and the chill of their presence fill him.
He was not taken. It was not his time and they’d smiled and let him go freely. Do not feel bad for us. We will be content to wait.
We are at peace.
Peace.
Anichka was not there and for this he was grateful. She must not be in the army of the dead.
Barney Spence had been to the hospital most days. He was a good man and sat and listened again to all that Oleksander had to say. And Oleksander listened to the story of an old felt rabbit and a little girl who had done so much.
He would not have come here again except for that little girl.
And Barney Spence.
After the hospital and before this place, there’d been a room in Stratford while he convalesced. Another river to walk by. Rocks smooth under his feet.
Sticky Walsh had arrived one day.
‘Struth...’ It was the way he talked. These words that had no meaning. But he’d stood, hat in hand, taking in all that he saw. ‘You’re a bloody sight for sore eyes.’
His jaw was still recovering from the break so it was hard to talk. For this he was grateful. And his eyes still had a look of fear, as if he were hunted. The bruising did not help. That would disappear soon. But the look. The look of a hunted thing, that would take more time.
‘Hello, Sticky Walsh,’ he’d said. Stupid words. ‘I did not expect you.’
Sticky had grunted. ‘You gonna be well enough to come back to work anytime soon?’
This was a surprise. ‘My job is still there?’
‘Last time I looked it was. Bloody great stack of things piling up all over the place with your name on ’em.’
‘I did not think you would want me in your employment.’ ‘You didn’t do anything, did ya? One of the things you gotta learn about this place is that they go off half-cocked. It’s a bloody worry most of the time.’
‘What is this, half-cocked?’
Sticky tried to explain but it was difficult. They’d wandered to the pub instead.
‘So you’re one of them artists, eh?’
It was not usual in this place for men to be artists. Oleks felt himself braced for the mockery.
‘Well, old son. If it was me that was goin’ off down the river to draw I’d be takin’ someone along with me.’ Sticky had looked hard at him. ‘You get my drift, eh? Don’t give ’em anything to get worked up about.’
Oleks had nodded.
‘An artist, eh? You any bloody good?’
He would be good. He would paint his way into this new life by sharing his old one. He would celebrate the dead ones that he’d lost. They would then be part of this new cycle, a constant. A presence for all to feel.
And he would portray the evil who’d killed them.
And he would then be free to paint to the bright white light of a new country.
He turned to the shadows playing with the patterned roses on the wallpaper. Still here, those shadows. A feature of this ‘Charmaine’, the place he never thought to see again.
Another shadow, a movement.
His heart caught in his throat.
She would not come to him but he sensed her joy at seeing him there. Small waves, like the shadows on the wall, reached out to him, and they, too, would be in this new painting.
‘It is very good to see you, my little friend.’
He saw her nod and then the first cautious step. And then she was on him, her arms around his neck and the smell of her and sunlight and wet sand and old seashells filled him as he held her.
‘Oleks Mykola?’ she said as she moved away. ‘What’s wrong? Your eyes are all wet. Are they sore?’
She felt gritty. Tiny grains of sand clung to his face.
‘No, little Miss. They are only sore from not seeing you for so long.’
‘Well, I missed you, too,’ she said. ‘It’s real good that you’re back.’
And then she sat down beside him and the old house creaked a little as it settled about them.
It was good to be home.
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