Mythangelus

by Storm Constantine

  ‘Welcome home,’ said the Dream-Catcher.

  Change of Season

  He only ever saw the seasons change from the inside of trains. Now, the summer was fading into that frowzy, tired sort of interim period - the Earth masquerading as overdressed and sadly declining middle-aged woman - before a brief spurt of harsh colour led the unforgiving winter in by the nose. The land rushed by beyond the dust-veiled window, and he rested his head against the glass. The urge to travel, to devour the miles, was fading inside him, as the colour faded from the land. Soon, he knew, it would diminish beyond recognition and he could settle down for a while. But first, a final roaming into unfamiliar territory; a time to step down from the train, vacate the arteries of the body, investigate the organs themselves.

  The station was small, air cold and ripe against his skin. It seemed the summer had left the north already. He was the only person to get off the train in that place, and was given a sour up-and-down glance as he surrendered his ticket, by a gaunt, inbred-looking individual skulking in the inspector’s booth beside the station gateway. The traveller did not bother to smile or speak. As he sauntered out into the empty street beyond, adjusting his backpack for comfort, a familiar sense of unreality stole across his senses. These are cardboard buildings, cardboard props for a second-rate drama. He walked towards the sun where it was high in the sky, a solitary figure in an uncluttered scene. He felt as if this was the ending of something, not the beginning. He would walk away out of existence. Yet his boots made a solid, satisfactory sound against the road and his flesh felt real and comfortable about his bones. He was a good performer.

  It was not really a town, more a village, and a forgotten one at that. The sense of history was faint, although he was aware that people had lived in this place for many centuries. It had never witnessed any events of importance, he was sure, being no more than a receptacle for a few mundane souls who sped from womb to grave with less purpose than animals, or perhaps, he thought charitably, the same purpose as animals. The place looked empty, but he knew that, had he walked in the other direction, he would have come across the heart of it: the lone, under-stocked supermarket, the row of pubs, a small cinema showing films considerably out of date. This conviction was not the product of some psychometric skill, but merely a familiarity with towns of this type. You had to look hard for the romance in this country. Abroad, little towns seemed to possess a bustling other-life, like insects below the grass; there were often mysteries to uncover, mysteries that could be cherished like gems unexpectedly discovered in a rock that had seemed uniformly grey. Here, the social structure demanded a different kind of behaviour - upright, polite, mannered - but that usually meant the mysteries, when they were coaxed from hiding, were all the more delightful and perverse.

  He wanted to walk out on the moors - there was little to interest him in the town - and sniff the air for exciting perfumes. There might be a solitary stone manor squatting in the furze, where deranged family members feuded with sanity. There might be a cottage where a love-sick desertee mulled over the painful intricacies of their past. There might be a farm, with buxom daughters and leery sons, where a traveller might weave a little mischief for a while. The moors seemed the proper setting for such scenarios. If he walked, he was sure to find something to pass the time. The richness and variety of the human race enchanted him; he was not repelled by weaknesses or failings and was tolerant of most behaviours, even the least endearing. In fact, difficult people interested him far more than those whose conversations and ideas inspired the spirit, or whose physical beauty constricted breath in the throat. He sought out the unusual, observing behaviour with cool, yet committed interest.

  He had been travelling for many years, and had lost count of the exact figure. He had visited most countries where it was easy to gain access, and several where it wasn’t. He wore a wide-brimmed hat that shadowed his eyes, shutting out the history of the world, if not his own history, to the casual observer. Sometimes he would play the role of enigmatic stranger, dark and impenetrable; at other times, he would be the world’s fool, the travelling jester, and at these times, he might play an instrument or tell stories. Some countries reacted more favourably to this persona than others. In England, he observed the code of reticence and became the withdrawn one, the stranger on a train. Few people sat next to him on his travels, but those that did he generally wanted to communicate with. Now, at least for a while, he wanted to feel the bones of the planet beneath his feet. He would walk the moors and see what the future exposed to him, or exposed him to. He was never frightened.

  It was a moist country, rich with the fecund smells of earth. Hills swelled towards the horizon, punctuated by the moving pale dots that were sheep. The sky was a high, bleached blue, and once out of the town, a waspish wind scoured the land. The traveller walked in an appreciative daze. He had a feeling in the sinews of his flesh that something intriguing would soon be offered to his senses. He saw some people with dogs striding through the heather; he heard the pixie call of excited children. The polished hides of parked cars burned in the distance, winking glares where they caught the sun. These things did not call to him. He was aware of the timeless ambience of this land. Perhaps the things he saw and heard were simply ghosts, or echoes, of high summer that would fade into the approaching cold.

  He found a cluster of houses nestling in the cupped hands of a valley. The road that led to it was hewn into the land itself, its high banks thick with seeding grasses. There was a deep, loamy smell, as if some elemental creature was breathing hard beneath the soil. He came to a crossroads where a black and white sign pointed towards the houses and said, ‘Little Moor’. Little more than what? wondered the traveller, smiling to himself. The other roads, it would seem, led to nowhere.

  The houses of Little Moor surrounded a small post office and general shop, as if they had been drawn against their will to this lone node of communication with the world. Nearby, a white building protected the rise of a hill, and there was a sign to proclaim it a boarding house and inn. Shiny cars were parked outside, beneath an ancient monkey puzzle tree. Whenever possible, the traveller avoided the comforts of official hostelries, preferring to inveigle his way into private homes where there was more to enjoy. He liked a captive audience. Still, it was sometimes necessary to patronise the gathering spots of any community he visited, in order to strike up acquaintances. Picking his benefactors wisely, he seldom had any difficulty in securing lodgings. Women were intrigued by him, although the most subtle often hid this, and men considered him a ‘character’ who was interesting to talk to. Children, he resonated with on a completely different level - their own - so he was also popular as an avuncular entertainer. His personality was entirely unthreatening, despite his air of mystery.

  As a preliminary investigation, the traveller went into the post office to purchase a soft drink. The interior of the shop was stuffed with merchandise of the most unlikely variety. A mature female in powder and cardigan held court behind the old glass-topped counter, and there was a squinting crone sitting on a stool next to a bead curtain that obviously led to the living quarters. The silence caused by his entrance suggested these two had recently been involved in dispute; it was more than the cautious silence reserved for strangers. The post mistress looked at him hard, ready to purse her mouth into disapproval, so he took off his hat and smiled. She visibly smoothed herself.

  ‘Shut the door!’ said the crone. ‘Open doors let the air in.’

  ‘Mother!’ said the post mistress, in tolerant embarrassment as the traveller shut the door more firmly. ‘What can I do for you, sir?’

  The traveller voiced his requirements in his most velvety tone. He was charmed by the fact that the thick green bottles of sweet refreshment were stored in the cellar to keep them cool.

  ‘Won’t keep you a moment,’ said the post mistress, dodging through the bead curtain, with an owlish backward glance that he guessed was meant to be sultry.

  A stillness descended into
the shop and the traveller could hear the low buzz of a motor-bike far away. ‘Don’t get paid for this!’ said the old woman unexpectedly. The traveller smiled at her enquiringly. ‘I count the post,’ continued the woman, ‘count it all, every one. No pay for it.’

  ‘Oh.’ The stillness became rather stiff. Did it really take this long to fetch a bottle from the cellar, he wondered? Perhaps the post mistress was applying a further layer of powder to her nose for his benefit.

  ‘Here she comes,’ said the old woman. The traveller thought she meant her daughter, but the door opened behind him and another customer came in. ‘Hello dear!’ said the old woman, in a tone of some affection.

  It was a girl, maybe seventeen or eighteen years old. She carried a large wicker basket which was hung over one arm and pressed tightly against her body. She wore a long dress in a faded floral print and scuffed sandals. Her arms were bare and, he could see, rather scratched, as if she’d been playing with a boisterous kitten.

  ‘Hi, Mrs E,’ she said, and put her basket on the counter. She gave the traveller only the shortest of inspections. Here she comes, indeed! he was thinking. This was the lure, the gem in the heart of the rock, he was sure of it. After years of practice he could sniff out items of interest very quickly. Her long, abundant hair was the most beautiful shade of dark red; probably dyed, but enchanting nonetheless. Her face, admittedly, was plain, but her eyes were wide and contained the hidden shred of ‘otherness’ he had trained himself to spot.

  The post mistress breezed through the curtain, clutching the bottle the traveller had ordered, her mouth pasted with a fresh gout of thick red lipstick. She smiled airily at the girl. ‘Hello, Lily, love,’ she said, and then redirected her attention to the traveller. ‘Staying in Lil’moor, are you?’ she enquired brightly, as he counted out his change.

  He couldn’t help smiling at the unintentional pun and was tempted to answer, ‘Well, I will if she’s amenable,’ but opted for, ‘It’s a lovely spot. I hope to stay here, yes.’

  ‘We get a lot of tourists,’ said the post mistress. ‘Where are you staying? At the White House?’

  ‘I haven’t decided yet.’

  ‘There’s no decision to it,’ said the girl, quite coldly. ‘It’s the only place for tourists around here.’

  ‘In that case, my mind is made up,’ said the traveller, putting the bottle into one of the pockets of his long coat.

  ‘Want me to open that for you?’ asked the post mistress.

  He shook his head. ‘No thank you.’

  ‘You’re not one of those people that use their teeth, are you?’ The post mistress touched her throat provocatively.

  The traveller put on his hat. ‘I always carry a bottle opener with me,’ he said. ‘Good day to you.’

  Outside, he waited for the girl, Lily, to emerge. Of course, she spent considerable time chatting to the post mistress and her mother. He sat down on a convenient boulder and opened up the bottle, swigging idly as he waited. He never wasted an opportunity. He knew, through past encounters, that it was best to act on impulse or else regret at leisure. It was his duty, while roaming the world, to cram as much experience into his life as possible. He wanted to taste every fruit there was on offer, even if it was sour. More than anything, he liked to experience the effect he had on other people.

  Eventually, the bell above the post office door made a muffled ‘ting!’ and the Lily maid walked out into the sunlight. She paused for a moment, and squinted up at the sky. Her basket was laden with tins and she had bought a couple of oranges that had the wizened appearance typical of small store produce kept long on the shelf. When she realised she was being observed, she assumed an almost guilty expression as if she had been seen doing something shameful. She nodded curtly, hesitated with a half open mouth, as if about to speak, and then began to walk away up the road. Once, she looked back. Satisfied, the traveller stood up, threw the empty bottle into a waste bin outside the shop and headed for the White House.

  He would take a room there for a night at least. The interior of the place was all polished dark wood and horse brasses, with a token grandfather clock ticking in the hallway. A noticeboard advertised church activities in the area. He could not remember having seen a church nearby. It was necessary to ring a counter bell for service; clearly the White House was not crammed with business at the moment. A man, ex-military in type, came through from a room at the back. The traveller assessed him swiftly; retired, wife somewhere else in the building, hearty group of local friends, perhaps the father of a difficult child who had grown into a difficult adult. He did not fall prey to the traveller’s charms at all, however well directed they were, and maintained a stiff, unwelcoming mien as his new guest signed the register. The traveller’s appearance was perhaps not typical of the usual White House clientele, and it was likely he’d only been permitted to stay there because trade was slack. The proprietor would undoubtedly prefer to fill his inn with family holiday-makers and respectable moor-walkers. The traveller’s attire and long hair probably suggested untold dissipations to this conventional creature, who would also scorn all males who had not enjoyed army life at some time. Enchanting delusion! The traveller envisaged many interesting encounters would be had with the landlord; his name was Mr Eager.

  ‘Dinner at six thirty!’ he said. The traveller imagined a peremptory gong would be rung at that time, and woe betide the listless guest who ignored its summons.

  His room was comfortable, if not a little too flouncy. Mrs Eager would also be flouncy, of course, for the decor was her signature. The traveller would strike up a friendship with her, to the disgust of her husband. The traveller wondered whether the Lily maid ever came to the White House. His first impression of her suggested she was not the type to drink out in pubs. Once he’d made the acquaintance of Mrs Eager, he might be able to find out.

  At six-thirty, he presented himself downstairs just as Mr Eager was about to bang the anticipated gong with a little felt-covered hammer. He nodded cheerily to the landlord who, surprisingly, went quite red about the neck and face. The traveller wore new black jeans and an open-necked black shirt, which revealed the white hollow of his throat, the place where it looked as if someone had gouged a hole in the soft, bloodless flesh with a knuckle. His long hair was tied firmly back at the neck and he had willed himself into a pleasing state of suave, groomed, aristocratic vagueness. He defied the landlord to call his appearance disreputable; he would be faintly patronising with the man tonight, as a lesson.

  After dinner, during which he had made a point of ingratiating himself with Mrs Eager, (who was all that he had decided she should be), the traveller took a pint of beer out into the White House garden, and sat against a wall where a late-blooming lilac hybrid exuded its scent behind him. Gradually, as the evening thickened, other guests drifted outside to sit at the wooden picnic tables, and locals also began to arrive. Car doors slammed, a few children made an appearance. Then, there was a glimmer of white, and the Lily maid herself walked into the garden, dressed in pale cotton and wrapped in a fringed, woollen shawl. She sat down alone at one of the tables, and self-consciously fiddled with her hair, kicking the bench with her feet.

  Delightful! thought the traveller, how unbelievably opportune! He had not imagined she would come this close to him so soon, although he knew the seeds of interest he’d planted must have taken root, and wondered whether he should approach her right away. No, perhaps a minute of two of observation first... He watched her, savouring the moments before contact was made. She seemed so fey, so fragile, almost awkward. Once or twice she nodded and smiled at people she knew, but no-one made a move to join her. A moth fluttered above her head, and, for a moment, landed on her hair. The traveller shivered with anticipation.

  Presently, a young man came out of the White House, carrying two full glasses. He sat down beside the girl and placed a drink in front of her. They did not speak, but simply sat there, side by side, looking into the dusk. The traveller suppressed a frisson of
annoyance, even though he’d known it was unlikely the girl would be alone. Her partner was hardly more than a boy, pallid and scrawny, his hair unkempt and the starved curve of his jaw like a blade. He wore old, frayed jeans and a huge, shapeless jumper full of holes. He and the exquisite girl lifted their glasses in unison, drank, did not speak.

  The traveller had finished his beer. He stood up, cradling the empty glass, and walked towards the lit garden door of the pub as if to purchase another. Just as he was within reasonable speaking distance of the Lily maid and her companion, the girl began to say something. He could not hear the words, but the boy nodded distractedly.

  ‘Hello there,’ said the traveller, and they both turned their heads in his direction. He smiled and gestured towards the pub with his glass. ‘We meet again!’

  At this point, if there was no sign of welcome, he could carry on walking without loss of dignity. The girl frowned at him, and then smiled wanly. She leaned towards her companion and began murmuring in his ear, dismissing the traveller from her attention.

  The traveller walked past without pausing and went into the bar. He did not feel annoyed, only mystified. He employed a careful choreography when intruding into people’s lives and yet, on this occasion, it appeared his first movements, which were often the most devastating, had somehow failed to arouse. He was puzzled by this, and checked his appearance in the mirror behind the bar. Mrs Eager, oblivious of his mood, was happily chatting into the air around his body as she filled his glass.