Bridge

By the time he got back down to the town centre it was just gone seven o’clock. The hours had passed by quickly in his attempt to document evidence about his journey. The smell of a fish and chip shop on one street corner punctuated the air around the churchyard, this combined with an aromatic scent from a curry house and cheese and oregano from a pizza takeaway. These cruelly taunted his sense of smell and brought on hunger once again, but it was a long walk back to the refuge on the hill and what remained of the pheasant. Better to try and find something to eat in town if possible, but where and how was a massive problem to overcome. There was no water fountain and on exhaustive investigation certainly no drop in cafe.

“These people seem overrun with prepared meals! don’t they do any cooking themselves!” was his report whilst sat in a quiet corner of the church yard, the only piece of ground now catching the last few warming rays of the evening sunshine.

He had hoped to venture inside the church itself and take refuge for a while, perhaps make use of any refreshment there, but the doors were locked firmly shut and bolted as well. It was as if the clergy were under siege, for to add to the denial of entry at the front, the beautiful stained-glass windows were also covered with a wire mesh framework as if to defend from some form of abuse or attack.

The wooden bench offering him support did more than just that. It offered hope as well, for on it an inscription referred to some deceased church member. This benefactor had bequeathed the seat at his parting. “So although this world must be in turmoil of some sort” he whispered quietly into his mobile, “there must be some good people somewhere.” After the entry he took a few snaps of the religious stone building being careful not to appear too conspicuous in the task.

All hope truly depended on eleven o’clock tomorrow. Mac silently lipped a prayer and asked for a safe return back home. But what to do in the meantime? The streets were beginning to busy up, and the noise from the pubs was increasing. He felt out of sorts, awkward, ill at ease with himself, annoyed even. He had naively imagined walking into a public house, sitting in a quiet corner and reading the newspaper which was still tucked in his back trouser pocket, but looking at the groups of people gathering and drinking outside the pubs told him for some reason he would not be able to do that. Besides the noise coming from within the buildings negated any chance of a quiet corner to reflect and read.

On his return from the hills he had made a decision not to offer any greeting to people on the streets and see if they acknowledged him instead. The experiments findings chilled him. No one had given him a second glance, good for this predicament, but it still saddened his soul. He might as well be invisible. The thought sent a quizzical expression across his face. Then he remembered the old man with the dog and the lady at the house. They had seen him, spoken to him.

Perhaps it was the unfamiliarity of the place which threatened, but no, he had never felt the same in any new visit back home. No, it was definitely not the town, more the people. Granted he was alone, friendless and adrift, but the townsfolk seemed so partisan, uncaring of any charity but what they could reap for themselves.

Selfish! the word finally entered his mind. A word he had hardly dwelt on in his own life. A word mentioned in histories by the elders when some spoke in evening meets around the board at feastings. Selfish, that was it.
A word meaning far more than he cared to imagine, for by this time tomorrow he may never have to ponder on it again.

The newspaper confirmed once again, for he felt a need to check it, that the date was the same as expected. Yes, day, month and year identical. Only the headlines differed, and what headlines. Some vocabulary was even new to him but the articles soon established the meanings.

War, murders, infidelity, greed. The world he had entered seemed driven by nonsense and insanity. The sooner he left the better. He pondered for a while upon the science of returning. “Will I be able to get back with this paper? That’ll be proof. Can I only take back what I came with? But surely that’s too late to be sensible now because the air I breathe is inside me, the water and pheasant are part of me. How’s this thing going to work?” A cold shiver went down his back and finished on his arms, the blonde hairs there standing on edge. Mac rolled his pullover sleeves down to their full length.

As if to cheer, a family of blackbirds hopped into view. Two light brown chicks, both fluffed up with down, like little balls of cotton wool shadowed two proud parents around on a forage for supper. Their father with his shiny black feathers and yellow beak was hopping about on the soil to encourage them to follow suit and attract some food to the surface. They were having none of it. Instead the two of them chirped incessantly at him, and with beaks opened wide played out the ritual of millennia giving him the signal to care for them. This he did with grub after grub.

Mum on the other hand had found a worm. She was busy on the pathway carving it up into small chick size pieces. Using her beak she cut one way, then the other to reduce the meal in size, and after half a minute of effort took pieces to each of her children in turn. The chicks then fluttered up onto a rickety old bench seat in the far corner of the churchyard and fluffed their feathers to warm themselves in the sun.

For a moment or two Mac forgot. For all the world he could be back at home, sat by the waterwheel waiting for the venison to cook on the barbecue, watching the fledglings in his own garden.

It was not the hunger that sent his stomach racing to the floor. The image of the roasting deer and what that scene meant had done so. Being worried about his own emotions and well being was obvious, but what of Sal and his family, what would they be going through now?

The cascade fell sharply again, like dominoes in a row, a game he used to play with his Gran. A dizziness, almost vertigo like aura overtook him and forced a stall on his wellbeing. The noise from the passing cars echoed louder than ever. Mac lowered his head a little and tried to calm the pounding in his chest by deep breathing.

Then thoughts reclaimed attention. He was six hours late back home. Dad would have ventured out on the trail looking to see if there had been a mishap. All would have endeavoured to raise him on the airwaves and Sal had probably tracked his mobile. It would show a last position under the bridge. What would they think of that, battery failure perhaps, even so, where was he? Sal would be frantic.

What of the baby as well, the stress of the situation might bring on the birth. His head reeled and reeled and followed his stomach down to the ground, racing to be first there. He had to grab hold of the arm of the seat to steady a collapsing body, and having done so took several more deep breaths.

Slowly colour seeped back into each cheek. He could feel it, a warming glow moving wave like up from his neckline to each temple. A whistling in both ears subsided to a dull hum, then a throbbing pulse and finally it dispersed to silence.

The obvious stoop on the bench had attracted no comment, although in the turmoil he remembered observing several passers by on the pavement the other side of a wall which defined the church grounds. Perhaps they had not noticed the bent over figure, so was benefit of doubt still the order of the day? He wondered, but sadly everything pointed to that not being the case. Pheasant beckoned, and with the conclusion that no offer of sanctuary in the town was going to be forthcoming he headed off back for the hills.

Hawthorn

Renew

Churchyard

Macs diary

Going to start and post Mac’s photos as posts but some are in Mmmmm as well.

Wild flower

Later

That’s chapter two started.

2

By late afternoon Mac had reconnoitred the countryside about the town. To his pleasant surprise finding ways over the surrounding hills and valleys was much the same. The altered position of the paths and dry stone walls, a few in a state of disrepair, made some routes different however. The town itself nestled in an identical location but it encroached more on the greenery, taking no account of wildlife or nature it would seem by the haphazard planning and building. There appeared to be no provision for recreation or enjoyment either, and he wondered whether the population factored time into their lives for rest. It certainly appeared not by the way they rushed about the place, be it on foot or in noisy vehicles.

Certain aspects of the walk had favoured the eye and mind alike. Sheep and their newborn lambs frolicked in the field, bleating for milk and reassurance alike. Lapwing diverted any attention from their ground level nests by circling around and calling a shrill tone from a place far removed, and cows grazed their way through green fields. One bull and cow in particular had payed him more attention than desired. Laid down by a stile the pair had refused to move and let him by, and in negotiated a way around, the stocky bull had growled slightly. He could almost be back home.

Almost, but not. Other oddities bothered him immensely, and one in particular. Dispersed all about the valleys and slopes, whichever view was taken from the high roads he had reached by mid afternoon, were occasional fields of an indecently bright yellow crop. These shockingly intruded on the subtle green and amber of nature itself. It hurt the eye to look on them at times, when the sun shone from the opposite direction. To add to the grief a lot if this offence was instead of lush green forest. If any one thing confirmed his wrench from one place to another this luminous array did just that.

He had started to keep a diary on his handheld and take some photos as well. Goodness knows nobody would believe the story on his return if there was no evidence to back it up. Also tomorrow, at the same time of his passing, as that is what he decided to called it, he would attempt a return back home. By reversing the steps through the bridge, trains permitting, a way back might be achieved.

His first audio entry was spoken quietly, as if to whisper a secret. “This is no dream, I feel so awake, so excited, and dreams can’t possibly go on so long. It’s not a coma either. I’m so aware, with pinpoint accuracy, not wandering in and out of sensations, but I’ve never awoke from a coma so don’t know.”

All afternoon that same, dull background humming sound had not ceased, even outside the town limits. In the blue sky however, an explanation for the odd straight white lines of cloud presented itself. It was from aircraft, presumably burning some kind of fuel which polluted the atmosphere with a criss-cross patchwork betraying their flightpath.

Like his own town, the church occupied the highest position. All the roads and development appeared to have radiated out from that point, so presumably both locales had experienced similar growth in early times. But recently this towns history had taken off at a dramatic different tangent, and not one that favoured the habitat.

Amongst the offerings of litter en route he had come across a newspaper left on a gate of all places. It offered a strange and frightening read. He reported as much. “The date, day, month even year have not changed from this morning. The place I am in definitely has though.” A snap of the front page told the same. Having only glanced at a few headlines it had to be enough for the time being, because mid entry, as luck would have it, he had come across some food.

A pheasant, dead on a side road had satisfied his afternoon hunger. Still warm when he came upon it, after skinning and roasting over a small fire the bird’s demise had not been in vain. Why anyone would leave it where it lie though was a mystery. Even more mysterious was the discovery it had not been shot either, so it must have met it’s death facing a vehicle of some kind.

Finding a secluded spot for the feast, was necessary and easy. In defence of being found lighting a fire, not knowing if doing so was an acceptable pastime, he came upon the perfect place within a crag. Running by the outcrop a small stream had nourished him with liquid, drank and kept for later by means of a plastic bottle found floating on the clear, fresh water.

The truth was out really. On reading the newspaper articles and calmly taking in all about it was unfortunately the case that this was another world. He felt extraordinarily alive though, joyous as well, but in awe of the event which had taken place. The theory of other parallel universes was well known and the conclusion that this is what had happened was obvious.

As he spoke there was a tremor in his voice. “I am in a another world, time, universe, call it what you will. Somehow membranes have touched long enough for me to be sent from my time, passed through a portal into this!” The afternoons walkabout was final confirmation. There could be no doubting this explanation on the matter. Whatever discussion or argument, he always came to the same end point.

Along a narrow lane, a very small abandoned brick hut, no door on the jome and housing a dry interior offered a place to bed down for the night if no other possibilities arose. Mac had looked inside and decided that the litter of cans, bottles and paper on the floor could easily be swept aside to give him a surface to sleep. He felt more at ease knowing this would be somewhere to spend the night. A photo of the hut was one of many images captured.

“Not that it looks like rain but I would rather have a shelter than not. If I’d known this was to happen I would’ve brought a haversack and sleeping bag along!” he joked in the log. “The entire passage of seconds, minutes and hours is correct, and all my emotions are normal whatever that means now. No, the only possible, sensible scenario could be one of science and not imagination.”