Archive for June, 2011
‘Desperate times, desperate measures, there are some bad people in this world.’ These two sentences kept him company all the way to a stone stile half way distant from the town to the crag. It was a nice place to sit and put the finishing touches to his story and record the ideas in case he forgot any small part of them in the future.
So far the day had been one of beauty and warmth once again, and as he sat thinking of summer days back home could not help wondering whether the temperature of the time of day and season was unusual. For both days spent in this new environment he had never needed his jumper. Apart from the evening and night it had been tied around his waist. Perhaps in going through the time-slip, and even though the dates matched, perhaps the spring season back in his own time and this spring occupied different parts of the year, say a two month shift or so. At any rate he was thankful for the warmer conditions and thought once again on how even in such a devastating turmoil he was lucky to have this help, or call it what you will. The other explanation of course could be his own temperature being elevated, but testing at his forehead dispensed with that argument, and besides he felt so well, under the circumstances.
“So, my name is Mac Hammerton, nothing new there,” he began. “I come from a seaside town called Whitby to the East and I am walking part of the Transpennine Trail. Last year I finished education at Southampton University and am taking some time out to travel the country for a while.”
In command of the fields in front of him was a dozen or so swifts, swooping to catch the afternoon abundance of midges and flies. Their acrobatic display won attention over the task in hand. Marvelling at their prowess and ease of flight he thought on how they fledged the nest and remained on the wing, some for two years, without touching land, they even slept in the air. A couple of them came his way, darting across the green divide likes stones skimmed across water. Just before the boundary wall they looped skyward before returning to the throng in the dale which the stile, stream and grassland occupied.
If the truth would have it he was actually enjoying himself. Making up a story and a new identity was like being a kid again playing at being grown up and pretending to be someone you are not. He set the handheld recording again. “I qualified in graphic design and have not found the work I want yet. My family are farmers, mainly milk, but are finding times hard with the supermarkets controlling prices and such.” Another swift flew past his head. “Two years, without touching land! Hope I’m not that long before I touch mine.” The last comment also went down on record.
The scenery around him could almost be back home, except for the lack of crops growing and the train just passing on the embankment half a mile away. It clattered along with a metallic rhythm but was soon out of earshot. “You wouldn’t hear that where I come from,” he explained to a bee, busy at work collecting nectar from the purple flower of a foxglove. “The trains where I come from are very quiet, as are most things actually.” The additional remark was spoken with a desperate whisper, a longing for a more peaceful way of life he was used to living, not this chaotic haphazard struggle now enveloping him.
What in the world would they be doing now, the family? No word from him for twenty four hours. “They’ll be desperate, Sal won’t have slept.” A rush of fright hit his mind paralysing both legs and arms. The lush green valley took on an aura of not involving him in it, of unbelonging and loneliness. Green seemed greener and blue was brighter in the sky, almost blinding. Even so the colours held some sort of magic about them, strangely hypnotic, trancelike. The display about him held his mind in a vice like grip, every shade vibrating too and fro, he even understood the crackling sound of the growing corn with its greeting for all to hear.
He had read about elders of the old, medicine men who had visions and visited places no one else could, or dare, perhaps this is how they felt. But they employed drugs to get them there, and only rabbit had passed his lips, and fresh water, so he was not about to visit the Gods of old unless they wanted him so badly they were forcing into his mind? Perhaps they were trying to come across and offer rescue?
Mac held tight to the stones he was sat on, his handheld fallen out of his grip into the grass. If he did not he would fall to the ground also. A crescendo of birdsong and that incessant humming sound played with his hearing, he held on more tightly. “Snap out of it.” The words forced a deep intake of breath, filling a body that was about to collapse, saving it from doing so by the very act itself. “Get a grip Mac, come on, otherwise you’ll never get back.”
Otherworldly turned to normal again and a racing pulse from a heart almost off its hanger slowed to something more tolerable. Gradually the minute hand slowed to proper and the scene in view returned to being just as it should. He rolled his head from shoulder to shoulder and front to back in order to abolish the experience and fetch back the day. The movement took effect and a body lost for a time was his once again. Letting go of the granite his white knuckles regained their colour and jumping down from the stile searched the long grass for the handheld.
It was there, but not on its own. Next to it was a tightly folded piece of paper. Mac picked them both up. Unfolding the item brought on a happy and contented moment and a forgetting of the panic minutes earlier. It was currency, twenty pounds to be precise, whatever that was. He knew it was on reading its lettering, but the amount could be worthless, why would someone loose it otherwise. At any rate fortune had favoured the brave, and what fortune, for him to have dropped his unit into the grass at that point. No one would ever have come across the lost item otherwise, not ever. It would more than likely have stayed hidden till it rotted away.
Was someone playing with him? The thought came to him again. Why would he drop his handheld and it land right next to a note of currency? Quickly, but feeling somewhat foolish, he looked around in all directions. No one who could engineer all what had happened so far would be in view anyhow, so what was the point of that endeavour he scolded himself. No, just be grateful for small mercies and get on with it. His Mothers voice came to mind again.
Turning to the task one more time he began to record again. “So I’ve found twenty pounds, going to go and see what it’s worth, hopefully it’ll buy me some food, and perhaps even a bed for the night. Welcome to the economy Mac, let’s see then if we can try and find some better place to stay, the huts ok but if the weather changes it won’t be as comfy I bet.”
A dawn chorus was in full voice outside, lapwings circled about whistling a shrill call whilst crows and the like did their best from trees by the crag. The dark open doorway at his feet when sleep came now showed promise of light and warmth, no rain looked likely by the story the sky told so that was a welcome sign. Could he hope the rest of the day would follow the same.
A pheasant sounded off like a horn to tell of its territory. Mac wondered if he had eaten its mate the night before. Unfortunate if he had, that was nature though, only take what you need and let mother Earth do the sums. Everything had its place in the great scheme of things, and as long as equilibrium was maintained the future was secure.
For all intents and purposes this could be a camping trip somewhere back home, except for the inside of the hovel he occupied. The grey walls of concrete blocks did nothing to cheer, but he was thankful for the hospitality the den had offered. What had seemed like a thorough clean out in the dark however was quite obviously nothing of the sort. The tree branch used as a broom had been useless in clearing the edges of the floor of debris. The pungent smell about the place, worse now that the hut was warming up, was because of this collection of damp magazines, discarded clothing, used food containers and general debris he had rapidly become accustomed to seeing. He had only been a visitor for less than a day but desensitisation had set in. After checking his only three personal possessions were with him, the newspaper, flint and handheld, he vacated the hideaway and made for the crag.
4
The town’s small library offered some time to come up with a cover story for the predicament. It was nothing of a building to look at, just a square, pre fabricated structure with a massive front window, and in fact the day before he had not noticed it at all because of a broad blue metal shutter closed down to the ground as if hiding the secret of the narrow gable ends identity.
Several failed attempts to return home had sloughened him but that emotion must be brought to heel. For a minute or so afterwards he had walked with head down and shoulders dropped, but he soon realised that would not do. In this world unknown he needed to survive, and now for longer than hoped, so what to do was the priority. How not to look out of place, out of time. He laughed to himself at that thought. If only they knew. No one did so far, and that was the way it was going to stay.
Earlier in the day, at eleven o’clock, and every ten minute period after that, in fact up to eleven forty he had tried to achieve a return home by way of the railway bridge. The first attempt, just before a train came along the line, which should have been the same timetabled as the one yesterday, the one which almost killed him, did not work. So next he tried walking backwards under the stonework, then running, crawling, but nothing had the desired effect. Concerned in case anyone might see what was unexplainable, that being a man on a railway track behaving very strangely, he had finally given up and made town by mid day.
A number of things were in his favour he realised. In mannerisms, speech and attire he fitted in quite well, and if the truth be known the towns people had not given him a second glance. Actually they treated him the same as most locals treated the other, with benign indifference. Only the elders seemed to pass greetings with each other and it had been nice when a few had nodded him a courtesy.
Clearly the first thing on the agenda was to read up more on the world he now inhabited. Granted there would be opportunity to repeat the attempt. Perhaps tomorrow, or in a week or months, on some anniversary in the future he might be successful, but that was pure speculation. There may also be some mathematical formula to predict a return, but there was no time to dwell on one at the moment, answers to more immediate questions were paramount.
The newspaper found yesterday had given a frightening insight, but he wanted clarification on certain matters. Also it would help to know the layout of the area, the general geography of neighbouring towns and cities. An understanding of the society itself would not go a miss either, it may give an explanation of why it differed so much from his own. If he was to fit in and survive scrutiny a rapid learning programme was essential. So gathering a few newspapers and magazines to look at in a quiet corner of the brightly lit, poorly furnished excuse for a place of study he looked about for the privacy required.
There were computer terminals, so the society was not at all backwards in technology he concluded, but the hardware was a little crude compared with the ones back home. They could not be accessed anyway as they appeared to be over subscribed with many people waiting in line to use them and oddly at a price.
That was another problem, no money, so that would also need addressing. The sight of the computers though did excite him, for once he had access they would provide more and more help to him, of that he was sure.
There was a coffee machine in one corner of the square single room, by the reception desk. It apparently had to be fed with coins too to allow liquid to flow, this a strange concept, but that was the fact of the matter and he could not do anything about it except remain thirsty.
On awakening he had gone to the stream by the crag to wash, get fresh water and check the snare. He had not had a drink since then, and had hidden the water bottle in a wall, being a bit too large for carrying about town.
Fortune was also still with him for thankfully the snare had caught a medium sized rabbit which served as breakfast. After preparing natures gift using the flint knife to cut off the feet and head, peel away the skin and cut the soft belly to remove the insides, he spit roast it over a small fire early doors so as not to be caught out. The meat had been most welcome though he realised it was not enough of a meal to sustain him. Hunger was competing with thirst now to see which could grab most attention.
There was no obvious sign so he asked a tall figure of a kind faced librarian. “Excuse me, do you have a toilet I could use?” She was busy putting worn books back on shelves that had stood the test of time, shelves which spoke nothing of the knowledge they presumably held.
The prim lady in beige, tweed, two piece pointed to the door. “Sorry, no we don’t. The nearest one is in the doctors two streets up.” She smiled and returned to her duties, placing one title after the other in alphabetical order. He had got used to it by now, but realised there was no further interaction.
“No drink of water there then,” he whispered. On reaching a vacant table by a window overlooking the busy high street Mac took a seat. Sorting the various titles he spread them over the scratched table top, one newspaper, two magazines and a local spreadsheet.
On a well worn, red fabric couch two elderly gents in plain cardigans and neck ties sat talking. Mac could not help but listen in, they were hardly quiet when they spoke. “She’s still waiting to go in for the op.”The eldest of the two shook his head as he explained.
“When you think how much we paid in when working?” the other, more balding and larger gent replied, “all to have to wait to get treated.”
“Pauline’s sister died waiting for a kidney.”
Mac took note but buried his head in the morning paper and began to digest the stories. He so much wanted to talk to them but did not wish to be found wanting.
One title after another captivated him. The same themes as yesterday’s ran the headlines. Turbulence, inequality, greed, and then hunger, despair, disease all rallied for attention. Oddly though these stories seemed commonplace and irrelevant, placed next to other articles concerning fame and fortune, glamour almost. In fact whether the story was good or bad it seemed to be reported and written in such a way as to compete for top news, be it a topic of degradation or promotion, both seemed to receive the same interest.
He was facing the window away from the room so no one so the tears roll from his eyes. The dream had been so real. When Sal had woke him up he had been so relieved, so happy to see her. What fate had torn them apart, why was this happening.
He knew fate, trusted in it, so obviously there was a reason for him being wherever he was, but Sal knew nothing of what had happened. The whole family would be distraught with worry, not able to find any news on him. Could there be any means of connecting with them? The handheld now fully charged still had no signal, and obviously never would. He had tried a signal search this morning but picked up nothing. The frequencies were obviously so different that it would be impossible to connect at all, and even if it did it would not give a line back to Sal. The only conciliation was the support and love she would have from everyone around her so that thought cheered him and he returned to the job at hand and opened the local news sheet.
“There’s going to be trouble soon, you mark my words, when people realise how much the cut backs affect them.” The eldest gent had raised his voice again. Mac had just read about this, cut backs, so he listened in. “They’re not going to stand for paying over and over for pensions, and working longer for less a standard of living.”
“There’s so many out of work though Frank, if an employer knows that they can soon replace so easily.” He had read that too, unemployment, what a waste. Why had this world taken the path it had, how had they become so entrenched in badly managed economics? Who was in charge, how did it work, or not, obviously by the state they were in?
“Greed fella, that’s what’s done it. Sheer greed.” Mac had come to that conclusion too, and he had only be there a day. So if he knew it, the old gent knew it, how had it developed in the first place, and why was no one doing anything about it? Why had this world turned out so different to the one he knew.
In his time poverty, greed, anger were banished to the pages of history texts read in school. The concept of altruism, not that it was mentioned, was the norm, but now he realised exactly what it meant, having spent twenty four hours in a world without. How lucky he was, once he could forge a way back of course.
It was obvious, inevitable, or probable at the least that he was going to have to adapt to certain ways of this new found existence. He had thought of lying, if there was no connection no one would know, but having never known any need or reason to deceive or pretend, these ideas were not in his nature, or of anyone in his world. There was no place for it in his life anyway, and besides what was the point of it when everyone knew, but not here.
A phrase come across in one of the magazines built up an unwelcome confidence in him though, giving a permission to change his outlook, to alter his character to suit the situation. He had read it in regard to an article on the state of the countries economy, the title stated something quite blunt, selfish, and an idea very alien to him, but he made his mind up to adopt the principle if necessary. The headline had read, ‘desperate times, desperate measures’, so as far as he was concerned it fitted this scenario most definitely. So that was the way forward, and it was going to begin immediately, he had enough information for the time being so he left the library in search of the toilet the lady had mentioned an hour previous.
On the walk back to his adopted hideout one observation puzzled him. When leaving the churchyard he had passed a group of teenagers gathered together, sat on what could only be described as two wheeled motor bikes. The lads seemed bent on creating a nuisance by taking up the middle of the road come bus stop with their charges and revving the engines in turn or unison to see which could make the most noise.
To add to the congestion a car was also involved, with two male occupants leaning out of the windows egging on the symphony. A few of the gang had the rolled up paper pastime between their lips, and smoke billowed from mouths every so often. The paper sticks could only be some kind of recreational drug he had concluded, and one obviously not endorsed by the government if the messages on empty packets discarded everywhere were anything to be believed.
“Why would you do that?” he discussed with the diary, “why kill yourself for the pleasure of whatever it gave? Also the bikes! Why disrupt traffic and anger people with obstinate behaviour and down right awkwardness?” He had no time to worry on the event however at that moment, for the countywide beckoned with its beautiful evening sunset and still warm air.
The revving of the engines finally dispersed once he was half way up the hill, the longest shadows of evening accompanying him across the fields, casting elongated projections of trees and walls across an otherwise illuminated green landscape, almost fluorescent in its glow. Finally the guttural engine sound was replaced by something more rural, church bells peeling up practise. Just like home. A tear rolled down his cheek.
Once back at the granite crag, and thinking ahead to breakfast Mac set to and fashioned a snare with some twine and sticks seemingly discarded there just for his purpose. He wondered if someone was actually looking out for him for he did keep coming across items of use in his survival. Was there some higher power playing with him, teasing him. Was all of what had happened some kind of a game he was a pawn within, played out by some being looking on. He wondered for a moment. What had happened to him was fanciful enough, but the last thought was a bit far fetched he decided. Still the idea stayed a while.
An obvious rabbit run, spotted earlier at the base of the rock was the target for the prepared device. He slipped a knot and suspended the string between two twigs over a beat. It was not his preferred method of hunting, but he remembered the technique from childhood camping trips with the ventures.
“Always make sure you are fed and watered,” the instruction he recalled from the leader all those years ago. This idyllic memory swept over him and transported a troubled mind back to its early development.
How the group had enjoyed those trips to the wildwoods, camping for weeks on end, fending for themselves without support of family or the authority. The rows of tents came into focus, nestled beneath old oaks and elm, pitched up by the banks of a rivers bend, with Mayfly on the wing, released from their two years of lava status in the silt beds of the stream, only to take to the air for one day of life. Their obvious delight of hovering in the reflection of the clear water masked any knowledge of their inevitable demise.
One particular memory inspired him on. He recalled the night a few of the pack had gone out to observe beavers maintaining their
lodge, and the industry each animal adopted to cut down trunk after trunk to obtain wood for the purpose. The moonlight had betrayed the whole scene to a hidden set of human onlookers. For two or three hours they had watched, has gradually the wood was toppled, cut and taken by way of the river to where it was used to repair and strengthen the dwelling.
This instinct to survive, to maintain a life crept back to him once again, and reaching under a stone on the bed of the stream he found the remains of the cooked pheasant, wrapped in a plastic bag, dry and cool owing to its method if storage. “Supper was the finest meal if the day!” his grandfather always said. Opening the bottle of water Mac toasted his lost family but did not dwell on the situation. He was tiring and after ripping meat from bone was going to tidy out the hut and sleep. The sun was on the wain now so walking to and fixing up the shelter could be done under cover of the dark.
It was first moon so once the sun set over the hill he would make a move.
An uneventful twilight passed into night and by the time half a dozen bats had navigated silently about the crags and enjoyed their fill Mac was safely inhabiting the makeshift shelter. All the debris now filled the open doorway to discourage any unwelcome visitors and as a sort of intruder alarm if anyone did attempt to venture in.
In tidying the floor he had come across all types of rubbish, newspapers, empty paint cans, old decaying bits of carpet, smashed crockery, broken bottles and very oddly a hypodermic needle or two, one of which had stuck right in the flesh of his right palm. It was not attached to a syringe, but why the vet had not disposed of them properly was just another one of the many new found mysteries. He was coming to the understanding that nothing was beyond surprise in this upturned world which imprisoned him.
The remains from off the carcass and a bottle of refreshing water had served to fill him, not a barbecue, but in settling his hunger the meal had brought on a tiredness. Just as well, because there was absolutely nothing to do whatsoever. The inside of the hut was as black as the fire back and outside the night had taken command. There was no illumination of any sort and he did not want to play on his handheld in case the light attracted attention. It was so definitely dark that even a shimmer might be seen miles away. He did however set a few quiet music tracks to lull him off, but only fifteen minutes worth for the battery was nearly down and he had forgotten to sol charge it, so that was one priority for the morning.
There was an odour about the place, one of compost and debris, but it was clearing now the dust had settled. So it was with hopeful anticipation of the following morning that he curled up in one corner of the concrete floor, a cardboard pillow under his head and fairly rot free rug for a blanket.
Outside the hut a warm unseasonal air held nature in a safe grasp, as it tended lamb and calf alike, no expense spared in the never ending duty of nurture and nourishment. Punctuating the silence a mother sheep would reassure her offspring with a bleat, while farther afield cattle did their best with their newborn.
There was no breeze. All was still and at peace, even the dull humming sound of the day had subsided. No wind in the branches to whisper of nights passed or days to come, even the streams trickle of clear water was out of earshot, masked as it was with the intervening crag. Nothing to disturb the awakened or asleep. A night like countless many before and as many to come, perfect in creation and lacking nothing in wonder.
In the undergrowth surrounding the hideaway a rustling of a hedgehog or rodent disturbed the silence as it foraged for supper. After a minute a snort or two betrayed its true identity. When the small creature had passed by only the ever so slow passage of stars across the heavens gave testament to any observable sign of nature.
3
A gentle ruffling of his hair stirred him. Opening one enquiring eye at a time he saw the smiling freckled face of Sal standing over the bed, a cup of morning tea in her hand. “You gettin up Mac, it’s half eight?”
“Mornin luv,”he could not believe it, finally he had awakened.
“You’ve been having a fun time,”she went on, “half the night you kept me awake with odd ramblings, the other half young junior here kicked and turned!” She rubbed her belly as she spoke.
Across his face the broadest smile ever told of his relief.”I have had the weirdest of dreams.” He rubbed a helping hand across her bump as well.
“The bacon is on, so come and tell us over breakfast.” She kissed him on the lips and then headed off back down the stairs, her lilac dressing gown flapping as she went.
The opening of the bedroom door confirmed her description of the meal, for the smell from the grill wafted into the room. Mac took a deep intake of breath, and blew it out slowly. Just to slay any fear he opened the curtains to look on the stream and waterwheel down in the garden. There it was slowly turning, providing power for the cooking meal in the kitchen.
The next hour was taken up with the usual morning enterprise, and the conversation over the table kept the families attention. Sal, Mum, Dad and Grandma listened intently to the facts of Macs dream.
“Your Grandad could tell you stories told him by his elders of times like those, in the urbans long ago,” Grandma told them. Grandad was already out looking to the sheep, one had lambed in the early hours and had not taken to the new arrival. “One of the tales sounds just like your dream, with no one caring for anyone and the selfishness of folk.” There was that word again Mac thought.
“Yes your right Mum,” Macs mother added. ” It’s the theme running through the histories if you think on it. We never have to dwell in it do we, but that’s how it was.”
“It was like it I believe before something called the backlash,” the silver haired, smartly dressed grandmother of three added. “If you ask Grandpa he’ll tell you. Let him wake first though, he was up till six with the lambs.”
Across the garden lawn Mac could see the crimson curtains of Grandpas bedroom still closed, a smile crossed his face as the realisation set in of the horrible nightmare being only just that. He did wonder though whether he dare go for a morning walk, had the dream been in any way a warning of some impending catastrophe. Breakfast finished with a tidying of the pots, then Mac took to the garden, the sun was out again.
“You going to feed the chickens Mac?” his mother shouted from the kitchen door. “I’ll take the eggs to town.”
“I’ll come too Mac.” Sal had her jeans and sweater on by now. “The bending might ease my backache a bit.” Walking towards the gate into the hen run she had both her hands pressed to the small of her back trying to ease the strain of the pregnancy and the effect it was having on her own body.
The dozen or so hens kept by the family in the free range run of grass and huts was about the norm. Not every household had them, that would be over-productive. No, the balance between supply and demand was important, too few or too many and the system would fail. Like all produce the equilibrium was kept in place with the cooperation of the household, the local council and the authority. From eggs to meat, veg to milk, and much more besides, every effort was maintained to keep the status quo. What would be the point in a surplus when some other commodity could be chosen instead and why waste valuable time keeping an imbalance when it could be used more usefully.
Eggs collected and packaged Mum set off to walk the half mile to market, heading off up the garden. A cheeky robin darted from branch to branch all the way along the purple rhododendron borders, tilting its head sideways whenever she looked at it. “There’s bread on the table,” she told him. The red breasted bird must have understand for it left her side and made its way to the very place where yesterdays loaf was placed. From the dovecote a cooing of courtship echoed around the buildings, to be heard by all at work or play.
Mac decided to do the former. He had an assignment to finish for the graphic design house he worked for. The morning was warm enough to work at the outside table, so there he sat. If the brief could be finalised and emailed to the client for approval, he might then go for a walk, but after eleven o’clock. He thought the irrational worry stupid, but nevertheless felt better waiting till the afternoon, just today anyway.
By the side of the wooden decked patio a pink flowering cherry hung blossom partly over the makeshift desk, around the tree’s trunk a variegated green ivy wrapped its long spindly growth. A water fall cascading down some stones next to where Mac worked still held some bubbles from its encounter with the wheel a few yards back up the garden. It was the ideal place for creativity so Mac opened up his laptop and pulled the document to the desktop.
Sal came and sat with him, her fiery red hair stood out against her black sweater as it caught the morning rays of sunshine. Placing her second cup of coffee of the day down, she sat on a bench, put her feet up on a spare whicker chair and looked at her husband. “You ok Mac, that dream bothered ya didn’t it?”
“Just a bit, the worst thing was not being able to tell you what had happened, I was trapped, and you being on your own. It was horrible.”
“Wonder what made you dream it?”
“Perhaps just the waiting for bump there to appear'” The raised corners if his mouth told her he was feeling better.
“Don’t rush him, he’s still cooking,” Sal joked. “There’s a time for him to come and it’s not yet. Besides don’t I look fetching enough like this?”
Mac leaned across the table and planted a kiss on her lips that spoke more than words. “Soon be finished with this.”
All the rest of the morning the sun continued to shine on the small enclave of the garden, and by noon Sal had put the parasol up to shade the two of them. Music from the laptop had kept her entertained while Mac put the finishing touches to his work and by the time lunch was ready Grandad was back, Grandpa was up and they all sat and enjoyed the cold trout salad prepared by Mum and Dad. It had been caught yesterday downstream by one of the neighbours, who had gifted it to them in return for the help with putting up his broken fence during the winter months.
Mac was hungry, he always was. On picking up his knife though he felt a pain, a pinprick of a sensation as the cold steel rested in the palm of his hand. Looking to the spot, there was a wound in the same place as the needle which had pierced him in the dream. A cold shiver ran down his spine, dragging with it all the blood it could from his head and neck.
“You all right lad?” Macs father did not like the look of his eldest. “He gone a bit pale all of a sudden Sal.” He reached into his green cardigan pocket to find a sugar lump usually kept for the horses. “Take this Mac, it might sweeten ya up a bit.”
Sal put her hand out in a nurse like fashion to take the temperature of his face. “He’s a little hot, aren’t you darling?”
“Probably a chill,” his mother added. “I’ll fetch you some honey and lemon.”
A bead of sweat trickled from his forehead, down the side of his cheek and made it’s way under his chin. “It’s ok honest, it was just a thought,” Mac answered the concerned onlookers. The arteries in his neck drummed out a fast throbbing beat echoing in both ears. “I can’t seem to shake that dream off that’s all.” Mum was having none of it. She was on the way to the kitchen to make her concoction.
He looked at his hand again. The small bruise in the palm could have been done when collecting the eggs he reassured himself. Of course it could, but it would have hurt when it happened, surely, unless there had been a distraction, like Sal. That was it, Sal had been teasing to cheer him up. Calm returned to avail him of the wonderful day on offer. Once Mum and Macs complexion had returned the lunch was eaten with much frivolity and myrrh and Mac forgot the worries of the night before.
The sun had moved around to the rear of the patio after lunch so those left at the table, Mac, Sal and his mum lazed about for half an hour to let the meal settle. The rest had gone to take up their slotted tasks in the kitchen, workstation or out in the fields. On watching Sal fall over the edge of sleep Mac followed suit. Above him a flock of cranes passing over cast shadows of large wings across the ground as tiredness took him in its hold. Somewhere out of view that humming sound of his dream crept back to the fore.
He woke with a jolt. The hard floor had taken its toll on muscle and bone as he found himself back in the deserted hut. Like an old man would do, he slowly exercised each limb one by one to shake away the cramp and pain the cold stone floor had inflicted during the dark of night. Through the open doorway the dawn’s early glow told of a new day. He checked his handheld. Five minutes to six.
The despair of knowing he was still in the hut and all the things that meant hit home within a minute. Was the only way he would ever see his family again to be in a dream. What if he forgot what they looked like, forgot how they felt, how they spoke. What if he never saw them again in real life.
This rush of fear lasted a shorter time than before, for he quickly took control and locked it away in a deep recess. Besides there were other matters to attend to. The handheld needed a charge, there might be rabbit for breakfast and he had an appointment with a bridge at eleven.
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