Tempest

by Lyra Reyes

Mist. She can't see through the mist. She clucked her tongue to call her dog to her side. A lifetime of practice has given her the ability to separate the dreams from reality; the moment she took her first step along the trail she knew she was dreaming.

But this is different.

Her dog was here, for one. While her faithful wolfhound has always been at her side in the physical world, he was never in her dreams and visions. The other thing is that this place felt familiar. She knew that she had never been there before but in her dream she felt something for it that she has trained herself not to feel for anything else: attachment.

She carefully took a step through the mist, waiting for something to happen. There is something in these woods, she thought. She was certain that it was evil. Before she can take another step, her dog suddenly growled and bounded forward to disappear in the mist.

"Dammit, Van Helsing, come back here!" She rushed forward, willing her eyes to quickly adjust to the darkness. She stopped, disoriented, then ran toward the sound of snarling. Dog, where are you? she thought desperately as she heard snarls that sounded differently from her dog's.

As she burst out of the mist into a clearing, she saw Van Helsing and a large black wolf circling each other. The wolf looked up at her and she saw red eyes and a silver marking on it's head.

Before she can call to her dog, the wolf bunched back and leaped at her.

She threw up her hand to shield herself but there was no need. Van Helsing had slammed his body against the wolf. She stood, dazed for a moment, as her dog and the wolf rolled around, their jaws snapping.

Get your shit together, Adrianna, she thought. Her heart rose to her throat as the wolf pinned Van Helsing and prepared to sink its teeth on his throat. Before she can throw up out a hand, a bolt of fire came down from the sky and struck the wolf.

Its scream before it burst into mist was almost human.

As she gathered her whimpering dog in her arms, she whispered over and over again, it's just a dream.

___

A week passed before Addy deemed Van Helsing fully recovered from his injuries. During that week, she put her house on the market and has started packing her things. The sleepy town of Crisfield has been their home for three years - the longest she could remember in her thirty years - but it was time to leave. Again.

She felt no regret in leaving the town behind. She felt no sadness in clearing out her pantry in a kitchen that overlooks a backyard lawn leading to a small dock. She had no qualms packing her clothes in a bedroom with windows offering her a view of the pristine waters of the Chesapeake. It was not her way. Her way was to keep moving. Because while her lips called the beautiful bungalow with the wrap-around porch her home, in her heart she knew that it wasn't.

Home has always been where her parents where. When they died in a car crash that she survived ten years ago, her home has been wherever she makes it. 

She finished packing the brushes - the tools of her trade - and moved on to the tools her mother passed down to her. She always packed them last.

Van Helsing sat in the corner, thumping his tail, watching her carefully wrap her scythe.

"The realtor called this morning," she told the dog. "He might have someone over next week to look at the house." She placed the  wrapped scythe inside a large black trunk and reached for her athame.

"We won't be here anyway. We'll be leaving in two days, dog." Van Helsing yawned, used to his human talking to him. "I feel the need to go west, this time. Still close to water, but far from here."

She picked up a piece of paper from the table and waved it at the dog. "It's fate, Van Helsing. Finding a house for sale in Lanai island is nothing short of fate."

Turning around, she picked up an oval scrying mirror and proceeded to wrap it, too. "Sure, it's in Hawaii, which is way across the country. But a house on the beach on an island whose town doesn't even have a traffic light? Perfect."

And she felt it, in her gut. The moment she saw the ad the morning after her dream of the wolf, she felt the pull of the island. She never ignored her gut.

"You'll have a lot of places to run around in. And maybe, no more wolf dreams."

Van Helsing thumped his tail and huffed, as if telling her that he doubted that as much as she did.

___

She was tired. But she was exhilarated. She took her time driving from Crisfield to Los Angeles. By the time I get to Lanai, she thought, the house in Crisfield would probably have already been sold.

Looking at her rearview mirror, she carefully backed up her truck into the loading platform of the ferry. It took her the entire time from Ohio to Oklahoma to get used to driving with the large U-Haul.

It took only three days in Indiana before the dream came back. Tamer, yes, but somehow much worse. Addy felt that it was still gathering strength and she braced herself for the attack that may or may not come. What it was escaped her. None of her mother's books and journals mentioned anything about a wolf with a triquetra on its head.

The libraries along the way were of no help, either. Not that most libraries carried the books that may contain what she's looking for. She toyed with the thought of reaching out to the others, a thought rejected almost as soon as it formed. She was not a joiner; having no coven or apprentice.  

It doesn't mean she avoided company, though. For the weeks they stayed in Arizona, Addy tool up hiking where she met many different people. It was there that she met three women who regularly casted their circle in the Catalinas. She stayed long enough to cast it with them and ask about the wolf. Receiving no useful response, she bid them farewell and went on her way. Addy didn't join them again. She is content on her own, with only Van Helsing keeping her company.

The Saturday of their seventh week in Arizona, she dreamed of the forest again. There was no wolf this time, no mist. She was surrounded by a bright light coming from the sky and voices whispering in her ear.

The next morning, she packed, drove straight to LAX, and caught the noontime flight to Kahului. She arrived in Kahului Sunday afternoon and, having left her rental car in Los Angeles with instructions for it's return, went straigh to a dealership to purchase a secondhand pick-up truck. 

The drive from Kahului to Lahaina Harbor had been uneventful and now, she was seated on the upper deck with Van Helsing. She wanted the salty air. She wanted to see the approach to her island.

She thought of it as her island without even setting sight on it.

"We're almost there, dog," she murmured to the wolfhound lying by her feet.

Van Helsing tilted his head. Then stood up and let out one short bark. The answering bark behind her had Addy turning her head. On the other end of the deck, a woman stood beside a large wolfhound that looks almost exactly like Van Helsing. The wolfhound barked again and started straining against the leash held by the woman. Addy saw the woman shrug, roll her eyes, then started walking toward them.

"Looks like they both found a friend," she said. She had a smooth voice that held a hint of Western American accent.

"Looks like," she replied. "I'm Addy."

"Alyssa." She reached out to shake Addy's hand. "Visiting the island?"

"Actually, no. I'm moving there." Addy said. "You?"

"Kinda."

"Kinda visiting or kinda moving?"

"Visiting." For a moment, Alyssa looked unsure. "I may have to spend quite a bit of time there."

"May have?"

"It's a bit difficult to explain."

Addy shrugged. She had her fair share of unexplainable decisions so she rarely asked other people about theirs. She looked over the dogs, now rolling on and around each other. "They look so much alike."

Alyssa laughed, "yeah, it's a good thing they have differently-colored collars or we might end up bringing home the wrong dog."

"It's a good thing the island is small. It'll be easy to return the dogs if that happens." Addy said, chuckling.

The dogs rolled dangerously close to the deck railing but before Addy could call out a warning, Alyssa sharply called her dog's name. Both wolfhounds looked sheepishly up at them before rolling away from the edge.

"Wait, what's the name of your dog?" Addy asked.

"Dracula. Why?"

"My dog's name is Van Helsing. I was reading Bram Stoker when I got him five years ago from a woman who owned a shop that sold the most amazing skin creams."

"In Montana?"

Suprised, Addy nodded. "yes, I lived in Montana for a time."

Alyssa was quiet for a moment. "I was reading Bram Stoker when my mother's wolfhound gave birth to two puppies. I kept one and gave one away" Another pause. "I live in Montana. My mother was a registered herbalist who owned a shop that sold medicinal potions and skin care products."

This was important, Addy thought. I feel that there's something important happening here.

"Defining moments," Alyssa said. " In her letter to me, my mother talked about how the little moments would define our lives. Me keeping one puppy. You adopting the other. Both of us reading the same novel at the same time and naming our dogs after the characters of the book. Us being on the same boat."

It made sense. Addy's brain can't wrap itself around it yet but in her heart she knew that it made complete sense. 

"How did you end up on this boat, Addy?" Alyssa asked.

"I saw an online ad about a house and felt the need to go there." Addy answered. "So I loaded myself, Van Helsing, and our things on a car and a U-Haul, and drove from the Chesapeake to Los Angeles. I almost didn't push through with it because I enjoyed staying in Tucson so much."

"But you kept going."

"Because of a dream."

Addy watched the color drain from Alyssa's face. "What's wrong?"

"I'm on my way to the island because of a dream, too. And a letter."

They were both silent for a bit.

"Wolf?" Addy asked.

"Yes."

"Letter?" 

"From someone named Anna, yes."

"What did it say?"

Alyssa looked at her. "I think you know."

"I never received a letter from anyone."

"I think you know." Alyssa repeated.

Addy remembered the last dream that she had of the woods. The one she had the previous Saturday with just the bright light and the whispers. The voices said the same thing over and over again.

Come home. Your sisters need you.

(This is the fourth part of the Daughters of the Blood Moon series)

Did I just hear my brother's voice?

By Letitia Prescott

I'm looking at a tiny, electric blue creature bobbing in a rock pool. From a distance, it looks like a large sapphire. My brother Ty told me that they’re the most poisonous jellyfish in the region. Since arriving at the campsite, him and his friends have grown used to me slipping away; I think they put it down to me being his reserved, much older sister. It was Mum’s idea that I come with them and so far Ty doesn’t seem to mind too much.

I’m at the bottom of a cliff. Its limpet-strewn wall towers above me like a shield against the blasting sun, and the resulting shadow covers a long stretch of the beach before fading into the jostling waves. I imagine Ty and his friends are now heading back to the campsite to shower and snooze. They're a nice bunch, particularly Isabella. On our first night, she helped me to set up my tent and offered to mend Ty’s bent glasses when I’d given up trying. Predictably, my brother’s girlfriend Lucy hasn’t lifted a finger since we got here. And she remains indifferent to me, or 'just shy' as Ty likes to tell people.

The jellyfish now floats by my toes which edge forward, in wait for a sting of the blood freezing kind. I step away from the rock pool. I never knew wobbly flesh and stringy guts could look so pretty and hypnotic. I feel special for finding it.

The sun has climbed from behind the cliff and its rays now catch my eyes in flashes. Like an echo, a human voice reaches my ears. Did I just hear my brother's voice? I listen intently. Each crunching grain of sand sounds like a giant foot pounding the ground. I go to get my bottle of water out and my brother’s voice reaches me once more. I shout his name but he doesn’t answer; I repeat this three times but still nothing. This isn’t funny Ty.  

I think his voice is coming from a nearby cave that looks exactly like all the others we’ve seen. I’m itchy and irritable and I don’t want to go in there but Ty is my baby brother. To me, he’ll always be the toddler in a nappy with oversized wellies.

I must have left the group ages ago. I can’t call anyone or check the time as I left my phone on my towel. I’m starting to believe Ty’s voice is an auditory hallucination which would mean that the real Ty might start to worry soon. If not, I'm sure the others will sound the alarm, so to speak. I know Lucy won't, she'll just keep quiet and lean on his shoulder like some heavy, wet towel. 

I want to bodyboard, eat churros and apply sand-covered sunscreen. But to do that, I need to follow the length of the beach and the mid afternoon sun is going to wrestle me to the ground. I’m also torn because it would mean leaving Ty behind and I must make sure he’s okay. Wait, that doesn’t make any sense, I’m getting muddled. Where the hell are you, Ty? I need to make a move soon because my skin is starting to look less ‘caramel’ and more ‘seared tuna.’


I decide I must check the cave, just in case. I look back for human help but the place is deserted. Like a lonely turtle, my shoulders carry the weight of the rocky landscape and the vastness of the sea. Once inside, the cave isn’t as cool as I was hoping but I’m protected from the salt and the glare.

The place looks very much empty and now I feel stupid. I head out but just as I’m making my way past the rock pool, I hear my brother again. The tone and depth of his voice are too convincing so I sprint back through the enormous cave entrance, and rush randomly into the mouth of an uneven corridor. Repeatedly, I shout Ty’s name, willing the words to travel down the rock labyrinth into his ears. The corridor narrows against my sides, causing my clothes to catch and my hair to brush against the weird limpets. This whole experience is grossing me out. The corridor soon invites me into a vice-like tunnel, thick in darkness except for some light filtering through from the other end. It’s too small to walk so I think of Ty in his wellies to force myself to crawl. My hands land on strange shapes, that slide and crunch under my weight.  

Fighting claustrophobia, I finally manage to wriggle out the exit before landing on the hard ground below. The cavern is a dome with blue tinted rock and dripping walls. A small lake is at the centre and the same blue tint runs through the surface of the still water. The path I just landed on travels the length of the lake and beyond. The cavern is quiet yet it lacks a sense of peace. I’m looking around for Ty, when a chill licks my shoulder and something stirs in the dark water. I’m expecting a large fish of some kind to appear but the surface remains static like a sheet of glass. I can feel someone is here, I really can. It’s hard to tell from the way the light hits the stone walls but something is moving in a crevice, on the other side of the lake. My heart rate doubles. It moves again and I see a ray of light bounce off two shiny circles. Another flash and this time there’s no mistaking that the circles are in fact the lenses from a pair of glasses. It’s my brother.

The voice is real after all. I came back for you Ty, I didn’t give up. I wonder if he’ll be able to see me from where he is. When he finally clocks me, I go to shout hello but he signals me to be quiet with an alarming urgency. He looks younger somehow with scruffy hair and skinny shoulders. From the crevice, he walks forward but a soft splashing noise makes him retreat. What was that? The lake breaks open and some kind of beast emerges, enveloped in a fleshy ‘curtain’; it then turns on its side and slides back into the water. I start shrieking and Ty runs over with wild eyes and arms covered in bloody cuts. He puts his hand over my mouth and begs me to shut up. The creature has disappeared and I’m filled with terror and disgust. Ty coughs ‘We wanted some time alone but when we got here, she slipped.’

I stay calm for his sake. ‘See that tunnel, I just came from there’ I tell him ‘Come on, we can do this. I promise we’ll come back for Lucy.’ I notice his ripped, blood stained T-shirt as he says ‘I came with Isabella not Lucy.’ I should be shocked about this but I’m not. Suddenly the beast rises again, lingers then recedes with an audible heaviness. Before it disappears, the ‘curtain’ is exposed just long enough for me to see that it spreads out like a misshapen hoop skirt; the kind Victorian ladies used to wear. But the ladies would have had pretty skirts and flounces to cover the hoops, whereas this creature has no cover just gruesome bone strips and draped layers of flesh. Ty looks close to tears when he says ‘Isabella had cuts all down her arms just like mine. Every time I tried to reach her, that thing rushed towards me. It wore me down.’ It’s hard to believe that that beast could rush, but the ocean isn’t something I know much about. I place Ty’s arm around my neck and support his weight as we stumble towards the tunnel. I sense another stir from the centre of the lake. I pick up the speed and we’re almost there when Ty decides to break free, his eyes wild again. ‘I need to find her. You can’t just leave people behind. Go to hell, you freak!’ he shouts at the lake. He then precedes to cry out Isabella’s name at the water, the walls and the ceiling.

I grab him to shut him up but he resists and the impact throws me to the edge of the water. I can see the shadow of the creature near the centre, bobbing under the blue surface, psyching itself up. I try to move but the sun has killed my energy, and the stone on which I have landed feels like it’s pulling me down, like quicksand. The monster bobs and bobs and then bang! It thrashes towards me with such speed that my veins, muscles and bones go rigid. With slick precision, it suddenly stops at the edge right next to my paralysed body and drops under the surface. Our pointless screams travel in circles around the cavern, the echoes as trapped as we are. Ty tries to pull me to my feet but it’s too late. The monster rises, first revealing its enormous jagged teeth then its bloodshot yellow eyes and finally the rest of its head and torso, both emanating that same blue tint. The ‘curtain’ is in fact a gelatinous corset and skirt that sway in the filtered light. ‘Lucy?’

Where to Go?

© Denis Fitzpatrick, 2015

Dedicated to Michael Fitzpatrick, one of my cousins who has brought my Irish home so very much closer.

Which comes first, the mental illness or the abuse of illicit drugs? Michael Pearse, like everyone else, had no idea. But schizophrenic he was and he seemed to be happy in his fate. Mind you, if Michael could have his time over again, but with different choices available, he would have avoided pot like the plague, which had led to other drugs. These other drugs, speed in particular, were the sole reason why he was homeless and why his genetic schizophrenia had been triggered: the money he saved on the rent he spent on speed, perpetuating his mental illness. It was no way to live, but Michael seemed happy enough in his squats, grateful for every sparse blessing.

    Such a blessing, though disguised, had currently enveloped him: he was in the Missenden Unit, the psychiatric wing of Royal Prince Alfred Hospital, near the centre of Sydney. Michael had just been taken there, after some police on patrol saw him agitatedly talking to himself whilst walking nearby King Street, Newtown, in rags. When Michael appeared obviously delusional upon questioning they took him to the Missenden Unit.

    Michael hated Missenden, always had, because it was so small and cramped, unlike other psychiatric institutions he’d been to. He always escaped because he hated the unit so much, but this time the nurses were watching him a lot more closely. At least the food, for which he duly thanked the Lord, was excellent. Some consolation, and indeed a great blessing.

   In fact, the food was so good that Michael seriously considered not escaping this time back to his squat, which his searchers would never enter because it was deemed to be a safety hazard. He himself was surprised when he made a sudden dash for it, after his fifth excellent dinner there, knowing he’d catch the nurses by surprise. Which he did.

    Quickly back on the nearby road of Missenden he considered where to go. He had a feeling they would capture him back at his squat (having given his address) because the benefits of his searchers eventually entering his unsafe premises outweighed the risks. They were intent on finally catching him, to show him that a better life is available. But without speed.

    So he decided to go to sea, the opposite of where they’d probably be looking for him. He was full of hope.

*

It took him two weeks to get a job on a ship and then only as a cabin boy. He explained his twenty-five years of age, with no sailing experience, as the culmination of a bad life that he had just decided to flee abroad from, and forget everything. Which was, in a sense, true. Unusually, he did not miss speed when he was at sea. It just simply was not a problem. The addiction was washed away with the waves. And he had other things to worry about.

    By the time he got to New Zealande he abandoned ship, just left. He was so ill from a sea-sickness that just wouldn’t go away that he didn’t care if he lost his accrued pay as a result of deserting his post. Anything, anything, to stop the perpetual nausea.

    When he was finally recovered, in a park near the ocean, after almost two days wrapped in his warm sleeping bag only sipping water occasionally, he realised he was in a very, very serious fix. Should he stay here in New Zealande, where he was effectively an outcast, or return to the safeties of home? There were pros to each side. In New Zealande he could start completely afresh, and, if he worked hard and was honest, he could, if he so wished, possibly carve his name into the annals of history. Or he could return to Sydney and fall back into the old familiar groove. Eventually. At least it was familiar.

    Well, he really had no choice. The easiest thing to do was to stay here in New Zealande. Michael naturally thought that he was tossed up on the shore here in Wellington by the Fates, and the Fates had reasons. Naturally, very good reasons. So he rolled up his sleeping bag, repacked his swag, and set off, envisioning his new home, a snug centre from which to conquer the world.

    His first step to acquiring his own place was to apply for unemployment welfare. He expected minor difficulties in acquiring such, but nothing serious. After all, weren’t he and New Zealande ruled by the same English head of state? Of course. Therefore, there should be only minor issues in getting the dole.

    New Zealande however took a very dim view of his welfare application. A very dim view indeed. To be blunt, they viewed him as a criminal, a stupid criminal, obviously trying to swindle the good taxpayers of New Zealande. Not only was his application denied but the police were called. Michael could have, of course, ran, but that would really be compounding the problem. He announced to the welfare staff that he would calmly await the police, and was told in turn that he only faced deportation so there was no real problem if he remained co-operative. Jail would most likely result from any attempt to flee, and further evade the New Zealande authorities.

    While waiting for the police he thought of speed for the first time in what seemed to be months. Gz, a shot right now would be good. It would make everything clear, give him some meaning for his life.

    When the police finally arrived to deport him he had resolved that his first Aus dole payment would be spent equally on speed and pot. Man, was he really looking forward to that party!

*

The party proved to be the worst of his life. He ended up in Missenden again, voluntarily committing himself after taking far too much speed, but being only admitted if he swore that this would be his last admission if he escaped again. He swore upon his soul, promising to give up all illicit drugs, and with the nurses’ help finding meaning elsewhere. Not necessarily in a job, working for the Man, but something that gave his life meaning, something worthwhile, like volunteer work, or setting up a business. Maybe art?

    He left the Missenden Unit six weeks later, upon the path of a writer, and his future was clear and rosy before him.

~~~

If you have been enjoying Fitzpatrick's stories here you may also enjoy his short story collections, and other books, available online as both Kindle books and paperbacks (go to http://amzn.to/1NfodtN). Other ebook and paperback options are available at  http://bit.ly/1UsyvKD

A Happy Bachelorhood

© Denis Fitzpatrick, 2015

“‘It is very pleasant dining with a bachelor,’ said Miss Matty softly, as we all settled ourselves in the counting-house. “I only hope it is not improper; so many things are!”’ Elizabeth Gaskell, Cranford

Dining luxuriantly of an evening, be it at home, in Surrey Hills, Sydney, or in a quality restaurant, was the highlight of Sylvestre Beauregard’s day. Be it a simple meal of pasta and sauce, or some steamed duck with straw mushrooms, Sylvestre rapturously dedicated the meal to paying attention to Elizabeth, chatting intelligently, appreciating the fine food and wine with her, and in all manner making sure that his one true love, completely imagined at the other end of the small table, was thoroughly captivated and enjoying herself. Sylvestre of course completely knew that Elizabeth’s presence was completely imagined but this seemed to be the only way, for the past five years, that he can still be with her after their very vicious parting. Elizabeth Realle was his first love, and his first love he simply could not banish. It was also a love that would allow of no other, and Sylvestre was now resigned to a happy bachelorhood with her imagined presence. Her real presence, or any other love’s, simply was not possible.

     On this particular evening, a few nights before Christmas, 2015, Sylvestre was enjoying another festive meal with Elizabeth. Both were in fine form and had agreed to go out for a small drink or two at the local pub after dinner. As Sylvestre collected his plate and utensils to wash in the kitchen, his phone in his pocket alerted him to a new message. After the cleaning was done, and Elizabeth was waiting for him by the front door, he quickly checked his phone. It was a social media message from Elizabeth Realle.

     Sylvestre had naturally looked for Elizabeth in the real world, desperately hoping to get back with her, and had sent many, many very polite social media messages over the years to ladies enquiring if they were the Elizabeth Realle he was seeking. None of them replied. Except this one, who had all the right details, but no photo. But the avatar represented her quite well.

     Was Elizabeth now back? Please God, let her be back.

     Elizabeth was no longer waiting by the door.

     Elizabeth’s message said she hadn’t replied earlier because she was still hurt from their parting. She had only now realised, after years of letting his messages turn the spike in her heart, that she had to face him. To talk it out. To remove his dagger. Could they meet up at a café somewhere in the city soon? Elizabeth just wanted to have a talk with him, show him her demons, and ask his help to tame them. It was the least he could do.

     Meeting Elizabeth was his worst nightmare. She was not Elizabeth at all, but a complete stranger. She explained herself, after Sylvestre had agreed to recognise her by the white Fedora hat with a small, slim, purple feather, by saying that his messages showed a very deep man, a man who understood that true love is entirely loyal. Under all circumstances. And for those bad circumstances, true love willingly guides both through to the better life. Or both willingly die in the attempt.

     When Elizabeth finished her necessary explanation Sylvestre felt paralysed. He even stopped breathing for a few seconds.

     Fake.

     Or maybe not.

     Maybe this fake Elizabeth is somehow an agent for the real one, maybe the Fates, or Gods, God, Christ, or vague spirits, or whatever, are testing him? Testing his true love. The fake Elizabeth certainly had facial similarities to the real one, so such a wild suggestion may not be so wild after all. This fake Elizabeth could even well lead to her, Elizabeth, the only one.

     It was worth a shot.

     So Sylvestre sat down to a coffee with the impostor, vaguely convinced that here was an opportunity to gain his life goal, a chance that here was Elizabeth’s agent, her handmaiden if you will, somehow testing the waters before consuming his endless love.

     Throughout their first date at the café, Sylvestre became gradually more and more convinced that indeed here was his Elizabeth’s handmaiden. Certain attitudes, a saying or two, even a healthy nod to her alluring cheekbones, all confirmed that Sylvestre was being smiled upon by the spirit world: this lady beckoned his dreams, a handmaiden guiding him home.

     Their first date led to a second (prompted by Elizabeth), a second to a third, a third to more, and Sylvestre was soon ecstatic that he was once again with his life purpose. Elizabeth. Elizabeth Realle. Was there anything more to strive for? Was he now in Paradise?

     Naturally, now that Sylvestre was happy, it should be expected that his dreams of Elizabeth should be happier. Which they were, but fairly soon developed into ones where she asked him to both ‘come forth’ and ‘forever part.’ Those two phrases were wrapped up in each other in the dream, one phrase that only made sense in dream language. Sylvestre always woke up from those dreams suddenly, completely awake, but also completely lost. Did the Elizabeth by his side in the small, comfortable hours before dawn, vindicate his true love, or damn it? He didn’t know. He honestly didn’t know. He could only keep going forward, trusting to the little signs that reassured him.

     Those little signs continued to reassure him even when the dreams gradually became nastier, dreams where he was becoming locked tighter and tighter, more and more excruciatingly, within a gilded cage. He always woke up from those dreams on the verge of screaming. To stifle the scream, he looked at Elizabeth beside him, peacefully asleep, and fervently prayed that he was following his true love home. He then went to sleep, hoping God was listening.

     Sylvestre’s next to last such horrifying dream of his one true love, though, ended on an unexpected bright note: an address. Her address was given to him simply and without fanfare, Elizabeth merely writing it out on a small sheet of paper and giving it to him, instead of using the undefined instruments she usually brought out to flay him in his solitude. He awoke suddenly again, completely awake, but convinced that he was now in Paradise. He had her address! Thank God!

     After a soft kiss upon Elizabeth’s sleeping left cheek, he quietly got out of bed and dressed. He studied her in the cool, bright moonlight, dressing slower in order to study her longer, glorying in her the paths upon which she had brought him his only desire. Sure, once he was back with the real Elizabeth, her handmaiden may be pouty. But it would be all explained so easily. And, don’t forget, Elizabeth the handmaiden had played a very conscious role in this whole saga, playing upon his beseeching wail for his one true love. Indeed, she full well knew what she was getting herself into. Sylvestre thus left the flat feeling like he owned the Universe. And Reality.

     Once on the kerbside outside of his block of flats he called for a taxi. Dawn had just begun.

     ‘Good morning, Taxis Central. Pick up suburb and address?’

     ‘Surrey Hills. 59 Kippax Street.’

     ‘Going to?’

     ‘12 Milthorpe Avenue, Strathfield.’

     ‘Ready now?’

     ‘Yes.’

     ‘Next available taxi will be there.’

     ‘Thank you.’

     She hung up.

     The taxi arrived soon and he got in.

     ‘What address again? I can’t find it on my GPS. But it’s an old one.’ The driver was a young, well-groomed Arab gentleman. Sylvestre felt he was not dealing with an incompetent.

     ’12 Milthorpe Avenue. Strathfield.’

     ‘With one ‘l’ or two?’

     ‘Gz, I don’t know.’

     ‘We’ll try both ways.’

     The GPS computed.

     ‘Sorry, friend, that address is not in Strathfield. Maybe in another suburb? Let’s try Burwood.’

     The GPS computed.

     ‘Sorry, friend, not there either. Would you like to maybe check your address again?’

     Sylvestre couldn’t well say that he had received it in a dream, and let the driver go, giving him five dollars for his time.

     ‘Thank you, friend. You’re a real gentleman.’ Then the driver rolled away, carrying Sylvestre’s ashen hopes.

     Undressing again at home he was undecided whether or not to get in beside Elizabeth, the handmaiden, and sleep in for two or three hours more since it was a Saturday. But leaving her would burn all of his bridges, throwing away even this slim chance of union, reunion, with his life’s meaning. He then got in beside Elizabeth’s handmaiden, pulled the sheet up to his chin, rolled onto his right, and soon fell asleep hoping that the desired Elizabeth would come in dreams to explain her lie.

     She was soon with him, and spent his entire dream laughing at him. In between gouts of laughter she screamed at him to leave her alone, to erase her from his memory, that he was the only person that she hated. She hoped that every mention of the name Elizabeth drove deep spikes into his mind, barely recompense for the anguish, pain, and guilt that he had caused her. Only his horrible, tortured death could extinguish the unutterable pain he had sown within her.

     This time, he was screaming when he suddenly awoke.

~~~

If you have been enjoying Fitzpatrick's stories here you may also enjoy his short story collections, and other books, available online as both Kindle books and paperbacks (go to http://amzn.to/1NfodtN). Other ebook and paperback options are available at  http://bit.ly/1UsyvKD

    

    

    

   

    

     

Tonga Discovers

© Denis Fitzpatrick, 2015

‘“The beggar is a man, forced by fate to remind us of Christ; he is a brother to Christ; he is the bell of the Lord and he rings in life in order to rouse our conscience, to arouse the satiety of the flesh of man. He stands by the window and sings out: ‘For the love of Christ!’ and by his singing he reminds us of Christ, of His holy commandment to help one’s neighbour. But men have so arranged their life that it is impossible for them to act according to the teachings of Christ . . . And now we have arranged to lock up these beggars in separate houses [homeless shelters, sheltered workshops, etc.] that they should not walk around on the streets and should not arouse our conscience.’” Maxim Gorky, The Man Who was Afraid, or, Foma Gordeyef

Tonga Akauola, recently turned twenty-seven years of age, was now considering if his absolutely atrocious luck over the past several years had just begun to turn. The cause of this conjecture was a free plate full of food, a large chicken Maryland with plenty of vegetables. Tonga was a resident at Forest House, a homeless shelter for men in inner city Sydney, and he had been almost on the very verge of starvation for over the past six years. The hostel charged two dollars for a hot dinner, although a breakfast of cereal and a hot lunch were free. Tonga though never had these two dollars because he refused to beg. He also refused unemployment welfare, to do so being considered by him as unethical, having wilfully chosen homelessness because he saw most of modern society as so very shallow and so very meaningless. And those few pockets of meaningful societies were too far away for someone with not the slightest coin.

     This tempting plate was pointing to other possibilities though, beckoning him with indistinct possibilities of fulfilment. Tonga had snuck into the kitchen in the small hours of the morning, unable to sleep, having tested the kitchen door on the vague off-chance that it was open. Which indeed it was. He studied the plate for a few minutes more, listening for the staff to spoil his boon, whilst also wondering if there was indeed a God, Whom was now taking Pity on him. When it appeared his luck was still holding he took a knife and fork and ravenously ate the entire meal. He felt wonderful afterwards.

     This bliss, though, ended suddenly, upon hearing someone test the kitchen door, and then locking it when it was discovered to be open. Thank God, thought Tonga, he hadn’t been discovered too. He was unsure of the consequences of being discovered in his theft, but his tenuous life needed no further burden.

     Tonga had always been very smart and so quickly decided that his only hope of escaping the kitchen, with bars over all of the windows, was to hide himself in the pantry until morning, and when the staff opened the kitchen to make a dash for it. He was trusting to his improving luck to escape unmolested.

     And successfully escape he did, giving him a completely new conviction that there was indeed a God and that He was Looking out for him. He resolved to attend Mass tomorrow, the first Sunday after Christmas Day, 2015. Tonga returned to his bed, now feeling drowsy after guiltily helping himself to some more of the good things in the shelter’s kitchen, mentally chanting the ‘Our Father’ until he drifted off to a brief sleep before the guests were woken by the staff. His dreams were good during that brief interval.

*

Tonga was awoken the next morning by the loud, querulous voice of an old man talking with the person in the bed next to him.

     ‘Some bastard stole old Frederick’s dinner.’

     ‘You mean the painter,’ replied Tonga’s neighbour.

     ‘There’s only one Frederick here, mate.’

     ‘How was it stolen?’

     ‘The prick somehow got into the kitchen. And Frederick had paid for the meal.’

     ‘Why wasn’t he at dinner? I wouldn’t mind the staff putting away a meal for me when I’m too wasted to eat.’

     ‘He’d been called away to do a $300 commission. The guy who ordered the painting was helping out a friend of a friend of a friend, or something like that. This friend, or whatever, was desperate for something special for him and his missus’ fortieth wedding anniversary.’

     ‘Did Frederick get his money back?’

     ‘Yeah, but he was furious when he had no reward to come back to early this morning, after working all night. The staff are furious too.’

     ‘Bloody right. The thief’s obviously a real bloody pig.’

     ‘You said it, mate.’

     Tonga felt terrible all that day, aghast at the horror of making the suffering of old, homeless, Fredrick even worse, and could not attend Mass as he had resolved. He felt far too sinful for that. Tonga had honestly thought that the meal was just extra food, a meal left over. But there was nothing he could do to make amends, what with having no money whatsoever. He would have liked to anonymously pay for all the men’s dinner one evening soon but that was simply impossible. Unless of course he applied for unemployment welfare, despite it being unethical. He could always cancel it once he had made his act of contrition. Or he could go a-begging, which was less unethical, simply asking his fellow citizens for some humane help. He could always beg up enough solely to feed the men at Forest House for one night.

     By the next morning he awoke with his decision having been made: he would beg the money, castigating himself as a result for his grave sin. Over breakfast that morning he planned out how much money he would need and the rate at which to get it. He would also have to open a bank account, his previous one being closed through inactivity. He left the dining room after breakfast with purpose, envisioning the joy he was about to bring.

*

This sense of purpose and imminent joy must have shown clearly in his face for after only two weeks he had scrounged up a few hundred dollars from the strangers on the street he approached for money, quite sufficient to make amends, he thought. He used none of the monies for himself and went to bed each night turning the day’s bank deposit slip over and over in his hands, almost being able to see the festive atmosphere that was approaching. He made sure though to swallow the slip just before drifting off to sleep in case one of his neighbours found it and bashed him for the PIN number to his hundreds. One can never be too careful.

     On the day that his bank balance reached $450.00 Tonga seriously began to rethink his life. Maybe he should keep the money for himself and live like a king from now on, albeit a king without a castle? Maybe he should use the cash to return to shelter, to return to the society that had been generous and compassionate with him? He could even get a job working for the Man and make even more money, naturally donating ten percent of his wages to charity. It was most certainly tempting.

     Studying the printout slip for his $450.00 bank balance that night in bed, he decided to look after himself with it, to get out of this homeless shelter where he could only get a bed when he was granted one on credit. Sure this was most of the time, like with almost all of the other ‘guests’, but his own place would seem to be Paradise after over six years, approaching seven years, of unmitigated poverty. But what really decided him was the fact that he would have his own bathroom and toilet if he found his own place. Veritable luxury! He fell asleep that night, after swallowing the bank balance printout slip, and entered his new home in dreams.

*

Being out of the housing market for so long, and never really paying attention to the horrible news on TV or radio, Tonga was very surprised that Sydney had a less than one percent vacancy rate. His $450.00 was good enough for only one week’s rent, never mind the bond, with a little left over for food. He would obviously need a job, now. Thus, having decided to work for the Man, he applied for unemployment welfare and received his first payment in the late afternoon of the same day. But he was still far short of the bond money.

     So over the next four weeks he again approached his fellow citizens for help, by the end of which time he had his own home, a bedsitter, for $250.00 per week, albeit an hour and a half from Sydney by train. He paid half of his bond, the federal welfare agency of Aus paying the other half, but he would have to rely on charity for the first few weeks in order to pay his rent on time, whilst also looking for a steady job. Food he planned to obtain at the homeless shelter each morning and afternoon. His welfare would buy him a modest dinner each evening.

     Getting the job was much harder than getting the flat, after being out of the workforce for so long with no reasonable reason (he was too honest to lie and say that he had been overseas, or to come up with some other dishonest excuse), but when he did get a factory-hand job he contemplated a course of study throughout his working day, something noble, something to give back to generous Sydney, the Sydney that had easily shown him its bright side. He eventually decided on doing some type of business studies, with the view to getting into banking. He felt that he would be a good banker, compassionate and caring, only interested in helping the clients that came to him rather than the bank, but whilst also appeasing the bank’s lending policies. Who knows, maybe he could set up a small bank of his own, like the Grameen Bank in Bangladesh, dedicated to small loans largely for the poor, but unlike the Grameen Bank he would charge no interest but ask to be repaid with only the principal and some relevant labour instead. It was worth looking into.

~~~

If you have been enjoying Fitzpatrick's stories here you may also enjoy his short story collections, and other books, available online as both Kindle books and paperbacks (go to http://amzn.to/1NfodtN). Other ebook and paperback options are available at  http://bit.ly/1UsyvKD