Читать книгу A Road to Nowhere - Bradleigh Munk - Страница 7

Chapter Two

The Harvester

Many times, he had tried to contact his neighbor, and each time he knocked, the music would abruptly stop, and all would be quiet, almost to a fault. Once, when he was out walking, he caught a glimpse of the neighbor, but by the time he caught up to him, someone or something had pushed or shoved him out of the way. Clark was perplexed and intrigued with the situation since it had a mystery about it. Just returning from a tour with his band, Ice Control, he could barely keep his eyes open, due to the red-eye flight earlier that morning. He would try another time and find a way to connect with the neighbor.

*****

Thomas Powell sat in front of his grand piano, a purchase he had made—when was that? The year 1898 in London proper; yes, that was the year, a time before the last merging. And now it was here, in his flat on Acre Lane, a little street off Remington, a short distance from City Road. I am what you would call an immortal moving through the centuries, changing locations as soon as discovery seems imminent. My story begins many moons ago, or perhaps I should say, many moons to come. I was taken during the years not even thought of yet, years that still offer hope and release from the current turmoil we live through each day. Who knew that there is an intelligence controlling the universe—who knew! As it turns out, one really needs to audit actions performed within each expression we call life. I certainly had no clue, because after fulfilling a life of excessive drinking, eating, and of course, a multitude of sexual partners, male and female, I found myself in the company of what you might call the dark one. It was instant and had no chance of bargaining. My human soul was ripped from my being and forced into servitude for the other side. To clear my great wrongs, my contract was simple: harvest the souls of anyone caught up in tragic demises. Interference with the destiny of anyone slain was not allowed, and at the chosen time, I was required to turn over my collection to free myself. It didn’t help that I had already participated in the taking of souls during my last life span. I’m not proud of this time spent taking advantage and removing whoever got in the way; it just never occurred to me that I was doing something wrong.

This task would be completed in the physical form, and I was given exquisite tools to accomplish my mission. Every location where I appeared provided well-stocked living accommodation, and I would closely interact with the residents of the era. Until suspicion of my true purpose became so great, I was able to harvest the unknown, causing a reign of terror and confusion, after which I was pulled from that scene to move to the next. Not all exits were smooth and easy. During the French disruption, I was caught up in the panic and found myself on the business side of the guillotine. This was mostly due to the fact that I had close connections with royals and riches. What a surprise it was, for all those looking on at that final moment, when the blade went clear through. I remember looking up from the basket at what was my body. What a relief, I thought. My mission is finally over, and it’s only been a little over two hundred years. To my surprise, I suddenly felt a rushing sensation and a slight dizziness—I was reattached. The mob was out of control and running in all directions. I’m not sure how, or who might have helped, but I soon found myself released from the bonds of the death machine and moving quickly away; it was time to move on. I am never quite sure of what century I will land in. At times I have appeared several hundred years before my current expression, and then forward a couple.

One side effect of this reentry into the life stream was that sleeping was nearly impossible. Awake times would last weeks, at which point I would experience a near-blackout condition, and several days would be required to recharge; I called this my rapture. I believe this would be the correct reference: “rapture, contentment, transport, bliss.” For this was the only time I felt separation from the great weight hanging around my neck. That weight was an amulet no more than one simple inch flat and round like a small pocket watch. When I received the object from the other immortal, the final words spoken to me were “First door on the right.” Perplexed, I questioned the words; however, she had already gone into the void. A rare and unknown material made up this talisman; the surround was carved with an interweaving Celtic design. Inset was a precious semiclear gemstone which generally glowed a deep blue; this object never left my person. It was not heavy as in physical weight; it was heavy in spirit, for this was the vessel that held all the souls collected over countless millennium.

A benefit, living on the line between the real and the unknown, was that if he willed it, he could transport himself to places only known to him. He was safe from the “dark one,” who he thought couldn’t access his thoughts or actions. On this gray morning, filled with relentless rain, the front room transitioned into a field of leafless scrub oak and sagebrush. The moment became clear and crisp, and in front of him was his piano ready for his escape. He was glad when he was pulled to the other side, that he was given the ability to master any musical instruments; he could match and surpass any artist of any age.

His fingers flew ever so gently over the ivory keys, so accurate and precise, and it lasted for hours. Suddenly, as if awakened from a deep sleep, he heard a noise. He thought that he had heard this several times before on other escapes; he sat still and quietly listened. There it was again, a knock, then a rap on his door. The brightness of the dream diminished, and the gray and pounding of the rain returned. Looking toward the door, he wondered if he could just sit quiet and let this pass; no, the knock continued. Breathing a sigh, he moved toward the sound, not knowing that this was the destiny he had been searching for, ever since he was taken from the living. Slowly opening the door, he was confronted by an unexpected and strange sight. I recognized him, Thom thought to himself, the leader of a popular music group. The man was tall, had long dark wavy hair and eyes so bloodshot one would think he had been in a car wreck. The neighbor had just turned to go when he heard the click of my lock opening. Turning, he bounded over, and we were face-to-face at the opening of my doorway. He stood at least six foot three, and to my five foot five, I felt like a hobbit for sure. He held out his hand and introduced himself, “Hello, I live across the hall, and for the past few weeks, I have heard you playing.” My shock was that, most of the time when stepping into my escape, no one could hear or experience my expression—no one except other immortals. He continued, “My name is Clark, Clark Thompson.”

Still shocked at the situation, I responded, “I hope that I haven’t disturbed you. I can really get out of hand without realizing it.”

“Not at all,” he continued. “I’m in the music industry, and any chance I can, I want to hear good music.”

I introduced myself, “My name is Thomas Powell.”

“It’s good to finally meet you,” he responded. “I don’t want to sound rude, however, I just returned on a flight early this morning, and I really need to get some rest. Are you going to be around in the next few days? Perhaps we could grab a meal and get acquainted?”

Nodding my head, I said, “Of course, when you have recuperated, ring me up.”

“Brilliant. I will do so. Ciao.” On that, he turned and, within what seemed a couple of steps, returned to his door and disappeared.

*****

A week and a half later, Thom was out on a trip to the local market when a tall, dark-haired man in a hoodie approached. It was Clark, and he was looking rested from their previous encounter. “How about some grub?” he said, almost completely hidden from view in his hoodie. Thom decided at that moment he needed to have some interaction with another; it had been too long, at lease a hundred years or more.

“Sure, where would you like to go?”

Around the corner, they found a local pub that, according to Clark, “served the best breakfast around.” A television was screaming the news as they entered: “Authorities have concluded that this was a terror attack. Everyone is asked to stay away from Victoria Park until further notice.” Clark moved ahead and walked toward a back area, where the two could have a quiet moment. (Thom kept his eyes fixed on the breaking events.) Their conversation was light at first, and then with a stroke of luck, they both landed on the subject of having to tolerate most or all the people they had to be around each day.

“I have the most difficult time being in large crowds,” Clark stated. “I am part of a somewhat successful music group. However, most of the time when we return to the hotel, after two or so in the morning, I find myself just drinking until I’m numb. A lot of the time, I just sit in the corner drinking and crying.”

I have never met anyone who so closely resembled myself, Thom thought.

After that, the two talked for hours, and before they knew it, the three o’clock crowd had started to wander in to get an early start on the evening’s libations. On the walk back to their flats, Thom wished for the time to stretch into eternity; as Clark said his goodbyes, while walking toward his door at the end of the hall, he turned abruptly and asked, “Would you like to come over Friday night? I’m having a couple of friends over, and I would really like you to join us.”

Relieved, Thom quickly said, “Yes, I would love to join you and your friends. What time?”

“Around seven.”

“Sounds like fun. I’ll see you then.”

The next three days would have dragged on except for the job that I was required to do; this time, it would be in a downtown park. To the public, the news would report a single car crashing into a pedestrian walkway, causing multiple deaths. I was efficient and quick; my talisman was heavy as I returned to my lair. I was excited and pleased with my work. I often wondered if enjoying my job, as much as I did, would create a negative outcome in the end. Overcome by the excitement of the day’s harvest, I drove my pious thoughts to the back of my mind; I would save this conversation for another day.

*****

As Friday night approached, I started to get the normal dread of interacting with a group of mortals. My only solace was that I would have the pleasure of being with my neighbor, a person who might be the deepest connection I have had in years. As I arrived around eight, the flat was abuzz with conversation, and Clark was nowhere to be found (although I could hear him talking somewhere close by). I quietly moved through the crowd, to find myself sitting at his piano, when a woman, not too bad to look at, came over and said, “How about some tunes?”

“Sure, what would you like to hear?”

She listed off several popular songs of the age, and I was off and running. Playing, tucked away in the corner from the action of the party, I continued while his friends wandered back and forth making requests, to which I obliged. Several dropped five-pound notes in the bowl sitting on the top of the piano. They must think that I was hired, he thought. Not to bring attention to himself, he continued for over two hours until Clark wandered in from the other room and sat down next to him, joining on several selections.

Someone in the crowd asked, “Where did you rent him from? I need someone to play at my next week’s event.”

A little shocked, Clark responded, “This is my neighbor I told you about.”

Several red-faced friends turned and attempted apologies, to which I responded, “All monies will be donated to charity.” A nervous laughter enveloped the entire suite.

*****

A feeling of an approaching storm had been prodding at me for the last hour, and I was trying to put it out of my mind; I was soon overwhelmed with the feeling of the approaching sleep. It was two days early, and I knew that if I didn’t leave soon, I would never make it to the safety of my flat. Moving toward the door, I felt my legs start to give way; I steadied myself on the kitchen counter just as Clark turned the corner. Facing him, I asked, “Would you do me a favor? I need to go, and I’m not sure I can make it on my own.” My paleness must have caused a slight panic. Without hesitation, he steadied me, and we left for my flat. As we approached my door, my legs started to give way again, and I was suddenly held up by my neighbor. I attempted to put the key in the lock, but my dexterity was nonexistent, and Clark finished the task. Moving toward my bedroom, I was able to shed my clothes for a long tee and shorts, finally slipping into bed. Clark stared down, and I could see the worry showing in his eyes; looking at him, I said, “I will be unavailable for two, maybe three days. Thank you for your help. I don’t want to keep you from your guests.”

As if not hearing my words, he said, “You will be sleeping for days?”

“Yes,” I said, short and without explanation.

“Should I be contacting emergency?”

Slowly I responded, “No, I just have a sleeping disorder. All will be okay.” With that, I was gone.

Clark sat there for a while, still shaken by the actions of the past few minutes; he lay down next to Thom and just stared up at the ceiling. Turning to look at his neighbor, he noticed something hanging around his neck with a silver chain. It had a deep-blue stone, and it required a second, then a third look; it seemed to glow and surge with colour. He said to no one in particular, “I remember mood rings from years past, but this is something else.” Reaching over, he picked up the object; suddenly, there was a flash of white light, and he found himself somewhere unknown.