Читать книгу Three Wishes - S. C. Loader - Страница 12

Chapter 4

George made himself comfortable; lying down on his back he rolled up his waistcoat and placed it under his head to form a pillow. Once he had located and removed a couple of daggers masquerading as innocent little twigs from his bed he settled and his thoughts returned to Christine. She was he believed, much like himself, a little too old to play silly games, but perhaps there was some truth in that adage, ‘Inside every adult, there’s a child waiting to escape.’ His participation was purely a selfish one, it had been a long time since he had last enjoyed the intimate company of a woman and he sought to prolong that enjoyment as much as possible, especially as this company was so delightful to behold. Even so, it was only the prospect of playing against such an intelligent adversary that raised any real enthusiasm to take part.

Just how far could he stretch her ‘story’ before she gave up and confessed? Hopefully, this point would not come too quickly.

‘Are you claiming to be an angel?’

‘Yes and no, I am an archangel.’

‘What’s the difference?’

‘The prefix “arch” before the word angel!’

A sideways glance revealed a delightful cheeky grin spreading across her face, he pretended not to notice just in case it drew their game to a premature conclusion.

‘But you cannot be an angel, they don’t exist,’ adding the afterthought, ‘and neither do archangels!’

‘Yes they do!’ she said in a rather matter-of-fact tone.

‘No they don’t!’ replied George trying to emulate the same tone.

‘They do.’

‘They don’t!’

‘They do.’

‘Okay, if you’re an angel, sorry archangel, then where are your wings? I think I would have noticed them peeking out from under your dress.’

‘Why should I have wings?’

‘All angels have wings!’

‘Birds have wings, not angels!’

‘So where did you park your cloud then? Behind one of the trees?’

There was a long pause before she replied, ‘I think you have been reading too many fairy tales.’

George nearly choked, he wasn’t the one claiming to be an angel, but he granted her that retort as his last question was a little facetious.

‘I’m sorry! But how can you claim to be an angel when you look nothing like one, not as classically depicted anyway? You have no halo, no harp, no wings, and no fluffy white cloud to float around on! And I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but you’re supposed to be wearing white… you’re wearing the other team’s colours!’

‘The other team?’

‘You must know them? Their captain is the one with the pointy tail and has a penchant for keeping warm!’

She looked a little puzzled but said nothing in response.

‘Can you prove you’re an angel?’

‘I could walk around this tree and reappear immediately on the other side wearing only stockings and a silly grin if you like.’

‘Wow! You can do that?’ enquired George excitedly.

‘No!’ her tone was a little sharp which he did not fail to notice.

‘I’m sorry,’ apologising was becoming a habit he thought, ‘but I’ve never met an angel before and if you claim to be one then it is only natural that I would ask you to prove it.’

‘I am an angel, not a magician and I certainly do not do conjuring tricks to satisfy the curiosity of those I visit, and I know you have never met an angel before, if you had, I would not have been allowed to come here, second visits are strictly forbidden, even those by the same angel. As for your scepticism, you must learn to see with your eyes and hear with your ears, then the proof you seek will be found in your heart.’

George recognised the latter part of her answer as nothing more than a quote, a commonly heard retort often recited by the fervently religious, especially when put under stress by persistent questioning by someone like himself, an ardent atheist. Alas, he had to admit that it was exceptionally well delivered and extremely clever, as it allowed her a perfect escape route should he pursue the subject of proof any further. It also highlighted another strangeness that had gone unnoticed, she never used contractions. To say ‘I am’ and not ‘I’m’ seemed a little stiff, even snobbish. Was she deliberately avoiding them to give herself an air of superiority? If so, then she was losing the battle against the gentle softness of her own voice, which entirely negated it. Whatever her reason was he was beginning to admire her regardless. His first questions may have been fairly predictable given most people’s perception of an angel, but she had still managed to maintain her pretence despite the fact she lacked all the obvious accessories of an angel. How would she cope with less predictable questions?

‘So we are only permitted to see an angel once, never twice.’

‘That is correct, no one may see an angel twice in their lifetime.’

‘That seems a little unfair!’

‘Why?’

‘Well, if for instance someone walked out of the forest behind us unexpectedly and saw you then they would forfeit their chance of a visit.’

‘No, we protect everyone so as not to endanger their chance of a visit.’

‘How?’

‘Normally only the person we visit can see us.’

‘So our imaginary person walking out of the forest would not be able to see you?’

‘Not unless I choose to be seen, in which case he or she would not know I am an angel so their chance would not be forfeited.’

‘I could tell them!’

‘Who would believe you?’

‘Good point! But why would you choose to be seen?’

‘I do not think you would find it very helpful to be seen talking to yourself, do you?’

‘True!’ A curious thought drew his next question, ‘Would an angel always choose to be seen under such circumstances?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s a shame!’

‘Why?’

George grinned, ‘For a moment I thought invisible angels might explain why I see so many old people talking to themselves.’

Christine returned the grin.

His admiration for her was growing fast, for although her responses were quick they were well-thought-out, logical and closed off all obvious avenues of attack. All of which made her previous choice of figures when quoting the number of angels seem very strange by comparison.

‘Do you have a time limit to your visits?’

‘No, time is only of importance to mortal life, we may stay as long as necessary to achieve our goal, a day, a week, a month, a year, or even longer if we deem it necessary. Time is of no importance to us, therefore it presents no limit.’

‘So are you saying you’re immortal?’

‘No, but our life span is immense in human terms.’

‘How long?’

‘Long enough,’ the addition of a cheeky grin to the reply prompted George’s next question.

‘Long enough to attempt that trick with the tree? I would be very happy to help and you could even forget about the stockings if it makes it easier!’ adding as an afterthought, ‘and I promise to keep my eyes open. WIDE open!’

She started to giggle, ‘Good because I left my stockings in the glove compartment of my cloud!’

‘Do all angels possess such a lovely sense of humour?’

‘Of course, they do, why would you expect it to be otherwise?’ she was struggling to suppress her giggling.

‘Because it doesn’t fit the image. You’re meant to float around on clouds playing harps and generally being angelic, not telling jokes!’

‘If you could hear how some of them play you would understand why we need a good sense of humour!’ her repressed giggle broke into full laughter, it was as infectious as her smile, and together they spent a few minutes enjoying their private little joke.

Their laughter slowly subsided and a couple of minutes passed silently, George spent his time wondering why fate had waited until this particular day to present this perfection of womanhood to him. Whatever that reason was, he hoped it was enjoying its own spitefulness, for it knew how long he had waited and how hard he had searched to find his dream. A woman he could share life and grow old with, a woman he could wrap in a new layer of love every day, knowing she would neither want to nor do anything that would ever remove a single one. Fate had not only chosen the very day on which this dream would finally come to rest, but it had also instigated a dilemma. His feelings for this young woman were drifting way beyond admiration and there was nothing he could do to stop himself. On this journey, there were no brakes to apply and no steering wheel to turn, the end station was within sight and rapidly approaching, its name was love. Unfortunately, this was not his first such journey. Long ago he had made this very same one believing he had found that dream, but in reality, he had only found a cunningly disguised nightmare, a nightmare that did not value his love no matter how much of it was given. Was this woman sitting next to him with her wonderful, albeit mischievous sense of humour his dream? If so, then he would stay and unreservedly give her every last gram of love he could possibly muster, but if not, then he should leave as he had planned to before this wonderful feeling he had for her was turned into something ugly and distasteful, as had happened before. Lifting his head he looked over to Christine, who had quietly been watching him all along. A huge smile rose from his heart and used his face to proudly display itself. Lowering his head again he quietly cursed fate afresh, how was he to know which of the two she was?

The staggering flight of a pretty woodland butterfly crossing his line of view returned his thoughts to the game he was playing with another, albeit mythological, winged beauty. The pure blue summer sky intermittently revealed by the canopy of leaves above him inspired a query.

‘If you are an angel, sorry archangel, then why are you here with me and not up there tending the souls of the lost and dearly departed?’

The long silence that followed remained unbroken by her reply.

Rolling onto his side to face her, ready to repeat the question just in case she had not heard it, he was surprised to see that she had already changed position. Her suggestion or rather her quote, that he should learn to see with his eyes and hear with his ears had gone fully unheeded, for he had neither seen nor heard her move. Her upper body, which had only moments ago faced him, now faced the valley, her legs were outstretched and although he could no longer see her face fully he knew something was amiss.

‘Christine… what’s wrong?’

The question passed unanswered, she slowly drew her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around her legs and then lowered her forehead onto her knees and whether deliberate or accidental this effectively hid her face from him. Was this real or just another clever tactic? He sat himself back up, intuitively he felt something was seriously wrong and that he was at fault, men usually are to blame in these circumstances. After waiting for a short while he slowly and quietly shuffled himself forward until he drew level with her and although he had no idea as to what he was actually apologising for he offered a softly spoken, ‘I’m sorry.’

His words passed unacknowledged and a strange, unnerving silence descended upon them.

To George, this silence signalled that the endpoint of their game had been reached and sadly it had come far quicker than he had hoped for. In his naivety, he had believed it would conclude in a giggling confession, smiles, laughter and with luck perhaps a short explanation as to why she had started it in the first place. Instead, she had withdrawn into a world of her own making and it would appear one that he was to be excluded from.

What had caused this reaction? While he sat pondering over the endless possibilities Christine slowly raised her head. After a short glance in his direction, she lowered her chin onto her knees and turned her gaze out across the valley. George moved forward and turned slightly towards her, now he could see her face properly. Her almost perpetual smile had vanished, as had the brightness in her eyes and her expression showed signs of pain, not physical but emotional. Her eyes turned towards him and from somewhere around his chest level they slowly rose until they met his, suddenly they darted away. Immediately her forehead returned to her knees and again her face was hidden from view.

George’s deliberations over the cause of this strange reaction drew only three possibilities, the first two being, either she was upset because he had guessed what she was up to or that she had guessed what he was up to. Either way, neither of these two possibilities were real grounds for being upset, disappointed… maybe, but this… definitely not. This left only the third possibility, himself. With her secret uncovered she no longer had any interest in him and this performance was simply her way of telling him to go away.

His gaze turned towards the dark, gloomy pine forest for a few moments, then slowly down to the waistcoat lying on the ground and finally back to Christine, ‘Perhaps,’ he thought to himself, ‘it was time to leave.’

Standing, he was passing his eyes over Christine one last time when her face reappeared from behind the veil that had hidden it, as her eyes rose to meet his he could plainly see they were awash with tears. A few broke away to roll softly down her cheeks, gently she wiped each one away with the palms of her hands, but no sooner had she wiped one away when another would quickly replace it and another and another until she eventually gave up.

This was not play-acting, but real emotion, even George knew the difference and if the look in her eyes had not been a suitably large enough clue then the huge lump in his throat certainly was. This was more than sufficient grounds to postpone his departure, the sight of a woman crying had always weighed heavily on his heart, but with this one in particular that weight was almost unbearable. Kneeling back down beside her, he offered out a pair of comforting arms, a teary half-smile lit her face and her hands lifted to take his, but then they suddenly withdrew. A faltering, ‘I… I…’ was all he received as an explanation and the hands that should have been seeking comfort through him now shrouded her face and in the small amount of privacy they afforded, she quietly wept.

With his offer refused he felt powerless to help and simply knelt there watching her. The lump in his throat grew bigger, time stopped and the world beyond them ceased to exist.

At length the tears exhausted themselves, and as her composure slowly returned she dried her eyes and cheeks, although not with her hands as before but rather endearingly, with the hem of her dress. An unusual action for any woman he thought, especially one wearing make-up, as even he could have foreseen the resulting dark grey stain on the white lace edging. Stranger still, he had seen this scene played out once before, only then it was a young girl sat on the floor drying her eyes with her school dress.

That incident, despite having been too young at the time to fully appreciate why, was a defining moment in his life and one that would remain forever in his heart, for it breached an emotional border allowing love to enter his life for the very first time. To his deep regret, that love went unspoken and the object of his affections passed out of his life never knowing of his feelings for her. Would the same happen again now that history had repeated itself? His only consolation was that on that first occasion, he was definitely not to blame for the tears, but on this one, he was not so sure.

A discrete sniff from the young woman at his side drew him from his thoughts and as the pinkness in her eyes and flushed cheeks gradually began to fade, her eyes brightened and happily, a small smile returned to her face. With her smile the clocks restarted and the outside world slowly reappeared.

‘Sorry!’ her halting voice still bore the remnants of emotion.

‘You have nothing to apologise for, on the contrary, I think I have.’

Christine’s head fell forward shamefully and slowly shook, ‘No’, she said, ‘you have nothing to apologise for.’

George sat himself down by the side of her now outstretched legs, partly to pacify his knees which had begun to complain, but mostly to fulfil his own desire to remain as close as possible yet still see her face clearly. He was waiting… for although outwardly Christine had recomposed herself, her shamefully hung head had suggested that inwardly she still required a little more time. Time he had in abundance and as far as he was concerned she was welcome to as much of it as she needed. While he waited the breeze resumed its display with her hair, but with her sadness still in the air, its role was only that of a minor distraction, as were the ten cute little toes he was admiring.

‘Would you like me to answer your last question?’ she asked.

‘Sorry, which one?’

‘Would you like to know why I am here and not tending lost souls?’

‘What!’ this was not an impolite request from George for the question to be repeated, but an instinctive exclamation of astonishment. He closed his eyes in total disbelief; she wanted to continue the game. Why? Surely, even she must now realise that her pretence of being an angel held no credibility after such an emotional outburst.

‘Something has fallen out of your pocket.’

He opened his eyes only to find she was looking down at his waistcoat and that ‘something’ was his tin.

‘That’s okay, don’t worry about it,’ and he dearly hoped her interest in it would end there.

‘You might lose it, would you like me to pick it up for you?’ she asked stretching out an arm towards it.

‘No! It’s okay! Please… tell me why you’re here,’ he cursed himself the moments the words left his lips, in his desperation to draw her attention away from the tin he had accidentally restarted this ridiculous game.

Her arm retracted, but she remained looking at the tin for quite some time before slowly turning back to him, she raised her eyes to his and left them there and for the first time he felt uncomfortable about her use of direct eye contact. Something about her eyes had changed, as had her whole face and it was not just the smudged make-up.

‘We come when we are needed,’ a distinct coldness had now replaced the gentleness in her voice.

‘Who would need an angel?’

‘Those in distress!’

‘Who are they?’

‘I have already said! Those who need an angel!’ A distinct coldness and now irritation!

‘But at any single moment in time, there must be thousands of people requiring your help.’

‘Obviously!’

‘But there are so few of you. Angels I mean.’

‘SO?’

If words were sharp enough to cut he thought, then hers were intended to draw blood, his! Much to his relief, she took her gaze elsewhere, her eyes had begun to mirror the coldness in her voice.

‘Do you visit them all?’

‘Only the worthy!’

‘How do you know who they are?’

‘We choose!’

‘You? Surely if you’re an angel then you mean God…’

‘NO, I DO NOT!’ An interruption laced with undisguised indignation and more than a hint of anger. Her eyes momentarily returned to his, narrowed and turned away again, leaving a shiver to run up the full length of his spine. This look he was all too familiar with, his ex-wife had often employed it to show her annoyance at something he had said or done that met with her disapproval, in fact, if this look had not been instinctive in all women she could have given lessons in its use.

Luckily for men, their sense of self-preservation made them aware of the dangers embedded within it and only the foolhardy or the exceptionally brave would dare ignore this last-chance warning. George felt neither particularly foolhardy nor brave that day and instantly took the decision not to contradict any more of her answers in future.

‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but how do you choose those you visit?’ He hoped a little politeness would bestow some calmness to the situation.

‘Evaluation!’

‘Of what may I ask?’

‘Time and mark!’ The sharpness of her replies swallowed his hope.

‘Time? I’m sorry I do not understand, earlier you had said that …’

She cut him short, ‘We cannot perform miracles!’

The obvious coldness in her voice and more especially in her eyes, the change of attitude and the curt un-illuminating answers had now begun to irritate him.

‘I did not mean to insinuate that you could, but why would you need time?’

‘Because we do!’

His patience broke with that answer, ‘That’s enough!’ he snapped. ‘This ridiculous charade ends right now! Go and find someone else to play your pathetic game with!’

Enraged, he stood up, stepped past her, snatched up his belongings and stomped furiously away. Once out of earshot he began to recite out loud every swearword he could possibly think of and when they ran out he vented the rest of his anger on one of his shoes by throwing it as far as he could. En route to retrieving it he stepped on something sharp hidden below a layer of beech leaves. His next step was painful enough to warrant a few more expletives and an inspection of the damage. A small cut on the sole of his right foot let a small amount of blood, but not enough to cause concern. If he put his shoe and sock on he would not even notice it. He looked at the shoe in his hand, unfortunately, it was his left shoe, after looking up to locate the other a few more expletives followed. The remaining left shoe had not caused this latest outburst, but the fact that he had forgotten the golden rule of all ball sports, ‘never take your eyes off the ball!’ Somewhere out there in an enormous sea of dried beech leaves was his other shoe, a brown shoe.

He took another step… it hurt… a lot!

Hoping that Christine had not witnessed his stupidity, he checked to see if she was still there, thankfully she had already left and a quick check of his immediate surrounding confirmed he was once again totally alone. Hopping to the nearest tree he dropped his socks, shoe and waistcoat in an untidy heap and sat himself down.

After glancing over to where Christine had been sat he slowly buried his face into his hands, trying to calm the voices inside his head demanding justification for what he had just done to her.

Some while later he spent a few minutes looking over the sea of leaves for his shoe, every slightly darker leaf brought hope of finding it, but luck had deserted him.

Now for the first time, he had reason to curse the preceding mild winter. Normally the strong winter winds coming down the valley would strip the forest floor of all the leaves leaving it naked, but this year there were none, and the unusually wet spring that followed had also been relatively wind-free.

Bored of shoe hunting he looked around to see if he was still alone, he was.

A survey of his new resting place left him feeling discontented, it lay in deep shadow, the view into the valley was obstructed and the ground felt damp. His seat was also extremely uncomfortable and very annoyingly, despite repeated modifications, it remained so. To add to his misery, from this vantage point he could still see his favoured tree and the flickering sunlight that lit nature’s armchair beneath it. After a few moments staring in the general direction of the missing shoe he told the forest, ‘You can have my shoe, but in return, I want my old seat back.’

Wearing the socks, his single shoe and the waistcoat freed his hands, which he knew he was going to need as soon as he took the first step on the injured foot. The distance was not great if one had two feet to walk on. With one it seemed so much further away, dauntingly so, but at least there were six trees en route and each a potential resting post. After twenty steps on the painful foot and an unknown number of hops performed on the other, he reached the second of the six trees and the chance to rest was gratefully received.

‘One third of the way there!’

While resting, he took the opportunity to check he was still alone, he had already embarrassed himself with his own stupidity and did not want any witnesses to his unconventional mode of travel, nor to what he was about to do, to add to that embarrassment. The ‘call of nature’ as his mother insisted on calling it had been beckoning him since he had stuck his foot in that elephant trap, unfortunately hopping about the woodland had promoted an easily ignored need into one that now verged on desperation. A small sapling was elected as an unsuspecting target, luck however was on its side that day. Balancing on one foot and leaning precariously against a tree for further support completely disabled his targeting abilities, but despite failing to hit his chosen target George did find enlightenment, could it be that only one-legged men used public conveniences?

With his need alleviated and the available vista devoid of witnesses, he set off again. Wary of the uneven forest floor he was too busy to either count the steps or the hops to the third and the fourth trees.

‘Two-thirds of the way there!’

The added hindrance of some large dead branches on the forest floor caused a number of detours en route to the fifth tree, but once there luck returned in the form of a broken branch that offered itself as a makeshift crutch. An offer eagerly accepted and the final stretch back to his armchair was covered relatively speedily with its aid.

After the few minutes required to recover from his efforts he checked his foot, it had bled a little, staining his sock. Leaning back against the tree he crossed his outstretched legs, placing the leg supporting the injured foot on top and mercifully the pain began to ease.

Christine returned to haunt his thoughts and he tried to justify leaving her, but for all the clever reasoning that passed through his head, nothing removed that feeling of profound regret. Nor did reasoning fill that deep hole where his stomach once was. Now all that remained of this strange, but hauntingly beautiful young woman were a few memories, a small depression in the leaves where she had once sat, and the overwhelming sense of loss. Leaning slightly over to his left, George gently placed his hand, palm down in the centre of the depression. For a while, his unblinking gaze remained with his hand while his thoughts remained with the young woman who had once sat there, slowly he closed his eyes and drew the fingers of his left hand together and the walls that constrained his emotions finally fell.

The rustling of leaves behind drew him from his thoughts; hurriedly he dried his face with the back of his hand before turning around, but there was no one there. A few leaves bustled past, the breeze, mournful without her hair to tease had chosen to play with these instead.

Disappointed he turned back, slowly his gaze dropped to his lap and the hands that rested there. The glistening on the back of his right hand drew his attention first, here was the last remaining evidence of his tears, the first he had shed since death had visited his childhood home. These however were memories he had no wish to dwell upon and passed his attention to the left hand, still clutching a handful of leaves. Turning the hand palm up he slowly released his grip on the leaves, as they sprung back into shape the breeze carried them back to the forest floor leaving only one. Lifting it via its stalk, a wry smile crossed his face, the hand that held the last trace of his tears also held a reminder of why they had been shed.

The leaf was given its freedom and the breeze lifted it high into the air, when it disappeared from sight he gave small sigh and said softly, ‘Bye my angel,’ then with a slight grin added, ‘Sorry! Archangel’