Allons-y!

psychologically speaking, vengeance rarely brings the catharsis we hope for. ​

Yennefer had just had a man literally thrown out with the trash after he made a comment that she didn’t like about one of her girls. No one knew what the man had said, but no one questioned her authority when it came to policing who was allowed in the lounge. She turned to the stranger giving out psychological advice with a roll of her eyes and gave him an obviously fake smile. “Please, tell me again how to exercise proper catharsis.”

~*~

John didn’t often come to this part of town. Everyone knew it was where you went if you were looking for trouble. He didn’t mind trouble, of course, but there was something of a coward in him. He wasn’t too proud to admit that. But tonight he’d wandered further than he’d intended, lost in thought until the sudden and violent motion of a man flying into refuse caught his attention. “Well,” he said, mouth opening and closing again. “There’s... uh...  running?” he tried. “And other -- non... violent approaches. That is to say that I, personally...” He stopped, ducking his head and shaking it before glancing back up at her. “I should probably stop talking now, yeah?” 

John Smith started talking, and, in a way, he sounded like the Prophet, when he told them stories about Marcus and the first women, or Charlie’s ways, or Chad the giant killer. Like someone who was used to telling stories, used to an audience. Minnow just blinked at him, until he turned and walked over to another shelf. She walked after him hurriedly. He sounded fond of Maria Ann Smith, as if he was talking about someone he knew. Again, she felt that rush of kindness and love from him, and it made no sense. He wasn’t Charlie. He was just a Gentile, just a strange man. So, she simply said, “Oh. I didn’t know that.”

He turned to look at her, and now his gaze felt different. Curious, sharp, like a hawk’s eyes, like the Prophet when he knew she had transgressed. Like he knew he’d caught her out in her eye. But, instead of calling her out on it, he pulled one of the apples off the shelf, and held it. Minnow shrugged. “I haven’t heard anyone say that,” she replied, bluntly. They had no need for doctors in the Community. Charlie healed them, or he didn’t. Modern medicine was not of Him. He had healed the Prophet’s eyes, and his lungs, and Bertie’s feet, before she’d died.

After a moment, she took several apples off the shelf, and dropped them into her metal shopping basket. Five – as many as she could pull off at once – and then five more, and then ten more, and finally two. That made one for everyone in the Community. When she had put all twenty-two apples into her basket, she realised that she could leave, but it felt wrong to just walk away. The Prophet would say she didn’t have to thank a filthy Gentile. But John Smith had been kind. So, she looked up from her basket, and smiled a wan smile. “Thank you, John.” It didn’t feel unnatural, or wrong, to say it.

~*~

“Really?” he asked, smiling and tossing the apple in the air. He caught it deftly, and repeated the action. Toss and catch, toss and catch. For some reason the word satsuma popped into his head, dancing around for a moment among images of clouds and bathrobes and a city sprawled below... John was so caught up he missed the apple and it tumbled past his hands, bouncing off the shelf and onto the floor. “Oops,” he said, grinning sheepishly. He waved to a clerk who was giving him quite the stare. “I think I better stick to buying fruit instead of juggling it, eh?” he said, turning back to the young girl. 

“Anyway, it’s a common enough saying. Not sure where that one came from, but if I had to guess...” He stuck his tongue between his teeth, then snapped his fingers together. “Yes, definitely early twentieth century. 1913 or so? Give or take a few months.” Her quiet thanks  made him refocus, and he returned her small smile in kind. “My pleasure,” he said, without a hint of sarcasm. 

Rose often missed home on days like this. She never thought that she would admit to this but she actually really missed her mother too. She adored the woman but she was a lot to handle but right now; she would happily have Jackie sharing her space. She had finished work and grabbed some takeout… However rather than heading straight home she figured a little wander through the park would be very nice. 

Her brows raised a little as she noticed the man sprawled out on the grass. Rose stopped suddenly. Why… Why did he look so familiar? Something about his face. Rose cleared her throat as she slowly approached him. “Excuse me? Are you alright? Why you grinning up at the sky like that?” She couldn’t ask him why he looked so familiar. Why… He felt… Homely. 

~*~

He stared up at the night sky and felt like he was dreaming. How else could he explain the thoughts and images floating through his mind? Fantasies of flying through the galaxies, running his fingers through stardust and tasting the air on another world. A new world, a different world. Oh I’ll never get used to this. A voice whispered in his mind. Her voice, the one that came to him in his very best dreams. Different ground beneath my feet, different sky -- 

Then, quite suddenly, it wasn’t just in his head. 

John sat up, propping himself up on his elbows. For a long moment, he just blinked at her, mouth falling open. She was beautiful, standing there lit by streetlamps and starlight. Blonde hair spilled over her shoulders, and her eyes. He swore there was something endless about them. If she thought he was grinning at the sky, well, he must’ve looked like a fool now. “Sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “Sorry, I -- I get caught up sometimes,” he said, like that explained anything. He scrambled up, brushing grass from his hands and clothes as he walked over to her. “I’m brilliant, by the way,” he added, grinning broadly. “Just... absolutely brilliant. Sorry, I’m John Smith.” He held out his hand. “What’s your name?”

Harold looked up from patting his blazer pockets at the sound of the strangely recognisable voice. It was strange because he’d met this man only once before, but something about his voice – that concern – was so familiar, like they’d had more than one oddly intimate conversation.

He frowned for a second. “What?” he said, before realising that he had been looking for something, but he’d been completely thrown by the question that he’d temporarily forgotten. “Oh! No, don’t worry.” And he lowered his hands, and waved one in a dismissive gesture, before immediately changing his mind. “It’s just… Well -” And, in an impulsive move, he reached into his trousers pocket and pulled out the silver watch that had bothered him immensely ever since he’d found it on his bedside table. “This thing is broken. Can’t get it to open for the life of me. You wouldn’t happen to know where I could get it fixed, would you?”

~*~

He wasn’t sure what had prompted him. It wasn’t unusual for John to offer to help -- he was famous for it among the other teachers, the librarian called him a ‘darling’ for it. He enjoyed helping people, lending a hand wherever he could. But that usually extended to tutoring or grabbing a book off a very high shelf, and once oddly enough chasing down a very wily duck. Now here he was, offering his services to the mayor, and with an enthusiasm he couldn’t explain. He felt a kinship to Harry, which after that night under the stars was hardly surprising. The fact that they’d had that night was the real surprise. This connection, whatever it was, it had begun the instant the two men set eyes on each other. 

So when Harry brushed him off, John couldn’t help but feel a wave of disappointment wash over him. “Right, course,” he said quickly, grin faltering for just a second. He shoved his hands into his pockets, started to turn away, but then Harry spoke again. John turned on his heel, grin back in full force. “Let’s take a look shall --” He stopped short, head tilted. “Huh,” he whispered. “Now would you look at that.” He reached out for the watch, leaning forward to study it. It wasn’t the exact same markings, but similar. Like different phrases written in the same alphabet. “Afraid I don’t, mate,” he said, slipping a hand into his pocket. “Otherwise, I’d know what to do about this.” He pulled out his own watch, and dangled it from the chain in between them. 

The stranger spoke, and Minnow felt a warmth rolling off him, heard an openness in his voice, saw impossible age behind his eyes. She stared at him. This was how she’d always imagined it would feel when she met Charlie. Rightness, affection, kindness rolled off him in waves. For a moment, she thought he was Charlie, that she’d finally found him, that he’d come for them just like the Prophet said he would. But then she realised, in a heartbeat, that he was too old – Charlie would have been her age – and his eyes were dark brown, like a fox’s, not bright green. Oh. She blinked, and looked back at the bagged apples, feeling stupid.

John Smith. Not Charlie. Not anyone. She addressed the apples as she spoke. “Minnow Bly,” she said, pulling the sleeves of her jumper down over her wrists. Her fingers felt strange, tingly, like she was on the edge of getting pins and needles. That happened sometimes. But she didn’t let it distract her – she couldn’t – not out here, surrounded by Gentiles, like wolves in sheep’s clothing. After a few seconds, she said, “Granny Smiths. I was looking at the Granny Smith apples.” It wasn’t true – she wasn’t sure which ones they were, but she hoped she could trick this man – John Smith – into pointing out which ones they were, so she could get them. The coins she’d been given by the Prophet to pay for them weighed heavily in her skirt pocket.

~*~

“Ahh, Granny Smiths. Named after an actual Granny, you know. Maria Ann Smith. Australian lady, famously cultivated these apples. Well, not these,” he said, straightening up. He craned his neck one way and then the other, face lighting up when he spotted them. “Here we go!” he said brightly, walking over. “These apples. Maria cultivated these apples. Sweet woman, very kind, didn’t get enough credit in her lifetime.” He felt a fondness for the woman, and it could be heard in his voice. He wasn’t sure why, it wasn’t like he knew her. He just knew of her. And yet. What a strange thought. 

A stranger thought suddenly occurred to him.  He tilted his head, and glanced at her. “You must have really good eyesight, spotting them from all the way down there,” he said, arching a brow. He reached forward and plucked one off the shelf. “Maybe I’ll get one myself. They say it keeps the doctor away, eh?” 

Minnow hated going into the town. It felt too crowded, too unnatural, and she always kept her head down and her eyes on the ground when she walked into the stores to get what they needed. She only felt truly safe in Echo Springs when she had the Community with her, when they walked through the streets to get to the other side of the woods. This rarely happened, but sometimes they all walked together through the streets, and the Gentiles stopped to stare at them, and took photos. Minnow always held Constance’s hand so tightly that her little sister complained she was hurting her.

But now, she was alone, standing in front of the fruit section of the grocery store. Most of it was packed into plastic containers. She always got the green apples, Granny Smiths, which were loose in one of the boxes, but today there were none. For the first time in all her years of getting groceries for the Community, there were no loose apples. So now, Minnow was staring at the plastic wrapped fruit, with letters printed on their labels. She couldn’t make the letters into words. She could see the letter G on some of them, but she couldn’t remember what a Y looked like. If she got the wrong ones, she would have to come back to return them, and she didn’t want to come into the store again so soon.

Someone stood next to her, and she flinched away, and muttered, “Sorry –” She barely glanced at the Gentile. In her thirteen years of living in Echo Woods, she could count the number of times she had had spoken to the Gentiles who lived in town on one hand.

Grocery stores were a staple of modern life. And yet, John always felt... out of sorts in them. He was never quite sure what to do with his hands, or how fast to walk down the aisles. It was as if he hadn’t had much practice with them, though of course that was ridiculous. He was just... out of sorts, he supposed. 

It felt like he’d been out of sorts for as long as he could remember. But that was just another strange thought. He shoved his hands into his pockets and strode down the fruit aisle. There was only one other person there, a young girl in blue. She was staring very intently at the apples, and John felt his curiosity flare up with a tingle. He leaned forward to look too, but then she flinched away and he arched a brow at her. 

“No, no that’s on me. Sorry!” he said quickly, speaking much louder than she had. “I was just wondering, what were you looking at?” His eyes slid back to the fruit. “They look like perfectly normal apples to me. But then again, I’m not exactly an expert on... fruit.” He frowned for a moment, before shaking his head and glancing back at her. “John Smith, by the way. What’s your name?” 

Harold kept staring up at the sky, and didn’t say anything as John Smith spoke. There was an easiness between them, a weird sort of peace that he couldn’t remember feeling with anyone else, not even Lucy. She mostly irritated him, as a matter of fact. But lying here on the ground, with John, he felt at ease. Sure, there was the noise in his head, but that was always there. He felt like he could actually think, and, even though the other man spoke at ninety miles an hour, Harold could follow everything he was saying. He did that himself – he often noticed Lucy, or his colleagues at work, staring at him cluelessly, because he’s said too much too quickly for them to follow. Idiots.

And then there were the dreams. As he recalled that nightmare – the one with the emptiness, and the black sky, and the furnaces – he felt a chill. He always woke up, after those dreams, with a sense of despair. And here was this man, who said he’d dreamed of space too, of something similar. Weirdness aside, Harold wondered if, maybe, John would recount that same feeling of desolation, of hatred and anger at the pointlessness of it all, the horror of those screams. So, he lay there, staring at the stars, and waited.

But then John Smith started to talk, and there was a fondness in his tone when he spoke about life out there, about humans. Harold felt a surge of disgust and hatred so strong that he tensed, but John didn’t seem to notice, because he kept talking, the words pouring out of his mouth, stuff that shouldn’t have made sense – rhinos and Shakespeare, for crying out loud – but it did. Harold had had dreams, besides the one about darkness, that were just plain bonkers. So, he just listened, letting John’s words drown out the sound of drums. A beach. A girl? Okay. He finally tore his gaze away from the sky, and looked over at the other man, frowning a little. There was always someone at his side, he’d said. In the best dreams. And Harold realised that their dreams weren’t the same at all. In all of his, in every single one, whether he was on a grey beach in Whitby, with his skin cracked and dry and burnt to a blackened shell, or standing in the middle of a burning city as robotic, high pitched, voices screamed Exterminate! he was alone. Always.

“… Yeah,” he said, quietly, after a second, his voice rougher than usual. “Strange.” It felt like a massive understatement. He moved onto his side, and propped himself up with his elbow, frowning at John in confusion. “You said it felt like another life,” he said, slowly. “I get that. My wife – Lucy – she talks about how things are different, now we’re here. That I’m different, since we got to Echo Springs.” He paused. “Do you remember arriving here? Because… I try, and it’s…” He trailed off, and used his free hand to vaguely gesture to his head, to signify a lack, and continued. “Sometimes, those dreams – whacky as they are – feel more real than my memories. You know what I mean?” It was a rhetorical question. He knew John would.

He paused, and swallowed thickly. “I think our dreams are very different,” he said. “You said you’re always with someone, in yours. You have… companions?” The word came to him, and it was good as any to describe them. “I don’t. And life, and hope?” He said the word with a sneer, and craned his neck to look up at the stars. “All I see out there is destruction. And despair.”

~*~

John nodded slowly at his words. “But not a complete one,” he admitted softly. “It always feels like... like something’s missing. Like when you go to do an old jigsaw and you know right when you open the box that pieces are gone.” He furrowed his brow, concentrating for a moment. “I mean... I suppose I... Saw an ad for a teaching position. Online, must’ve been? And decided why not? It was years ago now,” he said, shaking his head, waving a hand in the air. “Bit like remembering a dream, in the end. Never quite sure how they start, are you?” he mused quietly. 

Another dream occurred to him now. One he didn’t share with Harold. A terrible, awful dream. Always the same. He cradled a man in his arms, a dying man. Bleeding from a gunshot wound, and for some reason, John was responsible. He hadn’t fired the shot, but he’d failed to prevent it, and now this man was dying in his arms, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He begged. He pleaded. He screamed, until tears pricked at his eyes and his voice cracked and his heart broke open. But the man always just smiled at him, gasping for his last breaths. And then he would whisper I won. 

And the dream would end. 

John never quite so alone as he did after waking from that dream. Like he was the last man standing, the sole survivor. Even as he sat in his own bed, he felt lost. A wanderer without a home. 

“Not always,” he said softly. Companions felt so right though, he couldn’t explain just how right it felt. But he knew it was right because the ache in his chest was suddenly sharp, pointed, poignant. “A lot of times, but... But not always.” He frowned at Harold’s tone, glancing over at him with concern. “I think that’s very sad,” he whispered. “But they’re just dreams. And in our real lives, we’re quite the opposite, aren’t we? You’ve got a wife, and I’m all on my own.” He nudged Harold’s arm softly with his own. “It does not do to dwell on dreams, eh?” he insisted. Even the dreams that, as Harold said, felt more real than life itself.

Lena laughed, feeling more light-hearted than she had in ages, seeing someone else who was as big of a dog person as she was- and clearly not afraid to show it- was heart-warming after all

“Well Morgana certainly agrees with you,” she laughed as the dog snuggled up to the stranger, wagging her tail excitedly- she was a bit of an attention hound

“Lena McKenna,” she replied, finding it easier and easier to revert back to her maiden name the more she said it

“Oh I haven’t checked to see if it’s locked yet,” she noted, handing the phone to John

“That’s a good idea, but what if it’s locked?”

~*~

“Fantastic name,” he said. “I always thought Morgana got a bad rap in certain adaptations of the legends. If you ask me, Merlin was a bit of a twat,” he said, still cooing at the dog in that voice one always ends up using with pets. 

John glanced up at the owner. “And yours!” he said, grinning. “Lena McKenna, now that’s just fun to say.” He stood up, taking the phone. “Let’s not put the cart before the horse now, Lena McKenna,” he said, running his fingers over the device. It was indeed locked. “See, now we ask what if. But if we just... Give me a moment.”

*

There was something about the town of Echo Springs that just didn’t sit right with Inej. Then again, after everything that had happened to her, there wasn’t a lot that sat right with her anymore. She rarely trusted anyone’s intentions anymore. Long gone was the innocent tight rope walker who had big dreams. It wasn’t only the people in the town that Inej didn’t trust. It was the things that went on around them. The dreams that she’d been having ever since arriving. The bodies that showed up in the woods without any sort of explanation. 

Now - it was the silk that was burning in front of her. The silk that appeared with no recollection of how it got into her apartment. Silk that she’d never worn before, but it was something that she recognized. Something from her dreams. 

Inej was focused upon the flames in front of her. It was rare that anyone could sneak up upon her. She was usually the one who did the sneaking. She was the Wraith. However, this man seemed to appear out of nowhere. Or perhaps she was just that distracted. 

Looking up from the flames, Inej quirked a brow. Did he experience something of a similar nature? “No,” she murmured softly, “They came out of thin air. I don’t recognize them…but I do at the same time. It doesn’t make sense…” She trailed off, her eyes flickering back to the silks. “I’m fine.” 

~*~

He approached slowly now, carefully, hands out at his sides. There was something about her that was a bit like a wounded animal, made him wary of coming at her too fast. She’d either run or... well, he didn’t particularly want to find out either way. The fob watch in his hand seemed to pulse as he approached, the flames dancing across its surface, reflecting back in the metal. 

“Doesn’t seem like it,” he pressed gently. He held the fob watch up, letting it dangle from the chain. “This did the same for me. Just showed up, out of the blue. One second there’s nothing, and the next...” He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Bit odd. But we’re not the only ones. I’ve seen it all over town. People with lockets, mirrors, one girl had a tablet she couldn’t explain.”

“Really?” She asked her eyes widening, things just appearing out of nowhere? It made no sense at all  “That’s a very interesting watch” She said staring at it, she had seen many fob watches before of course, but this one really looked special the engravings on it seemed to be meant to mean something, well maybe, but whatever it was she didn’t know. “That is a very peculiar thing isn’t? people getting odd things all around and especially if they are just…showing up, makes no sense right?”

“I guess I haven’t” She said looking at her own object again “But I feel like I have. Is going to sound so weird but it feels like it’s important and I should know why and what it is, like it’s on the top of my tongue but I really have no idea what it is, or what the symbols are, I have never seen them before and yet.” She said being honest about how she was feeling, the man in front of her just gave her a good feeling and like it was easy to talk about this things, he gave of an air of knowing things too but in a good way very diffrent to how, someone like the mayor sometimes felt to her. “Doctor John then?” She smiled a little and chuckled “I like them too I suppose, though I should focus on other things.”  

~*~

“No sense at all,” John said, face stoney and serious for a moment. “These objects... could’ve come from anywhere. Could mean anything.” His eyes slid up to meet hers, and then he broke into a grin again. He ran his fingers over the fob watch while he studied the strange tablet, his eyes drinking in every detail. He glanced around the cafe, taking in the woman holding a locket, a man and his pipe, and a dozen more people who seemed to be confounded by the presence of a strange object in front of them. 

He glanced back at the girl. “I know exactly what you mean,” he said. “Kind of spooky if you think about it. But brilliant, absolutely brilliant!” he insisted. He shook his head. “As a matter of fact, I’m not. I’m just a teacher at the school, but it... It’s a bit like the watch. The name just popped into my head,” he murmured. He stroked his chin in thought. “Oh, I don’t know. Seems to me that strange mysteriously appearing tablets and fob watches take precedence over most everything,” he said, giving her a mischievous grin. “Fancy a trip to the library with me?” 

Jamie was unused to people noticing her white lies, let alone commenting on them, so when John waved his hand and told her to inform him when he was being rude, she was mildly surprised. It showed on her face – she raised her eyebrows a little, and smiled, almost to herself. “Of course,” she said, softly. “I shall keep that in mind, Mr Smith.” She had the rather unfamiliar sensation of being watched very closely – since coming to this town, she had found a majority of its inhabitants very easy to lie to, but she could tell already that John Smith was rather unlike the other denizens of Echo Springs.

“I’m afraid I have to disagree with you,” she replied, as they shook hands. “Subtlety can tell one a lot about one’s conversational partner. For instance, if they even notice it’s there to begin with.”  She was teasing him ever so slightly, uncharacteristically. In fact, she had only employed this conversational tactic once, with Trish in the coffee house.

She had to admit to herself that she found John rather impressive. Given her own vast intellect, and sparse interests, Jamie was incredibly difficult to impress – she was able to acknowledge when others had certain skills, such as Kaz Brekker’s surprising deductive reasoning, or her other learned colleagues at the museum, and their various areas of expertise. But it was rare that she met someone who caused such an impression on her as John was. He was obviously rather clever, and his gaze suggested a strange wisdom, which somehow made his eyes the oldest part of his face. He said that he was a physics teacher, but that seemed like such a small career for him, somehow, such a low bar of achievement.

He asked what she did, and Jamie fixed him with a knowing smile. “I would hardly call it guessing,” she replied. “I’m quite sure you will be able to work out what I do.” It was an incredibly rare compliment, but already, his expansive knowledge and impressive skills had suggested to her a very active and fascinating mind. If Kaz Brekker could deduce her line of work from a few paint smears and a scent, then she felt confident than John Smith would be able too as well. She met his gaze steadily. “So, I suppose the answer is yes, Mr Smith. I am making you guess.”

~*~

He had a feeling that for her, keeping something in mind was an absurdly easy task. It wasn’t often that he ran into someone who was as clever as he was — not the most humble of statement, he didn’t need anyone to point that out, but it was a true. It was a fact he just always felt. He stepped into a room and glanced around, knowing that he was the smartest person there. A keen sense of loneliness accompanied it, but right now he felt... connection. 

“It’s informative, sure, but so’s an encyclopedia. Doesn’t mean they aren’t boring,” John insisted, leaning forward again. He couldn’t help himself, she was enticing like a rare work of art. 

“Brilliant,” he declared, absolutely genuine. “I do love a good puzzle. Or a riddle, if you will. An... enigma,” he quipped, clicking his tongue against his teeth. He casually ran a hand through his hair, fluffing it up just a bit while he glanced her over. He hummed, murmuring to himself. “No... Yes. Wait, no. No, no — yes, yes!”

Perhaps there was some other drug pumping through his system. Kaz had never dabbled in anything stronger than liquor, but it seemed more like something he might sell in a back alley. Who was that interested in stars to the point where they laid on the ground, able to be attacked at any moment? It was dangerous and stupid and showed just how much someone was used to safety. 

Despite his annoyance, Kaz thought it might be beneficial to at least figure out why someone was so foolish. Perhaps he could trick him into something, or steal his wallet. People like this often weren’t used to being desperate, and he would make an easy target. So, careful of his leg, Kaz sat down on the overcoat, shaking his head at the lunacy of it all. He glanced up at the sky and, for a moment, was dazzled. 

It didn’t happen often. There were only a few things that could really make Kaz feel awe or admiration - a job well done. Organized spreadsheets. Syrup on a tall stack of waffles accompanied by memories of laughter. Inej’s laughter. Sunny days in a rainy city. But looking up at the stars - for a scant moment, Kaz remembered the farm he’d grown up on. 

“See that one?” Jordie had asked, pointing up at the sky. Kaz had been wriggling in the straw, uncomfortable as it tickled his nose, but he looked up. The sky was bright and clear, and he was tucked under his older brother’s arm. They’d snuck out because Kaz couldn’t sleep. At six years old, he was too energetic for his birthday tomorrow. It was early in the year, and near-freezing, so his brother had bundled them up into winter coats and took him outside. “Capricorn. Like you, squirt.”

Kaz traced the shape with his fingertip. It looked like a… Bent triangle? But he knew that the reason Jordie said it was like him was that those stars showed up around his birthday. Kaz didn’t know a lot of people, and at that point, he thought it was just for him - that he was the only Capricorn. Did people all get their own special stars for their birthday? That would be nice. “Is there a story?” He asked. Da told them stories about the stars once in a while - not that Kaz remembered them. But he liked Da’s voice. 

“It’s the story of Sankt Milotus.” Jordie began, and Kaz half listened to the story of a shepherd who saved his town, only to be dumped into the river along with his goats. He’d been saved by a magical fish and transformed into some kind of half goat, half fish, in order to survive. He was the patron saint of the drowning. 

It was lying back on the grass now that had Kaz sneering in the memory, angered once again that so many memories of Jordie were tainted by his pain. By the waters that tried to pull him deeper. “I do not, in fact, know this one.” Kaz said with a roll of his eyes. What point did any of it serve? “It looks like a cleaver, so I’m going to guess it’s better known as a cleaver.”

~*~

There was irritation, arrogance, all too clear in the boy’s voice — but there was that bright shining spark of intelligence too. Maybe not education, despite the drawl of his voice and the haughtiness that came with it. But a raw brilliance. It felt familiar. Clever recognized clever though didn’t it? A face flashed into his mind, a different boy, just as arrogant, just as brilliant. No one’s told you no in a long time, have they? An old student, perhaps? John couldn’t quite place his name... couldn’t quite picture the classroom....

“That is very clever,” John said, eager to push past his own half-forgotten (or half-remembered) memories. “But no, I’m afraid. Though you’ve got a point, if a violent one. Ursa minor, aka ‘the little or lesser bear.’ The tail you see here is sometimes said to resemble a ladle, thus making it The Little Dipper. Like it’s partner, the Big Dipper, just there,” he said, tracing a line over. 

.

There was something infectious about John’s smile. Harold couldn’t help but smile back, and it wasn’t the usual grin he gave to piss of his colleagues, or the cold expression he gave Lucy, where the smile didn’t reach his eyes, which glittered like he was in on a joke she didn’t get. It was a real, honest to God, smile. “But I bet you dole it out all the time anyway, right?” he asked, conversationally. “Kids can be right bloody terrors.” He had vague, buried, memories of his own childhood at boarding school – dark dormitories, whispering to each other across the room, skipping class to play knock down ginger at the teacher’s office doors. And that was a boarding school. He had a feeling these American public school kids would be far worse.

Something passed between them when they shook hands. Harold felt it, and he could see that John did too. They stared at each other for a moment, as they held hands, and it felt familiar, more familiar than when he took Lucy’s hand and pulled her into a spontaneous dance. He let go of John’s hand sharply, and thoughtlessly shoved his hand his blazer pocket, not caring how it looked. Something about the contact made him feel weird. Not… bad, exactly. Just… weird. He was grateful when the conversation moved on.

And move on it did – blimey. He didn’t think he’d ever meet someone who could give him a run for his money in the verbosity department, but John Smith was a real motor mouth. Harold laughed when he did, and looked him up and down thoughtfully. “I dunno,” he said. “I reckon you could pull it off. You’ve got that… studious look about you. But I know what you mean.” He cut himself off, and thought. “Politics is the same, really. You think it’s going to be all TV appearances and charity parties with the missus, but most of the time, you’re stuck in meetings with idiots, talking about policies and budgets.” He pulled a disgusted face. “Talk about stifling.”

Harold had no idea what made him say what he said next, about the stars. It just came out, and he saw John’s expression change, the frown crease his forehead. He looked, suddenly, serious, and Harold sat up too, when he did, and bent his leg so he could wrap his arm around it, resting his weight on it casually. But this wasn’t casual anymore. Something had shifted. He’d had those dreams too. Dreams of what? Stars? Space? The feeling of hurtling through the universe? John didn’t expand. Harold stared at him, and he barely registered the use of his nickname.

“I’m… somewhere else…” He began, roughly, and he squinted up at the sky, because it was easier than looking at the other man’s piercing, hawkish, gaze. “Another planet? I think. I know it’s so, so, far away. And there’s one dream…” He trailed off, and even remembering it now, in the cool evening, made his skin crawl. “There’s nothing. No stars. No moon. Nothing. Just… the dark.” He pronounced the final consonant sharply, letting the k click in his throat. a glottal stop. As he spoke, he could see it, in his mind’s eye – the blackness stretching on forever, no sounds except wailing. He exhaled, before continuing. “And the cold. And… there are things out there, John. Crouching beside furnaces, these… creatures. Tiny and weak, like… children.” He stared at the star Sirius and let his gaze shift out of focus, so he could almost think he was there, in the dream, surrounded by that endless night. He spoke softly now, murmuring. “Screaming at the dark.”

There was a long, drawn out silence, and Harold blinked, turned back to John, and sighed. “Spooky, huh?” he said, with a jovial smile. And he shook off the eeriness, the loneliness, the unexplained sadness that dream always brought him. “You said you’ve had those dreams too?” he asked, tilting his head to the side a little and frowning. “Go on. I’ve shown you mine, now you show me yours.”

~*~

“Oh, they’re not all bad,” John said, cajolingly. “Truth be told, the parents are much worse. You try telling them their little bundle of joy is failing because they haven’t turned in homework in three works and they insist it’s your fault!” He shook his head, laughing under his breath. “At least the students admit they deserve the zero at that point.” 

He glanced over at Harold, amusement brimming on his face. But as the conversation shifted towards the man’s career, a touch of something else crept in. “Well, I suppose that’s a bit different,” he said, hand at the back of his neck. “People need policies, eh? Policies for people, people for policies... New slogan for you there,” he quipped. “It’s certainly not a job I could do,” he added, a softer smile on his face now. Surely someone who chose to become mayor would’ve taken such things into consideration though? That thought niggled at him, John couldn’t stop turning it over in his head. 

Harold was a strange one. That much was certain. But it was a familiar kind of strange. Like two rare isotopes bonding together, that’s how it felt. There was something tantalizing about it, this kind of oddity always drew him in. But at the same time, something held him back. A little voice in the back of his head, urging caution. John didn’t often listen to that voice, but right now he paid it some heed at least.

But these dreams were too much to just ignore. John couldn’t brush this away, or pretend it wasn’t happening. Another little voice began piping up in his mind, that primal voice, the one saying go go go, jump jump jump. No, not jump. Fall. He had no idea what this meant, why two strangers would have such similar dreams, but he wanted to dive headfirst into it. Even as afraid as it made him. 

“I’ve seen the darkness too,” he admitted softly. “But it’s not all bleak and cold. There’s life there, impossible life! And humans, smiling through the rough of it all, hope shining through. Packed into these little corridors, but telling stories. Stories like... The skies are made of diamonds,” he breathed. He was talking so fast, and so much of it was just images, just feelings in his head. “But there’s more than that too!” he added quickly. “There’s... I have dreams about — well, it feels like another life. A life filled with danger and adventure. Shakespeare and witches, Dickens and ghosts! Rhinos on the moon! Strange creatures and machines...And there’s always someone at my side in these dreams, well  — during the best ones anyway.” The longing hit him now, sharp and sudden, an ache in the right side of his chest. It felt like he was missing a whole heart there. But that was impossible. Wasn’t it?

His eyes fell to the grass. “I dream sometimes about this beach,” he whispered. “But I’m not really there, just... an image of myself. And she’s there, she’s... crying,” he admitted, swallowing hard. “Crying because of me. Because I can’t tell her what she needs to hear, I can say so much but I can’t say—” 

“Ah…. thanks for your honesty atleast,”

Damn, now what was she going to do? It wasn’t like there was a lost-and-found just sitting on the side of the street….

Attention back on the stranger, Lena beamed and leaned down to scratch Morgana behind the ears, chuckling as the Greyhound’s tail wagged and she took a step closer to the stranger

“Morgana, you can feel free to pet her if you’d like, I’ve honestly known rabbits more vicious than she is,”

In fact, Morgana was a bit of a wimp, if Lena was being honest, she had originally gotten her as a guard dog to intimidate people, knowing how big Greyhounds could get, but as it turned out, Morgana was a shy and quiet little girl who didn’t like to make a peep and was scared of squirrels

Lena could hardly hold it against her though

“Oh I understand that, I always wanted a dog too and yet only managed to get my darling Morgy until recently,”

That was a good question though….

“I was actually just wondering the same thing, any suggestions?”

~*~

John beamed at Morganna. “Beautiful. And brilliant!” he declared, kneeling right down to the dog’s eye level before scratching her behind her ears. “Oh, who’s a good girl, eh?” he crooned. He leaned in conspiratorially, whispering loud enough for both dog and owner to be heard. “I’ve never been brave either. Much better to run, am I right?”

He realized that he might be coming off a bit strange. Especially considering they were, well, strangers. “John Smith, by the way,” he said, popping back up. He held his hands out for the phone. “Is it locked? We can take a quick peek through it, see if we can find a number to call perhaps?”

She looked up slightly surprised, not exactly about the exclamation but because the sound of the man’s voice seemed to take her out of some kind of very intense moment she didn’t realise she was having until she was suddenly taken out of it, she felt almost out of place, like when you’re falling asleep and then something wakes you up suddenly, for a second she even felt she wasn’t sure where she was but of course it passed just as quick as it came. She felt a little silly getting so lost in thought in the middle of a coffee shop. “Oh? Well yes actually it… it just appeared in my purse.” it made no sense “Did you found something suddenly appearing?”

It made no sense to have a conversation about things showing up out of nowhere but, well it was it seemed have happened. “it is really amazing, it seems to be off” She nodded and allowed the man to take the weird device.

~*~

“As a matter of fact, I did. This just appeared on the counter,” John said, holding out the fob watch. His eyes slid slowly around the coffee shop. “And if I had to hazard a guess... I’d say that we’re not the only ones getting mysterious gifts.” Was gift the right word? No... no, gifts were given from one person to another. This felt like a returning. Like someone had been borrowing these objects from them, and had finally gotten round to bringing them back.