Participles and Portents (11)

On Greetings from Old Friends

He was tired.  He was tired of being in the shop, of being by himself, but more importantly, he was tired of being with himself.  He pulled on his sweater, grabbed a light jacket as a precaution and locked up.  He should probably keep the shop open but just now he did not care about the state of the economy, his or anyone else's.  He needed to walk.

He did his best not to catch the eyes of those he passed along the village streets.  The last thing he wanted to do was to get stranded in idle conversation.  He made it down to the paths and found himself automatically turning toward her cottage.  He stopped abruptly and reversed directions.  He had no idea where she might be, but running into her was also not what he wanted to do.  He let his feet pick a path through the rough rocks, eventually drifting down closer to the shore and the sea. He wandered without thought for time or place, content to let the scent and sound of the sea fill him. A wave pitched hard on the rock outcropping near him, drawing his head up quickly.  A sharp stab of light made him blink and stumble, almost fall in fact.  There was something oddly familiar about this particular piece of the coast.  He drew back from the rocky shoreline and headed toward an inland path, the wind playing in his ear like miniature tin-whistles riffling off a faery reel.

The hand on his back was so sudden, he almost let out a scream.  Instead he spun on his heel, lost his footing and landed, sharply on the ground, twisting his wrist in the process.  Looking up he could make out a face, shot-full round by that same glaring light from the sea.  It was so bright that all he could really discern were crinkled eyes,  lips and wisps of hair that seemed to be dancing to the reel on the wind.  He put up a hand to block out the light and gasped a bit at the pain in his wrist.

"Ya'  poor dear, you've taken a bit of a fall now.  Haven't ye?" said the figure in the light.

He recognized that voice.  It could not possibly be her, but it sounded just like the old crone from his past.  The one who had insisted he had been taken by the faeries.  He pulled away from the sound.

"Now, don't be shrinkin' away from me, lad.  Ye have less to fear from me than ye do from yourself, I'm thinkin'," she said. Then she took his twisted wrist in her hand and examined it, clucking a bit as she turned her head from side to side.  She took an old silk from her pocket and bound it up, twisting the silk through his fingers and around his thumb like an expert physician. "Keep that on for a day or two and I'm sure you'll no have any trouble with that."

He just stared at her.  "I can see ye have not improved your wit since last we chatted.  Vera well, I won't take much time then.  Ye need to keep that lass away from the caverns.  Her bairns musn't be allowed down to the shore.  The Fair Folk have their ways, and what's fair to them doesn't always sit well in the world of men.  I can be no plainer than that, Roary James.  You see to keeping things right on this side."  She patted him on the knee in what seemed like a fond manner and pulled herself up.  Then she simply walked away.  She did not even look back, just let herself get swallowed by the giant haze of light.  He followed her as long as he could before the light made him deflect his gaze. He thought he might rest there in the sun on the rock, but he felt a pressing urgency to get back to town.  He eased up and began the journey back.

As night began to fall around him, he accepted the fact that he was lost.  He did not know where he was.  He had been wandering for the last two hours and he did not seem to be getting any closer to the village and had not found any landmarks that pointed out the direction.  This made no sense to him.  He had lived here his whole life.  A person does not get lost on the shores of his own life.  It just wasn't possible.  Still, there he was, all turned about, with a madwoman's ramblings in his head and her scarf on his wrist. with no idea of how to get home.  He looked about for a bit of shelter and finding nothing better settled at the base of a small rise.  At least it acted as a bit of wind break, he thought, as he settled his jacket around his shoulders and tucked his legs up tight.  It was going to be a long night.

He woke to a beautiful, soft sun-tinted morning.  A perfect sky and the purr of the sea behind him.    He stretched, instantly reminding himself of his wrist by twisting in the wrong direction.  He stood to get his bearings and was surprised to find that he had slept right next to the path to the village.  He had been less than 10 minutes away from his own bed and had slept out here.  He was definitely a bit touched in the head.  Hopefully no one had marked his absence and he would have no explaining to do.  He did not see how it would be possible to convince anyone that he had experienced any of what had occurred out on the shore.  He fingered the silk scarf, but rejected it as proof.  It could have come from anyone.  No, best he keep the latest bit of fantasy to himself or they would be wanting to lock him up for treatment.

He slipped into town and into the shop, leaving the closed sign out.  He thought about making some tea, but stretched out on the little cot instead and was soon fast asleep.