Panda

By Thomas Caterer

Part 1

The old man sat on his porch. His fingers wrapped gently around a cigarette. He took in the cool, night air. There was a soft breeze, and he felt his body hairs stand up. He surveyed the street, the houses beside him, and those opposite. His eyes scanned over the neighbourhood. He raised his hand to his mouth, luxuriated in the inhalation, and blew out the smoke artfully.
‘A filthy habit, that’ remarked a voice, playfully chiding.
‘It’s all right… I plan on quitting when I’m dead’ the old man replied. He turned to his friend, cocking an eyebrow, a shadow of a smile on his face.
His friend laughed a deep, throaty laugh, and held out a hand.
‘You mind?’
The old man shook his head, fumbled in his shirt pocket, produced a cigarette, and placed it in his friend’s hand.
‘Cheers Archie.’
‘Don’t mention it’ Archie replied. ‘But one of these days you should consider starting to buy your own smokes, Panda.’

Archie had made friends with Panda about one year ago. He considered him an unusual fellow in many regards but liked him nonetheless. With his wife dead, and no children, making a new friend, with similarly few earthly connections had been a profound comfort to him. Archie still kept in touch with some pals from the construction yard. He’d started out as a bricklayer, and worked his way up to foreman. Over the years, some had moved away or passed on. Archie was getting on in years but had retained his independence, he kept fit, and played chess to keep his mind sharp.

He’d met Panda dramatically enough at a graveyard. Lashing down with rain, a crimson sunset the backdrop. Pathetic fallacy Archie had thought to himself, surprised to find himself recalling a nugget of knowledge from a high school class so long ago. He wouldn’t be likely to forget his first meeting with such a singularly peculiar individual. Black shoes appropriate for mourning. A black-and-white, vertically striped suit. A tall man, maybe 6’3’’ or about that. And his head… well his head made quite an impression being that it was the head of a panda bear. Or rather perhaps a very life-like mask. Panda had always insisted it was ‘the real deal’.
‘Fancy a bamboo shoot?’ Archie had asked at the time.
‘I’ve eaten thanks pal but I could do with a whisky or dark rum if there’s any going’ Panda had replied in a human enough sounding voice. Although there was a certain growly or scratchy edge to it and it was low in pitch.

Although Archie, typically introverted hadn’t made a habit of befriending strangers, the unique opportunity of drinking whisky with a panda-headed man was too bizarre to turn down. That evening their friendship had begun. Archie and Panda had shared a small bottle of whisky. Archie drinking it on the rocks, Panda neat. They’d spoken of life, fishing, baseball, the merits of Scotch, and Irish whiskey, and of bourbon, and compared them. They briefly touched on what had brought each of them that day to the graveyard. Although Archie wasn’t keen on a lengthy discussion about that. Finally what had sealed the deal in them becoming fast friends was when Panda rose and walked over to his chess board with the pieces set up. The board rested on a small coffee table adjacent to the television. Panda picked up a piece and switched it with another.
‘Queen on her own colour’ he called out over his shoulder.
‘Oh how embarrassing’ Archie chuckled dryly. ‘I know that of course, must have rushed to set them up’.
‘I see. The blacks are set up right after all’.
‘Fancy a game?’
Archie and Panda had played a closely contested match. Finally, Panda had declared ‘checkmate’. Archie had felt quite satisfied as his occasional opponents were usually no match for him. Well except for the girl up the road, Julia. They’d occasionally play in the park if she happened to be passing through. They had some boards set up there. She was a fairly good player. And playing chess with her reminded Archie of a different time in his life. A time less simple perhaps than now but a time he missed.

Part 2

Julia traipsed through the night market. It was eerily quiet on non-market days. And today was not a day Julia desired quiet and to be left alone with her thoughts. Today had been a day to forget but certain images kept flashing through her mind unbidden. Then she saw exactly the last person she was hoping to see. The confident, popular, and very pretty Lacey. She and her friends walked up the adjacent path to cut across where Julia had been walking. Lacey’s eyes lit up when she saw Julia, she took out her phone and began to scroll through her photos, intermittently looking up at Julia.
‘You’re so beautiful Julia’ Lacey said her voice drenched in sarcasm.
Her face formed a pout expression, a mockery of cuteness, a parody of sincerity. Casual cruelty was an everyday experience for Julia, just as omnipresent as the cockroaches that carpeted the empty night market, bustling their way between the stalls.
A grinning boy, keen to impress, called out to Julia ‘who you hooking up with at the moment, any room in your schedule for me?’
The others cackled in unison. Julia flushed red. The name calling was one thing but talk of sex made her feel particularly embarrassed. Convinced as she was that no boy would want her. Lacey looked divine. Except for the eyes Julia observed to herself those aren’t beautiful eyes. Julia made no response except to grip her backpack’s shoulder straps tightly, look intently at the ground, and to push on past them, continuing her trek home.

Julia’s parents’ eyes met each other’s. A look of concern duplicated. They’d noticed again the despondency, the heavy-lidded eyes glued to the ground.
‘Nothing much’ she’d replied to her mother’s enquiry of how her day had been. She’d attempted to inject an upbeat tone into her voice, and then dragged herself up the stairs to her room.
‘Sixteen on Sunday’ Duncan remarked to his wife. ‘Where has the time gone? It feels like yesterday she was still finger painting, and playing with her stuffed toys.’
‘Has she said what she wants to do?’ Alexa replied.
‘Dinner with us at Don Carlo’s.’
‘Nothing with her friends?’ Alexa asked, her voice rising a little higher in pitch, as her brow furrowed.
‘She just goes quiet when asked’ Duncan muttered.
‘What teenage girl just wants to have dinner with parents for her 16th?’ Alexa shook her head as she spoke.
Duncan didn’t reply, he lifted his mug to his face to drain the remains of his tea. All the time his eyes remained fixed on the stairs his daughter had just ascended.

Julia lay on her bed reflecting on the day she’d just fled from. P.E. class had started with the usual humiliation by her curvier, and more physically mature classmates gliding about the changing room, sending sidelong glances her way along with mocking smiles. She’d been picked last for netball and spent the hour trying to avoid being noticed, staying out of the way of her teammates. Finally upon return to the changing room, Lacey and a couple of her cronies had approached Julia from behind, they’d been careful to remain silent. All of a sudden, they’d grabbed her, held her tight, and Lacey had placed a hand over her mouth.
‘Wow, great tits!’ Tiffany had chortled, as her hands had groped Julia’s small, undeveloped breasts. Julia had tried in vain to break from her classmates’ vice-like hold on her body. She hadn’t tried to say anything in protest. She knew her words were futile. She simply tried to push the girls away from her. Lacey had taken out her phone, unable to suppress her laughter as her hand flew up and down in front of Julia’s exposed abdomen, taking photos all the time. The door at the far end of the room announced its opening with a drawn-out creaking noise. The signal to Lacey and her friends to end their game. They withdrew from Julia with hurried strides and returned to their own lockers. Julia replayed the scenes in her head. Tears streamed down her face as she embraced her pillow tightly. She wondered what percentage of the school would have seen the photos of her by now. She buried her face in her pillow and felt the warmth of her tears mingle with the blood that rushed to fill her face.

Part 3

The warm sun caressed Archie’s face and neck in an almost maternal fashion. He leaned back against the stern, gripping his fishing rod. The little wooden boat swayed gently on the placid lake. Panda occupied the bow, a decidedly human hand holding his own rod. Archie freed up one of his hands to reach into his jacket pocket and retrieve a black and silver hip flask. He took a sip as he looked out over the lake, the bank, and the park in the distance beyond.
‘I’ve a perishing thirst’ Panda said softly.
‘Well, you’re in the right place then. Water’s all around’ Archie replied.
Panda chuckled. ‘You’re a right bastard aren’t you eh?’
Archie took a deep sip of his flask, smiled, replaced the cap, and gently tossed the flask over to Panda.
‘Don’t drain it all in one now, there’s a good bear.’
‘Much obliged.’
‘That’s decent Scotch. Not great but not bad mind.’
‘It’s what fishing’s all about; a decent Scotch.’
‘Well… it depends. I mean I used to bring Erica out here sometimes.’
‘Did she enjoy it?’
‘Well maybe when she was little, eventually I think she found it boring.’
‘Sure, it’s a hobby for old codgers like us, too static for someone young.’
Archie felt a tug on his rod and started to reel it in. Panda watched him from the bow, taking a sniff of the whiskey before imbibing. A moment later a small carp was dangling from the end of Archie’s rod as he beamed at it. Panda nodded his approval.
Panda and Archie remained in their boat until the sun began to set, the hip flask drained by this point. Archie was a little drunk and his speech was slurring slightly, he had rambled a little about ‘not being there’, and ‘being a proud fool’. His eyes glistened.
‘It’s no good blaming yourself still… after all these years’ Panda said in a low, soft voice. He leaned slightly towards Archie, arching his back, vacating the bow.
‘I’ve thought about finding them, the kids that tormented her. Those little shits. ‘Spose they all have kids of their own now. Not that she ever will eh?’
‘What would you do?’
‘I’d… I’d’ Archie stammered, and then suppressed a drunken hiccup. ‘I’d kill the lot of them’. He finished his sentence with his voice barely audible as he stared down into the bottom of the twilit lake.
‘Wouldn’t bring her back though, now would it?’ asked Panda, his eyes never leaving the balled up form of Archie.
‘I was never there. Never really listened. Maybe if I’d taken an interest in her life’. Archie’s voice trailed off, as he absently reached for his flask, only to pour nothing into his mouth and then dash the flask on the bottom of the boat without looking, never taking his eyes off the still waters, the fish swimming peacefully under the indifferent moon. Panda let out a sigh and leaned back once more. Archie had fallen silent. A solitary tear ran down a rough-hewn cheek.

Archie had said goodnight to Panda and then began his walk back home. The cool, brisk evening air had an invigorating quality. Archie felt himself sobering up a little. He heard voices up ahead. He wasn’t too far from his neighbourhood. He picked up the pace as he strolled down the street. The voices grew closer and he could make out what they were saying.
‘What a great body… I’ve made it my home screen’ drawled a boy’s voice.
‘Don’t make your girlfriend jealous now!’ replied a girl’s voice in a high pitch and mocking tone.
After a few more strides a group of teenagers came into view.
Julia was there, her head lowered, tears streaming down her face, her hands clutching at her backpack straps which dangled in front of her. She was attempting to walk away from the other teens at speed, but they were jogging alongside her; two girls on one side of her, two boys on the other.

Archie had always liked Julia; a quiet, unassuming girl. She dressed in quite a frumpy, reserved way which reflected her shy demeanour. Archie found her to be sweet and good-natured. He knew her to be intelligent from their time playing chess together. Not too many could get the better of him at chess with the regularity she did.

‘How did you get such a great figure, won’t you tell us?’ sneered one of the girls.
It was with some effort that Julia overcame her sobs to reply hoarsely, almost in a whisper, ‘piss off Lacey’.
Lacey’s face darkened, ‘careful now’ she warned coolly.
Archie slowly approached the group. ‘What’s all this, then?’ he asked in a hard tone.
‘Go home old man’ one of the boys jeered.
‘He looks like death’ one of the girls stated plainly almost as it to herself.
‘She your granddaughter?’ the other boy enquired.
Archie made no effort to disguise his irritation. ‘Julia happens to be a friend of mine. Now I’d advise you little shits to scarper, I’m in no mood for any nonsense.’
He’d wondered if he’d said the right thing. He observed Julia’s face blush red but truthfully he was impatient at this point and eager to get home but not before ensuring Julia was safe.
One of the boys squared up to him. They locked eyes for a moment.
‘Jason don’t’ squealed one of the girls. ‘You’ll kill him if you hit him, he’s someone’s grandpa, come on just leave it.’
At this Jason spat on the floor and wheeled around to re-join his cohorts. They walked away into the fast approaching night, the moonlight gleaming. Lacey shot back a dark look before disappearing out of sight around a corner.
‘Charming bunch’ Archie remarked. Julia was looking at her feet.

Archie and Julia stood outside Julia’s parents’ house. They’d completed the walk mostly in silence. Archie had at some points tried to strike up conversation. He’d asked about school, how her parents were, her violin practice, all he got back was monosyllabic responses, even though he knew Julia to often be eloquent in her speech, and enthusiastic on subjects she enjoyed.
‘Well thanks Archie’ Julia muttered. Her smile looked forced, not extending to her eyes. Her lips curved as though metal hooks pulled up her cheeks. Archie nodded and wished her a good night. He ambled back to his home, sobriety returning with each step. When he walked through the door, he threw his jacket on a chair with an air of habitual nonchalance. He fell into an armchair and sighed heavily. His eyes fell on a framed photo on a small, wooden desk. Reluctantly his legs straightened up as he rose and approached the desk. He lifted the photo to his eyes. A little girl was photographed beaming a broad smile and clutching a stuffed animal; a panda. He sat back down, still holding the photo. By the time the sun had risen the next morning, he was still asleep in his chair, his hand clutching the photo.

Part 4

The sun streaked over the park. A gentle gust of wind rustled leaves on the trees, there was a buzz of insects, and chirping of birds in the air. Archie felt at peace in this moment, although his mind had been occupied with concern over last evening’s events. Seeing Julia in distress had transported him back many years, and a similar feeling of uselessness had arisen again in that moment. Panda had been discussing his use of psychedelics from his youth. Archie had only been half listening. A fine cigar, and a neat scotch was enough excitement for him. The spiritual guff didn’t appeal much either. Archie had always taken pride in being a man of reason, ‘call a spade a spade,’ ‘give it to me straight’, and other such clichés. But then again he did now spend his free time, and most of his time now was free, with a humanoid creature with the head of a panda; fishing, drinking, or playing chess as they were now, so he couldn’t say anything too critical without being hypocritical. After all, so what if Panda says he’s seen mystical things after consuming certain chemicals? He saw a talking Panda every day after just a morning coffee.

Panda was toying with him at this point. Archie knew it. The way he mockingly raised a finger to his chin, pretending to be deep in thought as he twirled his knight in his hand, delaying placement. Archie was just about ready to concede defeat.
‘When you see behind the veil, you can’t unsee it, you can’t stop seeing it, and it is liberating, and it is terrifying’ Panda said.
‘It’s your move’ Archie replied.
‘Well, is there a point now… you only have your king left… why don’t we just say I’ve won and then start a new game?’ Panda suggested.
‘You haven’t won yet. Not till checkmate’ Archie insisted.
‘You’re just afraid to stop playing.’
‘Maybe, you’re just a sore winner. Toying with your opponent. Like a predator teasing its prey, playing with its food before the jaw closes.’
‘I just eat bamboo mate. No prey for me. You’re just a sore loser.’
‘No, no, I admit I’ve lost.’
Panda sighed. He leaned back against his chair and placed his hands behind his head in a relaxed posture.
‘Does it have to be terrifying?’ Archie asked.
‘Well maybe not terrifying… but the unknown is always scary right? But it can be peaceful too’ Panda replied, as he moved a rook.
‘Oh look you’ve won’ Archie declared.
‘I wanted to say ‘checkmate’.’
‘Then say it bitch’ Archie teased.
Panda laughed and then replied, ‘fuck you pal, not my fault you stink at chess, I wanted to play backgammon anyway.’
Archie grinned as he started to pick up the pieces and put them away.
‘Let me hold a smoke’ Panda said.
‘Not one of my cigars you don’t.’ 
‘A cigarette is fine.’

As the afternoon whiled away, the sun reached its peak blaring down on the people in the park. Panda said farewell as Archie was putting away the pieces after yet another match. As he was doing so he caught sight of Julia cutting through the park. He raised his hand to wave her over, catching her eye, he smiled encouragingly. She shyly smiled back, and approached the board and chairs.
‘You have time for a game?’ Archie asked.
‘Sure.’ Julia replied, and pulled out a chair.
‘Those classmates of yours were real charmers.’
‘Yeah well you know… it’s not that bad. They were just messing around I guess.’
Archie set up black pieces on his side of the board, having handed over the white pieces to Julia. Julia made her opening move. 
‘My Erica had trouble at school too. When she was your age. Same kinda thing, not getting on with her classmates’ Archie said.
‘Oh I didn’t know you had a daughter.’
‘Yeah, well she’s gone now.’
‘She moved?’
‘Yeah she moved away, but my point is that kind of trouble, it’s not uncommon.’
‘Right, of course.’
‘Well, when she was your age, I was always busy, trying to provide for my family, working all the hours God sent.’
Julia claimed one of Archie’s pawns with her knight.
‘Oh I didn’t see it coming’ said Archie.
‘Don’t worry, still lots to play for’ laughed Julia.

Part 5

Archie could feel the sun’s rays penetrating through his curtains. His back ached a little, his joints felt stiff. He turned to one side then the other, and finally conceded he should get up. Archie rose from his bed and entered the bathroom. He took up his toothbrush and applied toothpaste. He turned on the tap to put a little water on his brush. He lifted his eyes to the small mirror above the sink. He paused. His mind went blank. He didn’t know what to think. He dropped his toothbrush into the sink, the tap was left running. He put his hands to his face and felt the softness caress his fingertips. He started to panic.

Looking back at him from his mirror was, well there was pretty much no denying it, it was a panda. Or at least it was a panda’s head. Archie’s body was still that of an old human man wearing his pyjamas. His head however was that of a panda bear’s. He pulled at, tugged at it, yanked at it, you name it. His mind raced with thoughts along the lines of this is insane, this can’t be, I will wake up soon, and this isn’t really happening! Life was strange, Archie had lived long enough, and experienced enough in life to know this to be true. He calmed himself with long, slow, heavy breaths. He decided to get dressed. He would simply go to a hospital and explain the situation. So far as he could understand it himself at least. Archie walked over to his wardrobe and threw it open. As he inspected the inside of it, he decided to dress smartly. For whatever reason, he could not fully explain it himself, he was drawn to an old suit he hadn’t worn in a long time. In fact he wasn’t even sure if he could remember ever having worn it, or when he bought it. It was a black and white, vertically striped suit. After putting this on, he put on a pair of black, formal shoes, and wrapped an old watch around his wrist. He found a pack of smokes and a lighter, and tucked them away in his shirt pocket. Finally he stepped out of his front door, wondering how on earth his neighbours would react to his new, absurd appearance, or if they’d even recognise him at all.

Archie felt his frustration mount as he stood at the side of the road, waving to taxi after taxi as they drove past. I’m not exactly hard to spot he thought to himself. Another taxi approached, the red light in the windscreen indicating its availability. Archie was jumping up and down with impatience at this point, as the taxi drove on by, paying him no mind. After getting no luck, Archie just decided to bike down to the hospital after all. He walked back to his house and took his bicycle from his shed. By the time he arrived at the hospital, he was covered in sweat, his big furry black and white head had absorbed the sun’s rays, and he was now perspiring something rotten.

Archie approached the front desk. ‘Hello miss, I guess I don’t need to explain what the problem is’ Archie joked, gesturing to his panda head.
The receptionist kept her head down looking at her computer screen, and occasionally at a folder on her desk.
‘Well, as you can see, something strange has happened, I’m not sure what department I’ll need!’
Still no response. Eventually the receptionist looked up, but she looked right through him and greeted the person behind him. This patient was about to walk into Archie but as they felt something in front of them they could not see, a presence, they felt obligated though they could not explain why, to walk around that space, and to stand to the side a little as they spoke to the receptionist. This way Archie had not been walked into. He was beginning to feel panic rise in him again. He thought of his friend Panda. Come to think of it, had he ever seen him speaking to anybody else? Archie walked into the middle of the waiting area. He waved his hands up and down, and back and forth energetically.
‘Can anybody see me?! Can anybody hear me?!’
Nothing. The waiting patients continued to sit there, scanning their phones, reading their books, or talking amongst themselves. They paid no heed to Archie’s appeals for their attention. I’ll have to find him, he must know what’s going on, he’s my only real hope.

Part 6

Archie searched all along the park, checked at every chess board, every table, and every bench. A couple of butterflies fluttered up to his enlarged head, he walked by carefully, moving his head aside. The sun beat down remorselessly on him. Why on earth had he put on a bloody suit? He scanned the park one last time. He then walked down towards the lake. No one was there. Except he could just make out a small fishing boat at the far end of the lake. He jumped up and down, waving his arms. The boat started to move towards him. As it did he could make out the form of a man dressed just like himself, complete with a panda head not dissimilar to his own.

Finally Panda made landfall. He stood up in the boat, holding his fishing rod in one hand, he gave a salute with the other.
‘Well met!’ he greeted Archie cheerfully.
‘Panda, you’ve got to help me. I don’t understand what’s happening. I wake up this morning with a panda head like yours, I try to go to the hospital, but everyone ignores me, they look right through me! I couldn’t even hail a cab!’
‘Ah yes, well of course.’
‘Of course?’
‘Well, you’re dead mate.’
‘Enough of the jokes. Do I look dead?’
‘Do you know what ‘dead’ looks like?’
‘I know what a corpse looks like.’
‘Well, yours will be found. Don’t worry about that. With a human head and everything.’
‘Listen here, this isn’t funny. If I’m dead how come I’m talking to you?’
‘You won’t linger here long. You can be seen only by those who need to see you. You’ve been given a chance to do something useful before you pass on. You can make the most of this opportunity.’
‘There’s a job I need to do?’
‘Yes, that’s right. You’re unretired for one day, you could say.’
‘What am I supposed to do?’
‘I’d tell you if I knew.’ Panda’s voice was sympathetic. ‘Just follow where your feet take you. You can trust them.’
With that their conversation ended. Panda pushed his boat back out onto the lake, and resumed his afternoon’s fishing. Archie felt deflated. His furry head hung low. He reluctantly drifted back home, kicking scattered stones along the way. His hands were buried in the pockets of his suit trousers. He wandered around his neighbourhood, past the playground, the off-licence, and the convenience store owned by an old couple. The sun had set, and the cicadas had begun their song. He walked past his own house, the local newsagent, and the homes of some neighbours he was friendly with including a couple of old boys he drank and played darts with. All the while inspiration had still been yet to strike him.

Archie’s footsteps led him to outside Julia’s house. He wondered if she would be inside with her parents now, perhaps having dinner. He looked down at his watch and was shocked to find it was 2am. Time had flown by. Over the cry of the cicadas he could just make out a gentle humming sound. He walked up the driveway and found the source of the noise. It was Julia’s parents’ car. The engine was humming along peacefully, the windows were fogged, and a hosepipe ran along from the car’s exhaust and snaked its way into the front interior of the car. Sitting in the driver’s seat, appearing to be asleep, her head slumped against the headrest, was Julia. Archie said a silent prayer to himself that she was just asleep. He walked along carefully to the back of the car, his eyes on Julia the whole time. He opened up the door and sat on the backseat. He coughed. Julia remained still. He coughed again louder. Julia stirred a little, her drowsiness starting to loosen its grip. She looked into the rear-view mirror. She did a double-take. There was a delay in her reaction as she let the truth of what she was seeing sink in. Alertness awoke in her, and panic replaced the sluggish feeling she’d woken up with. A rush of adrenaline was followed by one long, high-pitched scream of terror. She looked back and the sight she’d seen in miniature in the rear-view mirror was now writ large behind her. Sitting on the backseat of her parents’ car was a humanoid figure with the furry head of a panda.
It spoke, ‘Sorry to frighten you.’
Julia screamed again. She fumbled until she found the handle to the car door, and threw it open and ran out. Archie left the car through the door on the opposite side to the one he’d entered through. He followed Julia at a sprint. He was surprised to find his legs had such vigour all of a sudden. An old strength had returned. He chased Julia past the garage, and through the gate in the little wooden fence. They were in Julia’s backyard.
‘Why are you scared? I’m just a cute panda right?’ Archie asked.
Julia turned around, her face was flushed red. She had run to the middle of the backyard with no clear plan in mind. She looked at him in the eyes. Incredulous that this thing could talk.

Archie tentatively stepped towards Julia. He gestured to a wooden bench at the far end of the garden.
‘Why not take a seat? Let’s talk.’
‘W-why should I?’
‘Okay, so if I’m not cute, then I’m scary. A big scary bear, and I’ve gone off bamboo. I’ve gone carnivorous. So if you don’t humour me, I’m going to eat you. How about that?’
Julia stared at Archie, her mouth slightly open, her eyes wide. She didn’t say anything.
‘Okay it’s a bad joke. Just sit down okay? What, you got other plans?’
Slowly Julia turned around on the spot and shuffled towards the bench. She took a seat. Archie sat beside her. He felt for his smokes. He took one out of the packet, lit it up, and began to inhale.
‘Can I have one?’ Julia asked timidly, her eyes fixed on the lit cigarette.
‘Nah, I don’t think so’ Archie replied. ‘It’s a filthy habit. I said I’d quit myself once I’m dead but I guess I lied.’
Archie took a puff and leaned back on the bench. ‘You ran away from me then. Why? You wanted to die anyway right? Why bother running from something you think might be dangerous?’
‘I must be dreaming this.’
‘I was thinking the same earlier today. I thought it once before. Once before I was in a waking nightmare. I just desperately wanted to wake up from it. But I never could. I came home one day. And my daughter, who I loved more than anything… Well, water had flooded the top floor. Once I kicked down the bathroom door, I found her in the tub, her wrists slashed open. The water was a dirty red; part copper, part crimson.’
Archie stopped talking. He took a deep, cleansing breath of the cool night air. His hands were shaking a little.
‘I’m so sorry’ Julia said in a small voice.
‘I guess I always felt guilty. Perhaps if I had been more present, listened more… I’d have seen some kind of warning sign. I felt like I’d let her down, and so I could never wake up from the nightmare because living in that nightmare for the rest of my life was a just punishment for me.’
His hands continued to shake until Julia reached out and took his empty hand in one of her own and squeezed it. His mind was transported back in time. He saw himself holding Erica when she was a small child. They sat on an armchair together. He read a story to her as she clutched at her stuffed panda toy. Her little hand holding onto his free hand, whilst his other one held the book open. He could feel her hand close around his. He could her breathing softly. Then he was back on this wooden bench in this cool night, hearing the cicadas once more.

Archie turned his head to face Julia. ‘It seems to me like you still have an instinct to preserve your life. Maybe you’re not done here yet.’
‘I don’t know… It could still be an escape.’
‘Well I’ve died. And I don’t think I’ve escaped, or solved all my problems. In fact I was even given another job to do, even after all these years being retired’ Archie said. ‘I think I might be close to being done, and ready to leave on my terms, and on good terms for that matter. But I think if I found my way to you in that car just now, when I could have wandered anywhere… I think you’re not done with this world yet. Just a hunch.’
‘When I turned around and saw you there. I was scared. I did think ‘I don’t want to die’. But is that the same as ‘I want to live’?’
‘Maybe not but it’s a start’.
Julia looked down at her feet and sighed.
‘I want to move on Julia. But I don’t think I can until I get you to promise you aren’t going to try anything like that again. Will you help me?’
‘It’s a struggle to carry on.’
‘You’re stronger than you realise, you’ve come this far. And tonight you overcame your fear of me, to talk to me, to listen to what I needed to say. Things change, all times come to pass; good times, and bad times. What you’re going through now will eventually become memory. Don’t let it force you to do something rash. That memory will be a part of a larger tapestry of your life that will have been worth preserving and adding to, you’ll see. Perhaps even the darker memories will serve to make the lighter ones shine brighter.’
They sat together in silence for a while. A tear rolled down Julia’s face as she stared determinedly into the night. Archie had smoked his cigarette down to a butt. He dropped it and stamped on it.
‘Okay’ Julia whispered, ‘I promise’.
Archie held up his hand with his pinkie finger jutting out. Julia wrapped her own pinkie around it.
‘Promise?’ Archie asked.
‘I promise’ Julia replied a little louder, and more firmly than the first time.

Archie picked up the cigarette butt and walked to the front yard and slipped it into the bin. He then removed the hose from the exhaust and rolled it up. Julia turned off the engine and closed the car door. Archie took off his watch. He walked over to Julia and gestured for her to hold out her arm. He put the watch on her. ‘I just thought’ he said, ‘I don’t just want you to wake up tomorrow and think that was all a dream, and that you aren’t held to your promise.’
‘You don’t trust me?’ Julia asked, the shadow of a smile playing on her face.
‘No, I do. Keep it anyway. It’s late.’
‘Yeah it is.’
‘Goodnight Julia.’
‘Goodnight Panda, thanks for tonight’ Julia whispered. Her smile was faint but natural, extending to her eyes.

Archie walked up the street, he looked back to see Julia waving at him with a gentle hint of peacefulness in her expression. He waved back, and watched as she entered the front door to her house and closed it behind her. A heavy burden was being lifted from his shoulders as he walked. He felt himself becoming lighter and lighter. He felt as if a thick, heavy, rain-sodden coat was being lifted off him, and as though tight shoelaces were being undone. He eagerly raised his hands to his head. He felt some give in the panda head. Now simply a mask, it yielded and came off in his hands. Archie’s face and head were human once more, and he held the panda mask under one arm as he walked along the street. A grin spread across his face. He greedily breathed in deep gulfs of air and blew them back out again. He felt free. Gradually his body dissipated into the night-time mist; his human form, and even the panda head with it. Then there was just the air, the cool night breeze, and the song of the cicadas.

The Demon King of the Lake

By Thomas Caterer

Deshi looked upon the bright days of summer from dark corners. Shaded under the trees where he sat alone, his brow furrowed as he dwelled on his thoughts. He leered at sun-soaked days with a well-rehearsed suspicion. For the other young men and women of the Diolo tribe these long, hot days were filled with the promise of fun and adventure. There were many festivals filled with music, dancing, singing, bitter ales and honey-sweetened cups of sheep’s blood. In the day, the youngsters wrestled, jumped cows, practiced their archery, and as night fell and smoke rose from campfires there was sex in the air, as young women and men would survey each other’s bodies, and dance more lasciviously for the moon than they had the sun. Girls would compliment the boys’ scars, the tokens of bravery they had acquired.

The scars upon Deshi’s face did not elicit compliments however. Where the flames of his family’s burning hut had licked upon his face when he could barely walk, they had stripped off much of the flesh, in the eager lust of fire. The smoke rose high into the air that night, taking the pride of his family with it. Deshi’s father, Kele had died a few years later never having recovered from his shame. It was a man’s place to protect his family. Yet his father had failed to defend them from raiders from across the lake. The spearmen of the Niame tribe had traversed the valley with temerity, circumnavigated the lake where the Demon King dwells, and rose up the hill where they launched their attack.

On that fateful day, the yellow and brown grasses were stained red with the blood of the Diolo. A red sun had arisen the next morning, and with its arrival, came the departure of ten cows, twenty-two sheep and eight goats. Three of the prettier young girls had been taken too. They had kicked, and screamed, bitten at and cursed their kidnappers. But ultimately once the retreating Niame had dissipated back into the woods, those girls were not seen in Diolo lands again. Kele had faced the scorn and wrath of the people he was meant to protect. The west of the village had been his domain, and he had been known for his prowess as a warrior. His face and chest bore many proud scars, deep into the flesh, snaking their way along his muscular frame. The tears and wailing of the girls’ mothers and sisters had never left Kele, not until disease took him, and even then it was Mother Nature’s mercy to take him and end his pain.

As Deshi traipsed across the forest floor, his calloused feet crushing the leaves and twigs below, he raised his hand unconsciously to his face. Melek, the wise woman of the forest, lived close to the Niame border. As Deshi approached her hut, his fingers felt out their path along the rivulet of one of his fang shaped scars that adorned the sides of his face. He could almost smell the burning flesh once more and hear the screams of men being eviscerated as their daughters were raped upon the hard, cold earth beneath their writhing forms. He hated the Niame undoubtedly. Yet it was his own people who hurt him the most. He was rejected from their love; disfigured, and poor, a man without cattle, who lives in a hastily built shambles of a hut with his aged mother. The beautiful flower he was so keen to pluck and to hold, the cheiftain’s daughter Ayana, would never look his way, not without mocking at least. A cowherd or a farmer would be the match her father would approve. Not one of the lake dwellers, a lone man, who scrapes a living off hunting the game of the forest, and fishing on the edges of the lake, ever cautious, ever wary of the Demon King.

The door of the hut was thrown open in anticipation of Deshi’s approach. The withered old shaman knew she was expecting company before he could even announce himself. Slightly unnerved, Deshi picked up his eyes, and as his hand clenched his staff, he looked Melek full on in the eyes, and lowered his head as a mark of respect all the while keeping eye contact. Melek smiled warmly and beckoned him in. The scent of tea effused the room. Melek took care to meticulously fill each of their cups to the brim with a herbal tea sweetened with a little pineapple juice to add a crisp citrus taste. A rare smile crept across Deshi’s face as he lifted his cup to his mouth, and laced his grateful throat with the warming liquid.

As Melek had prepared her concoction of herbs and spices, and crushed a large piece of dream-tree root, she had spoken to Deshi of his life, of what he hoped to learn, and also offered some advice.
‘We are half matter, half spirit Deshi, some of you younger ones forget this’. As she spoke, her wrinkled hands worked the mortar and pestle, flattening the root. Her large, sagging breasts swayed side to side as she hammered at the thick, unyielding root.
‘If you neglect the sickness of the spirit, of course you will feel ill in the body, and it works in reverse as well, you must be mindful of both, you are not one isolated thing, but two aspects entwined’.
‘Yes, wise one’ replied Deshi, smiling, and taking another sip of the tea.
Melek looked at Deshi, her face creased with concern. ‘Are you happy, my child?’ she asked.
‘I don’t think so’ Deshi answered cautiously, choosing his words with care. ‘Life is tough beside the lake. The villagers don’t respect me. And with my face, I fear I will not find a wife’.
‘Is there someone you wish for a wife?’ enquired Melek.
‘I have loved Ayana, since I was a boy, however she cannot bear the sight of me, and her father would never betroth her to someone who lives so far from the village centre’.
Melek clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and looked up to her thatched ceiling as though expecting a solution to fall from the straw above.
‘I’m sure he would expect a mighty gift for her bride price; some thirty sheep and twenty cows no less, and you have none such to offer. You must think in more creative ways, I think then’.

Melek gestured to Deshi to follow her out of the hut, with a jerk of her head and the clicking of her tongue. They stepped through the backdoor, and Deshi saw a small fire burning peacefully amongst logs and dry leaves. All of a sudden with a lightning fast whip of her hands which belied her years, Melek threw the contents of the mortar into the flames. The flames greedily consumed the potion, and the unmistakable stench of the dream-tree effused the air.
‘It’s like burning flesh’ intoned Deshi flatly, his usually placid eyes flickered with a hint of bitter emotion.
‘Come sit by the fire, child’ offered Melek, smiling as she eased herself to the ground. Deshi lent her a hand to help her down, gently placed under her upper arm. He felt the comforting pressure of her hand squeezing back as it found his other forearm.
Deshi lowered himself to join her and took a deep in-breath. He opened his heart to the gods’ gift of the visions. He willed the dream-tree to work its spell on him. To guide him, to provide answers.

The journey started the way it always does. With the cleansing. Deshi emptied the contents of his stomach. He took care to aim his vomit away from the fire, not wanting to disrespect the gods. His heart started to beat a rapid rhythm, and he begun to feel increasingly dizzy. Shapes danced in the flames; birds, insects, snakes, horses, and eventually they stepped out of the flames. Deshi recoiled in horror, almost falling onto his back, as moving out of the fire was a massive jaw lined with razor sharp teeth, initially made of flames as it approached closer it took on the form of reptilian flesh. The hard, impenetrable scales gleamed in the light of the flames. Two green eyes transfixed on Deshi, filled with malice, filled with an insatiable hunger. This was no ordinary crocodile, Deshi knew this for certain.
‘The Demon King’ Deshi whispered with reverence, his eyes widened and unmoving. ‘No spear has ever scratched those scales’.
The eyes of the Demon King blinked, as if abashed by the compliment. Deshi closed his own eyes in fear, in a silent prayer he made his peace with the gods. A few seconds that felt like hours passed. Hesitantly he opened his eyes one at a time, and saw the mighty crocodile now wore the face of Melek, her kind eyes studying him, her crooked teeth exposed in an open-mouthed smile. They were human teeth all right, although the scales remained on her reptilian body. She began to speak to him whilst the Melek who sat next to him was silent.
‘Your fear is manifested in the extreme forms; anger and hate. Always those who strike with anger, no matter their strength, are attacking from a place of fear’. The voice was Melek’s and yet Deshi knew this must be a message from one of the gods.

The scene around him transformed, he was back in the village, and his body was smaller, he was a boy again. The other children were playing a game, where one child throws a coconut at the others, the one who is hit must now be the one to aim at the others. Deshi approached the children, he wanted to play. So badly he just wanted to have fun with the other kids. The coconut was thrown and it landed near his feet, the children’s laughter ceased.
‘Don’t let it hit the lake dweller’ ordered Abai, Ayana’s older brother. He sneered with contempt at Deshi. ‘The gods marked his face, so we know his blood is bad’
Anger rose in Deshi, he could feel the heat of his blood rising, his face flushing. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes. His child’s voice screamed ‘that’s not true Abai!’ He rushed towards him, his fists clenched.
Then again he heard Melek’s voice this time emanating from Abai’s mouth.
‘The fear wears different guises, and your rage is but a mask for your fearful face. You know you are afraid of being alone in this world. You know you are afraid of the uncertain black mystery of death’.
The tears rolled down Deshi’s cheeks, and he deeply resented this. Especially in front of Abai.

The scene changed and Deshi was yet younger still. He and Ayana walked under the shade of dark-green leafed trees in a large grove. He knew this memory well. They sat down next to each other. He was teaching her to play the lyre as he had promised. His mother had taught him to play the instrument Kele had left behind, and it had always been a source of joy to him, one of very few.
‘You play beautifully’ enthused Ayana, her smile broad, her eyes soft.
Deshi felt his stomach twist, and throat tighten, as he watched on helpless. The scene sped before his eyes, he watched his youthful, clumsy confession of love. Ayana blushed with embarrassment, careful not look at his scars, she had explained that a lake dweller especially one with his family’s history, could never be accepted by her father. She had then suggested that maybe their lessons should end here. It was no longer appropriate. She then turned to face Deshi, but the real Deshi this time, she was looking at the man Deshi, he knew. She spoke with Melek’s voice, but now it sounded more grotesque than before, harsh and scratching on the ears. How Deshi imagined her voice might sound if blended with that of the Demon King.
‘You know you are afraid of the consequences of failing to be a man. The pain of not finding a woman who won’t reject you, the pain of not becoming a father, the pain of having no cattle, living in just a shoddy weather-worn hut with no friends to share a fire with’ Melek’s voice grew harsher with each word.
‘This fear is then disguised in the yet darker forms of anger and hate, with you believing this protects you from being hurt. Yet child, you have mistaken your elbow for your arse, a snake for a reed. The hate hurts you more, and you fail to confront and overcome the fear. Does the anger ever make you feel good, does the hatred ever lead you to peace, pleasure, or wisdom?’ she asked.
Deshi did not respond.

The earth shook beneath his feet, he fell to the ground. He was caught in the vortex of an aggressive swirl of images and sounds, he found himself transported back to the night of the Niame attack. This time viewed from adult eyes. His fingers found his staff and as he pulled himself up he heard the hoarse voice of Melek carried on the wind, ‘the spirit has the power to heal and to harm. In building your stress through hate, you channel a reverse shamanism. Where you could summon up healing and peace with your thoughts, instead in your brooding and grudge bearing you issue forth a demonic energy. And you wonder why you are unhappy?’

Deshi found the fine ends of his fingernails could yet barely cling to the last remaining vestiges of his ever dissolving ego, as it was inexorably wiped away by the immense power of the visions. These visions swam before his eyes in an ever revolving kaleidoscope of memories and emotions; both bitter and sweet. He could feel himself beginning to cry, his warrior’s shoulders heaved under the weight of his sobs. He almost found himself crying out stop! or at least he wanted to, if the words had not caught in his throat. ‘Curse you, old woman!’ screamed Deshi, finding his voice. ‘What do you know of my pain? Of my suffering? Why shouldn’t I bear a damn grudge?!’ Deshi spat these words as one would venom sucked from a snakebite.

The spears of the Niame rose above the crest of the hill. The moonlight reflected off their cold, unforgiving steel. Kele was rousing his men, his face panic stricken. His fingers trembled as he grasped his bow, urging them to remember their craft. As the images blended into one another, Deshi could see the young girls wrestling desperately with their assailants, faces he had never seen since. The Niame set torches alight, and soon enough huts were blazing, and Deshi could hear his own screams as the face he barely had a chance to wear melted away. He turned away from the horror of it all, only to be confronted directly by the Demon King, this time it wore its own face once more. Deshi could hear the old shaman’s advice again ‘I’m sure he would expect a mighty gift for her bride price. You must think in more creative ways’. He closed his eyes.

Upon opening them, his vision adjusted back to his present surroundings. The blur eased, and he saw a kind smile play on Melek’s lips. She had breasts and a belly, wrinkled skin and thick legs once more. No scales. And her eyes were black again. He knew what he had to do. He knew now the one thing a lake dweller could do to win the chieftain’s respect. To win Ayana as his wife. His broad grin alerted Melek to his changing state of mind.
‘You have a plan?’ she asked.
‘I know what needs to be done now, thanks to you and to the gods’.
‘Be careful on how you interpret the visions, child. The gods are many. Some may guide you, others may warn you, and this is because they care for you. But there are others who are tricksters, and they care only for their own games’ warned Melek.
Deshi did not hear her. His mind was racing ahead now. For years and years the Demon King had ruled over the lake, his dominion unchallenged. Good men had lost their lives, and the success in fishing and crocodile hunting was severely impacted by his reign. The chieftain would surely be delighted to see the great beast slain. What a gift his carcass would make for Abai’s wedding feast! The Diolo would be the toast of all tribes of the valley. And the great hero who slew him would surely be worthy of a chieftain’s daughter. The gods were with him, it was clear this was now his fate. He would ready his boat, harpoons, spear and daggers. Tonight the Demon King would die.

Moonlight reflected off the surface of the water. Ripples broke before the passage of a small wooden boat, just big enough to accommodate two grown men. Deshi had pushed it out into the lake and jumped onto it as it took to the water. His eyes glinted in the night, and the cool air caressed his fang shaped scars, his fine body hair rose on his arms and neck. He crouched down, and steered the boat with his oar, his eyes flitting about, on alert for any sign of crocodiles. His heart was racing now, faster than after a successful cow jump even. Faster than when he had confessed his love to Ayana. He had been a foolish boy that day. Deshi spat his contempt into water, and shook his head at his reminiscences.  He was a man now after all. And after slaying this beast, that had been the bane of his tribe, he would be recognised as a great man.

His head jerked violently to the left. There had been a ripple in the water. Concentric circles formed on the surface of the lake. They died out as they travelled from their origin, the rings increasing in size and then dissipating. In the centre of this Deshi saw a green eye looking at him. The crocodile lifted its head and then quickly ducked beneath the water. It had the character of a curious child, too shy to hold Deshi’s gaze for long. ‘Just a baby’ Deshi muttered to himself, yet he could feel his heart in his mouth, and his grip on his oar was slick from his hands’ sweat.

For almost an hour, Deshi searched the lake, especially at its centre where few men dared to venture. He almost wanted to shout a challenge to the Demon King, but knew silence was vital to his success. He rowed back into the centre once more after having swept the eastern shore, and found nothing but frogs and beetles amongst the reeds, and fish in the water. Deshi reached the centre, and readied a harpoon in his hand, eager to spy his prey. After a few moments in the still darkness, a mighty growl was heard, breaking the silence, and piercing its way to Deshi’s heart. The water rippled around the enormous scaled body of the Demon King. Green eyes were fixed upon Deshi and his small boat, as scales glistened in the moonlight. The beast’s hard, dark body would not end, Deshi’s eyes followed it back at least twenty feet to its hind legs. Deshi launched a harpoon at his foe, it was only a glancing hit, and danced off into black night, the Demon King was unperturbed. His head rose out of the water, the vicious white teeth, were razor sharp, his mouth was enclosing death. The Demon King crashed into Deshi’s boat with the full force of his powerful body. Deshi had thrown another harpoon in that moment, but the boat was impacted as he threw, and it flew off into the sky. The boat nearly capsized, a hefty chunk of its left side was only splinters now, and water was rushing in at Deshi’s feet, where he had lifted himself up once more.

Deshi held a spear in one hand, and brandished his dagger in the other. He heard my silent challenge Deshi thought to himself, awed by his nemesis, his eyes wide, his mouth agape. The beast turned around once more to face him and lunged with the speed of a striking viper. With its mouth fully open, Deshi thrust in a spear, and he heard a furious scream in response. He felt his spear dig into flesh. He tried to thrust his dagger into of those malicious green eyes, but the beast had already pulled back, and his blade raked uselessly against impenetrable scales. Deshi managed to keep a hold of his spear, as the Demon King extricated himself from the point lodged into his upper jaw. ‘I will be your death, King of the Lake, come to me, my name will ring out in legend!’ Deshi bellowed. He could feel triumph already. He had got him good once, and would now need another strike like that to bring down his foe. He would aim for the same spot, put the beast in pain, too much pain for it to think. The Demon King slipped under the water, and rammed the boat from underneath. Deshi lost his footing, but managed to fall in the boat still. His head had taken a knock and he felt a little dizzy. He just needed to think of the visions he had seen to remember the gods were on his side. He saw Ayana’s face in his mind’s eye, and rose once more, clutching his spear. The Demon King lunged at his torso this time, his jaws closed around Deshi’s body and teeth like pikes gored his stomach. Deshi screamed out in pain. His body was on fire, his mind screaming, blood rushed out of him and dyed the scales beneath red. He forced his dagger down into one of the Demon King’s eyes, and his spear into his exposed flank. The King hissed his displeasure, and withdrew.

Deshi fell into his splintered, fragmented boat. He yelled out in agony. Somehow he forced his hands to find his oar and to row back to the shore before the water fully took his vessel. Once back on the shore, laying amongst the reeds, his arms closed around his gored stomach, the blood formed a stream over his embracing arms, and joined the dark waters below where he lay. In the distance, Deshi could see the water ripple and the Demon King retreat. Why had the gods lied to Deshi? Why had they tricked him? Did they revile him like the Diolo? Did they mock him like Abai? Or had they just been powerless like Kele? It had been a folly to try to contend the Demon King. He knew he felt only respect then for his killer. He had tried like so many before to master Mother Nature only to be humbled by her in the end. Well fought, King Deshi thought whilst smiling. He began to laugh then, laugh at himself for his last mistake. He thought of Ayana. She hadn’t been as cruel to him, as he had sometimes made himself believe. She had her own struggles, her own responsibilities. Deshi could not guess what she truly felt, but she had been right, she was no more free to choose him, than he her. What a fool, Deshi is, what a fool he has been he laughed to himself, gently, his voice weak. I wish her only joy. His eyes closed with Ayana’s face in his mind.

As he lay there bleeding to death, his fingers uselessly clutching his open, weeping stomach, he suddenly remembered one more thing Melek had said to him when he was spirit walking. The day before as he had travelled through a mysterious myriad of memory, thought and consciousness, he had re-lived almost his whole life. Now once again these images swum before his gradually closing eyes. Eyes that would never open again. He saw Melek drinking tea with him in the forest. All of the birds, snakes, rodents, frogs had gathered about them, all of the forest’s inhabitants. He smiled softly as he died and turned the shore red, and heard in his head Melek’s kind voice; ‘You are never disconnected from love, you can only be tricked into thinking that you are. Close your eyes, hold your breath and empty your head of thoughts. You can always find your way back down the path to your true self. A manifestation of god, connected to the love of the world and the spirit realms. The scarred face is no less a face of god than any other’. The fang shaped scars etched into Deshi’s face appeared to be an extension of his smile.

The Pathfinder’s Map of Time

By A. O. Wallat

Bath Time Thoughts #1 – The Pathfinder’s Map of Time. Original Audioplay first appeared on http://www.holtandwallt.com.

I have always wondered about the mapping of time and whether time really exists. Now before you say the heat has cooked my brain or I’ve drunk too much bath water, which let’s face it – I have, let me make up a story to illustrate where I’m coming from.

Imagine that you are a Pathfinder of the olden days, long before map and compass. Imagine that on your travels you see the rocky edge of the coast, a precipice beneath and the wide ocean stretching out in front of you, in all directions. You come across a narrow path, steep steps guide you down th e cliff-edge and following the treacherous gulley, you reach the water’s edge.

As you look up a V appears in the sky and sure enough you can make out flapping wings and bird-call can be heard, barely, above the crashing waves. Half a year ago you saw them flying westward, inland. Now they are heading east, across the great blue before you, beyond the horizon, toward the unknown where no eyes can see. And you endeavour to follow.

You cross the ocean in a skiff and after many miles of differing shades of grey and blue, and some harrowing memories of the voyage – large swells the size of continents, which seemed insurmountable, which threatened to swallow you whole – begin to fade. Soon sounds of clashing rock and water return once more. You sigh deeply relieved. Landfall.

Your spirits bandy as you drag your skiff ashore and immediately, on some flimsy parchment, you begin to draw your map. It is simple – land to the east labelled ‘there’, ocean and waves in the centre, and land to the west, labelled ‘here’. A clear line connects them all, showing the path you have travelled.

That path is of a certain distance between there and here. Though at some points along the journey you doubted its existence, now that you are here, you rightly surmise that this locale with its craggy shore and pebbled beach though different to your expectations, much different, has always existed on the map – it did not ‘pop’ into existence merely because you alone encountered it, anyone could have reached it, it was always on the map, always ‘here’.

Now this is true of nature, true of maps, true of the spacial dimensions which stretch out indefinitely in all directions. All points on the globe and even in the night skies, even if never travelled to, those places not yet encountered, must exist then if we adhere to the laws of nature and of course maps. But what of the fourth dimension, t, the lonely cousin of x,y,z? Time. This too, as far we can tell, on one axis stretches out in two directions, indefinitely.

As pathfinder you travelled the ocean venturing into the unknown, measuring the distance, surmising that the locales ahead exist already. Yet what if you measure the voyage not in miles but in time. Would you so quickly and automatically surmise that the locale you are headed to exists already? Or would you hesitate to say then that the future already exists, even if it has never been travelled to? And in this way, if we follow the same thinking, does it mean that all points in time exist too? That the past, like some westward cliff, the future, like an east lying shore and the in-between cannot but exist together, simultaneously, just like the map?

Does this then suggest that the future is destined since your travel along time, from your point of view, is constant and moves in one direction only? Is there then no free will with no way to chart a different course? Perhaps, perhaps…

Perhaps you think differently, that if time were a map, we ought to take the analogy further. That is has more directions than simply forwards and backwards but also north, south, and even altitudes too. That any path through time can be plotted in any direction. That free will exists and following your internal compass one can bring themselves to some previously unknown place and narrowly escape the clutches of pre-destiny? Perhaps, perhaps…

But let me remind you that it is understood that the laws of nature and of course maps permit 11 dimensions, 3 of which are spacial, 7 of which we shall not get into here, and only one of which is time.

Be that as it may, I must warn you, I play word games here. This is just an analogy and should be treated with suspicion, what is written is often written with intent. A design of some sort. Designed specifically to sink an idea into the imagination. There is danger then that this story may slip past your defences and come to be believed as factual. In fact, it is not. I made it all up, more specifically, my imagination made it up (I had no hand in its writing) and I am sure that these ideas have been floated before me.

Nevertheless, despite my own warning I have the sneaking suspicion that the story of the Pathfinder is true and that when I see a flock of birds in a V, a distant horizon, or an insurmountable swell, that there exists a place beyond. Whether it exists, I do not doubt, but whether I make it there I can never be fully sure.

The Tree

By D. S. Johnson

There was a tree in the graveyard near our house where I grew up. It was almost as tall as the church’s steeple and bare all year. It was twisted like in pain and darker in its bark than any other near it. Da told me it was in anguish. He told me those buried near it what was sinners, their souls tried to climb up inside it, trying to escape Hell. All of their suffering was rubbed off inside it making the bark blackened and the Tree twisting in agony, only trees is much older and longer lasting than us so it looks stock still to us.

I remember I used to draw. I liked drawing from in my head most but I drew the tree in the graveyard more than anything else. I drew it looking out of my window and sometimes after church if Da was talking to Father Lewis I’d sit on the bench at the back of the church and draw. Sometimes when I was away from it I’d close my eyes and draw it from in my head, like what I’d draw otherwise, but it never looked much like it like that. No matter how long I waited between drawing it, it never once was moved from when I drew it from there before. My drawings changed but I knew that them was the same branches each time.

I felt sorry for it. I felt sad that something so old living and so big and so beautiful should have them as was sent to Hell climbing up inside it, scratching at it like a bed bug on the inside but more and hot as well. I’d try to think up ways to know which grave was holding a sinner who was hurting the tree. I’d try to figure out how to make them saved or how to make them settled or how to make them move away. The only answer I came to was to dig them out in their boxes and put them somewhere else, in a field or something, but then I thought what if they start climbing up another tree, or inside a grass or a bunch of grass, or maybe even a cow or a farmer. I told my Da and he said we couldn’t move them else we’d be sinners too but otherwise he’d move them to be near gypsies so as they could climb up the gypsies. I hated the idea of them climbing up inside anyone, gypsy or farmer or tramp or whoever. I asked Father Lewis once how to save people what was dead and he said we had to pray for them when they was in purgatory, he didn’t say what to do if they was in Hell.

One Winter there was a lot of wind, there usually was but this Winter there was more. Da said he’d not seen it so windy since he lived two years on a hill in Wales. A branch fell off of the Tree and didn’t hit nobody but both Da and Father Lewis and the other knowing men said it could have and those that was less knowing agreed. They said that the Tree was a potential menace and that if it hit anyone then they would be guilty for not having done something sooner and that they would not forgive themselves should it be a child or woman that was hit by it. I drew the Tree out of my window the evening before they started cutting at it. It had moved. Only a little bit had it moved but it definitely had moved. The arm that had dropped a finger was reaching higher and more straining than before, as though it knew what they was going to be doing to it the next day. I couldn’t leave such a sad old tortured thing as that Tree alone his last night so I crept out after dark when I heard Da snoring and I took a blanket and I took a piece of bread and I took a cup of water.

I was intending on sitting at his base but that was either on a grave at his sides or half on one both front and back so I sat against the nearest headstone and I wrapped up. It was awful cold and windy and it started to rain not long after I got there so I was glad I had kept my dressing gown on and I was glad for the blanket but I wished I had had a flask with cocoa or broth or soup in. The wind picked up more and the Tree started groaning and growling like a scared and injured animal and tears welled up in my eyes and I got up and lay my cheek against the bark on the tree and I could feel how cold it was inside and I knew that even the damned souls had fled in fear of the Tree’s death. I wrapped my blanket as much about the Tree as I could and stood holding it about it, trying to protect the tree from the biting wind and comfort it. I grew tireder and tireder and colder and colder but I wouldn’t let go and then, after how long I don’t know but near sunrise, the rain was joined by blasts of thunder and blinding flashes of lightning. It seemed even the heavens were aware of the pain of the Tree and were sharing in it.

The shivers was pulling me out of my head when I heard a shouting through the ever more frequent thunder. I tried to push back into myself enough to gather my senses but the cold had gotten into my chest and my head and was freezing me out. Things started to fade and I heard the voice of my Da and I felt hands and arms about me and they pressed me against a warmth and another hand was with a mug of hot broth and it was poured on my mouth and I supped from it and I felt a mite of the cold retreat and I opened my eyes to see my Ma looking as pained as the Tree and then came a big flash and the Tree behind her bursting outwards and into flames as the souls of the sinners returned in the Tree’s weakened state to tear him asunder and end his torment and then I knew that they had surely redeemed themselves by seeing their error and taking pity and saving him a thousand more years of pain and I closed my eyes as the shouts and crashes around me blurred and I slept a long and peaceful sleep.

The Spire

By A. O. Wallat

City-slum, low and small
On rolling hill, the buildings still,
People strange and fevered, all

In the centre, towering tall
Black spire stands,
Directing all

Working metal
Welding, drilling
Sounds and screams
Like wailing children

In the centre, towering tall
Black spire stands,
Controlling all

Within the spire’s colossal sphere
Frozen ears and stolen tongues
Asunder, under blackened snow
Books,
Nature,
Bone,
Remnants of old and young

In the centre, towering tall
Black spire stands
Enslaving all

——

Night Thoughts

By Thomas Caterer

There is a chill in that spot
in that corner of the mind
Lost around the bend
Lost in time’s labyrinth

The dull thud of the cascading crush
of dead dreams’ post-mortem spasms
crash inside the cylindrical mind
cycling frenetically through images,
sounds, colours, smells, feelings
callously oscillating in time’s velodrome

It’s a feeling of the uncanny
that feeling of the soul leaving the body
You try to shove it back in but can’t
Try to convince yourself you don’t mind if you die

The night thoughts are inescapable
Every memory played back in such a sharp, clear hue
it’s painful to see all the hurt and lost opportunities
Every memory plays back crystal clear, more real than the real,
more alive than the living present

The zombies in your decaying head
have grown too big for their black dress shoes
they’re keeping you up again
with their morbid sense of humour
and devilish sense of timing

Entropy’s smiling like the grinning skull
of Zen fables, cheerful in its evergreen peace
its humour’s left me in stitches
reeling from the laughter, clutching the sides
Lost in time’s labyrinth

Company

By A. O. Wallat

Gordon sauntered along the giant green bamboo that he had decided was his favourite viewing spot. The landscape never changed from other vantages but at ninth hour the light from where he now stood streaked through the canopy turning the dull wooden city into the many shades of sunset.

Although the cityscape reflected reds and yellows quite cheerfully he didn’t feel the same. Sad wasn’t exactly what he felt because he never felt it like this before. The wooden folk were always too busy to think or even worse talk about feelings.

Gordon sat down with a clunk. The giant bamboo had no backrest, and he had clearly forgotten about that. His wooden frame tumbled backwards from the canopy end after end, clonk after clunk, and with a dull thud he hit the floor. His bark was split, his head was cracked. Little pieces of splinter embedded the soil and all manner of sap was dripping onto his head.

Gordon woke in pain. Wincing, he crawled towards the nearest tree as though an anchor weighed him down. He had no memory of the moments just passed and looked down in search of the missing time.

Fear trickled down into the pit of his stomach.

Two standard log lengths before him was another body slumped in the same way he was. It looked just as broken as he did. In fact he looked exactly the same. Bathed in an orange glow, the two Gordons sat facing each other. He wasn’t sure if he was dead. But when Gordon tried to leave –

“Don’t go,” it said.

Its frame hadn’t moved, its eyes didn’t move but it had definitely spoken.

The shadows turned from orange to red. Gordon had managed to sit upright. While he rested, the sap in his cracks and breaks hardened and slowly healed. He looked at his double. The corners of its mouth were turned down. Gordon spoke without thinking.

“Come on. Let’s get home.”

In the Shadow of the Sun God

By Thomas Caterer

Tamil watched his father unload their pack beasts with a fierce determination in his eyes. He was nine years old now, almost a man. The night before they had set out, their donkeys loaded, their horses watered, he had wandered off from the camp and made a little bonfire. He had thrown his wooden horse upon it along with his archers and spearmen. His brow furrowed, his eyes looking on intently. He smiled broadly, proud of his own commitment to becoming a man, and throwing away all such childish things.

Bagdor, a broad shouldered man with a long black beard walked over to Tamil, a proud smile set in his face. Today was an important day for a father and a son. The wind swept sand into Tamil’s eyes, he lifted his hand to his face and squinted as the merciless sun beat down upon him. Hator, the Sun God was with them today, this most sacred of days; the start of their pilgrimage. The first step to Tamil becoming a man.

As Bagdor reached his son, he offered him a wooden bowel to drink from. Tamil greedily lapped up the mixture of ice, milk, and honey that had been offered to him. So sweet, so refreshing. Bagdor’s men started to prepare the camp, set the yurts into the ground, lead the horses to water. Bagdor and Tamil sat upon a rock together, Tamil continued to drink. Bagdor looked to his boy, his eyes brimming with warmth.

“The gods have given Man countless gifts” intoned Bagdor. Tamil turned to meet his father’s eyes. He always enjoyed hearing about the gods, even the stories he already knew.

“But among them there are six which are considered the ‘great gifts’. Do you know what these are, Tamil?”

He shook his head. He thought he knew at least three, but didn’t want to interrupt.

“The ‘great gifts’ are women, horses, water, fruit, mushrooms… and music” he said the last word with an especial reverence. “What do you think of that Tamil, do you agree?”

“Of all the many gifts the gods have given us, it surprises me these should be the ‘great’ six, father” replied Tamil. He spoke slowly, considering his words carefully. He wanted his father to look to him for support and advice, and for assistance in combat, the way he did with his warriors; Hagar, and Tagudai. As such he always took care with choosing his words when speaking to his father.

“How so, son?” Bagdor beamed a wide smile with his mouth opening to reveal the missing and crooked teeth that make up the smile of a warrior.

“Well I can understand why we need water; to live, and horses are what make us warriors and conquerors. Fruit is sweet and nourishing, and music unites the tribes in merriment. But I don’t understand why women and mushrooms are important”.

Bagdor laughed uproariously, rising to his feet as he did. His face flushed red in the midst of Hator’s kiss. “Well son, the importance and joy of women may become clearer to you, when you are older. I think you would understand more of their importance now, if your mother had survived your birth. She would have loved you so dearly, and been so proud to see what a brave, and wise man you are growing into. As for the mushrooms, well they are the food of the gods, which they deign to share with us mortals. Upon eating them we can dream whilst awake, and we can see the realm of Hator, and his seven sisters, and of all the gods and goddesses”.

Dream whilst awake. His father’s words stayed with Tamil that night.He wondered if his father had simply been referring to daydreaming. But he knew he must have meant something different, something special. Tamil lay in his yurt, his woollen blankets covering him. He still felt the crisp cold of a night spent sleeping on the steppe as the wind caressed his face. The winds passing through the yurts made the sounds of wolves or other such howling creatures. Tamil closed his eyes and saw the form of a great wolf, the wolf reached its claws to pull off its own face, and beneath it was the face of a woman; young, beautiful, and enchanting. In a flash, with the blink of his eyes, her face turned old and wizened like that of a crone. But not a witch Tamil thought. No, she is a wise woman, beautiful in a different way. Tamil’s eyes closed and without any effort at all sleep overcame him.

The pilgrimage to the Red Temple of Hator would confirm Tamil’s passage into manhood. He would finally be allowed to braid his hair. On the day of his ceremony, his wrist would be emblazoned with the tattoo of his tribe; two green serpents copulating on a field of blood red. Only the very vilest of criminals and traitors had their tattoos burned off. Most men would sooner be castrated than lose the mark of their tribe. Tamil had no intention of suffering such a fate. He would be a fierce warrior, a fair leader, and a kind father and husband. All the things his father was and which had made him respected amongst all other warriors.  The six great gifts his father described all had a part to play in the pilgrimage. The journey was by horseback of course. The Red Temple was surrounded by a great moat which you could bathe in. Everyone would eat blackcurrants, strawberries, and cranberries whilst drinking wine as Tamil was tattooed, and the ritual performed by a high priestess. There would be the playing of strings, and drums, and there would be singing and dancing.

The sun was high in the sky, as Tamil and Bagdor rode at the front of their caravan. Bagdor drank water from his flask lustfully. Every little thing he did, he seemed to relish, everything was there to be enjoyed. Tamil observed him coolly. He knew his father made the people around him feel good. It was a gift he hoped he might have too one day but he couldn’t be sure. He didn’t know yet how his father always smiled. Even when talking about mother, he was never sad. He would always make some jest of how lucky Hator and the other gods were to have her now, and simply move on.

“So how will the six great gifts be represented in the ritual? Do you know?” Bagdor turned to Tamil, his eyes wide, his brows arched.

“Well, we are riding horses now, the moat is for the water, the berries and wine for the fruit, musicians will play for my ceremony, and the high priestess is for women. I just don’t know about the mushrooms”.

“Hmm very good. You guessed more than I did when I was your age. And you’re smarter than your uncles too!’ laughed Bagdor. ‘However though it is true this temple has a high priestess, some have high priests, so she does not represent women in the ritual. You guessed four out of six. But the mushrooms are simple. After the ceremony you will eat a Dream Mushroom for the first time. The part which represents women however… well…” Bagdor’s face broke out into a huge infectious grin. Hagar and Tagudai who were riding close by started chuckling too. Tamil flushed red. They all know something.

The Red Temple of Hator finally came into view after many days of riding. It shimmered like a mirage but solidified as they drew closer. The red bricks of the temple were like nothing Tamil had seen before. And the moat was clear and inviting. As the horses were tied up, many young girls aged between eight and twelve came scurrying up to Tamil and his father’s men offering them plates with berries on them. Their mothers and older sisters watched from the distance, waving and smiling. Tagudai grinned broadly and winked at one of these older sisters, who covered her mouth to hide her laughter as she buried her face in the shoulder of another of the women. Tagudai turned red and Hagar slapped his back jovially. Tamil laughed and took a handful of blackcurrants from a plate offered to him by a girl with feline features. Well she kind of looks like a cat.

“May the gods bless you this day, Tamil” said the cat girl, blushing as she spoke.

“Thank you, what is your name?”

“Amarte”

“Which tribe are you from Amarte?”

“Please Tamil, don’t worry about the tribe, you should pick a girl who has fire in her eyes!” she exclaimed before pausing as Tamil returned her look with narrowed eyes, biting his lower lip. Finally she added “and I do Tamil, I do!”

Tamil didn’t understand what she was talking about, although for a split second he did feel that he saw flame burst in each of her pupils. Maybe Hator was trying to tell him something?

“Pick a girl for what? I don’t dance anyway…” Tamil shrugged his shoulders and shovelled more blackcurrants into his mouth. Amarte raised an eyebrow in curiosity. He was a strange boy after all but… not bad necessarily.

Tamil winced with pain, his flesh burned. The high priestess stood above him speaking the tongue of their ancestors which he could not understand. She was more singing than speaking now. The transition had been seamless. Naked men and women danced around the fires in the centre of the temple. Stringed instruments were plucked as drums were banged, and countless voices lifted into the sky to join the chorus of the priestess’s song. Tamil’s head was thick with pain. He couldn’t cry or scream. He would never dishonour father like that. Never!

But it did hurt, as the tribe’s sigil snaked its way up his wrist until finally he was made a man. In the corner of his eye he could see Hagar and Tagudai eating berries and drinking wine with the warriors of other tribes. And finally he could see his father smiling and nodding at him. He fell to his knees; he felt strong, he felt free.

The part of the ritual which represents women soon became clear. Today Tamil was expected to choose the girl who would be his first wife. As Hagar and Tagudai smiled encouragement at him, his father lead him by the hand to where various daughters of other tribe leaders and proud warriors had been assembled in a line in front of him. He recognised many from that morning, when the greeting gift of fruit had been presented.

“A word of advice from an old man” said Bagdor. Tamil looked up to his father.

“We all feel strong at times, weak at others. A strong body, wealth and treasure, youth and beauty, these are all forms of power. And they are all dangerous to become addicted to. They are all blown around like sand in the wind, they all fade, or rot like meat left on the bone. None of that lasts. The greatest power is found in love, wisdom, kindness. The real treasures of Hator”.

“Why did you choose mother?”

“For the same reason I never took another wife… the fire in her eyes” Bagdor squeezed Tamil’s shoulder as he said these last words.

Tamil looked up and found he was looking into the feline features of Amarte once more. She smiled back at him.

A dream mushroom tastes much like any other mushroom, Tamil concluded upon finishing his that evening. Although as time went by he felt himself begin to swing unwittingly in time with the drums and the strings. He felt like he was really hearing the music for the first time. Like he had never heard it before. It felt wonderful, he didn’t know how to describe it, it was just different somehow. And everything looked and felt a little more… more real, more vivid. As Tamil watched the naked dancers, they began to shapeshift before his very eyes. Some took the forms of foxes, or wolves, others were horses, or antelopes, some became birds, and others fish. Soon the dancers were embracing each other, some started to make love, others sucked upon the manhood of other’s as though drinking from a fountain. Some licked in between the thighs of women, and some bit deep into the flesh of their dancing partners, so as to draw blood. And where blood spilled upon the floor, all those who saw it threw themselves to the ground to lap it up as if it were honeyed milk. Tamil stared on in wonderment.

Once more he saw the old crone, she was stood calmly leaning on her stick in the heart of all the chaos. She smiled at Tamil, and he felt relaxed like everything would be fine if he just held her gaze. Before his eyes her face transformed again, into the young woman he had seen in his dream. She had feline features and her brown eyes burst with flame. Lastly he was looking into the face of a great wolf. He reached his hand to the plate by his side and filled his mouth with blackcurrants. He looked down at his wrist and the two serpents. He felt an immense rush of pride and joy.

He was sad to leave Amarte behind but the day of their wedding would not be until after she had bled. Reluctantly he bid farewell to the Red Temple, and it’s clear and brilliant moat. In the cool, crisp morning sun, Tamil dutifully rode behind his father, back to their home. But the final test had not yet been passed.

“A man must know how to feed himself. A man cannot live off fruits and seeds alone” Bagdor told him. “Today you will kill your own dinner”.

They had hidden amongst the bushes, after tracking a herd of antelope. Tamil was nestled beneath his father’s arm. Bagdor steadied his bow and readied his aim. Only to demonstrate. Tamil followed the example. He had always been a quick learner. The antelope he had chosen was in his sights. He pulled back on his arrow and felt the bow tense. He released, and the arrow flew through the air, cutting a path to the antelope, and finally burying itself in the creature’s neck. As Tamil and Bagdor approached it, Tamil felt faint, he felt outside of his own body as if he was watching himself from a distance. As they approached the antelope, Tamil let out a wail in shock. He was looking down at his own maggot infested corpse, his manhood was pointing up, his bum and hips drowning in his own excrement, and a vulture was pecking out his eyes.

Bagdor looked at him concerned, he had no idea what was troubling his son.

Then the image he saw changed, he saw a woman’s face, half was the beauty from his dreams but the other half of her face was that of the wise crone. Her body was gone, and replaced with the body of a wolf. Dead and rotting wolf cubs suckled on their mother’s nipples.

Finally the dead antelope was back where it should be, and Tamil saw the bright and fiery eyes of Amarte in his mind’s eye. He turned with an expression of fierce determination to his father. His father who was always laughing and smiling, always the joker, he turned to him and finally he asked…

“Is mother really with Hator, father? Is she not just gone, is she not just nothing now?”

“I don’t know” replied Bagdor. “I don’t know if she’s with Hator, but everything changes, like how this antelope will change into our energy, and how flames change into ashes. So I don’t think she is nothing. But I don’t know for sure”.

It seemed strange to Tamil that after trying so hard for so long to appear strong in front of his father, the first time he ever cried in front of him was after he became a man, after the tattoo, after the ritual, and after he chose a bride. The tears rolled down his cheeks, and into his mouth, they tasted salty.

Salt, why isn’t that one of the great gifts?  thought Tamil.

The Teddy Bear Principle – Part 3

By Thomas Caterer

Billy’s snoring made Tiffany think of a diarrheic elephant. He had fallen asleep soon after he came. She dragged herself out of his bed, as her languid limbs gathered her under garments. She draped herself in a lace gown with the delicacy of a gift shop clerk. She pulled a cigarette out from her packet, and turned it round in her fingers. The back displayed an image of a cigarette curved into a phallic form. It was a sad sight, with the tip bent downwards, ash limply spilling. At the top it read; smoking may cause impotence. She laughed sardonically; thick and throaty. Maybe smoking too many fags is to blame…

Her phone buzzed, Tiffany checked it to see a message from Tyler. He wanted to meet that evening, suggested their favourite little Italian place. The mushroom risotto there is very good, and they do have a reasonable wine selection. She texted him back, and arranged to meet at 7pm. She glanced over at Billy. She had to admit she felt a little guilty. But surely Tyler only had himself to blame? After all, she had come to expect certain things from a relationship. Until recently things had been going great, they fucked 5 times a week, he splashed out on gifts for her and frequent holidays, and he was right on track for promotion to the head of marketing (not bad at all for a 27 year old). He was going to be taking home another 15k a year. Now, he had blown the interview, he had stopped being invited to the important parties thrown by the important people, and now he couldn’t even get it up. Although she didn’t miss his sex talk. ‘I’m the boss! I’m in charge!’ ‘Yeah babe, you’re the boss… yeah’

‘That Tyler?’ Billy was turned onto one side, eyeing Tiffany’s half-nude form, with a boyish grin.

‘Yeah, he wants to meet tonight. He’s taking me for Italian.’

‘You gonna chuck him?’

Tiffany took a deep breath, and pondered for a moment. ‘I really don’t know. I mean if I could just have the old Tyler…’

‘You need to ask him what the hell’s going on with him, he’s been rubbing people up the wrong way for a while now, always nervy, on-edge, he’s been erratic as hell.’

It was true. For some time now, Tyler’s behaviour had become increasingly bizarre. Thankfully he had stopped claiming to see things, and yet still he would trail off mid-sentence, or his eyes would glare alarmingly at a corner of the room, where no one else saw anything remarkable. He may have stopped claiming to see things, yet nonetheless, he was still seeing them. One night he had woken up screaming. Jumble! Jumble! Jumble! It had most likely been 30 seconds of straight screaming, the same word Jumble over and over again. It had felt like an hour.

Tyler glanced at his Rolex. 19.05. He was getting agitated. Absent-mindedly he begun to tap his fingers on the table. Something out of habit, perhaps a theme from a TV show. His eyes scanned the room. Blue stone-like eyes liberated from the sunglasses, resting on the table next to the salt and pepper shakers. He looked hard at all the corners and sides of the room. So far, things were clear.

It first happened in the interview he flunked. This was meant to be a celebration, now it was a last ditch attempt to save his relationship. Tiffany was a real prize. He had lost too much now already. Stresses were mounting. He had been assured of that promotion. Now he bitterly regretted moving to his new apartment too soon. The rent was too high for him, his car payments were catching up to him, and if he suggested to Tiffany about splitting the bill, he’d probably get a cold, frosty response at best, at worst a glass of wine to the face, as she basted him for being a cheapskate.

‘Are you okay there Tyler, you seem distracted?’

‘No, not at all, sir, I’m sorry, continue, I’m all ears.’

‘We’re discussing an amazing opportunity here, and my colleagues here, hold you in very high regard, I’m disappointed that you don’t seem to share our enthusiasm.’

‘No, I assure you, sir, I am 100% committed…’

‘70% alcohol by now’

‘Please… stop… please’

‘When somebody goes to Heaven, they CAN’T come back.’

It was in that abortive interview that Tyler had first seen it. The teddy bear from the night he had beaten some bum. It had stitching around the neck, where the head had been reattached, in a cross-hatch pattern. Red thread. Its head had moved slowly, he had glared at him accusingly. Somehow those button eyes had conveyed a terrible fury. He was sat at the opposite end of the conference table, eyes baring into Tyler’s soul. Tyler recognised him immediately, and could provide no logical explanation to himself for his presence. He had felt a terrible chill in his chest and stomach. His throat had been tight and dry.

It had cost him the job. Ever since, that fucking bear had been appearing at important moments in Tyler’s life, always with an increasingly grotesque appearance. Blood dripping from its mouth, its hands rotting, it had even began to smell. The stench of death. An inescapable aroma, once caught in the nostrils, it embeds itself like unforgiving tendrils.

The door to the restaurant opened, Tiffany entered wearing a beautiful black dress, and a stern yet sad expression on her face. Black for mourning. This is the death of us. Tyler had recently got things under control. The bear still appeared at times, but he was desensitised enough not to react anymore. Still it may be too little too late. Tiffany took the seat opposite him. Tyler attempted a smile, Tiffany’s face blank. They ordered wine, delayed the food order, claiming they needed more time. Eventually the dust settled. They made some light conversation, mostly gossiping about their friends; that fat chick, Alex had started seeing, Tiffany’s sister’s marital problems, the violent reprisal of Jenny’s acne. Tyler grew a little nervous. He had recently theorised that attacking others was one of the conditions for the bear to appear. With this in mind, he changed the topic to reality TV, he let Tiffany wax lyrical about a popular dating show, as he glugged his wine.

The evening passed pleasantly, Tyler was daring to feel hopeful for Tiffany and himself. The waiter came to their table, and asked for their dessert orders.

‘Do you have Neapolitan ice cream?’ Tyler asked. The words came from somewhere outside of him. He didn’t understand what had compelled him to say that.

‘I’m afraid not sir, only what is on the menu’.

‘Are you all right?’ Tiffany asked. She looked at Tyler with flushed eyes. Her patience had worn thin. Not this again.

They had both ordered lemon sorbet, as they waited, Tyler felt apprehensive, until finally in the corner of his eye, he saw it. He felt more angry than afraid. You won’t ruin this too, you won’t take everything from me! He had grown used to it by now. This shouldn’t matter.

On this occasion however things were different. The bear moved across the floor of the restaurant, making a bee line for Tyler. Its appearance was bloody and grotesque. Its rotting, skeletal hands reached for its neck, and the red thread was pulled apart in violent streams. It took its head in one hand and curled its arm to coddle it underneath its shoulder. Its face was more animate than it had ever been before. The mouth opened and revealed jagged teeth like that of a shark, hateful razors. Tyler leapt from his seat, he ran to the other end of the restaurant. He tried to open the door but couldn’t, the handle wouldn’t budge. His heart was pounding, ears ringing. The stench of death was aflame in his nostrils. He felt the fear of a child, helpless. All his strength and arrogance fled from him. He curled himself up into a ball on the restaurant floor. He closed his eyes tight. Go away, please go away. Please… stop… please.

Tyler opened his eyes. The waiting staff and diners were looking at Tyler with shocked expressions painted onto their motionless faces. The bear was gone. The jagged teeth were gone. And so was Tiffany.

Six months later…

Tyler drained the dregs of his soup. The café down the road from his makeshift shelter, always gave him a cup of leftover soup at the end of their business hours. Just as long as he didn’t stink the place up by going there during the day.

Tyler gathered up a few cardboard boxes and blankets and got himself ready to settle in for the night. It was another harsh, cold night of the British winter. I’m gonna bloody freeze in this. He sighed as he laid his back against the cold stone wall.

Footsteps approached. Tyler picked up his empty cup ready. A brown-haired teenage girl came into view. She had a cute hamster-like face, round and sweet, cheeks red from the cold.

‘Excuse me miss, spare any change?’

‘Oh hey’ she checked her pockets. ‘Oh gosh I’m sorry, I only have this’.

With embarrassment, the girl hesitantly handed him a 50p coin. Tyler made an effort to hide the look of disappointment on his face for her sake. It’s better than nothing.

‘Is that all you have to wear?’

‘I’m afraid so little miss, I foolishly didn’t pack for all seasons, when I moved here.’

‘Oh you must be freezing! Listen I don’t have far to walk home now anyway, here take this’. The girl removed her winter coat and placed it over Tyler’s shoulders with care. He felt the corner of his eye burn as a hesitant tear formed. He was grateful, very grateful.

‘You don’t have to…’

‘No it’s okay, you need it more!’

‘Thank you’ Tyler whispered hoarsely.

The girl walked away down the road. Tyler pulled the coat over his knees to use as a blanket, as he moved the coat up to himself, he saw a label stitched into the back of the coat, where the neck would rest.

On the label read; property of Caitlin Sharp.

‘Caitlin’ he muttered softly to himself. For a reason he couldn’t explain he felt a strange connection to that name. He felt a warmth spreading inside of him. He would sleep peacefully that night, and dream of things that grow, things that feel warm against the winter night.

The Teddy Bear Principle – Part 2

By Thomas Caterer

Tyler’s skin lustfully soaked up the sun’s rays. His walk, playfully described as swagger by his friends, was on auto-pilot, as he sauntered past the array of boutique stores, and coffee shops that littered the path to his favourite spot for a business lunch. He was joined by some friends from marketing; Alex, Billy, and Aaron. All dressed in full business attire. Tyler had just wrapped on a humorous anecdote, detailing his regrettable tryst with an overweight woman from the night before.

‘Not like you to shag an elephant, Tyler!’ Billy quipped. The others broke out into raucous laughter. All except Aaron. Cheeky cunt. Tyler was fond of Billy, and his eyes smiled broadly behind his designer sunglasses. He caught sight of Aaron’s arched eyebrows, his expression that of a disapproving parent. I swear that one’s fucking queer.

‘Any spare change, lads?’ asked some old boy from the side of the road, with a gruesome stench. He had the audacity to hold out his beggar’s cup before even receiving a response.

‘Nah mate’ Alex replied. ‘But if you’re looking to get loaded, you can drink my piss, that’s probably about 70% alcohol by now!’

As they walked on, a young buxom woman with glasses, and blonde hair, came into Tyler’s view as she was walking in the opposite direction, just about to pass them. His mind raced for a chat-up line, to show Billy he hadn’t dropped his standards after all, but then he noticed a chubby lad walking behind her, looked about student age. His eyes were on the woman in front of him as well, until they met Tyler’s for a moment. Tyler smiled the kind of smile that only the cruel know how to conjure. The kind that mocks the real kind, envious of its power.

‘Hello gorgeous, you aw’right?’ A mocking smirk crossed his face.

‘Good, thanks’ came the fat student’s curt, sarcastic reply, not missing a beat, and he walked straight on. Nonetheless the boys still saw the wit in Tyler’s remark, and guffawed on cue.

Jake put his disappointingly light cup back on the ground next to him. Rex whined as he looked imploringly into his eyes. The poor bastard hadn’t eaten for the last couple of days. Jake felt guilty.

‘Sorry boy, business has been slow of late’

Jake felt tired. Tired beyond what the body can feel, beyond the bones, beyond the flesh. Sleep wouldn’t remedy it, he knew. The weather turned, the clouds above were darkening. Jake began to assemble his shelter from his boxes. He wanted to make sure Rex wouldn’t get wet. Wanted to provide cover for Jumble too. He pushed him to the back of his makeshift fort. By rights, Jumble ought to be mad at him, ought to hate him like everyone else did, but in those black button eyes was a serenity. Forgiveness maybe…

‘I’m glad you’re still with me’ Jake told the bear.

Caitlin’s face was streaming with tears. Her face was red hot with anger. Jake felt helpless.

‘I’m sorry my love, but when somebody goes to Heaven, they CAN’T come back’

Jake bolted awake. He was crying. Rex was still asleep. There were footsteps in the distance. Jake’s stomach roared with hunger like a dying beast. The footsteps came closer. Jake saw a man wearing a grey suit, like one of those men had worn. He was wearing sunglasses despite it being the dead of night. Jake could hear him singing to himself. Good, he thought, people are more generous when they’re drunk. He had been too, once.

‘Excuse me sir, could you spare any change?’

‘Oh, it’s you again’ the man had approached with a drunken stagger, yet his speech was strangely clear. He kneeled beside Jake.

‘So what’s your deal, lost your job?’

‘Yeah…’ Jake answered uncertainly.

‘So you just sit here, day after day, asking good people, working people for money huh? You can’t do anything to earn it?’

‘I’m not work-shy, never have been, I’m happy to work.’

‘All right then!’ the man jumped up with aplomb, he pulled out his wallet, and drew a wad of cash out.

‘Dance for me, do a merry jig, and I’ll give you this.’

Jake’s posterior was rooted to the ground. ‘No’ he said firmly.

The man laughed. ‘Well beggars can be choosers after all, eh?’ His face darkened. ‘You stink, your dog stinks, your little hut here stinks. You need the money for some fucking soap!’

He lunged his arm forward and withdrew Jumble.

‘What are you doing!?’

‘What am I doing? What the fuck is this old man? He stinks worse than you. Oh, I get it, do you keep your stash in him? You got some smack in here?’

‘Please just give the damn bear back.’ Jake’s voice was breaking beneath the weight of his anger and his hands were shaking with mounting fear.

‘Let’s see what your stash is like’ the man ripped off Jumble’s head, and plunged a hand into the stuffing, pulling chunks out as he did. The stuffing fell to ground like snowflakes descending in sadness.

‘Well this is disappointing’ he dropped Jumble to the ground. ‘Are you taking the fucking piss? You have nothing old man?’

Tyler was enraged. This stinking old bastard was punking him, he looked like a junkie, he was bound to have something. He’d teach him a lesson. He grabbed him by the head, and slammed it into his knee. He released, and his head flopped to the ground, the nose streaming blood. He started to work the torso, punching first then kicking. The old boy groaned, and repeated a mantra of ‘please… stop… please’. Finally Tyler whipped his cock out and took a piss on the old man. He would have to tell Alex about this later. 70% alcohol by now.

‘Here ya go mate, have a drink on me’. Tyler smiled. A smile only the cruel can conjure.