A THORNE REMAINING
By Jo Anzalone
PART TWO:
Allison was alone in the room when a sudden chill washed over her. She
swayed, almost dizzy with it, a nausea rising in her stomach. A large cloud
rolled brieflyin front of the sun, plunging the room into deep shadow for about
30 seconds. Her hands gripped the arms of her chair, her nails sinking into
their padding. For a moment she thought she might actually fall forward out of
the chair.
Adelaide returned, her arms full of luggage. "Allison!" she cried, dropping the
bags and hurrying forward. "Darling, what's the matter?"
"I...I...don't know," Allison gasped, her face white. "Something...somewhere...I don't
know."
Adelaide whipped the blue spread back, helping Allison onto the bed. "You lie
here and rest, you hear me. Don't move. I'm getting you some water."
Allison lay quietly, her eyes closed, waiting for the chill to pass, for that
sensation of trembling in her inner core to cease. She felt tears pressing
against her lids and a desperate urge to cry, though she had no idea why.
Perhaps the trip had been a bit too much for her after all? She hadn't been
this far in
some years. Yes, that must be it.
The cloud had passed and warm golden light shone through the window wall. She
turned her head in that direction, feeling stronger. She'd left the French doors
open, and now she quieted herself by listening to the waters of the stream. Yes,
everything was all right. She was all right.
Adelaide came back, bearing a large glass of cold water. She lifted Allison's
head, helping her take several sips. "What happened?" she asked, her brow
creased with worry. She had no idea how far it was to the nearest medical
facility. How stupid of her was that?
Allison didn't reply, trying to understand herself that strange sensation that
had suddenly enveloped her, but could find no rhyme or reason for it. It had
simply come...like a cold wind blowing down some far mountainside...then gone.
Shaking her head mutely, she gazed around the room. During that odd moment,
it had rather been like the walls of the room had opened up, blown by that wind,
then settled back again into position. Again, without knowing how she knew, she
was aware the room itself had been as affected as she was. And the knowledge of
that made her feel even more connected to this
space. They had felt it together, whatever it was, they had shared it.
"Do you want to go back to Coffs, darling?" her sister was asking. "Maybe this
wasn't such a good idea, coming here?"
"No, no," Allison said, clutching her sister's hand. "I like it here. I want to
be here."
Adelaide stepped back, setting the glass on a beside table. "You're sure? You're
really sure you'll be ok this far out in the country?"
Allison nodded, a smile curving her lips. "Umm, hmm," she murmured, suddenly
tired, letting her lashes settle on her cheeks.
Adelaide smoothed back a wandering lock of her sister's hair, then stood there,
looking at her. Allison had always been delicate, almost fragile, her body
slender, thin arms moving gracefully as she talked or painted. She'd been five
when the truck had smashed into her bicycle, breaking her back, paralyzing her
legs. Adelaide, ten years older, had become her watchful guardian after that, a
habit now deeply ingrained, a part of life. Their parents had died when Allison
was in her late teens, only increasing Adelaide's almost proprietary
watchfulness over her sister. Even after she married Rodney, she had made daily
trips to Allison's small apartment, never really getting past the feeling that
it was wrong somehow for Allison to live on her own. Now she was in the process
of divorce and wanted to get away from everything...everything, that is, but
Allison. So it was she had come up with her plan to take Allison with her out
to the country where she could still do her art while Adelaide wrote her books.
Allison had been willing, finding nothing in Coffs to hold her there. But,
looking at her sister as she drifted into sleep, Adelaide began to wonder if
perhaps she'd been selfish in wanting Allison to come with
her. Well, she'd give it a bit of time, see how it was working out for the both
of them. Perhaps there would be some way to get out of the lease early if need
be?
Allison slept for about an hour, waking to the softer light of early
evening. She was glad Adelaide had left the doors open, glad to wake to the
sounds of the stream. She lay there wondering about the man whose room this had
been, for it had obviously belonged to a male. Had he lain here, as she was,
listening to the creek? He must have and he must have loved it to have made that
whole wall glass like it was. She tried to imagine where he might be now. All
she knew was that he owned the house but was almost never there. Why was that?
If he loved it, why was he not living in it? Indeed, why was he gone
so very
long that he had let it out to be rented? That must mean that he had no
plans to return within the next year. Was he somewhere, now, in Australia or had
he gone across the sea so far that he did not find it easy to return?
Suddenly she wanted to know more about him, about the man whose room this was.
It had to be his room for the one Adelaide had chosen was too...female...and the
front bedroom was set up for a couple. She didn't even know his name. Adelaide
had handled all the details of the lease. She sat up, slipping her hands under
her thighs, moving her legs off the edge of the bed then sliding into her wheel
chair. It was a motion done smoothly from years of practice and her shoulders,
though slim, were stronger than they looked.
Sitting there, she turned her head, consumed with the need to find him, some
trace of him so that she would know what sort of person he was. He loved the
stream, had tried to open his room up to it, and that simple fact alone made her
like the thought of him. But what else? What else did he like? She felt a
hesitation, though, about prying into his personal things, so decided to move
about the room, seeing what she might discover from what lay in open sight.
Books. He liked books. She rolled over to the wall of bookcases, studying the
titles. There were atlases, several of them, very detailed about various
sections of the world. Histories, geographies, social commentaries on the
cultures of country after country. She moved further down the shelves. Military
histories, books on weaponry. Hmmm? Perhaps he was some sort of government
agent, maybe even an ambassador? Possibly he was in the army? He was obviously
very interested in the world at large. If he were in the army, that would
explain his long absences. She walked her fingers along a low shelf. Languages.
He studied languages. That fit with either the government or the military. But did he ever
read for the pure pleasure of it? She wheeled a bit more, passing
his desk for the moment, centering in on his books. Ah, there...the complete
Aubrey/Maturin series. She had read the first volume a couple of years back.
Perhaps she would finish them now that they were right here in her room. Her room?
No, it was still his room. Very his. Yet. She felt that connection with it, as
if it wanted her to be inside. She shrugged slightly, not really understanding
what she was feeling, and turned back to her study of his books, coming upon a
row of classics that appeared to be first editions. Carefully,
she pulled out a copy of David Copperfield, its leather binding engraved with
gold lettering and fancy scrollwork. On the fly leaf she found an inscription
in faded ink. "To my grandson, Terry, that he might understand the need for
strength and perseverance in life. With love from your
grandmother."
She settled the book, open, on her lap, looking at the window wall. "Terry," she
said aloud, letting her mouth form the word slowly. "That must be you. Terry."
Taking the book with her, she wheeled out the French doors onto the porch. His
name settled down inside her, taking up comfortable residence. Terry. Terry who
loved the sight and the sound of this stream. "Don't you miss it?" she
whispered, listening to the water. "How can you go and leave it behind?" She
sat there a long while as the light faded, running her fingers lightly back and
forth over his name.
It was night and he was walking along the curve of Farm Cove, Sydney harbour to
his left, the Royal Botanic Gardens stretching out to his right. The sidewalk
along the stone wall was empty of people this late and he walked steadily toward
Macquarie Point, intending to sit and enjoy the view. He had a small apartment
not far away from the southern end of the Gardens, but he was in no hurry to get
there. Just being out in the night air with the harbour lights glinting on the
water was sufficient for now.
Just where the cove started its sharp curve out to the point, he came up beside
a young man seated on the wall, his legs hanging over the harbour side, his head
bent dejectedly. He wasn't sure why, but he stopped just behind him. Possibly it
was because the young man's posture painted such a clear picture
of distress. He sat down just to the man's left, looking at the moonlight on the
thin face. "Say, Mate," he said softly, laying his hand on the man's shoulder,
"what's got you so upset? Can I help?"
The young man turned to his left, a shudder going completely through his body.
"Damn!" he said, hurriedly moving his legs over the wall, standing up and
walking rapidly in the direction of the Opera House. He looked back over his
shoulder once or twice, quickening his pace. Terry's mouth had dropped slightly
open. Sure, the bloke had no idea who he was, but...still. Not to even say a
word and just dash off like that. He rose, continuing his stroll toward the
point. He'd walked this route often during his
many stays in Sydney. It was familiar, comfortable, being here again. He
couldn't remember exactly how he'd gotten here, which rather puzzled him.
Maybe he'd spent too much time in his favorite bar earlier? That was more than likely. He did feel a bit strange, almost like he was walking in a dream. Maybe he WAS dreaming? He felt suddenly...uncertain...about why he was here, where he was going. Turning, he looked back at Sydney. Sydney? Yes, he was in Sydney. Hadn't he been somewhere...else, though? Just a bit ago? He couldn't focus in on it.
At the point, he sat on the bottom step of the long stone flight of stairs
leading up the slope behind him to the sandstone outcropping that was the site
of Mrs. Macquarie's famous chair. Perhaps he'd go up there later? He felt a
certain aimlessness that disturbed him. Resting his elbows on his knees, he
stared out
at the harbour. The round stone tower of Fort Denison was almost directly in
front of him, a dark, low bulk in the night.
A movement to his left attracted his attention. A small stray dog was standing
there, its hackles raised, lips pulled back as it growled deep in its throat.
"Hey, there, boy? What's up with you?" he asked, stretching his left arm toward it as he leaned forward.
The brown
dog backed up, its growl growing louder. He'd always had an easy rapport with
dogs. What was the matter with this one? He stood, taking a couple of steps in
its direction. It yelped, turned and scooted into the bushes. He ran his
fingers through his hair in frustration. "Must have cooties tonight," he
grumped, thinking of the young man and now the dog.
The harbour seemed to waver a bit, almost recede. He had a strong feeling that
he was going to wake up any minute and a looming sense that something was
dreadfully wrong began to weigh him down. He needed a drink. The bar was just at
the end of Woolloomooloo Cove on this side of the Gardens, across from the end
of the big Wharf. Yeah. That sounded good. Even as late as it was...how late WAS
it...he didn't seem to have his watch...but he was sure someone he'd know would
be there. There was always someone he knew there.
He headed around the narrow tip of the point and back down its far side, passing
only a policeman, who completely ignored him. Crossing Cowper Street, he smiled
at the still- brightly-lit area before him. O'Malley's would be open all night.
In fact, the two blokes who'd just entered before him had left the door open
and he wandered right in.
Spying George and Harry, old mates of his at a table in a far corner, he made
his way toward them. He opened his mouth in greeting, but closed it when he saw
the expression on Harry's face. Damn, but the man had been crying.
"Harry?" he began, but his friend paid him no mind, just continued to look down
at the diminishing foam of his beer.
"Can't believe it," he said, shaking his head. "Just can't believe he's gone."
"Who's gone?" Terry asked moving around the table to stand beside Harry, who
still did not acknowledge his presence.
"Dino's gone bonkers, so I hear," George added. "Heard he was last seen in
Medellin drinking the bars dry."
"Can't blame him," Harry continued, looking up at George. "Plenty rough the way
Terry bought it, dying in his arms like that."
"What?" Terry said sharply. "Dying? Who died?"
"Didn't get his body out, either," George went on. "No way to do it. Had to bury
him right there on the mountain."
Mountain? Someone...who?...had died, been buried on a mountain? What was going
on?
"Doesn't seem right," Harry said. "Terry shouldn't be buried out there like
that. Not right at all." He lifted his beer, draining it.
Terry stood there, suddenly remembering. The fall down the slope, the endless
hours trying not to drown in mud...the wracking pain. He was hurting, every part
of him was hurting but there was something he had to do, some reason it wasn't
right to die there in the mud. He had to get back to Australia. That was it.
But...why? He remembered looking up at Dino as the world faded around him. What
had he said? Australia. Let me have Australia...instead?
A sudden cold terror flooded him, almost a helpless, unreasoning panic like
nothing he'd ever known before. He felt the struggle of it inside him, beating
against him like...like the iron bar he'd been tortured with once during
questioning. Yes, it was very like that...only worse.
No wonder they didn't talk to him. They couldn't see him! Not just Harry and
George but the man on the cove wall. The dog. He knew the dog had seen him.
He was cut
off from them forever, nothing left to him but dogs who would now loathe his
presence. He strained with the knowledge, the sudden total awareness that he was
dead.
Slowly, very slowly his control reasserted itself and he emerged from the
blanketing terror of the moment, looking about him at the familiar room, trying
to understand.
He had come back. He was somehow in Australia. How? Why? He had longed to come,
been consumed with the need to come, and here he was. More slowly still an
almost bizarre sense of the humor of it began to rise in him. How many times had
he almost been killed? Now it had happened and his friends were
sitting here at their usual table where he joined them when he was in
Sydney...and they were discussing how he'd been buried on some jungle
mountainside. He almost laughed.
Then, no. This couldn't be right! It just couldn't. He would prove it to
himself, prove it was some form of delirium, that this had not happened. He
would say something to Harry and they would turn and look at him, jump to their
feet, clap him on his back in relief and order drinks all round.
"Dino," he said. "How did Dino get out?"
"Dino had a helluva time getting out of the jungle," George went on. "Heard he
almost bought it himself before he found that raft and floated down to some
village."
Ah, ha! You see. George had heard him, had answered his question. But why was no
one looking at him? He'd better try again.
"How long," he demanded. "How long ago did this happen?" He laid his hand on
George's shoulder.
George was shaken by an enormous shiver and put his palm across his eyes.
"Damn," he
said, "somebody order me another beer."
Terry knew then. He watched them a moment longer then headed for the door. He
should go. Once out on the sidewalk he looked both right and left. But where?
With things the way they were...now...where could he possibly go? He'd wanted
to come back to Australia, right? There had to be something more specific than
just that. There had to be. Some reason...? Some...place?
Not his apartment. He felt no pull at all toward that, nor toward anything in
Sydney. This was not it; was not why or where. He crossed Cowper, heading back
into the solitude of the huge park, thinking as he walked, remembering his last
moments on the mountain.
He'd wanted to go home. Yes, that was it...home. Thorneton. An almost electric
surge of surety went through him. When he got there, he would know, know why he
had to come. All his answers were there. He knew it.