Dreams of Origami (27 page)

G
IDEON CROSSES THE ROAD
and walks slowly towards the schoolhouse. He looks up at the building, his inner eye seeing the yellow brickwork pulsating with covert energy. This is the last place on Earth he would want to be if it were not for Cassandra. As he steps through the gate and down onto the garden path, water swirls over his shoes. Thankfully it hasn’t yet reached the doorstep. The door swings silently open on a room that is unnaturally dark and dismal, far more than can be accounted for by the heavy skies. Water streams down the windows, casting strange, undulating reflections on the opposite wall. The house has become an alien world, undiscovered and surreal.

She has not moved from the table. He can see her clearly, her face pale against the darkness. ‘Gideon? For a while I thought you might not come back.’

‘I thought you knew me? The others have left, though. Everyone. Apart from us, there’s probably no one else for miles around.’

‘That’s good.’

He moves into the chair opposite her and takes both her hands in his, sliding his fingers down over her wrists. He can feel the small bones, imagining them white and delicate as porcelain. She avoids looking at his eyes, but he can sense her drawing comfort from his touch. He
knows her determination, her spirit is like a steel rod, but he also feels the sorrow behind her strength. All those years they have shared, all the time they have wasted, and now it’s too late.

‘We are ready now. Are you sure, Gideon? You are here of your free will—you do not have to stay.’

‘So, what happens? What do we have to do?’

‘First, I will join with my people. And you, too, Gideon: you must attune your consciousness to our level. Meditate as we have before. Centre yourself and be calm. Follow my thoughts with yours.’

He does as she instructs, closing his eyes and seeking that calm place at the core of his being. He slows his breathing, taking the air deeper and visualizing his body filling with light. Minutes pass. Then he is aware of Cassandra, not her voice, but the feel of her, like a warm breeze tugging at the edges of his thoughts.

Come with me, Gideon,
she is saying.
Come with me.
And in his mind he follows her. All is darkness. They are without form, beings of thought and will, adrift on the aether, the dark sea from which all things arise.
Feel it all around you, Gideon, know that it is part of you.

Long moments pass in which he again centres himself, aware now of the elements from which his nature is created and the aether that binds them together.

And now, the energies will form into a sheet of white. Can you see it, Gideon?
He can, and knows it is something of her own invention. But he will suspend his disbelief, as she has taught him, and grant that it is real. At first it is nebulous, transparent, then he observes it condensing into a white square, floating in space.

Paper, that’s all it is—just paper. Take hold of it with your mind, Gideon. Make the lotus. Do it, as you have done a hundred times before.

As he has done a hundred times—so easy now—visualize the paper moving—edges curl and fold—creases sharpen—a flower becomes—grows. He is at its centre, feeling along the lines of stress in the aether; its shape enfolds him. He can feel Cassandra with him as always, but there are others now, beyond her. He can sense the echo
of their thoughts, vague and unfamiliar, like trails of mist on a river.

That’s right, Gideon: we are all here. But I am with you. Can you feel this?
A light wind touches the shape. Instinctively, Gideon reaches with his mind and takes hold.
Good. Just as we have always done. Remember the games we played? This is your lotus and I am trying to steal it from you and change it into a bird. Fight me for it, Gideon. Now! Fight me!

This time the tug on the paper is firmer, followed by another, even stronger. Then he is battling to keep control. The shape is wrenched and yanked, twisting one way and then the other. Green lightning flashes all around him, some part of what they are doing to the aether—a tear in the fabric of time and space—no! He must not think of what is really happening. Paper. It is only paper.

It goes on and on, his strength draining away. How long he can sustain this he doesn’t know, as if time can be measured in this place. But he will not give way. Every part of his mind must remain focused. Unwavering. Unyielding.

No, not every part. There is a sound somewhere, far beyond this.

Ignore it, Gideon: concentrate on the shape. Don’t let go, whatever happens.

There is a creaking and a twisting of wood. He drives it from him, back into the physical world where it belongs. He must hold onto the form, possess it—firm creases, straight and true—the points of the petals sharp, where the fibres lie thinnest—the intersecting lines—the weft and the warp of time and space—

An explosion as the house door gives way under the weight of water. Icy coldness swirling around his feet, his legs.

The lotus, Gideon, hold on to it. Fight me for it. Fight me!

He feels her hands. That was the first he saw of her: pale hands folding paper.

He forces his mind back to the task, excluding all else. The one image—keep it whole—keep it perfect—while the base fabric of existence itself jerks and tears beneath him like a wild stallion, and flood water swirls around the room freezing him to the bones.

Is this, then, the last that he will know of her? He can feel her
now, she is part of him. He can see her, but as it was in his dream. They stand together, on a vast open plain, black night all around them and rain falling in torrents. Yet the ground between them is dry and cracked. A bolt of lightning stains the sky, and in the green light he can see the pain in Cassandra’s eyes. He grasps her slender arms; her small fingers clutch his wrists.

Air roars around them, pulling and thrashing, but they match the wind’s strength and stand firm. Another flash of light and the ground between them splits, a deep fissure opening up at their feet—earth and fire, water and air. Cassandra clings to him and calls his name, but her voice is weak and distant. The Elements themselves are his foe, and he knows that this is a fight he cannot win. She is already moving away from him. Lightning bursts around them and the rain, so heavy he fears it will beat him down.

The others are there, her own kind. He can sense their thoughts persuading her, guiding her, drawing her from him. She would defy them if she could, but time itself is being ripped from them. Her hands slip through his as her mouth forms his name.

An electric shaft cracks the sky, the earth shudders, and the ground between them opens into a deep abyss. Cassandra is on the far side, a shadow fading into the rain.

Gideon reaches for her, slips and falls…

…and falls and goes on falling…

…into a place where there is no past and no

future and nothing was nor ever will be…

…where forever is only now and now is endless night…

…and where darkness is all that exists and has ever existed.

A
LL IS LIGHT
.

Golden and red, swirling, sparkling.

And pain.

Heat. Painful, but not burning.

Muscle and bone aching, protesting.

Alive.

Alive, yes, but who and where?

Think! I am…I am?

There is a smell. Familiar. His hand moves—slides—soft, smooth—and the smell. Leather? He is inside a car—his car.

And the light must be the sun. That’s it! Sunlight dancing on his closed eyelids and scorching his face.

Open your eyes. Look! No, not yet.

Think first.

Think.

I am? I am—in the wrong place. There was rain, and she said…She?

It hits him like a speeding train, like a charging bull, like a knife-thrower finding his mark. It’s as she said it would be: she is gone and he may not even remember…

But he does remember—at least, he remembers some things. The very fact of knowing he may have forgotten means—means what? What is it that he’s supposed to remember?

And so she comes back to him, not in a heady rush, nor in a smooth stream, but in wisps and snatches. Hands held across a table—a blue-toned leaf, waved as a fan—bright eyes laughing as his untutored fingers attempt to fold paper—her hands slipping away from his—falling and falling.

He has her now, hears her voice like spring water dancing over bright pebbles. ‘Hello, Gideon Wakefield, my name is Cassandra and I have come to help.’

I am Gideon Wakefield and Cassandra has left me.

It is a long time before he opens his eyes. And when he does, the sunlight blinds him and makes him weep.

H
E SHIELDS HIS EYES
and looks up through the windscreen, trying to make sense of a world he may, or may not, know. The sky is unbelievably blue; the blue that only comes in midsummer when the sun is overhead with not a cloud in sight. He winds down the window. Air billows in, carrying dust from fields, and sounds: the hum of distant traffic; birdsong high above, a skylark rejoicing; the burr of an engine nearby, a farm machine perhaps. Where is that other sound? That humming in his head? It has gone. Or perhaps, in this world, it never was.

This is Gainsborough Street. Of course it is; he knows without knowing, even before he dares to look. Only, it was evening and it was raining. Now the sun is almost directly above. He looks at his watch. Nearly noon. And then he looks again. Tuesday, July seventeenth. No, not right. Matthew disappeared on Tuesday the tenth. He was gone over a week, and yesterday, when he came back, it was Wednesday. This should be Thursday, the nineteenth. Maybe the watch is wrong…
Or maybe this is the day before yesterday.

He hasn’t been this far along Gainsborough Street before. The Jaguar is parked near the farm end and next to the fields, but facing the main road so that the houses are ahead of him, ranked on either side. His
back feels stiff. He unfolds his limbs and sits upright so that his eyes are not in the direct path of the sun. He stretches and scans the horizon, turning slowly to look in every direction. As far as his memory tells him, the landscape appears the same. But the fields nearby…They were waterlogged, the crops still green and beaten down by rain. Now they are the colour of butter and honey, ears bent heavy under the weight of ripened grain and ready for the combine-harvester, probably the one now busy in the next field. He checks his watch again. Yes, this is the same year, but a different summer; one not blighted by cold winds and grey skies.

He will get out of the car. But not yet. He needs to think first.

They must have succeeded, the repair must have worked. He has not simply moved back in time but into a different time. This is another version of his world, one in which the events of the past two weeks never happened. No, more than that. History itself never happened, as least not in the way he knew it. She had tried to explain.
You will be thrown into a new present which will have been shaped by a different past; one in which I played no part.
She had said he might not even remember her. But he does; he remembers everything. At least everything he can remember. No, that makes no sense. He shakes his head. Where are the memories of his new past? Although, did she not say that it might be like this?
You may remember everything that has happened until now, but not know the world in which you find yourself.

Now I am a stranger here, an outsider.

It is a long time before he is ready to move away from the sanctuary of his car, but he knows he can’t stay here for much longer without attracting attention. Besides, he must explore this new world. Eventually he does move, and finds the air outside sweet and the grass verge dry and threaded with clover. He walks along the side of the road, looking for signs of change. There is no one about, but that would be as expected around noon on a Tuesday.

He is shocked to see a small, blue Citroën up ahead, parked outside Drew’s cottage. Could that be Lacey’s car? And if it is, will she know him? Probably not. The events that brought them together, the things
that she would remember that involved him, obviously never happened here.

On the other side of the road, the Tivertons’ house is quiet. No car in the driveway. Without the influence of the energy field, will they still be quarrelling? Who knows? Perhaps it’s something they enjoy, an essential ingredient in their relationship. That thought causes a wry smile.

Next to their place is the row of four cottages. Bill Henderson’s looks the same. He’s probably out helping his son with the harvest. The two weekend cottages are empty and silent, as always. Does anyone ever come there? And then Mr Abercrombie’s place. It looks deserted and has a ‘For Sale’ board. Perhaps his time had come anyway. What was his wife’s name? Sarah? He looks further along to the schoolhouse next door, then back to the other row of cottages on this side.

He is outside Drew’s front door now. Drew’s van isn’t parked around the side, but, yes, this is Lacey’s car. She’s probably on her lunch break. He hesitates for a moment, tempted. But there’s really no point in knocking, is there? That’s interesting, though. The house next door, the one he stayed in, looks lived in and there’s no longer a ‘For Sale’ board on the wall.

He walks along to the next front door. Is it still Tom’s cottage? No way! Not with lace curtains and a hanging basket of pink flowers. Gainsborough Street is no longer a centre of high cosmic energy; in fact, in this world, it never has been. It has never been a place of mystery; no ghostly hauntings or unexplained disappearances. The mystical beacon that drew medieval friars into this watery land to build their chapel, that called out to creative, sensitive souls such as Tom…Well, it never existed, did it? So there can be no angels striding across a star-filled sky, only Audrey’s china dogs, peering at him through the window of the end house.

He looks across at the schoolhouse again. The sign is still there—
Caxton Restoration—
and the van is parked out front with its back doors wide open. The workshop door is also ajar, and the sound of a radio drifts out across the garden, accompanied by irregular banging noises. There is a sinking feeling in his stomach, and Gideon almost
persuades himself to walk away. But he has to know, doesn’t he? It is several, long moments before he crosses to the gate and the garden path.

Everything is the same, but not the same. A shimmering aura surrounds the building, but it is only the heat haze from sunlight drenching the yellow bricks with gold. The bell and the weather vane stand silent and still. He is puzzled. There is an untidiness about the place that wasn’t there before, a line full of washing and things scattered about the grass. A coloured ball. A wooden truck and a sit-in rocking horse. He notices the pushchair just as the door opens.

‘Oh, hello. Sorry, I didn’t know anyone was here. I hope you haven’t been waiting long. I don’t think the door bell’s working properly.’ Triss looks untidy, harassed, radiant. Her face is as pale as ever, but her cheeks are in full bloom and her eyes alive and shining. She has put on a little weight, or maybe she never had cause to lose it. Her hair is shorter and stylish, and would look attractive if it were not for the small child in her arms who has grabbed a handful and is stuffing it into his mouth. ‘Ouch! Christopher, don’t do that.’ She untangles his fingers and lowers him onto her hip. He has her pale blue eyes and the same wispy blond curls.

Gideon laughs, partly to cover his surprise. But also because he can see a story unfolding here.

‘I expect you’re looking for my husband.’

‘That’s right.’ He glances over at the workshop. ‘He fixes furniture, doesn’t he?’

‘Yes. Strictly speaking, he does antique restoration.’ She turns the pushchair with her free hand and unhitches the safety harness. ‘But he’s willing to have a go at anything.’ She laughs, easy and relaxed, even though he is a stranger.

‘A friend recommended him.’ Gideon’s thinking on his feet now. ‘I didn’t realize there was anyone around who does furniture. Have you been here long?’

‘About eighteen months. We came just after Christopher was born. Matthew was looking for an opportunity to get out of teaching. Besides, we thought the countryside was better for bringing up a family.’

‘Yes.’ Gideon looks around at the open fields. ‘Plenty of fresh air.’

‘It can be a bit bleak, especially during the winter.’ She swings the child down into the pushchair. ‘But we love it, don’t we, Chris?’ As she bends to snap the harness together, she takes the child’s hand and presses a kiss into his palm. Christopher giggles and grabs another fistful of his mother’s hair, chewing on it. ‘I said don’t do that. Here, if you must eat someone, try Pooh Bear.’

‘He seems quite a handful.’

‘Tell me about it.’ She stands up and takes the chair by the handle. ‘Perfect day for a walk into Covington. At least, I’m doing the walking. I’m hoping the monster will fall asleep.’ She pulls the front door shut. ‘You’ll find my husband over there in the workshop.’ She turns to Christopher. ‘Right, young man—we’re off.’

Gideon watches Triss manoeuvre the pushchair through the gate. At least there’s one happy ending.

He steps over to the workshop and the huge school door through which children must have passed in solemn files to take their lessons, then raced to freedom at the end of the day. He remembers the sound of the bell ringing in the tower above the entrance. Now there’s only a woman singing on the radio in competition with the persistent hammering. Sunlight blinks off as he enters, and his eyes have to adjust to the interior. For a moment he can’t see anything but dark shapes and dust. Matthew is working at a bench, seemingly attacking a drawer with a rubber hammer. He looks the same as he ever did, although, in fact, Gideon has only ever seen him twice; once in the garden when they waited for the ambulance, then again in the hospital when Cassandra—

Suddenly the drawer falls apart and Matthew lets out a shout of triumph. ‘Ah, gotcha!’ He looks up and spots Gideon. ‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t see you there.’ He puts down the hammer and comes over, brushing his hands down his tattered jeans. ‘Can I help you?’

‘You’re Matthew Caxton?’

‘That’s right. I don’t think we’ve met.’

‘Wakefield.’ He offers his hand, and feels the good solid energy of Matthew’s shake. ‘I’ve got this armchair. Early Victorian, or so I’m
told. Only the upholstery’s got a bit lumpy. I thought you could take a look at it—if you have time, that is?’

‘Sure, be pleased to. It might take a couple of weeks, I’ve got a few jobs on the go.’

‘Business going well, then? That’s usually a good sign. Interesting workshop you’ve got here.’ Gideon looks around at the high walls and the raftered ceiling. ‘My friend was telling me this used to be a school.’

‘That’s right. Built in eighteen-fifteen. Apparently it was in use right up until between the wars when the local government built the new one in Covington.’

‘And that’s the original school bell over the door?’

‘That’s it. The bell-rope’s still hanging there in the corner. It should still work, although I’ve never actually tried it. Don’t think the neighbours would be too happy.’

‘I didn’t realize there were so many houses down here. I noticed next door is for sale.’

‘Yes, the old boy died a few weeks back. But don’t let that put you off if you were thinking of buying.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘Oh, passed away in his sleep. Home help found him dead in his bed the next morning. Mind you, he was over eighty. Good way to go, if you have the choice. Still…What about this chair, shall I collect it?’

‘No, don’t worry. I’ll drop it in later in the week.’

Eventually, Gideon returns to his car. He is thinking of Charlie Abercrombie, among the stars with his Sarah. Another happy ending? He, too, has his memories. ‘There are worse things than forgetting,’ she had said. Remembering may be worse. Far worse. Perhaps she was right.

He stands next to his car, wondering where he should go. Friends? Colleagues? Would they know him? What about his family? No, perhaps not.

He starts the engine and turns the wheel, driving slowly along Gainsborough Street. Home, then, because there is nowhere else to go. If he still has a home, that is. And then what?

He must be the loneliest soul on Earth.