Beneath the Folds

Beneath

  The Folds

  A collection of Short Stories

  MICHAEL RANES

  Copyright © 2014 Michael Ranes

  All rights reserved

  eBook ISBN 9781782802754

  :

  The Stories

  The Stories1

  TO JOURNEY END2

  THE BUTTERFLY10

  KILLING TIME19

  A CIVIL DEATH33

  JANI AND THE BOY45

  IN BELLINGHAM'S FOOTSTEPS52

  YOU ALWAYS HURT59

  BENEATH THE FOLDS69

  TO JOURNEY END

  To a blind man who used to see, snow is a trigger, a carrier of memories, an evocation of beauty. For remembered snow is not simply white, but colourful pictures, frozen in time.

  And so it was for Jake Blakemore as he left his cottage that December morning. The snap of the air on his cheeks sharpened his will. By his side, Pointer leaned against Jake's leg. "Good lad, Pointer," he whispered. "Good lad. Hope you've got your winter coat. It's going to be a raw 'un." Stick in hand, Jake moved down the path. On his 9th stride, he thrust out a gloved hand and pulled back the gate. Entering the lane, he turned left.

  Jake relished winter mornings, he came alive. Breathing in the freshness, he walked briskly along the narrow lane, the intricate chatter of sparrows and thrushes crisp in the icy air. In past years he would have soaked up the beauty of the whiteness blanketing the fields and hedgerows, the speckled white tops of the scattered farmhouses and the cloudless greyish-blue sky of December. Now he simply imagined, but with a clarity so honed he could see delights hidden from the sighted. Excited, his lightness carried him effortlessly over the ground. Pointer kept pace, raised his tail and pushed closer to his master's leg.

  The village of Easterly lay half of a mile ahead, beyond the intersection with the A47. A village of eighty houses that nevertheless served as a magnet for people in the neighbouring area who regularly converged on the village hall and the brace of lively flanking inns. The right sort of people though, Jake thought, country people, young families, stalwarts. The spate of house building disfiguring communities in places further north had not reached Easterly. Neither had many houses been given up as winter-vacant second homes, something Jake knew tore out the heart of village life. And this heart, Jake thought as he walked the lane, made Easterly his favourite place on earth.

  The sound of car engines across his path told Jake he was nearing the A47. Sensing the slope of an altering camber beneath his feet, Jake judged it lay forty to forty five paces ahead. A few more strides and Pointer leant into him as a warning to slow, then stick and dog combined to pinpoint the base of the footbridge that traversed the junction and guide Jake onto its steps. Pointer remained against his leg as he ascended the icy steps. The feral roars of the cars rose to a crescendo; wailing noises moving across and under him left and right, the jagged teeth of a saw cutting into his path. Fewer teeth than normal thought Jake as he descended the bridge the other side and turned sharp left towards Easterly once more.

  ***

  Brad Peterson was late -- painfully late. Snow snarled traffic earlier on his journey south and now an accident was again slowing traffic on the A47. Unable to contact his wife by phone he'd left a message warning he'd be two hours late. Today of all bloody days. He was finally moving now, the traffic freeing up and returning to a comforting flow. Pressing deeper on the accelerator, Brad began to relax as he pushed up to 80 mph. He was late but at least he had the chance to claw back some of the offending minutes.

  Ten miles further and the radio warned of more traffic problems. The road ahead was queuing for five miles at Dereham. Police were at the scene of a vehicle fire and a diversion was taking traffic off and on to a minor road. The announcer made a quip as he delivered the numbing news but it rebounded off Brad's senses like raindrops off a roof. Damn, damn, damn. He needed to consult a map. A few yards ahead a road sign marked a turning to Kirkston and Easterly. Brad moved his car sharply from the inside lane, squeezing through a gap between two cars on his left and onto the slip road that loomed up faster than expected. Still slowing, Brad saw the road ahead bent sharply round a set of footbridge steps. His brakes felt strong as he pressed harder and the needle of his speedometer dropped like a stone. At a more controlled speed now he turned the wheel hard left into the bend. And hit the ice.

 

  ***

  An hour later in Easterly Baptist Church, Rev Michael Johns surveyed his Sunday morning congregation greeting each other with familiarity and warmth. The imminence of Christmas had swelled the ranks beyond the regulars. The new and infrequent faces were dotted amongst the gathering, awkward mannerisms marking them out as if a highlighter pen had been waved amongst the crowd.

  This was a weighty day and Reverend Johns held an excitement in his stomach. A new member was joining the fold - a man he had grown to know well over the past few years. A man who joined the church late in life, but with rare passion and conviction. A man who was now to wrap himself in the spiritual cloth offered by the most intimate statement of faith open to him. Baptism.

  The morning service took place with the church looking splendid. Poinsettias splayed vibrant red, a Christmas tree stood proudly in the nave, the Star of Bethlehem on top, the winter sun streaming through the panoramic window of the east wall bathed the congregation in light. In this inspiring atmosphere Rev Johns delivered and eventually began to close his service. As the congregation stood for the final hymn the Chief Steward caught his eye with a slow shake of his head. He understood. Jake Blakemore was not yet in the church. Rev Johns acknowledged and refocused on his congregation.

  He noticed Pointer first. As the last few bars of the final hymn faded he became aware of him sitting towards the back of the aisle under the shadows of the over-hanging gallery. For a few seconds he received the impression of only Pointer but, as the congregation seated themselves, his eyes gratefully fell upon the figure of Jake. Leaning forward in the pew, he seemed to be praying. Garbed in his white baptismal robe shining out from the shade he cut an indistinct figure, lending him a spiritual air. Arriving late, Jake had sat at the rear of the church. No one saw them enter, and only Rev Johns now seemed aware of their presence.

  With relief, the Reverend stepped down from the pulpit, moved towards the congregation and began the baptism ceremony with Psalm 15. The reading was the First chapter of the Gospel according to John and, as it reached its end, Jake and Pointer rose and walked slowly up the aisle. A few paces short of the end Pointer stopped and let Jake move on alone. He waited until Jake reached the Baptismal pool then, with the attention of all on his master, he quietly walked towards the sun rays streaming through the window.

  Standing in the heart of the pool, Rev Johns spoke reassuringly to Jake as he assisted him into the water. With a comforting arm on his back, he addressed Jake and the congregation.

  "My brother, Jake, do you believe the Lord Jesus Christ is your saviour?"

  "I do." His voice solid.

  "And are you willing to affirm your promises to God and to strive to fulfil His Will as laid down by Jesus Christ?"

  "I am willing and I desire so to do."

  Cradling Jake's shoulders as he leant backwards, Rev Johns lowered him into the water and announced, "Upon profession of your faith in the Lord Jesus, and in obedience to His command, I do now baptise you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen."

  As he finished, he slid Jake into the pool and Rev Johns watched as the broken surface resealed and the waters accepted Jake into the bosom of Christ. A burst of light filled the church, hitting the pool's s
urface, throwing shards of sun upwards and cloaking Jake's submerged body from view. As Rev Johns moved to lift his hands the weight of Jake's body melted from his arms and, before the meaning struck, his empty hands broke the surface, pushing water into the air and spilling through outstretched fingers. Fingers that froze as the congregation gasped. The burst of light faded and the clarity of the water returned. Looking down Rev Johns saw what his other senses had already told him.

  Below the fading ripples that crossed its surface, the Baptismal pool was empty.

  ***

  Standing at his hospital window Brad could see everything and nothing at all. A fresh layer of snow had fallen in the night and stolen the distinctive shapes and colours of the landscape. To him the white blanket was emptiness, a sadness, a reflection of his hollowness inside. This was not his remembered snow, this was fresh, like a gaping wound.

  Brad's head hurt and he felt tired from the effort of standing, but at least his eyes were open and the sharpness of the horror muted. Time had been a strange commodity since the crash and he wouldn't have been able to say how long he had stood there, only that it had been an eternity.

  A voice behind him broke into his thoughts "Mr Peterson? Are you ok or shall I come back later?" With a lingering look at the emptiness before him Brad turned back to the room.

  "I'm sorry. No, let's go on Reverend." Michael Johns was sitting upright in a small plastic mould chair beside the bed. From the moment he had met him this morning Brad was struck by the remarkable spirituality of this man. He held an aura he had never encountered before; a profound grace that simply drew Brad towards him.

  "We both saw what we saw, Mr Peterson. Nothing more, nothing less."

  "But I saw this man…Jake, leaving, Reverend. Him and his dog. Just like nothing happened. Later when the police told me someone died, well…" Brad's voice trailed off and a fresh wave of pain rolled through his head.

  "You assumed someone else. Understandable."

  "I'm not sure if this makes sense, but I remember lots of things so clearly. I saw him you know; before I hit anything. This man, in slow motion. He didn't seem to be reacting and that flashed through my mind at the time. 'Watch out, man, watch out'. Then someone… he I guess …filled my whole window and there was this big bang. That must have been when I hit the bank." Brad pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his gown. "Then I'm not sure for a while. But, as I said, I remember looking through the side window and seeing him walking away with his dog. He was walking after I crashed, I'm sure."

  "I know he was too. As I explained, he came to my church. I baptised him."

  "But he lay under my car. They found him. And his dog. It makes no sense." Brad turned back to the window. No one spoke. Quietly Reverend Johns rose and came and stood by his side.

  "Jake was a good man Mr Peterson. A good Christian. I can't explain it …that is only for God…but I believe it was his faith. And perhaps his disability."

  "His disability?"

  "He was blind, Mr Peterson. Didn't you know?"

  Brad slowly closed his eyes. "Oh God. No. No I didn't."

  "He wouldn't have seen you. A good thing perhaps. Maybe that somehow helped him carry on his journey. Get to his destination."

  "And his dog?"

  "And Pointer, yes. His guide."

  Brad no longer wanted to talk. It wasn't just his headache, words were simply draining away from him. He had one last question.

  "Baptised you said?"

  Rev Johns hesitated, "Yes, baptised, Mr Peterson. He made it to God."

  The two men stood silently together at the window. Blind men, looking to faith. They looked out at the whiteness blanketing fields and hedgerows, the speckled white tops of the scattered farmhouses, the cloudless, greyish-blue sky of December. They looked out at Jake's imagined landscape. But neither could say they saw the same thing that day.

  Neither could say if they saw the truth.

  END

  THE BUTTERFLY

  Parkhurst Prison, England 17th May 1958

  The minds of men hold dark corners in which lurk our innermost obsessions, our phobias, our unutterable desires. Tonight, here in my dank cell, surrounded by the ugliness I so abhor, the prowling demons from those corners whisper their poison into my consciousness and cry for satisfaction. Only the last threads of my sanity keep them masked below the surface.

  Tomorrow I find my grave. I go to it not with fear of death itself but terror only of what my mind will glimpse in the last echoes of life. I have watched men die. I believe that in those last breaths inner demons surface in our eyes and with time enough, drag our soul into the blackest pit. I pray the final darkness falls swiftly enough for me.

  In my life I have embraced three loves: the love of God, the love of beauty and the love of Catherine. Here, on this my final night, I open myself to all three and ask my story be read.

  Of you, the reader, I ask only you do not judge me as harshly as other learned men before. The essence of crime lies in motives and mine have been love and science. My crime, if any, the pursuit of eternal beauty.

  My last words, for I shall not speak tomorrow, are for Catherine. Simply, I loved you.

  ***

  The Last Defence of Howard Brownstone

  Parkhurst Prison, England 16th May 1958

  Insects and arachnids are surely our world's most reviled creatures. They inhabit a corner of Earth so distinct from our own, it instils revulsion and horror. Harbingers of disease, they symbolize filth and decay from the cockroaches that infest our cellars to the flies which vomit on our food. Cold inscrutable beings, vulnerable to us only by size. Nature's ugliest creatures with which we unenthusiastically share the world.

  Entomology has enthralled me since childhood. My collection was housed in the attic, which in my adult years expanded to become both study and laboratory. The only access was via stairs running up from a back corridor away from the main activity and flow of the house. It was a chamber filled with the paraphernalia of examination and experimentation. The microscopes, scalpels and chemicals I used for study were strewn over workbenches around the room. The subjects of study were housed in cases hung on walls or in glass tanks with climates and habitats recreated for their living. Inevitably some roamed free so I could observe the survival rules of their world in a natural environment. I created food chains to satisfy the carnivorous and to allow the undoubted rulers of this micro-world - the arachnids - to ply their trade with enthusiasm. In my lab the specimens lived well and died tortuously, their ephemeral lives cut even shorter by my scalpel's endless exploration.

  Early on in my entomological studies my focus was anatomy; I stood fascinated by the biological divide between these creatures and ourselves. I remain convinced if man ever looks on extra-terrestrial aliens he will not discover any more biologically removed from us than these familiar earth-bound monsters. Later, I progressed to detailed study of insect life cycles and, in particular, their ageing and degenerative processes. It was then I realized the dichotomy in nature that sparked my obsession thereafter…the biological trade-off between ugliness and beauty.

  Insects are nature's ageless wonders. Their ephemeral lives too short for time to wither their bodies, too short for decay to penetrate their being. Before death, an insect looks the same as at young adulthood, its ugliness constant and unchanged inside a body impermeable to age.

  The truth? Ugly is eternal, only beauty dies.

  Perhaps it's God's bargain with us: beauty given, but never retained.

  But what if we refuse to submit? What if we take on God, what if we fight to defend the beauty we see around us? Not falsely by masking ugliness with paints or chemicals but honestly, by preserving the original beauty…so it lives forever…in the flesh…au natural.

  Preservation of beauty. My consuming desire.

  ***

  Mirrors showed my wife to have a face of individual beauty. A picture of near perfection that perversely held, in its only imperfect
ion, the secret of its allure. The magic lay not in her dancing eyes nor delicate mouth. No, the secret was more elusive. It was the faint asymmetry of her near flawless face. An asymmetry which, held in the slightest lift of her mouth and curves of one cheek, seemed to bear the promise of a smile. Her face whispered to men's eyes to look again, which they always did. My wife, Catherine, young and beautiful. A butterfly in the desert.

  She was an artist and our house filled with celebrations of her craft. Her paintings were a central pleasure in our relationship; she painted for herself and for me. I was mystified by the way she brought life to an empty canvas, by her singular ability to create beauty. I marvelled how, with a few brush strokes of colour, she illustrated life way she wanted it to be. 'Smoothing of edges' she called it. For her, this elevated simple paintings into works of art.

  I loved her paintings and her artistry and she loved that I love them. I recall on occasion we would sit together and choose which painting best illustrated her art and then I'd display it in the house in a place fitting the mood and colour. We'd sit in front and she would speak to the painting and the emotions it aroused in its creation. I'd look and listen and capture its essence.

  In Catherine's work I unearthed a parallel to my science. Art is a corner of our world in which ugliness is cheated, where blemishes are struck out by brush strokes or ignored by the artist's eye in a quest for perfection. Art is not about harsh reality; it's about embellishment, hiding the truth. And eternity. Once painted a flower will remain forever in bloom, a cornfield forever in sun. A woman's face forever beautiful.

  In the art world beauty is a constant. But an artist is merely a painter of polished stones, so she didn't recognize the ultimate truth. Catherine, I mean. She didn't appreciate the frailty of the butterfly's beauty, the briefness of its ephemeral life. She didn't recognise the need for preservation; for clutching the fleeting colour before ugliness blights it forever. Understanding of that comes not with age or teaching but with the first damning touch of ugliness. A touch that leaves as its fingerprint a blemish, a stain, an imperfection. How then could Catherine know? How could any beauty have the awareness to protect itself until too late? Until ugliness has its faintest hold.