A Gift in the Dark

Word of the Father

Word of the Father

You are what you are because of the choices you have made. No matter what happens, we always have a choice. Even when it appears there is no option, there is always another way to play the game at hand...

"Father would not approve," thought the man as he meandered along the road.

He cut a dashing figure; clad in black, the clothing cut to the height of court fashion, lace adorning his throat and wrists, and hand-crafted boots on his feet. Silver matched on the buckles of his boots, belt and delicately wrought sword hilt, and shone cleanly in the moonlight as he moved catlike along the cobbles. Only the occasional slight misstep and the presence of the bottle in his left hand belied the level of his intoxication.

"Thou shalt not drink."

The memory drifted through his mind as he remembered the forbidding presence of his father.

"Thou shalt not have any fun is more like it," he muttered moving off the estate and onto the country roads. "I'm good at fun now though," he thought with a smile.

It had been a heady day. The gentle summer evening had leant wings to the party: warm fragrant air, champagne, a tryst with a lovely young thing in the boathouse, and food to make a man wish he had four stomachs had highlighted the hedonistic gathering. And now? Well, now he was going to find somewhere warm and sleep things off. He stopped, fishing in his pocket for the ornate silver fob watch which had been a present from his mother, but came out instead with a small glass vial.

A few minutes later, ensconced in the cosy warmth of a hay barn he tipped the contents of the vial into one hand and sniffed deeply.

Father would definitely not approve of this.

Magic was new, the drug of choice among the young aristocracy and, as the world dissolved into rainbow and kaleidoscopic clouds, he smiled and surrendered himself to multicoloured dreams....

....and awoke.

The wind ruffled the lace of his cuffs as he stood in the centre of the road. There had always been wind in this world of two days; it was the only thing that provided any sensation, any change, and even then it was a meagre thing. Was it two days? He thought so, but couldn't be sure. He rubbed his cheek feeling the unaccustomed stubble there.

So far there had been no alteration in his surroundings. No change in the greyness, or the road beneath his exquisitely booted feet. No change in the view. All he had seen for the alleged two days was a short distance of what he assumed to be a bridge in front and behind him, and the endlessly swirling mist.

Made of materials unfamiliar to him, the bridge was an engineer's dream of red railings, large metal beams and a smooth road surface made somehow of many small black stones glued together. And then there was the line: a white line running exactly down the centre of the road, enticing him to walk and find the end. And so he had, trudging endlessly through a two hundred yard long visible world of unchanging greyness. Even the wind blew in the same direction all the time. No birds. No people. Lots of nothing.

What seemed like an eternity ago, he'd woken up with a hangover, and a half full bottle of champagne still tightly clutched in his fist. He'd ached all over to begin with, stiff with cold and the hard surfaces which had failed to cushion his body as he slept, binding muscles and bones together in an uncomfortable knot. Flat champagne had sustained him briefly, and he'd kept hold of the bottle in the hope of finding some water to fill it. Now though, the bottle was empty and he was feeling faint, irritable and nauseous. In a moment of frustration he flung the bottle to the ground, revelling in the brief explosion of sound and release of tension. Leaving the bottle behind him, he carried on walking into the surrounding grey.

Another eternity appeared to pass in a series of halting steps along the road. Memories of the past assailed him as he wandered along without purpose. The last conversation he'd had with his father battered for attention in his fuddled mind.

"You're wasting your life son. You mark my words. You'll come to no good end if you carry on drinking and wenching. It's time to grow up."

Acrimonious and bitter accusations had followed. The argument escalated and the old man had turned a mottled purple, clutched his chest, and died, anger still painting his features.

The black clad figure stopped in the middle of the road. "I name thee the planet No Good End," he muttered croakily, and carried on his plodding walk, a mocking smile of bitter defeat flashing across his face.

Magic: the drug of choice. Was this Magic then, being spirited away to another world? A world of nothing. A world of nowhere. Another memory crept into his head, the memory of his cousin supplying him with the vial, a secretive smile on his face. His cousin, next in line to the estate: his cousin, dark and twisted, with odd friends.

He had begun counting, thinking to keep some track of both progress and time, until something changed. He could see something in the road ahead. He broke into a stumbling run, but as he reached the pile of broken glass with its ripped gold edged label, reality crashed into place and a howl of anguish broke from his lips.

Some time later he came back to himself. He stood in the centre of the bridge next to a pile of broken glass. This was his reality. No dream felt cold or thirsty or sick. No dream went on for so long without change or the possibility of change. No dream was this dull, or cold, or windy.

He thought desperately and reached into his pocket. The comforting shape of the elegant fob watch his mother had presented him with on his coming of age nestled in his hand, and he smiled, placing the watch on the ground in the centre of the bridge, laying it down so it was visible against the white line. Swinging his court sabre back into place, he walked briskly and with new purpose for about three hundred yards, turned about, and walked back again. The watch was there, unchanged where he had left it next to the remains of the bottle.

He smiled to himself. His father would approve. He was thinking at last rather than wandering around aimlessly. He turned and walked away again, re-counting the steps and marking his progress.

After about a thousand yards he stopped and stared at the round silver disc at the tip of his left boot. Disbelief froze him to the spot, an elegantly dressed man with long blonde hair blowing in a constant stream away from his head. The unmistakable hunting scene etched into the silver mocked him with its vitality, its lifelike portrayal of the chase leached by the Mobius loop of grey around him.

He slumped to the ground in despair.

"What do you want from me?" he screamed into the surrounding fug. Not even an echo responded to him, the sound swallowed and smothered by the grey as he sank to his knees.

"Think boy. For God's sake, use your brain."

His father's voice echoed from the vaults of his mind and he started awake. He'd slumped into a foetal position, and had remained there cold and half dozing in the gloom. He opened his eyes and tried to force his energy starved brain to think of something. Still nothing other than unending greyness, and only the watch and smashed bottle remained as a pitiful offering to the restricted and tiny world surrounding him.

He smiled grimly, and forced himself to his feet as another whispered memory drifted through his head.

"If you don't like the game, don't play. Change the rules or take control."

The stern admonition from his past was tinged with a hint of sympathy and love, something that had happened rarely during their living relationship, but it was enough.

"Thank you, Father."

Ten seconds later, grinning maniacally, pocket watch clenched in one fist and his hair streaming behind him, he dived over the railings, the sound of his father's approving laughter echoing through his mind.

~~~ The End ~~~