The Road - en kortnovell

[Bengt-Ove]

Den här kortnovellen skrev jag som en del av mina högskolestudier i engelska 1994. Den speglade en återkommande dröm jag hade om att vandra på en helt vanlig väg och plötsligt finna sig i en annan värld - eller en annan tid. Märkligt nog har den drömmen inte återkommit så ofta sedan jag skrev novellen.

Bengt-Ove A
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The Road

"This holiday certainly has been long overdue", John Marlowe said to himself with a contented sigh as he walked with long, brisk strides through the dense forest. He was really quite physically fit for a 55-year-old, he mused. But then, his bodily constitution had always been light even though his job kept him seated most of the time. As senior partner of a successful law firm his nose was kept to the grindstone pretty thoroughly, he thought with a wry smile. So this weekend of walking in the forests of Wessex was just what he needed, get away for a while. He kept mostly to himself these days. Was it true like Peter said that he was turning into a recluse, and was it solely because of the loss of Mary?
He noted that the wound was still fresh enough to cause pain when touched. They had a good life once, he and Mary. He remembered how devastated he had been when she told him she was leaving him. He had desperately tried to understand what had gone wrong, even now after five years he would sit nights brooding over it, no nearer to an answer than he had been. It was in his work, and during long walks like this that he managed to get his mind off his troubled inner life. At least for a while. He wondered how far a distance he had covered since he started out that morning from the little village. At least six miles, he thought, and estimated that it would take him an additional three hours to reach his destination and a night's rest at the small hotel before returning to London by train. Very well, in his rucksack there were sandwiches and coffee to last him the day.

The air was clear and a bit cold for mid-August, but it was perfect for walking, he thought, as suddenly his foot caught on a tree stump and sent him sprawling headlong. "There's plenty of moss to land comfortably", he had time enough to think before his head hit a protruding rock and he was knocked out cold. When John came to, he had a splitting headache and had to just lie still for a while before he could bring himself to get up cautiously on his feet. Some blood was trickling down his left temple and his head throbbed, and he wondered whether he had had a concussion. He noticed with some alarm that it was nearing dusk, and wondered how long he had been lying unconscious. He did not fancy spending the night in the woods. "Better get a move on", John said to himself as he picked up his hat and checked the compass to be sure that he was walking due east.
After only a few minutes’ walk, much to his relief he found that he was coming upon a narrow road. Checking his map, he could not find one marked out there, but concluded that it was probably too small to be on any map. One thing was for sure though, it led somewhere, and with any luck he should be able to make it to some farm or cottage at least, before nightfall. The thought cheered him, and he started down the road which wound its way between the century-old, high fir-trees while darkness fell. "I wonder where on earth this road leads to?" John said to himself after having walked for the better part of an hour and seeing no sign of a human abode, nor did any cars pass; he could have done with a lift by now. It was all very still and silent.

But then the road turned around a hill, and to his delight he saw friendly yellow light from windows. As he got closer, he saw that he was approaching not a solitary farm but a village, with a gravel road dividing the row of houses. In the gathering gloom, he could make out some fields surrounding the village and some cattle grazing there. He saw no cars around, nor any other motorised vehicles. John decided that people living out here in the backwoods were definitely backwards and quaint, but that it was their business how to run their own lives. And at the same time, he felt a pang of envy of the people of this village, thinking how tranquil life must be so far away from the bustle of city life, with which he was only too well acquainted.

The first house he came upon was a garage, and two men, obviously a blacksmith and his helper, were busy sharpening scythes. John thought that he was right in thinking the people here backwards; the blacksmith was using an antique grindstone rotated by his helper, and the clothes they wore looked antique too. He made a mental note to try not to come across as supercilious or haughty when talking to these people; after all, he was relying on their hospitality, at least for the night. John walked up to them and addressed them. "Excuse me, gentlemen, I wonder if you could tell me where I can find lodgings for the night. You see, I got lost while walking..." He trailed off, seeing the genuine surprise in the faces of the men as they became aware of his presence. He felt uneasy at first. Was there anything in his clothing that was odd? He was wearing his green walking-clothes with his chequered hat and leather boots.

Then he remembered the gash on his temple and the streaks of now clotted blood on the left side of his face. He must look a sight. Relieved that this was the cause of their consternation he resumed: "I beg your pardon for my appearance, you see I took a fall some distance from here and bruised my head." He pointed vaguely with his left hand. "I'm alright now. But I do need some lodging. I am prepared to pay." The two men exchanged glances momentarily, then the blacksmith pointed down the road. "Talk about quaint", John thought, but nodded in thanks to the men and walked on in the direction pointed. There was no sound from the grindstone, and he sensed that the two men were observing him still. "You'd think they'd never seen a stranger here before", John thought and decided that the insularity of the people of these parts of England was really something else.

As he passed between the houses, he noted that there were no telephone poles anywhere to be seen, nor any electric wires. The houses seemed all to be illuminated solely with kerosene lamps. John further noted the decidedly antique style of the houses and indeed, of all the surroundings and the two men he had met so far. The strong sense of antiquity was in the very air and atmosphere of the place. He began to feel uneasy; it was as if he was a trespasser into a world where he did not belong. It was all like something out of an old photograph. "You wouldn't find another place like this one without turning back time a hundred years", he thought but then checked himself. What if that was exactly what had happened?

John Marlowe was not one to get carried away easily, but the thought, when it presented itself to him, had an uncanny flavour of probability to it. In his present state of mind, John would hardly have been surprised if someone would have come up to him and presented himself as Rip Wan Winkle. He remembered that as a boy, he had read and been enthralled by stories of time-travels, and often dreamed of being able to travel at will to any place and time of his choice. What if he was doing it right now? He suddenly found himself hoping against all reason that it was so, with a desire that made his heart ache. But how could such a thing possibly happen? John recalled reading of the much-publicized event around the turn of the century involving the two English school-mistresses on holiday in France who, walking in the gardens of Trianon somehow found themselves back at the time of the French Revolution. They had even seen Marie Antoinette, and been able to give a detailed description of her, that was found to corroborate well with facts. But many considered it to be a fraud.

What was this then, that he was experiencing? Could there really be gateways to times past? And if so, why and how was it that he had come upon one without looking for it? There were too many questions. John decided not to look for any answers, at least for the time being, but to keep an open mind, and to simply be what he was; a stranger seeking lodgings, and see what would happen. There was probably some very natural explanation of what he was experiencing, and later he would have a good laugh at how he had let himself been carried away by his imagination.
He really felt more than anything like a character in some book, and was curious to get to the next page. The uneasiness had gone and he felt a certain exhilaration, but no fear. He saw other people now, men and women and also some children. They all wore slightly antique-looking clothes and they all looked at him with undisguised surprise, but no one spoke to him. He had reached what seemed to be the middle of the village, and on the left side of the road there lay a building that bore all the characteristics of a l9th century Inn. There was a sign depicting a horse and bearing the letters "The Prancing Pony“.

A friendly light shone out through the windows, and voices could be heard from inside. It was now quite dark, and John opened the door and went in. At the tables maybe twenty people, both men and women, were seated, some with pints of beer, at least John supposed that it was beer. On his entrance, all talk ceased and every face turned in his direction. Their expressions ranged from curiosity to open astonishment. John nodded in greeting towards the people, smiled defensively and walked up to the counter. There was a trace of apprehension on the stocky innkeeper's face, but he smiled and nodded.

"Good evening", John said. "I wonder if you have a room for one night and a bathroom." He gestured towards his head. "I would like to wash." It struck him that he did not know what to pay with. He had some money on him, but were banknotes from the 1990s any good here? Still, he did have his old gold watch on him, so he should be alright. "Certainly, sir," answered the innkeeper in a thick but quite intelligible accent, “I'll show you the way myself," and he gestured for John to follow up the stairs. As the innkeeper guided John up the stairs to his room, he inquired how John got the bruise on his head and on hearing John’s account he sympathisingly shook his head and commented on the perils of walking alone in the forests. He did not ask where John came from, and John thought it best not say too much about himself, nor asking where he was or indeed – at this he smiled wryly to himself – what year it was.

The interiors of the Inn and the room where he was to spend the night shared the antique look of everything else he had seen since he came to the village. There were no electric lights, no running water or anything else connected with the 20th century to be seen. The rooms were all illuminated with kerosene lamps. After having washed the blood from his face with some cold water from a bowl, he felt much refreshed. He decided to go downstairs, order a beer, and see what happened. The talking that had resumed when he went upstairs, subsided again when John came down. He ordered a beer and groped in his pocket for some money with a certain apprehension, but the innkeeper insisted that payment could wait until the next day. John sat down with his beer in a corner and tried to be inconspicuous, if indeed that was possible under these strange circumstances. Anyway the talking resumed, and the inn guests payed no further attention to him, at least they made efforts not to. John smiled inwardly at the thought of what the reaction would be to a man in 19th century clothes in a modern-day pub. Driven by an impulse, he had left his wristwatch in his room; he looked strange enough at he was.

After about half an hour John was sipping his second beer. Some new guests had arrived, looking curiously at him at first but then sitting down and following the example of the others. John tried to hear what was being said at the tables nearest to his. The talk concerned mainly the prospects for the harvest and the weather. He felt sure though that he was the main topic of conversation at the tables further away from him. John was beginning to feel sleepy and had decided to go to bed after finishing his beer. A young pair, a man and a woman, had just entered the pub. Something about their movements seemed familiar to him and made him observe them more closely. His eyes opened wide with astonishment as he found that he was looking straight into the face of his former wife, Mary. There was no doubt, it was Mary: the cute upturned nose, the red lips and blue eyes. There were not another pair like them, anywhere.

But it was not Mary as he had last seen her; a woman in her fifties. This Mary was young, in her late teens. Just like she looked when they first met so many years ago now. She looked happy and untroubled, smiling and saying something to her fiance. He laughed and said something in reply. Now John looked at his face, and received a second shock. It couldn't be, but it was. There, with his arm affectionately around the young woman’s waist, seemingly in his early twenties and his face adorned with a brown mustache, stood John Marlowe. His mind boggled. Was he going crazy? Was it the crack on the head? Or was he simply dreaming? No, it was no dream, he was sure of that. No dream he had ever had was this vivid. But in God's name, how was this possible? The young pair had not noticed him sitting there in the far comer, and something held him back from approaching them or addressing them. Instead he sat there in stunned silence, watching them as a thousand questions raced through his head. Could it be possible that he was seeing his grandparents?

Somehow this explanation did not ring true. If by some wonder he had been propelled back through time and was observing his grandfather, that would account for the similarity between them. But Mary? He knew that his grandmother had not looked like that, even as a young woman. Could she be some fiance of his grandfather's that he later parted ways with? But no, this did not ring true either and besides, his grandfather was a Londoner and not a farmer as this young man seemed to be. Again, he watched the young man's face. He could read in it that this young man's life was just beginning. He had his true love beside him; they both wore engagement rings. Maybe he was building a house for his wife and future family. He and his fiance had their whole lives ahead of them. Would she leave him after thirty years of marriage, as Mary had?

Somehow, John was certain that was not going to happen. These two were united for life, they would lead a simple but happy life, and there were no clouds on their horizon, not even far off. John did not know how he knew this, he just did, the same way that he knew that these were not ancestors of his, nor doubles. It was really he and Mary. This thought, or knowledge, failed to frighten him. There was nothing spooky or menacing in what he was experiencing right now. He felt rather as if he was a passing visitor in this place, who had been afforded an opportunity to learn that somewhere, long after this was just a memory, another John Marlowe and his wife would still have a life together, in a distant time and place, but as real as the streets of London. Presently the pair said goodbye to the friends they had been chatting with, waved to the innkeeper, and left without having looked in John's direction. He felt relieved that they had not. He finished his beer and went up to his room. Now he felt dead tired and decided to get some sleep. He wondered what this village looked like in daylight. How was he going to find his way back? He somehow felt certain that he would. Only a minute after his head hit the pillow, he was sound asleep.

John was awoken by the sound of birds, singing. He felt cold, and damp, and his head hurt. Opening his eyes, he saw only the blue of the sky. He raised his head and found that he was looking at some bushes. He laboriously raised himself to a sitting position and looked around him. He saw trees and bushes, that was all. The sun was up and it was a chilly morning. John touched his head and could feel the clotted blood on the left side of his face. He looked down and found that he was fully dressed. He must have been unconscious all through the night.

Then in a flash he remembered the night before, and sudden despair overcame him. Did it have to end so soon? The next thought was: "Did it actually happen?" But yes: The village, the Inn, the young pair. Every detail was imprinted on his mind. He even remembered the taste of the beer. John rose to his feet; his head was throbbing a bit but otherwise he felt none the worse for wear. The road. It was not far off. His insides screamed for some breakfast, but that would have to wait. First he had to find the road that led to the village. He clearly remembered the direction.
John started walking, excitement growing within him as he got nearer to the place where he had come upon the winding road. At the same time something was nagging at the edge of his consciousness, telling him that it would not be there. John took long strides, ignoring the slight throbbing on the left side of his head. Just beyond those trees... There was no sign of any road. John looked back. Had he taken the wrong direction? No. He was certain he had not. He even recognized the terrain from the night before. But where the narrow road was the night before, there was now nothing but moss. Soft, untrodden moss.

After having rested there for a while and gloomily eaten a breakfast consisting of the sandwiches left over from yesterday and the now tepid coffee in his thermos, John decided there was no point in remaining there any longer, nor looking any further for the road. The only thing he could do was to continue on his way. Once he was back in his house in London, he would have ample time to think. He marked the exact location on his map, then he shouldered his rucksack and went on.

Epilogue

John Marlowe never found the village again, nor the road that led to it. He returned the following year in May to the spot marked on his map, but of course there was nothing there. But often in the years to come, he would find himself cheered by the thought that though he be old, and lonely; in a village somewhere, a young man named John and his wife Mary would live happily with their offspring long after he himself would be gone.

Bengt Ove Andersson