He Waits (A Helpless Stranger)

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Part 3. “Click here for part 1.”

Tobin motioned to the chair. The stranger sat. 

The man hunched over. Head landing between the thumb and middle finger.

"Nothing makes sense."

Tobin nodded. He stood in the kitchen.  

"I died?" 

His eyes pulled thin. An eggshell with a dash of color. He shook his head, nestled in his hand.

A faded painting hung crooked. A man smiling, chasing the robe of his bride. The man turned and noticed. 

"What is your name?" Tobin asked. He began the espresso. The machine purred as it heated water. Coffee trickled into the cup. The crema foam lay gently on top.

A memory flashed.

He was watching sea foam ride a wave. Cold water bit his toes. Adeline was dancing behind him, running, kicking up sand. The wind carried. The sand hit him in the face. He blinked it away.

A hand clapped him on the shoulder. He turned to Ari. 

The man had a strong princely chin. A neatly trimmed beard. Blonde hair and blue eyes. A voice smooth enough for a bard. That wished to be a bard. 

"You ask her yet?" 

"Get off me. " Tobin rustled the prince off his shoulder. Ari met Tobin’s smile. 

"Father gave you his blessing." 

"I know." Tobin felt his heart lift to his throat.  

Ari scratched at the back of his neck. "You’ve served him for so long. For so well." 

Ari cupped the side of Tobin’s face.

Tobin shoved the prince off. 

"Sure."

Tobin kicked at the sand. Studied the freedom of the waves. Their crashes sounded like distant shushes.

"But the realm needs me. To marry means to retire." 

"Ah." Ari tossed his hands, just like his sister.  

"By the Gods, you're vain. Listen, I'm sure they'll pull you out for the big missions. And besides, my sister is going to need a protector too." 

Tobin smiled—one he couldn't hold back. 

"I don’t know what to say." Tobin looked at his empty hand. Even when bare, he still felt the weight of his blade.

Ari studied him.  "You’ve done enough. You’ve done so much for this family. You deserve to find peace."

Tobin shifted his feet in the sand.

"And dear friend…"

Ari stopped, looked left, then right. Leaned in close.

Tobin narrowed his eyes and leaned as well.

"You are a shit knight." 

Ari ran away in a fit of laughter. 

Tobin rushed at his friend. Tackling him to the sand. 

Joy hooked itself into Tobin's face. A smile tighter than a harp string.

"Michael." The stranger said.

The man said this forcefully, as if the first few times hadn't stuck. Tobin blinked from the memory to the present and nodded.

"Michael." Tobin smiled. "What a great name."

He started the steam wand. Heat wisps floated. Steam hissed. Holding the pitcher, he smothered the thing's screams with milk. A hangry cat, now quietly lapping. 

"What in Besthenia?" 

Michael stood. Chair scooted in well-worn grooves. He watched intently. Tobin turned.

"Had not the same words come out of my mouth?"

 "What is that thing?" 

The steam continued. 

"Is there some fire underneath? Inside?" 

Michael felt his mind eager to expand, to distract—a colorful image of a tiny dragon inside the machine. A stable stream of fire hitting the water just right.  

"No, sir," Tobin said. 

Tobin thought back when he first encountered Wescott. How strange and new all this was. He sat with the memory, staring at it as if it were a well-locked door.  

"Magic," Michael muttered.

Tobin smiled at the word. Removing the pitcher of milk, he smacked it on the counter. Bubbles popped. Milk lay flat like paint.

"I never thought I’d see something like this in my lifetime." 

"Well, you didn’t." Tobin smiled, then wavered. 

Michael found his head back in his hands.

Silence stretched.  

"Electricity," Tobin said.

Michael looked with a still face. 

"Electricity is what it’s called. Not magic." Tobin paused. "Well, maybe a little. A little magic."

Michael's head leaned to the side.  

The room fell quiet. Tobin circled the pitcher, keeping the milk's texture. Michael watched. Breath held. Tobin turned on the stovetop. He grabbed a saucepan. 

Tobin watched the man. His hands soft. Eyes curious. His backpack sagged on his shoulders. The straps tight. He watched his knee bounce at the pace of a hyper child.

"I take it you’re some sort of scholar?" Tobin said.

Into the pan he tossed water, then sugar. He stirred, then tossed in a few strands of the spiced star grass. It melted.

"By Kurious!" Michael marveled. 

He noticed the flame dancing underneath the pot. He found Tobin’s eyes waiting. 

"Eh. Sort of, sir. I’m a bookkeeper." Michael stood up straight. A twinge of pride swelled his chest.  

"Bookkeeper! Tobin snapped. Of course." 

He removed the pan from the heat and continued stirring the syrup. A scent of spiced chocolate stilled him. He stirred it a few more times, then poured a bit into each cup. He Mixed the syrup and espresso. 

He poured the milk over the espresso. He was gentle, rotating it around. A collision of two worlds. 

Tobin prepped the glasses on a tray and walked to the table. 

Tobin sat across from Michael. Placing the drink perfectly in the center.

Michael hesitated.

Tobin nodded.

Michael grabbed his cup and took the first sip. 

"Why, this is fantastic!"

Michael tilted his hand, studying the mug as it possessed secrets. 

"I mean it. I-"

He interrupted his own words with another sip. 

He puckered his lips. 

"That sweetness. Wow!"

Tobin smiled, grabbing his own cup in his hand. He took a hefty sip. He savored it with closed eyes. 

"That spiced grass is really something." Tobin smiled. 

"I’ve never heard of such a thing?" 

The young man drank. The frothed milk sat tangled in his fragile mustache. 

"You like hearing things, do you?" 

Michael nodded in earnest. 

"Yes, sir. All sorts of things. I love stories. Secrets. Knowledge. And pointing others to it." 

"So what happened?" 

Tobin set the cup down. It puttered as it hit the table.

Michael fiddled with his own glass.

He burned under those green eyes. 

"What do you mean?" Michael swirled the glass. He noticed shapes forming in the foam. Shapes he turned quickly from.

Tobin stared. 

"I mean. I woke up in this wacky place." He laughed. "Not sure how." 

Michael rubbed the back of his neck. 

Tobin said nothing. He just nodded.

"It’s true! I swear, that’s it!" Michael scoffed.

He threw up his hand to Tobin. "I mean. How long have you been here? How-how did you arrive here, huh?"

"Michael."Tobin pled. His voice was a dry wind. 

Michael's grey eyes were wide and darting. His hands now gripped the sides of the chair like prison bars. His body was tense and stiff. He watched Tobin breathe. This reminded him to do the same. 

His body loosened. He took a nervous sip.

"How did it happen?" Tobin asked. Sorrow distorted Tobin's sight. His shoulders slumped, for they too carried Michael's hurt. Even before expressed. 

Childish tears ran down Michael's cheeks in a tantrum. The storm outside pounded on the roof. Bits of rain squeezed through cracks like nosy strangers. Occasional droplets fell to the table. 

Tobin finished his coffee with one final gulp. He licked the flavor off his lips. The droplets drummed faster on the table. Tobin scooted his cup forward. He offered the rain a bucket. 

Michael gripped his own mug.

"It can’t be real. I can’t. I’m dreaming. I must be dreaming." He turned from Tobin to the door. A tree limb hung right outside the window. It bounced from the wind and rain.  

Tobin offered a smile, reached over, and gripped the man’s shoulder. The way Ari gripped his, all those years ago. 

"She killed me." He said, still watching the storm.  

He longed to thrust himself into that storm. Away from his body. His story.

He turned back to Tobin.

"I died." He said softly.

The acknowledgment folded him. His forehead rested on the table. Hands gripped into fists. He tightened all parts of himself. He made a thin whine, a rubber balloon losing its air.  

"Who killed you?" Tobin asked. 

"A girl.” He winced, as if glass pierced his tongue. 

Tobin remained a quiet presence—an old tree. 

Michael laughed. "You know, some people fight wars with blood and steel. What does a bookkeeper do in times of war?" 

Tobin waited. 

"He fights with knowledge!"

A bitter laugh doubled his frown. "As cheesy as that sounds." He scratched at the back of his head. Then threw up his hands. 

"I don’t know what hell everyone was doing. The King would drop dead at any moment. There was so little stability in Besthenia. And they chased this mythic evil while we struggled to harvest enough corn to feed the sick." His teeth flashed like a bear's.

"Besthenia," Tobin muttered the familiar words.

Michael nodded. "Yes." He sighed. "They all left to hunt that traitor, after that nasty business in the east. How many children? How many clergy?"  

Michael shook his head. Then bowed it low for the dead.

Always connected. Tobin cried internally. 

Thunder rattled the window.

"I needed to do something. Had to."

Tobin nodded. Soured.

Morville.  

Michael’s voice squeaked. "Told me she was a merchant. Her cart wheel shattered in some storm a few miles past the walls."

He swallowed. Face is burning red.

"That she possessed a document explaining Morville's strength. That is, if I translated it. And popularized it. She could sell it for double. So I was going to get to read the damn thing."

He shook his head. His hands rubbed at his knees.

"I was a fool." Michael swallowed hard and clenched his jaw. "I'm a fool."

"I thought maybe I could help do something. Help to kill the unkillable bastard."

"Unkillable?" Tobin asked. 

Michael shrugged. "Might be legend, might be truth. All I know is that many have tried.

A brief smile flickered.

"And with that letter." He shrugged. "I might have found a way to do so."

"Why?" Tobin asked.

"Why?"

Tobin nodded. "Yah, why did it have to be you? Why did you need to be the translator? I'm sure there is a small number of scholars."

"Yes. There are a number of us."

"Yet you ventured to this alone? Did you not inform anyone else of this great discovery?"

The room grew still.

Rain drummed above. The table squeaked.

Michael’s frown tensed. He rubbed at his temples. 

"Damnit."

He looked around the room. 

"Damnit!!" He yelled. 

His fist banged the table. The mugs bounced. The storm tapped the window. Michael turned and watched. Jaw flexed in increments of three. He looked out the window. Heard the rain, but saw only black. Michael then cocked his head. Only now notice the light hanging above. 

"What’s the matter?" 

Tobin asked, tethering him back. Michael shook his head. 

"My obsession." He pressed at his temple. 

"Why do you say that?" 

Michael looked upward and laughed. His eyes shimmered wet. 

"What happened next?" Tobin asked. 

Michael shook his head. He winced, and tears rolled. 

Tobin waited. 

"Well." He downed the rest of his coffee as if it were a whisky shot. The red in his face deepened.  

"There was no document, I’ll tell you that." He sighed and leaned forward. He looked at the backpack nestled by his foot. He Looked at it like a child with a stuffed toy.

"It was some ploy." He continued. "Some sacrifice. I was instantly bound and overwhelmed. Morville was there. Thick beard and all. Eyes black as night. 

"That sounds terrifying." 

Michael laughed to stifle a cry. 

"It was. Honest to the Gods. I nearly pissed myself. I think it was only the remnants of pride that kept me from doing so. I thought myself a hero in those moments."

He coughed. Cleared his throat. "That walk with that woman. I felt like a kid. Thought I was going to help our people." He turned over his hand. Staring at it long and hard. "I remember feeling my hands tingle as we got close." 

Tobin quietly nodded.

Thunder roared.

Darkness consumed everything, outside and in—all but that little light hanging above the table.

Michael squeezed his eyes shut. "She told Morville that I was the fool. The one they waited on. My life taken for some damn spell." His fingers tapped the rhythm of war drums.

Michael screamed.

Rain dripped into Tobin's cup.

He laughed a dark laugh.

Tobin leaned forward.

"I fought my whole life to distance myself from that word. Fool." He winced. "And now?" He tossed up his hands. His head then hit the table. The cups rattled.

"Do you remember anything else?" 

Michael stilled.

"I do. " He mumbled.

They were quiet. Thunder rattled the window. 

Michael’s eyes were red. He forced a laugh—the tone of poison. 

"I remember the knife hitting my throat. Remembering the feeling of being emptied. Like a pig." His face twisted. "The smell. How cold I felt."  

"They needed someone’s location. And their witch needed a man of secrets. 

Michael waved his hands. 

"Glad to be of service." 

He stood. Paced stiffly around the room. How quickly he’d switch from rage to regret.

Curiosity pulled at Tobin. "Who was the man?" He then noticed Michael tears—the bounce of his shoulders.

Tobin flexed his jaw.  

Michael turned and peered at the wall. A painting hung crooked. A man holding a sword the size of himself. The man held it, but for how long. When would his arm give out? Michael watched with intensity.

"Why did I have to know?" 

He turned to Tobin, his eyes glossed over. 

Tobin gave a stiff nod.

"Why did you have to save? Help?" Tobin asked. 

"But I didn’t!"

"Sure. But you tried, no?" 

Michael gasped. Head shot up and back. Hands pulled at dark hair. "Thats the thing. I don’t know if I tried to help anyone but myself. Did I really chase that document to better the kingdom? Or better my own name?" 

He wiped his eyes fast. He turned when he did it. 

"Would I have done the same if another got the credit?" 

Tobin smiled. 

"It sounds as if you want to be a figure in those books you love." 

Michael melted.

"Yes. Yes." 

"Is that a bad thing?"

"If that’s my only reason for helping." Michael coughed. "I don’t think I really wanted to help anyone!"

"Maybe." Tobin scratched his beard. "But we humans are made with strange stuff." 

"What do you mean?" 

"We’re like..." He stared at Michael's empty cup and smiled. Forgive the on-the-nose analogy. 

Michael cocked his head. Wipes his eyes.

"A latte. A combination of motives and passions." 

"So you think I did it out of the goodness of others?" 

"I’m not saying that. I don’t know?" 

Michael’s head fell. 

"What I do know." 

Tobin tapped at the table. 

Michael moved heavy eyes to Tobin.

"People are complex. I might want to eat at a feast. But also the desire not to appear like a pig. And also the desire to be suspicious of my hosts. As well as the desire to eat little so I can take my leftovers to my children." 

"But all those sound like fine reasons." 

"My point is that there are many motivations for why you did what you did. As clouded as your heart might have been. Deep down, it seems you wanted to be a hero. A known hero sure. A well-received hero absolutely. But a hero.

Michael shrugged like a child. He scooted back in the chair. The rain slowed. 

"Michael, you rolled the dice. And it determined you to be a fool. But it could have just as easily determined you a hero." 

"I don’t know." 

"Neither do I!" Tobin laughed. 

Michael gave a tired chuckle. He wiped his eyes. 

Michael scratched his chin. 

"What now? Do I stay?" 

"You can. But none do." 

Seriously?" He sat up straight. "Why?"

Tobin shrugged. He gave a pained smile. "Do you want to stay?" 

Michael paused, considering. 

Tobin found himself a bit hopeful. 

"No." Michael found himself surprised by his own answer. 

"No. I want to see whats next. Maybe even find that bastard Morville. And maybe whoever was lucky enough to kill him."  

Tobin sighed and smiled. "Very well."