It Lies Within

         It was quiet, electronic whisper-quiet, with machines working away in faint hums and sighs of existence. The slight form on the centered and raised-just-so hospital bed was not quite as focused. It was only working in the mechanical way that bodies have, even when the driving force has gone elsewhere. The sounds were less regulated or reassuring and at times a long silence would occur before the harsh rasping of tortured breath, it might have been the machines that ensured that one of these occurred at stated intervals.

         Two other covered forms lay in that room; their attitudes were contorted and far less restful, in fact one of them was muttering and mumbling even now. These were no cause for concern, except that their concern was irritating the care-givers at this long-term care facility. The institution was used to people whose shells lingered for months, even years. They could see no need for panic or for status updates, no reason for tears or stoicism, no need for anything but mechanical care, which they delivered with antiseptic efficiency.

         Mortimer Stainthorpe was reaching the top of a hill, he knew what he sought was on the other side, but the hillside kept slipping away under his feet, turning first to little pebbles that rolled, then to slick ice that was worse than any mountainous precipice. He gave a last despairing groan and woke to find the sheet had slipped out entirely from under him on the couch. His pillow was just a mangled mess of foam rubber.

         The nurses are not going to like that, Mort. But you always did things with fervor. They’ll clack in here now, funny how rubber heels can clack on linoleum. They’ll change all the bags and bottles, those that drip things into me and those that collect what drips out. They’ll make up the couch and pat out the pillow and the glances will freeze and fry you in 30 seconds. But you will try to push yourself into the wall as they ignore your attempts to converse. Any request for information …

         The form remained unresponsive as those nurses did just that, no glimmer of the soul that floated above, unable to leave, unable to inhabit the shell. A ripple of amusement shot through the silver form, Mortimer had just asked the nurse if there were any signs of improvement, anything at all.

         One nurse swiveled on those rubber heels with the flair of a figure skater; her eyes had all the interest of cold fried eggs. “Doctor will be in shortly, Mr. Stainthorpe.”

         Mortimer watched the two march out in triumph at having saved their sanity by the simple act of not ‘getting involved’. He looked over at his best friend, his companion, his wife; she was still a contorted mass of limbs in the easy chair.

         Hey, Sary-Allie. You have to see Mort in his best beetroot imitation ever. I think he’ll float off in frustration if you don’t tether him down. Proposing to you was the one thing he got enough nerve to do.

         The other sleeper was in the real world, but ensconced in the arms of Morpheus, oblivious to thought-pushes or voices; it took a hearty shaking to make her surface to wakefulness.

         “Hey wake up Sarah Alice, rise and shine! Thanks for sleeping through those Nurse Nazis.”

         Those nurses are real characters are they not? But you have to admit getting emotionally attached to wooden dolls is counter-productive. I know you are angry on my behalf, but I’m beyond caring or needing. I like the terms you each came up with though, they give me this delicious almost-laugh.

         Tumbled red curls peeped out from under the comforter on the chair, one blue eye checked to make sure the Nursing Nerds were gone and the whole managed to unscramble and reassemble itself without mishap.

         “Mortimer, stop that incessant early morning chatter. Let’s head out for coffee and remember that tomorrow you get the ‘un-Easy’ chair. Boy, who ever gave that contraption the misnomer Easy Chair?”

         Mortimer stood stock-still, running a rueful hand through his grey-brown thatch. His eyes were dismayed and almost guilty, something far from their usual merry brown twinkle.

         “Sarah, how many more tomorrows are ahead? While Emmy is there, but not there? I can’t bear to leave her and go away; it’s eating me apart to stay”

         “I know Mort, I know. I can’t abandon her to these unfeeling automatons either; she has to have us here.”

         She looked at him with affection; they had been neighbours and friends, then colleagues, then partners for life. She wound one arm around his waist, “let’s go and see if the cafeteria gives us insight.”

         Emily was having some insight of her own. She thought back as to how they all got here. The last afternoon in Mort and Sary’s study, poring over the maps, the old texts, the masses of notes. Each one had theories as to where the quest had to be centered; Sarah went with Ponce de Leon’s classical allusions, the vicinity of Port Charlotte, Florida. Mortimer leaned towards Ethiopia. An inevitable choice - he had done his doctoral dissertation on Middle Eastern legends of Al-Khidr.

         Emily had however been insistent that the answer lay almost at their own back door, just off Birmingham, in the vicinity of Barston. Certain records that had come to light when a crypt was opened in the churchyard. These suggested St. Swithin might have had some light to throw on the issue. At any rate she believed the search should begin there.

         None of them were desperate to recover lost youth, it was the quest that excited them. But there was no hiding that they were past their sell-by dates, well into their fifties. Emily had been warned of her off-the-chart cholesterol levels, time and again, Sarah had chronic bronchial asthma, Mortimer’s knees were his Achilles’ heel. So the quest not entirely for humanitarian love, yet love of dross did not fuel the endeavour. That had never been an impetus. Granted, they did not have much left over after funding their various researches and putting by enough for the actual search, but they were content to have it just suffice.

         Back to that winter afternoon, the fire crackling and snapping, the flickering flames following the heated ups and down of argument. Then there was this white-hot knife that sliced into Emily’s brain and she was falling to the faded carpet with an acrimony-ending finality. Emily was aware of every suspended moment thereafter, the frantic resuscitation, the hee-hawing ambulance ride, the neurologist explaining how the attempt to clip off the burst vessel had failed, the final transfer here. Now the first buds would come out any day, but spring renewal was nowhere near in sight for Mort or Sary.

         Emily watched them come back into the room, affection welled from her heart. They stood arm in arm at her bedside, looking at the slight from under the sheets. She was possessed of a keener vision now, able to see into their souls.

         Mort had a core of warm yellow and orange, the desire to seek burned steady there. A hint of purple flicker must be the strange nervousness he got around confident women, but there was more than one streak of pure gold – of steadfast loyalty. He was a keeper, she thought, of the elder brother who had supported her every choice.

         Sary had this ripple of bright emerald, a nurturer, one who could provide sustenance to another’s dreams. The aquamarine of introspection and analysis also shone there. It was a bright flame, one that was never quenched by the ravages of age.

         They make a good team. They will miss me, but they are strong and young within.

         There was a light that beckoned her and she knew; she just knew.

         Within. It’s always been within.

         Emily’s eyes snapped open and looked into two pairs of surprised and overjoyed ones.

         “Nurse, nurse! She’s awake!” Mort's shout went unheeded.

         The voice had not been used for months, the whisper was like sandpaper across a blackboard, no coherence, just ultrasonic squeaks.

         “Em, dearest, don’t talk.”

         The claw of an emaciated finger made a feeble attempt to hold onto the hand on her bed. Her eyes rolled in her effort to get it out. A cacophony of beeps of warning sounded from the gadgets and racing feet echoed in the corridors.

         Just before they rushed in and shoved Mortimer and Sarah out of their way, just before they enclosed her in a solid wall of heaving bodies and gleaming instruments and shouted commands – just before that, her lips formed three words. Sibilant sounds, but as clear as she could make them.

         “It rests within.”

         Her soul departed in a rise of pure joy, she turned for one last farewell.

         Be safe my dears, for it always lies within. Quest no more, just enjoy what life has to offer.

         The activity had ended, the sheet was pulled up over the head. The empty phrases were mouthed, and they were alone with their loss and revelation.

         “Did you hear it Mort? She said it’s ‘West Swithin’, do you think it was whispered to her by some higher source?”

         One student nurse had been collecting all the soiled towels and tissues for discarding in a bin; not yet trained not to interact, she wanted to display her superior knowledge.

         “Pardon me ma’am. Did you say she said something? That would be impossible. It must have been a near-death clenching of muscles.”

         But Mort and Sarah knew. They finally knew where to start looking for the Fountain of Youth. Mort’s eyes had a gleam worthy of Knights Templar seeking the Holy Grail. Sarah had the look of one who stood at the captain’s side through storms and wars.

         For some the youth is in the quest, for others it is in the eyes of their loved ones, blessed are those who know which it is.


Words:1657

Note: Some of the places/people mentioned are from legend, some just creative licence, there's no intention to claim that any of this has factual basis.