Coming Home

“Untie him Boson, make sure the man is bathed – I need him made useful and that gunpowder dried before sunset, mark my words”.

With that the Captain strode across the deck without looking at any of the crew. The men broke their semicircular formation at the base of the main mast where Bennet had just been flogged and scurried to their chores. Bennet had allowed one of the gunpowder barrels to get wet, and wet gunpowder will cost the lives of every crewmember should they meet up with one of the Spanish fleet.

These were treacherous times and loosing the gold they had on board to the Spanish would cost the captain and crew their heads one way or another. 
The Captain never made eye contact with the crew except on disciplinary matters. It kept him above the crew, the last thing they wanted was the Captains eye on them so they always knuckled down.

He made sure he was on deck as often as possible for that reason.  You never gave them time to think. As he made his way to his cabin the Captain saw the cook in the corner of his eye, without looking at him he said “Sirus, tea in my cabin and sharp about it” as he strode past.

How could this be? The captain had never drank tea in his cabin; he’d always been on deck to preside over the crew, barking orders to keep the ship tidy and functional, not a block or knot out of place, if it wasn’t doing a job; then it needn’t be on deck. 

Sirus was concerned. Maybe it was crews’ reaction to Whistler Bennet being flogged at sunrise for letting the gunpowder get wet that the Captain decided to distance himself from them. As an officer he’d see himself as a superior and he did maintain a professional distance. In doing so he’d gained the fickle respect of the crew.

However, there were times when he’d join in, pulling the ropes, whatever was needed. He was the Captain and he was one of them.  However their thirst for blood as the nine-tails bit into Bennet’s back must have unnerved him. This change in the Captain would be spotted by the crew and could lead to some form of confrontation later in the voyage, and the Dragon Sand Peninsular was months away. Something was definitely wrong.
Sirus steadied himself against one of the oak uprights in the galley. A fresh breeze blew in from the open window; the gull that used to beg for tit-bits was not perched there today. They must be too far from land now. It was going to be a long journey.

He thought about this whilst stirring the Captains tea, he began to stir it faster and faster, he was quite agitated. The sound of the spoon clinking on the cup grew louder…

Sirus snapped awake – it was dark and he was at home in his small cottage in Hampshire, his wife sleeping quietly next to him. The visions of the dream faded yet he could still hear the sound of the spoon in the cup. It was coming from downstairs. Somebody was making a drink. He could hear the familiar clinking of a teaspoon on bone china; Clara was still asleep beside him so it wasn’t her.

Did they have an intruder down stairs? If he was a younger man he’d be down in two seconds flat to sort out the miscreant. But not now; the years had crept up on him; one minute he was a younger man yomping across Dartmoor with 140lbs of army kit on his back – the next…well, it didn’t bare thinking about. Sirus sat up, slid his feet into his slippers and removed his dressing gown from the back of the bedroom door, he really wasn’t sure what he was going to do if the intruder was still there.

He was secretly hoping that the sound of movement upstairs would scare him, or her – away. He put on his slippers and dressing gown; walked onto the landing and began to pace up and down. He decided after a few minutes that maybe it would be better to call the police and let them deal with it…the trouble was they would take twenty minutes to get here. It was no good; he’d have to do it himself. 

Each step was gingerly placed as he made his way down the stairs. The kitchen light was on and he swore he could hear the fridge being opened; was this person here to steal milk? Sirus sneaks into the living room and removes the poker from the brass carousel that held the tools for the fire. Turning around he heads back to the kitchen; stops outside the door and listens…somebody is definitely making a drink. He puts his hand on the door and pushes it open gently. And there, in the middle of the kitchen holding two cups of tea is his old headmaster, Mr. Thompson wearing a light brown lab coat with two yellow pencils and a six inch steel rule in the left breast pocket.
“Got any chocolate biscuits?” he asks.   

Sirus stands transfixed in the kitchen doorway, not knowing what to do or indeed think. This man should be over one hundred and thirty years old. He should be dead; not that he wished the man any ill at all, and what was he doing in his kitchen at…Sirus looks at the clock, two forty in the morning.

“You’re right I should be dead; but lets not talk about me shall we, come…sit down.” Mr Thompson places the two cups of tea on the kitchen table and gestures for Sirus to sit in the chair opposite

“The jars over by the bread bin”. Said Sirus in some sort of daze.
“What dear boy?” asks Mr Thompson.
“Biscuits…over by the…” The sentence dies on his lips…
How did he know, how could he know, it just wasn’t possible? He only thought it – hadn’t he? Mr Thompson walks over to a set of small earthenware jars next to the bread bin; each one labelled with what’s contained inside. He opens the lid and smiles at the aroma. 
“Eat up, you’ll miss these I promise you.” Mr. Thompson offers some biscuits to Sirus. He takes one out, Mr Thompson notices him shaking.
“It’s all a bit confusing isn’t it? And no doubt you have lots of questions”
I took a while; Mr. Thompson could see Sirus was struggling with his thoughts; his face was going through a variety of different expressions; then with a hushed voice he asks…
“What - are you doing here?”

But just as he said it another question was forming, besides his age; there was something not quite right about Mr Thompson. His limbs didn’t seem to fit together properly where they joined his torso and hips. Every time he stretched it looked like he was coming apart at the seams. As this happened sabres of brilliant white light would stream out lighting up the whole kitchen for just an instant; it hurt his tired eyes to look at it; and there was something else; Mr Thompson’s limp was gone.

“What am I doing here, - hmmmm, that’s a good one” he pauses to dunk a biscuit, as he lifts it out of his tea, half of it falls back into the cup. He chuckles to himself and whispers “Delightful”. Looking up at Sirus he continues, “Well my boy, it seems it’s time for you to return; I was asked if I’d like to go and bring you back, our plane of existence is wonderful but you can’t beat a real physical cup of tea so I jumped at the chance; besides, it’s lovely to see you and not everybody gets the chance to help with a return.”
“You can’t be real - are you a ghost”.

Mr. Thompson tries to suppress a chuckle, “Dear boy no. I’m still the Mr. Thompson you knew at school, same personality and mannerisms; you must know that by now. No, I’ve moved on for want of a better expression. I gave up my physical body some time ago.

I was working in my allotment, just finished turning over what was to be next years cabbage patch if memory serves. Anyway I’d sat down in the deckchair outside my shed when the postman appeared, not any postman mind you. Sid Turnbull, I used to see him nearly every morning, went fishing with him and dad a few times.

Morning Sid, I shouted, “Allo mate” he responded. Anyway, he walks up me, we talked about the weather for a bit; old times; stuff like that. Then he pats me on the back, stands up and says, “We have to go now mate, it’s time”. Now, as much as I liked Sid I was not going to leave my allotment. It was Sunday and I had so much to do and I didn’t really want to go down the pub, that’s what I assumed he meant. “It’s better if you come with me” he says as he walks away. Then I notice it; I really don’t know why I didn’t see it before. He looked like he was made out of large cardboard tubes.

They didn’t fit quite right. He’d passed on years ago see. He said it was time to come home”. 
“Coming home” repeated Sirus quietly. Something is happening in the back of his mind, a memory surfaces; golden wheat-fields, skylarks, a perpetual summer.
Mr. Thompson stands up and walks across to the other side of the table.

He kneels down in front of Sirus and takes both his hands.
“You see, it’s already begun, you’re starting to remember. It’s nothing to be afraid of, look at it this way. You’ve travelled abroad on holiday, you know what it’s like when you turn the key in the front door after being away for two weeks, the smell of home is the first thing that greets you, it goes right to your core. It only lasts a few seconds but when it happens your body and soul relax in unison, just for a second.”
Sirus looks down at his old head master and says, “There’s no place…” 
“Like home” finishes Mr. Thompson.
“Is this not my home?” asks Sirus.
“Your earthly home yes, but you have another one; you’re made to forget when you come here, we all are; unless you’re here on business, but, like I said, you are remembering”.
Sirus shuffles uneasily in his chair, another memory fades into view, and he’s above the wheat-field, relaxing in the sun. He feels like he’s laying on his stomach looking down over the landscape. There isn’t a soul here, save for his own. It’s peace beyond comparison.
“And” continues Mr Thompson, “And, you have many friends waiting for you” he pauses, “Michael’s also waiting, your time here is over my friend; you’ve done all that you can do, all that you wanted to do.”
Sirus looked at Mr Thompson with a mixture of disbelief and deep longing at the mention of his son’s name.
“I just saw…”
“Your favourite place”. Interrupts Mr Thompson.
“There was nobody there.” Said Sirus.
“Not at that time, when we want to relax we make a place for ourselves, we change it to suite our moods.”
“I know you’d like to see Michael again”. Mr Thompson finishes his tea; stands up and puts his cup in the sink. As he does so another shaft of light spears out from his right shoulder lighting up the kitchen.  Sirus puts an arm across his eyes.
“Oh, dreadfully sorry, it’s not good on the eyes is it? We have to wear these, you’d never know who I was if we didn’t.”
“What else is there?”
“Where dear boy?”
“The place you say I have to go...home.”
“Whatever you desire, it’s not pearly gates and St. Peter with a big book, no, no, no.” He smiles warmly at Sirus. “It’s not all white and fluffy either; you’ll remember everything in a short while. 
“What about food, I mean, chickens and cows, they’re animals, won’t they be angry with me for …?” Sirus doesn’t want to finish the sentence.”
“Ahhhh, let me tell you something, more people have returned to the earthly plane as chickens than can be comfortably realised. You see being a chicken is like taking a holiday from your own consciousness. You have no ego, no desire; in fact nothing of your personality is there, it’s resting, it simply isn’t required. Chickens are mostly instinct, auto-pilot, if you want to be crude about it. You could say it’s a self-catering holiday from your personality.” Mr Thompson chuckles at this analogy.   
“But I can’t go, can’t leave, my wife, I don’t want to leave her!”
The enormity of what he was being told was slowly sinking in, Mr Thompson was impressed, Sirus had taken this onboard very quickly.
“Such caring and devotion, you’ve been together for many many years and we’re not about to split you up. Part of the reason we’re sent down here is to find our real life partner. Very few people are successful. Your wife will be not two minutes behind you. Your house…well, you have no heirs or family.
“Can’t I just say goodbye to Clara?”
“There’s no time, look.” Mr Thompson gestures to Sirus, a small crack has appeared at his knee joint; light is clearly visible below it.
“Will she really be just behind us?”
“Yes my friend – she will”.
“Why did you come here and not my father?”
“Your father is a very busy man, and he and other members of your family are all waiting for you, I was asked if I’d like to bring you home and there was no way I was going to turn down the chance of a cup of tea”. Mr Thompson smiled warmly at Sirus. As he did so more light began to stream out from his shoulders, widening with each passing second. Sirus noticed something strange, his breathing was suddenly much clearer, his senses keener. His arthritis was gone. He looked down at his hands; the liver spotted skin was translucent and glowing. The cup he was holding fell to the floor as his material body dissipated and was replaced by the light beneath his skin.


Clarabella was woken by a sound down stairs, cups breaking, not another mouse she thought. She was about to wake Sirus when she noticed an old lady on the other side of the bedroom. She looked vaguely familiar, she looked like the lady she used to know who owned the sweetshop on the corner of Oriental Road. Clarabella used to go in there everyday after school to by sherbet lemons.
The lady had just finished folding up some clothes and turned around to face Clarabella.
“Oh good you’re awake, do you fancy a cup of tea dear?”