A THORNE REMAINING

PART FOUR:

By mid-afternoon the rain clouds had cleared away, the last wind-torn shreds

of  them  sailing quickly toward  the horizon.  Allison got out her paints,

determined to take advantage of the now-brilliant sunlight and see what she

could capture of the look of the stream.  She slipped all her supplies into a

large pouch that hung from the side of her chair, a special rig that Addie had figured out so Allison could take large tablets with her.

She knew the ground was likely to be soft and muddy, but the stream was

running high with the inflow of rain water and the sound of it was louder

than ever, drawing her  to it like a magnet.  Addie, of course, was not

particularly happy at the concept of her sister wheeling about the edges of

a rain-swollen rush of water, but Allison, her mind made up, was not easily

swayed from her chosen course of action.

The planking of the porch still glistened wetly as she rolled down it toward

the ramp, waiting there for Adelaide to come and help her descend. Looking

at it, she shook her head again at the clumsy construction of it. It wasn't

just that it was too short, too steep, but that about four feet out from its

bottom was a low rock wall, forming a boundary behind which was planted a

row of rounded shrubs.  That, more than anything, was why she didn't wish
to attempt going down the ramp alone.  It was very frustrating, though,

always to have to bother her sister when she wanted to go outside.

"Sure you want to do this?" Adelaide said, the screen door smacking behind

her, her mind filled with a scene she was writing set in the Raleigh Tavern.

"Yep," Allison smiled. "Look at that sunlight!"

Adelaide pressed her lips together as she slowly moved the chair down the

ramp, making a mental note to get a carpenter out here to redo the thing.  Watching Allison wheel off toward the stream, she frowned at the deep

dents her passage left.  She knew it must be hard managing a chair in such

wet sod, but Allison was keeping her back straight, not letting the effort

show. "She knows I'm watching," Addie muttered, then turned back to the

house.

The going was, indeed, much harder than it had been before, and Allison

almost got stuck more than once before she finally arrived at the flat area

near the stream.  Her wheels sank at least two inches into the softened soil

and she sighed. Well, she was here now. She'd deal with that when she was

ready to leave.

Before she got her paints out, she sat quietly, just studying the play of light

on the water, the graceful curve of eucalypt trunks.  It was beautiful here.

Lately, she'd found herself talking to Terry aloud when Adelaide was not

nearby. It was silly, she knew that full well, but somehow it made him feel

more real to her. "Don't you miss this?" she said. "Do you think of it,

whatever far part of the world you're in, do you think of this place?"

He was at that very moment thinking of it. The rains had stopped shortly

before he got off the Armidale bus, grateful that an elderly woman wanted

to get off at the same crossroads that were nearest Thorneton. Two miles!

That was all that now lay between him and home. As he walked the familiar

route that sense of divine unrest urged him onward. The thing he was here

for was very close now.  He sensed the pull of it, whatever it was, and

quickened his pace.

Leaving the two-lane road, he turned down the long, narrow drive to

Thorneton.  He was dressed in dark denim jeans, a casual shirt topped by

a navy jacket.  He had no idea how that had happened. When he found
himself walking along Farm Cove, he was wearing it and had now accepted

the fact of it as one of the many imponderables that faced him.  Perhaps

it was due to nothing more than that it was one of his favorite outfits,
neat yet comfortable?

Ah, there was the house! A strange feeling of achievement washed over him. 

He was home and home was where his answers lay, where he would find the

reason for the strength of his homing pull.  Pausing, he looked at the house, pleased it was still the same as when he'd left.  Except, that is, for some

stupid, ugly ramp that covered half of his front steps. Who would put that

there? Why? It was only then he remembered he'd leased the house. "Damn!"

he muttered, biting on his lower lip. He'd thought no one would be here, that

he could take up a quiet residence in his room with none the wiser for it. 

Well, perhaps he would have to engage in a little haunting activity after all,

eh? He grinned. A few doors slamming here and there,  the large oak rocker

in the corner of the living room going back and forth? He'd have the

interlopers out of his house in no time!

He took the front steps two at a time and stood just outside the main

entrance, completely aware of the loud squeak the screen door made each

and every time it was opened.  It was a drawn-out, stretchy sort of noise

made by the uncoiling of the old metal spring that closed the door, a classic

sound he figured every screen door in the world must make, unmistakable
for anything else.  He twisted his mouth side to side, studying it intently.

There had to be a way for him to go through solid things without opening

them, there just had to be, now that he was, well, dead and all. Closing his

eyes, he shook his head as though to clear it, letting himself fully relive those

last moments in the mud. Yes, there was no getting around it. He was dead,
a concept not easy to grasp, to adjust to fully.

Eyes still closed, he stretched out his right hand, fingers spread wide.

Opening them again, he smiled delightedly. His hand had gone completely

through the screen past his wrist. Maybe he'd get the hang of it after all!  Stepping forward, he found himself in the central hallway. No one was in the

living room, so he wandered through the dining area and into the kitchen.

Nobody there, either. Hmmm? Where WERE these renters, anyway?

Heading toward the bedroom half of the house, he found the door to the

back room open halfway and peered in.  A woman sat at a computer,

concentrating on the screen, typing rapidly.  He slipped inside to get a better look.  She appeared to be in her late 30's with close-cropped dark blonde

curls and was pretty in a somewhat constrained sort of way. Perhaps it was
the set of her jaw and the frown line creasing her forehead that brought that descriptive word to him, he wasn't sure. Pausing in her typing, she leaned

back, rereading the words on the screen as she absently reached for a half-

full cup of black coffee to the right of her keyboard.  She seemed completely unaware of him and he felt no sense of connection with her, so he slipped
back out of the room to continue his investigations.

No one was in the room his parents used to share at the front of the house.

Had the woman rented Thorneton just for herself? He made his way, then,

to his own room, feeling a gust of pleasure fill him as he stepped inside.

Everything was pretty much as he'd left it. After he'd decided to rent the

place, he'd meant to come back one last time to pack his personal things away,

but they'd gotten so quickly involved in plans for the rescue in Colombia that

he'd found himself on a plane flying out of Sydney with no chance for a side

trip north.

What was that on the bedside table? A pink ribbon and a hairbrush. Ah, so
someone had taken up occupancy in his room, had they?  Well, he'd see

about that, he would! He had to admit, though, she'd left his stuff almost

exactly as he remembered. If she'd touched his things, she'd put them

carefully back. His feathers unruffled a bit. Could have been worse, much

worse. In fact, where WAS her stuff? It was almost strange how little trace

of her there was in the room. He opened the closet door. Ah. His clothes

were still hanging but had been slid to the far end, making room for several dresses, a few skirts and blouses. An unfamiliar suitcase lay on its side in

the closet bottom and atop it were several boxes. He lifted a lid. Art supplies.

So this one was a painter, eh? Well, where was she? Maybe out shopping?

He hoped she were a timid sort, that it would take very little from him to

scare her out of his house. He was, in fact, quite chagrined that he had been reduced to frightening women. Then he grinned widely, wondering what Dino

would think of that.

He wandered around the room a moment more, then forgetting his new-found prowess, opened the French doors and walked out onto the side porch. Too

late he realized what he'd done. Oh, well, no one had seen. No harm done.

It had rained during the bus ride inland from Coffs and he knew his creek

would be running high. Sitting on the white railing, he listened to the sound

of it. Was that why he was here? Because he'd died hearing that sound in his mind? Was that all there was to this, this desperate homing of his? He closed

his eyes, listening, not just to the water music but to what was going on inside himself. A mounting excitement had begun to grow in him ever since he'd come

out on the porch. Why? What WAS all this about? Why did he feel that with every  moment something...wonderful...was coming closer, was actually here...

now? Yes, this was it. But...what?

He opened his eyes, letting his gaze wander through the eucalypts, the form

and shape of every one of them completely known to him. The sky was that

perfect blue that comes after a morning rain has washed the air. Then his

gaze settled on the flat area just this side of the stream. What? Someone

was there. Dappled sunlight glinted off pale blonde hair. Ah...the other one,

the occupant of his room.

He stood, trying to get a better view of her. What was she doing? He couldn't

tell from here, not with those bushes blocking part of his line of vision.
Resting a palm on the railing, he vaulted over, landing lightly on the lawn.

How many times, thousands?, had he followed this exact route to the stream?

This time a strange intensity consumed him as he closed the distance between them, stopping just at the edge of the flatland, almost stepping behind

a eucalyptus to conceal his presence...until he remembered again, and stayed

in the open, watching.

He was startled by the fact she sat in a wheelchair and years of habit in

quickly sizing up situations told him that she would have a difficult go of it,

getting out of where she was, what with the depth the wheels had sunk into

the ground. She seemed to be paying no attention to that, though, and her

right hand moved back and forth, a brush dipping into a tray of colors over

and over. Her head tipped a bit from side to side as she painted, her

shoulder-length hair, hanging loose, swaying with the movement. She was

saying something and he took several more steps to get close enough to hear.

"Terry," she grumped, "you have no idea how difficult it is to paint you when

I have no idea what you look like! Surely you could have left me at least ONE picture of you."

He could see her large tablet now. She was painting the stream, the trees, but there was also a form seated on the rock, his feet in the water, his back

turned. "I hope you realize, my dear Mr. Thorny Person, that you've left me

with no recourse but to paint your back?"

His mouth dropped open. She was talking to...him? What the...?

"I still don't see how you could go off like that, leaving this place so far

behind. I mean, you grew up here, you've got to know this is the most

beautiful spot anywhere around. Do you really have to go to Vienna or...or...

well, I don't know...Tierra del Fuego or some such? Do you think you'll find

any place better than this, any place where the sun shines more perfectly

on the water, where the tree trunks curve more gracefully? Well, in MY

opinion, thank you very much, you should just give it all up...all of it...and

come back to Thorneton. Yes," she nodded with satisfaction, "that is

definitely what you should do."

Then she tipped her head way back, lifting her chin as high as she could, and closed her eyes, letting the sunlight rest warmly on her face. He was fascinated...soothed... and something brand new in his experience welled in

him as he watched her...contentment. Yes, that was it...an absence of the

need to strive, to search. He covered his open mouth with his hand, shaking

his head. Was this the end of his journey...was this... she...why he had come home?

He sat in the grass the rest of the afternoon, his back against a shaggy tree trunk, watching her paint, impressed with how she managed to capture the

look of the sunlight on the stream water. And she talked to him. Well, of

course, she didn't know he was there, but still she spoke as though she

thought he might hear her. He'd figured that part of this deal was that no

one would ever address him directly again. She said his name like she knew

him. He was enraptured by her, by everything about her.

His best guess that she was still in her late 20's, a good deal younger than

the woman in the house but too old to be her daughter. Sisters, perhaps? Or

just friends? He found enough similarities in their appearance to decide they

must be related. But where the one at the computer had a tightness about her,

the artist was gently open, the lines of her face softer, formed just a bit

more delicately. Once she looked straight in his direction and he could see

her eyes clearly, a pale blue, rather like the sky today.

"You know, Terry, if you were here I'd ask you to turn so I could paint your

smile. I'm sure you'd be smiling, sitting there on your rock."

"I am here," he said.

She cocked her head, looking back at the house. "Sometimes it almost seems

like you are here, Terry. Especially today." She sighed. "No, he leased the

house. He's not coming back. At least not while I'm here." Rinsing her brush,

she plopped it back in her case, snapping it shut. The light was going. Must be almost time for supper. Carefully she packed her tablet back in the wide,

fabric pouch.

Terry had gotten to his feet. She was getting ready to leave. Pushing as hard

as she could, she managed to get the wheels to turn about six inches forward before they rocked backwards into the ruts she'd made in the soft dirt. She

tried again, not even making it as far as before, and the wheels only sank

more deeply. She leaned way over one arm of the chair, trying to assess the

wheel depth and with her weight mostly on the one side, the chair started to

tip. Eyes wide, her mouth formed a startled "O". Somehow, though, the chair righted itself.

Terry removed his hand. He'd sprung forward, grabbing the opposite arm of

the chair just in time. "Now what?" he said, wondering what she would do

next.

"Now what?" she muttered, looking at the house again, trying to decide if

she hollered loudly enough, maybe Addie would hear her. No, Addie was more

likely than not in that back bedroom, her mind wandering the streets of Williamsburg. She'd have to get out of this herself or else wait until she

were missed at the dinner table and Addie came looking for her.

Again she strained, puffing her cheeks out with the effort of it. Nothing

budged. Inhaling deeply, she gathered herself for an all-out assault.

Terry stepped up behind the chair, gripping its rear handles and gave it one

long, steady push at the same time she tried to move the wheels. There was
a slight sucking noise as the wheels pulled free of the mud and she rolled out

onto the lawn.

"Hey," she laughed. "I'm stronger than I thought!"

"Indeed you are, my fair lady," Terry said, joining in her contagious laughter, "indeed you are."

"Indeed I am," she murmured, turning to look behind her. She wheeled back

to the ramp, calling out for Adelaide. "I'm back, Addie! Can you come?"

Ah, so this was the reason for the ramp. He looked at it more carefully now.

Very poorly constructed, he noticed. Much too steep. There was no way she

could get up it by herself. What damned fool had made the thing anyway?

Addie didn't come right away and Allison rolled up the ramp herself a little

way and was rolling back down backwards when her sister came out the

screen door.

"Allison Marie Fitzgerald! Do you want to break your silly neck?" Addie hurried down the ramp, taking the handles of the chair firmly and pushing it up.

"Don't you ever try that again? You hear me?"

Terry stood just out from them. "Allison Marie Fitzgerald," he repeated, having wanted terribly to know her name but never expecting the entire thing to be dumped in his lap like that. He liked it. It suited her somehow. "Allison," he

said again, enjoying he sound of it in his mouth.

He watched Allison's wheelchair disappear into the house. Hmmm? Everything

he'd thought was black had suddenly been changed to white. Chains were

definitely out. But what...was...he supposed to do? Allison was in his room.

He couldn't just take up residence there now himself. Not like he'd thought.
With all the women he'd known in his life, yes, even including Henry's

mother, he'd never been so instantly taken with one. "Fat lot of good it'll

do you, mate," he said to himself. "You're dead, remember?"

 
Was it that certain vulnerability of her, stuck in the mud in her chair, that

had made him feel instantly as though he wanted to protect her? Was it that

she obviously loved his favorite spot in all the world? Or that she was the

only person who actually still spoke to him? He knew there had to be even more

to it, as good as those reasons were. He wasn't some callow youth to be

smitten by blonde waves and pale blue eyes. He grinned. Though, he admitted, those didn't hurt, now did they?

He thought again of his dying moments, of the mud around his ears, of how

he'd lain there hearing the sound of the stream as though it were calling to him...'come home.' And he had. Some bloody how he'd come home. And there she'd been. Waiting beside his stream. There had to be more to it, there
simply had to be. If he had survived that mission, had come back to Australia, intending to pack up his things...would he have driven up to Thorneton one day

and found her there, painting beside the stream? And would he have felt this

way about her and gotten to know her? Would they, then, have...someday...

well, had she been meant...someday...to be his wife? Had some cruel mistake

been made and he died when he should have not, his life yet unfinished, Allison

not yet met? Was that the why of it? Was this some strange attempt by the universe to set things right, well, as right as they could now be. He'd died with

such a pull in him to come home. What had he said? Instead. Bloody hell! That

was it...he'd gotten 'instead.' Now what was he supposed to DO with it, eh?

Running up the ramp, he passed through the screen door and followed the sound

of voices into the kitchen.

ON TO PART 5

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