R. Anderson - Wayfarer

“Which one, the Trans-National?”

He nodded.

“Ah.” She looked amused now, though he couldn’t imagine why. “Well, best of luck.” Without waiting for a response she walked off, her hips swaying lightly but her shoulders perfectly straight. It was the same way Miriam walked when she was carrying something on her head-a skill he’d never been able to duplicate, no matter how hard he tried-and Timothy watched her with a wistful lump in his throat until she raised a hand to her ear and began speaking into it:

“Rosie? It’s Veronica. Listen…”

The sound of her voice faded as she crossed the street. Funny, he hadn’t seen her take out a cell phone…. Timothy shook himself back to attention, finished tying his shoelace, and started off again.

When he reached the Trans-National, its doors were half blocked by a cluster of young people in ragged jeans, smoking cigarettes and chatting in a babel of languages. Whoops and giggles rang in his ears as two of the boys shoved each other around in a mock fight. Timothy dodged past them and plunged inside.

“Sorry,” said the shaggy, heavily pierced clerk at the desk. “Can’t get a room here without proof of age. Driver’s license, that sort of thing. Got to be eighteen or over ’cause of the bar, see.”

Timothy slumped. Sixteen he could pass for, but not eighteen. “Do you know another hostel I could try?” he said.

The clerk chewed on his lip ring, sizing Timothy up. “There’s the Old Victoria,” he said, pointing out the location on the map tacked to the desk. “They’ll probably take you.”

“Thanks,” said Timothy wearily, and squeezed back out the door again. This time he bumped into one of the boys, who said in a gruff American accent, “Watch it!”

“Aw, he’s just a kid,” said the girl next to him. “Leave him alone, Tyler.”

Tyler shot him a glare but subsided. Timothy gave the American a wide berth and was just stepping onto the sidewalk when a young woman with hair like a crested crane touched his shoulder. “Try this place,” she said, pushing a card into his hand.

Timothy looked down, expecting a coupon for some local pub or tourist trap. Instead he saw a cream-colored card with a single engraved word on the front: SANCTUARY

He turned it over and read:

For the discriminating traveler on a budget

Secure, well-maintained, attractive hostel in the heart of London

No smoking, no alcohol, no age limit

Present this card at booking for a 20 % discount

“So why aren’t you staying there?” he asked, trying to keep his voice light so he wouldn’t sound accusing, merely curious.

She gave him a sly grin and tapped the words no alcohol . “But if I were underage or just wanted a place to sleep, I’d go to Sanctuary like a shot.”

Timothy started to pocket the card, then thought better of it and handed it back. “It’s okay,” he said.

“What, you don’t trust me?” She looked affronted. “I was just trying to help.”

“I know,” he said, “but the Old Victoria is closer.”

He must have spoken louder than he’d realized, because someone in the crowd behind him laughed. “Yeah-if you like ripped sheets and bedbugs.”

There were noises of general agreement, and the crane-haired girl dropped her cigarette and led Timothy a little way down the sidewalk. “Here,” she said, pointing up the street. “Go two streets that way, then left and down about…” She counted silently on her fingers. “Four more. It’ll be on the right, just past the fish-and-chips shop. Used to be a church, so you can’t miss it.”

A church . Timothy’s heart sank a little, but after what the others had said about the Old Victoria, it seemed he didn’t have much choice. “Thanks,” he said, and set off.

Some time later, Timothy stood gazing up at a pillared entrance with the words GRACE BAPTIST CHURCH carved over the lintel. A scrap of greasy newspaper tumbled by and plastered itself against his shoe; he shook it off, and it whisked into the street and was gone.

He shouldn’t have come here, Timothy realized with a flicker of apprehension. The street was too quiet, too dimly lit. Besides, the old church looked deserted: No light shone from its windows, and the battered wooden doors were closed. He was wondering if he should go back and look for the Old Victoria after all, when the door swung open, flooding the step with honeyed light. From inside he heard laughter, and the faint, lilting notes of a guitar. “You looking for Sanctuary?” said a cheerful voice.

Suddenly the place seemed transformed, no longer a haunted church but a haven of worldly welcome. “Yeah, I am,” said Timothy, and hurried in.

Brushing past the smiling boy at the door, he found himself in a vestibule plastered with posters advertising bus tours to Stonehenge, offering discount coupons for a local cafe, and announcing the opening of a new twenty-four-hour launderette, international visitors welcome. A wall rack that had once held gospel tracts was now stuffed with tourist brochures, while the shelves built for hymnbooks were full of visitors’ muddy shoes. Reassured, Timothy made his way through a second set of doors and into the noisy bustle of the hostel’s common room.

His eyes found the guitarist at once: a young man with a lean face and fox-colored hair, eyes half closed as his fingers plucked out a Spanish melody. He sat alone on a dilapidated sofa in one corner, while by his feet two bored-looking and nearly identical boys in leather jackets played chess. In the opposite corner a small crowd had gathered, of varying ages and ethnicities; he could see a pair of Japanese girls giggling over a laptop, while two Arabs and a lanky Ethiopian carried on a passionate, hand-waving argument in French.

The reception desk stood against the far wall, beneath a cracked stained-glass window. After giving his card to the hair-twirling girl on duty, Timothy got a locker key and a set of linens, and she pointed him through a second set of doors to look for Cubicle Nine.

It didn’t take him long to find it. There were four bunks in the room, none occupied, so he dropped his backpack on the floor and started making up his bed for the night.

“There you are!” said a delighted voice from behind him, and Timothy jerked to attention, nearly cracking his head on the upper bunk.

It was the girl who looked like Miriam.

Why Veronica hadn’t told him about Sanctuary the moment he’d admitted he was looking for a hostel, Timothy couldn’t imagine-but on the other hand, there was something special about meeting her again. It made him feel almost as though there were some greater purpose at work, and he hadn’t felt that way for a long time.

“Look who’s turned up!” she announced as she tugged Timothy and his guitar back into the common room. “Another musician!”

This was greeted by cheers, and Timothy was bemused. “What’s going on?” he whispered, but Veronica only laughed.

“I love music, that’s all,” she said. “Why don’t you sit down and show Rob what you can do?”

Rob turned out to be the foxlike young man on the sofa, who set his own guitar aside and regarded Timothy with shrewd dark eyes. “How long have you been playing?” he asked.

“A few years,” said Timothy.

“And where are you from? I can’t place the accent.”

“Uganda. But I’ve been here since September.”

“Ah,” said Rob, leaning back and slinging his arm across the back of the sofa. “Well, then, troubadour, why don’t you play us a song?”

Half the people in the room seemed to be watching Timothy now. Veronica pulled a chair around and sat down across from him, eyes fixed eagerly on his face; even the black-haired twins set their chessboard aside, though they still looked bored and a little contemptuous. Timothy’s cheeks heated, but he lifted his guitar from the case and tuned it, trying to pretend that he was just practicing and that there was no pressure, no hurry. At last he lowered his head over the strings and began to play.