R. Anderson - Wayfarer

Humiliation burned in Linden, the first warmth she’d felt since they left the train. “I don’t expect anything,” she said, her voice thick and hoarse. “I’m grateful for all you’ve done-more grateful than I can say. But how can I help? I can’t make bread out of stones or conjure up a place for us to sleep-”

“No, but you could at least make it look like we have the money to pay for those things. Yes, I know,” he interrupted as she began to protest, “that would be stealing. Well, maybe it is, but right now I don’t care, and neither should you. If we get hypothermia and end up in the hospital, how’s that going to help the Oakenfolk or Peri or anybody?” She did not reply, and he added caustically, “Or are you hoping that if we just suffer long enough, the Great Gardener’s going to rain down free hotel vouchers and fairy cakes from heaven?”

Linden swallowed back a sick sourness in her throat. “Don’t.”

“Well, somebody’s got to say it. You can’t just keep throwing yourself into things and hoping for a miracle, Linden! This is the real world, and life doesn’t work that way.” He pressed a hand against his injured side, looking tired and wretched and too old for his years. “Nobody’s going to magically appear to save us. The only one who can help us right now is you.”

Doubt snaked into Linden, coiling deep inside her. She didn’t want to believe what Timothy was telling her, but what if he was right? So many people were counting on them, and they were staking their lives on this journey. With so much at risk, could she really afford to listen to her conscience?

Desperate, she closed her eyes. Help me, Great Gardener! she prayed. Show me what to do!

But no answer came, only another blast of sea wind that whipped her wet skirts against her numb and trembling legs. Linden’s head drooped, and she drew a shaky breath.

“All right. I’m sorry. I’ll do it.”

Timothy’s emotions were a discord of relief, fury, and disappointment. Part of him was amazed that Linden had given in so easily; the other part was annoyed she hadn’t done it earlier. She was gazing at him with pathetic hopefulness, no doubt expecting him to apologize or at least forgive her. But the wound in his side still stabbed him every time he moved; exhaustion dragged at his shoulders like a burden, and his hunger was so intense he felt weak. So in the end he said nothing, only gave a curt nod and started walking.

If they turned right at the next corner, that would take them back toward the train station. He’d seen a pub there, full of university students laughing over their pints and tossing chips at one another with the ease of people who’d never been hungry. Inside it would be warm, and he’d order a huge sandwich, or maybe even a steak….

“Wait,” said Linden suddenly, her voice thick with tears and cold. “I hear music.”

Timothy ignored her and walked on a few more steps, then realized that Linden was no longer with him. He turned to see her gazing at a squat, rough-plastered building across the street.

“I don’t care,” he said irritably. “Come on.”

“They’re singing,” she replied in a wondering tone. “I’ve heard Paul sing, a little…but they’re all singing together. I’ve never heard anything like that before.”

Timothy was on the verge of losing patience and dragging her away when he remembered what she’d told him about faeries learning creativity from humans. Maybe his interest in music was starting to rub off on her? She certainly seemed absorbed in what she was hearing, although he couldn’t hear a thing himself….

“Hey!” he called as she drifted away, but she was already crossing the street and walking up the path toward the little building. She pressed her ear to its wooden door, then eased it open and poked her head inside.

Curiosity was one thing, but this had gone too far. Timothy stomped after her and was about to pull her back when he finally heard the music that had drawn her there:

Yet it must be; Thy love had not its rest

Were Thy redeemed not with Thee fully blest…

The words shocked through him. That wasn’t a popular hymn. In fact, he was pretty sure that there was only one small group in Christendom that sang it. Timothy backed up from the door and swung around to look at the sign posted on the church’s left side. It said, in worn black letters:

ABERYSTWYTH GOSPEL HALL

Lord’s Supper 11:00 Sun.

Gospel Meeting 7:00 Sun.

Prayer 8:00 Wed.

“Oh, look!” exclaimed Linden, and before he could stop her, she darted inside. Timothy hissed at her to come out, but she didn’t answer, so at last he ground his teeth and followed.

Inside it was warm, and Timothy found himself competing for space in the narrow entry with a coatrack holding twice again as many hangers as coats, a table stacked with tiny blue hymnbooks, a stand of old-fashioned gospel tracts, and a large corkboard on which someone had painted a map of the world, with photographs pinned up all over it.

Linden was standing right in front of the African continent, prying one of the pictures off the board. Timothy was about to demand whether she had lost her mind when she turned and held it up to him, and then he could only stare.

“It’s you!” Linden said excitedly, waving the card. “Is this your family? Why do they have your picture here?”

She was halfway through the sentence when the hymn ended, and in the reverent silence her words echoed through the vestibule and into the sanctuary like a shout. The people in the congregation looked around with varying expressions of surprise and alarm, and after an awkward moment one woman got up from her seat and bustled over.

“What can I do for you, love?” she said in a hushed voice, blinking as she took in Linden’s sodden clothing and bedraggled hair. “Have you lost your way?”

“Not exactly,” said Linden before Timothy could answer, “but we have lost all our money, and we’re very tired and cold, and then I heard you all singing and it sounded wonderful, and when I looked in here I saw this.” She held up the photograph, which showed Timothy and his sister, Lydia, with their parents standing under a jackfruit tree. It was labeled Neil and Priscilla Sinclair-Uganda .

The woman’s expression had become wary when Linden mentioned money, but now she looked from the picture to Timothy, and her round face lit with delight. “Well, isn’t that wonderful!” she exclaimed. “You must come in and join us!”

“That’s kind of you, but we really-” Timothy began, but Linden had already followed the woman into the main hall and was gazing around the room in fascination. Her eyes lingered on the scattered congregants in their chairs, most of them elderly, the women all wearing hats. She watched with interest as a thin man with a gently drooping face got up and began reading out requests for prayer, and when everyone bowed their heads and a voice boomed out from the other side of the aisle, “OUR GRACIOUS HEAVENLY FATHER…” she jumped and stifled a giggle. But she clearly had no intention of leaving, so at last Timothy shuffled to a seat in the back row and resigned himself to wait until the meeting was over.

After the third or fourth prayer he must have dozed off, because when he lifted his head again people were getting up from their seats, and the woman beside Linden was talking in a voice loud enough to carry to the back of the hall:

“Poor lamb, you look done in. What a dreadful experience for you. How did it happen?”

“Someone picked my pocket,” said Timothy quickly, stifling a yelp of pain as he got up and hurried to join them. “There was nothing the police could do. But it’s all right, we’ll manage.” He nudged Linden. “Ready to go?”