Stephen Lawhead - The Paradise War

Professor Nettleton did not interrupt. Twice I opened my eyes and found him sitting poised on the edge of his chair, as if he might pounce the moment I stopped. I rambled on and on until I had laid out the whole muddled episode, just as it happened. I told him everything-I did not have the strength of will to resist or play coy with the facts. I was too tired of keeping up the pretense, too weary of bearing the weight of knowledge all by myself. I just opened my mouth and the words tumbled out. I let my tongue flap on and on.

I told him about Simon's wild aurochs chase, about sighting the Green Man, about Farmer Grant, about the cairn and Simon's abruptly-acquired interest in Celtic lore, about my disturbing dreams, about seeing things, about… everything that had happened before and after Simon's disappearance. And it was blessed relief finally to unburden myself. Twice blessed to have someone listening who believed me completely. I had no fear that he would betray me, or think me insane. After all, everyone already thought him mad. He had told me so. My secret was safe with him; I knew that, and I made the most of it.

When I finally finished, I opened my eyes and glanced into the bottom of my empty beaker. Had I drunk it all? I must have guzzled away during my recitation. Now I was sorry not to have saved some. I placed the empty vessel on the table.

Through rain-streaked panes the sky glowed a sickly graygreen from the city lights reflecting off the low pall of cloud. I glanced into the gathered gloom of the chair facing me. Professor Nettleton's white hair shone with a faint glow from the window. His eyes glittered in the darkness.

«Of course,» he said at last. «Yes, I understand now.»

«Believe me, I didn't intend wasting your time with all this.»

He shook his head slightly. «On the contrary, it is why you came to me.»

Misplaced pride flushed my cheeks. «Look, I don't know that this is any of your business. I just came along because..

«Yes?»

«Well, because I didn't want to hurt your feelings.»

«Pish-tosh, Mr. Gillies. Let us clear the air at once. If we are to work together, we must have no more of this false modesty and guile. We both know very well what we're talking about. It is the freedom of believers to shout aloud what doubters dare not confess.»

«Huh?»

«You know what I am talking about.» The way he said it brooked no contradiction; I offered none. «Very well, let us put aside all inhibition and speak openly.» He reached out a firm hand and tapped my leg. «I will make a True Man of you yet.»

«I told you about Simon and everything dse,» I said, somewhat defensively. «But you haven't told me how you knew I was-« words failed me. What was I?

«Troubled?» Nettles offered. «Since this began, I have been observing very closely.»

«Observing what?»

«Why, everything. Quite literally everything. The signs are there for anyone with eyes to see them.»

«I don't understand,» I complained.

«No.» He rose and stood over me. «But we have done enough for one day, I think. Good-night, Mr. Gullies. Go home and get some rest.»

«Uh, yeah, good-night.» I climbed slowly to my feet. «Thank you.» I felt grateful in a nonspecific sort of way. I guess I was just glad he wasn't telephoning the men with the butterfly nets.

He propelled me quickly towards the door. «Come to me tomorrow morning. I will explain everything.»

Next thing I knew, I was standing with my coat in my hands in the gloomy half-light of Brewer's Lane. I put on my coat and hurried into the chilly rain. The wind had risen, driving the fine rain before it. The relief I had enjoyed in Professor Nettleton's company quickly dissolved in the cold reality of wind and rain. «Mad as a hatter,» I thought gloomily. «Old Nettles is crazier than I am.»

I arrived back at the door to my rooms just in time to hear the telephone ring. I jammed the key in the lock and dashed to answer the phone, and instantly realized I'd made a big mistake.

The dock read ten minutes past eleven. Who would be calling at this rime of night?

«Hello, is that Mr. Gillies?» The voice sounded as if it were coming from a very great distance-the vicinity of Mars, perhaps. Still, it was one of those once-heard-never-forgotten voices, and I recognized it at once. My heart sank.

«Speaking,» I said. «Good evening, sir.»

«Geoffrey Rawnson here.»

«Good to hear you, sir. How are things?»

«Oh, working too hard as usual. Haven't a minute to myself. Still, mustn't complain, I suppose,» he replied affably enough. «Actually, I was wondering if I might speak to Simon. Would you be so kind as to put him on?»

«I'm sorry, Mr. Rawnson, but Simon isn't here at the moment.»

«Not there? Well, where is he?» His tone implied that he thought it unlikely his son should be anywhere else but standing beside the phone waiting for him to call.

«He's out for the, ah, evening, I believe,» I lied, and added a corrective of truth. «As a matter of fact, I just got back myself.»

«I see,» he replied. 'Well, I won't keep you. Would you just relay to Simon that I called?»

«I'll do that, sir-as soon as I see him.»

«Fine,» the elder Rawnson said. «There's just one other thing.»

«Yes?»

«Tell Simon that unless I hear from him tomorrow before ten o'clock, I will arrive as scheduled to pick him up. Do you have that?»

«You'll be here to pick him up as scheduled-yes, I have it. Uh, what time would that be, sir-so I can tell Simon?»

«He knows the details, I should think,» Rawnson said, and I detected an undercurrent of pique. He paused and, by way of explanation, added, «I don't mind telling you I'm a little put out with Simon just now. He was supposed to turn up for his grandmother's birthday celebration at the weekend. Never misses it. This year not a card, not a call, nothing. He'd better have a very good excuse. And I'll expect to hear it when I see him tomorrow. You can tell him that from me.»

«Yes, sir,» I agreed.

«Well, it's late, I won't keep you. Good-night, Mr. Gillies. Best regards.» The phone clicked and the line went dead.

Sturm und Drang! Face to face with Simon's dad, and what was I going to tell him? Terribly sorry, your highness, but Sonny Jim has flitted off to La-la Land. Tut tut. Rotten luck, what?

I went to bed full of woe, and fell asleep plotting Simon's demise.

It may be that Professor Nettleton slept in his clothes. Then again, maybe he didn't sleep at all. When I arrived early next morning, he appeared exactly as I'd left him the previous evening, hip deep in research-there were piles of papers, pamphlets and journals, and stacks of books all over the floor. «Come in! Come in!» he called when I knocked, barely glancing up as I entered.

«Here it is!» he cried, waving a book over his head. «Sit down, Lewis, and listen to this.»

Nutsy Nettles began reading at me from the book, pacing among the heaps of literature, running his hand through his wispy hair. I listened to him for a moment before I realized that I did not understand a word he was saying. I mean, the words I understood, but they made no sense. It was all a jumble of jargon: nexus this, and plexus that, and something about serial time and the infinite malleability of the future or some such thing.

I shifted a stack of papers onto the floor and sat down in the Leather chair. The lamp next to the chair was the room's only Light. He finished his reading and regarded me closely, his eyes pixie-bright with excitement.

«Excuse me, Nettles,» I said, «I'm not sure I got all that. I didn't sleep very well last night.» Then I told him about my phone conversation with Simon's father.