Arises McLliad had the look of a tired lonely old man, with his long time worn and beaten brown cardigan coat which was not originally is as with most things he wore. Arises was the type of man that had nothing and was usually built up out of what others tossed aside. The cardigan swished at his knees when he walked at pace, and he liked it a great deal. Arises had been a handsome man in his youth one could tell by the glint in his eyes; and although he had aged remarkably well it was clear as he sat upon the park bench, watching the swann's upon the water that inside he was lonely, irksome and tired. Often in the deep mystery of a wind swept autumn park a dark figure could spied, if one cared to look for him. His tattered yellow scarf which had belonged to his wife, flailing and whipping behind him madly in strong winds, his wispy grey hair that danced in a confused clutter come rain or wind, and his bent frame leaned forever forward constantly even when he traversed flat surfaces, his bent frame was especially noticeable, when he remained still for a quiet moment, contemplating something unfathomable before he stumbled happily down and along roads in an awkward parody of a man forever struggling up a steep hill, with some great weight chained to his leg.
His twisted frame was testament to his hard life; Arises was the type of man that could discover many beautiful things, yet it was his destiny to lose them; and ever glance sadly up and down a long leaf speckled lane asking what had become of all the beautiful and delightful things God had given him. Arises was a long haired blue eyed Job but without the eventual divine succour. Arises was not an evil man; altough he was exceptionally foolish. Apart from animals and lakes he could no nothing right from wrong. He was a natural born mystic, a long lost hermitt idyll from the days of old flaxen saxon lore; he could do little and say little that in some way or other would not hurt someones feelings or land him in bother. It could be said of Arises that he was as man with the perpetual look of one always wanting to cry, yet never actually weeping. Each afternoon he would set off in wind or snow up the Bakers Lane, past the bakers, the chemist; Tim Wellingtons shoe shop, the new fast food outlet and the old type-writer repair shop. As he would pass each store, some one would yell out.
'Another long walk Arises?' to which he would just nod violently and often as not he would not acknowledge them at all. This behaviour the shop keepers had grown long used to, and would simply wave condescendingly. Some would mutter behind cakes and fat faces "he used to be a famous author they say, he is a millionaire they say" or the more kindly curious "do you think that old dear is happy all alone in that derelict house of his" Arises mistook all interest for understanding on their part, and he would waddle onward ever serious. Occasionally he would stop, stare awhile and then in some enlightened moment of loving generosity bestow one of his home made trinkets upon them. Usually a bottle top soldered onto a marble, or on rare occasions the trinket would be of a greater artistry and would include an array of matchsticks skilfully glued together in the shape of some bird of prey or impossibly tiny battleship, or a marvellously chipped and kilned clay models of a Knight on horseback ready for the joust, painted red or yellow with dragons and anchors and eagles. The craftsmanship of these rare trinkets was so fine that many-doubted Arises actually fashioned them with his own hands. Only widowed Mrs Lowleaf who ran the post office would take the time to actually talk to Arises and indeed seemed to get a great deal of sense and satisfaction from their encounters, she would always offer him something to nibble on his way up to the cemetery and then offer him a cup of warm soup on his way down. Often she would lightly admonish him for his tardy appearance.
'Arises you have not shaved, shame!' to which Arises would bashfully step from foot to foot shuffling his long coat and mumble an apology, Miss Lowleaf would smile and more often than not she would accompany him down the hill safely to his front door. Yet once past all the shops and peoples of the village of Rustling Leafs, Arises always hurried in glad anticipation; now looking un usually stout and proud with the occasional mumble or good word to a passing bird, up Arises McLliad would amble toward the old cemetery where his wife had been buried twenty years earlier. Mumbling odd bits of conversation to himself he would shuffle happily up the paved hill with a handful of flowers, muttering words of profound truth to invisible people he had long since been abandoned by or that he had simply misplaced.
The large iron gates had rusted over the years and were destined forever to be broken and useless, great epic structures they were too, built in the time when Rustling Leafs was going to be the central hub for a large train network, and so a great deal of money was spent in making the town look modern, the old heather fields were going to be bulldozed to make way for the state of the art station and car park; also there had been plans to build a chewing gum factory, to assuage the dire unemployment of the nearby City of Miserchester, yet the locals had caused a great deal of fuss and some local farmers had caused a great deal of criminal damage to the fleet of shiny bulldozers one dark frosty October night, four national television networks had covered the story dubbed 'The Battle of Rustling Leafs' and the people of the town were lucky that it had been an election year, so the then MP for South Sleepyshire and also the chairmen of a local building and contractors company one Gregory Liezard, had smiled affectionately at the resulting press conference as camera's dazzled their eyes, Liezard swore he adored the town and would respect the locals wishes. All this excitement passed Arise by, like so many things in his life. Religion amused him, war appaled him, love bemused him and anguish plagued him. Yet for his lack of fortune and trustworthy companions he was not ill tempered or greedy; he gave what and when he could; often this was seen of nothing of any great value by others; Arises had a great capacity for loyalty and this had not served him well.
Arises continued walking, with a secretive innate intuition that all things were insubstantial and would invariably disappear. The old heather fields remained and Arises ignored them completely as he made his way along the shadowy path, thin beams of honey baked light twinkled down through the leafy canopy, a sad brooding air of stern concentration hung over him, hunched as he was ambling with difficulty down the sad path of his memory, this brooding air was broken only when he whistled gaily in reply to some remark or other by an inquisitive bird. Suddenly Arises stopped mid stride, and glanced back sadly at the fine iron gates; he felt as if they were not from his own mind, that somehow they had been painted there rather suddenly by another mind, akin and similar to his but not identical. He envied the vast array of ivy tentacles that had spiralled their way around each spike of the gate receding quickly to his rear and the gate had become a formidable obstacle decorating the entrance. He soon felt too sad to stare and so turned away and continued ambling. Great trees loomed in two rows either side of the tidy path, which wound its way toward the cemetery real. Small pink blossoms fell gracefully to the floor as the gentle breeze disturbed them. He paused again, and thought about pink blossoms, these he also felt were not of his own creation; yet to remember would be to hurt and such terrible things were beyond his now weak and frail mind to endure. He squeezed through yet another gate and wrapped his yellow scarf around his neck another time. Arises stood solemnly for a moment, taking in the whole graveyard before him, it would often take him an hour or two to locate her grave, it was not a large graveyard, but Arises was prone to memory lapses, also his constant communication with the birds often side tracked him for hours, much was to be learnt and his advice was always sought by birds in great distress, the locals were quick to accept this peculiar aspect of Arises behaviour. Arises soon came to the small slab of black marble with his wife's printed upon in grey letterings.
HERE LIES VICTORIA KATHLEEN HERZELOYDE
where do the people we know, really go?
Arises knelt down respectfully in front of his wife and put his now weather beaten flowers in a small white vase that Victoria had fashioned herself when she had been alive, for if truth be told she was the real craftsmen when it came to clay, and all that Arises knew had come from her. The clouds darkened and a few specks of rain splattered softly against Arises dry, vain ridden cheek. A spectator may well have been moved by the poignant solemnity of the scene, caught so wistfully in the sensitive heart of a passer by. And moved to a pity the saints themselves would envy, the spectator would approach stealthily and bash Arises suddenly on the head with a slab of marble and so put the old chap out of his long weary journey of ache and remorse. Yet Arises felt neither sorrow nor solemnity, for indeed he knew well the dead were only gone if you forgot them.
'How are you my love? (asked Arises McLliad sadly, a reply seemed forthcoming and indeed he nodded his head thankfully) it has been a lonely week without you (suddenly Arises checked himself mentally, prompted by the gently correction of a departed one) indeed twenty years have elapsed (this brought a tear to Arises heart and ever present grief welled up in his throat, he seemed to nuzzle his cheek against some invisible hand that had come to rest upon his shoulder) I am not blabbering like a school boy (retorted Arises) what? Oh yes I hoped you would not hear about that (said Arises shyly, suddenly the appearance of a naughty school boy seemed best to fit his countenance) Now do not be angry, I forgot about Stanley Woddington, I did not intend to abandon him upon the doorstep for so long a period, he was not on speaking terms with me for a long time (there was a thoughtful pause as Arises thought about that troublesome cat) what do you mean I deserve it? (Complained Arises bitterly yet he seemed to hear laughter from the fathomless depths of that which ever place he visited and he too smiled) of course I am not angry, yes I have been turning of the kiln, our your son has not visited, oh he is busy as all young men are! I can not tell you a great deal about our dear friend Mr Woddington right now, last I saw of him was from out of the bathroom window this morning, skulking over the back field he went, oh really! But if he insists on rushing off without telling me a thing, then how can I keep track of his journeying, I believe him to be a father now, I dare say that is the reason for his odd behaviour, well something is consuming much of his spare time (Arises listened as if of some sweet lullaby; what memorable scenes old men make when their youth has vanished; bent and tired, yellow of scarf and grey of air, in the autumn winds of leaf and chill; Arises sat listening) no I have not caught General Mubster indeed he has retaken the cellar, his hordes are always rusting about down their, I dare not go down any more beyond the hours of day light, or without Mr Woddington. Pardon dear? Oh, yes Thomas Applesmith is fine, I caught him napping in a mound of leafs again this November, I took him up and set him in his usual box inside the stair case, no (Arises shook his head softy as a few splatters of rain made gentle patting sounds upon his jacket) I did not wake him, I suspect he will wake of his own accord soon enough' for a long period Arises seemed to be listening to someone, he nodded occasionally and smiled often, he seemed spellbound by the tale being told him, to anyone watching it would appear as if a sad old man in brown with a bellowing yellow scarf was shaking sadly before the grave of some loved one. Soon Arises began to lumber with great difficulty to his fee and after a few groans and he said his farewell; an onlooker would merely observe an old man leaving a grave to be; yet Arises was reduced by goodbyes and he could do little be ache; often he would wake in agony, simply because he knew he should hav to see her only to let her go again, this was the way of Arises and ever was it a torment to him. After a long sad pause, in the chill rains, he hobbled along the road for awhile until his limbs felt the warmth of motion return and his pace was soon as completely and utterly without urgency as it always had been, through the gates he ambled, and with one sad glance back in the direction of the graveyard, he made his way home in the fading light.
Arises closed the great red door behind him and stood resolutely in the old corridor, a side table rested dustily against the main wall opposite the stairs which creaked silently up to the second floor, it was dark and damp and Arises did not take of his coat, he did however swap his heavy marching boots for some torn and chewed slippers which held station next to the mound of un attended mail. He stood sadly in the gloom for an extended period of thoughtless time, listening to the deep silence of his home, he could see the kitchen door that was open ahead of him, he could almost envisage his wife coming out of that door and waving happy, telling him to hurry on inside and settle down to a nice cup of tea, in his favourite porcelain giraffe cup, a souvenir from their trip to a safari park in the blossoming romance of their lust. Arises saw her beautiful beaming face, delighting in all things of togetherness. Togetherness those times of being two souls in one gentle space, such kisses and laughter as we dare not forget, the love of togetherness had never left him, indeed it made him almost bitter to be at such a sad loss in such a lonely time. The dry creaking of the tired wooden stairs and the deep guttural howling of the wind outside brought Arises away from his reverie. He shuddered sadly in the damp of the corridor. He made his way along the corridor in the half light of dusk; he came to one closed door, which if opened would reveal the little living room which was seldom used. If Arises had peeked inside, he would have seen a pretty box of embroidery and a half knitted scarf, yellow of wool and thick enough to protect the delicate neck of an old man. But he did not peek into the living room, in fact he hade a serious effort to ignore it as he pushed open the kitchen door, upon arriving in the kitchen he stood sadly still silhouetted by the fading light. Then as if awaking from some gentle remember, he fumbled in his pocket and produced a box of matches he rustled them tentatively to re enforce his belief that there were indeed matches inside. Satisfied he proceeded to slowly light various candles dotted about the kitchen this he did in a lackadaisical fashion for they would be lit in time and he saw no need to rush, once he had ignited the candles above the old stove, he turned a knob upon its greasy tainted surface and tentatively with great care lit a blue flame, he shuffled toward the sink shaking out the match in one hand and with the kettle in the other, he paused sadly at the sink for a moment then filled the rusty dinted old kettle with water, glancing out of the window as he did, he caught a glimpse of Mr Woddington nimbly scaling the fence at the back of the garden, beyond McLliads grey neglected garden a great swooping patch of green lands fell away for as far as the eye could see, no homesteads were visible, yet at night from the third floor window, little twinkling porch lights and glimmering yellow street lights could be discerned far off. Arises shook his head and giggled happily to himself, for the fence was so utterly dilapidated there was no need to scale it so impressively. 'Oh Mr Woddington you old cat you' thought Arises 'even the wind simply breezed over the fallen fragments rotting in the dirt but not Mr Woddington' Arises smiled to himself. Yet like many of his kind Mr Stanley Woddington was an expert gymnast and showmen, Stanley seemed to see Arises grinning at him from within the shadowy candle lit kitchen and he immediately leapt down from the fence, whining and jumping gracefully through the un cut grasses right up to the back door. Arises planted the kettle gently atop of the blue flame and made his way to the back door, at the bottom there were a few drill holes and clumsily hewn scars where many years past Arises had attempted to first make a cat door and then install one, both ventures failed miserably and so Stanley could only be admitted manually, this was the cause of the latest friction between master and man. As soon as the door was open but a chink, Stanley shimmied in whining and complaining bitterly about the sudden chill in the air, about the large fat red tom that had muscled into his territory and the plight of his starving stomach, and how bitterly neglected he was. Arises laughed warm heartedly and accepted without comment that it was his entire fault. Stanley not waiting for a reply dashed off toward his bowl upon the kitchen table and upon finding it empty began another tirade of bitter complaints, Arises locked the back door and ambled out of the dark back passage, with its chill concrete and frayed carpet, with dark masses of dead spider webs hanging in the corners, Arises pondered where did the spiders go in winter, and if there was a secret spiders commune that might on the strength of a large fly permit Arises to observe the festivities, if he remained silent and respectful.
The passage was chill so Arises quickly grabbed a tin of cat food and fled into the dimly lit chill kitchen, putting the cat food upon the table, Arises shuffled over to a frail cabinet, above the cabinet were two cupboards he opened the smallest cupboard door and retrieved a tin of pilchards with asparagus. Arises groaned sadly, then turned back to the table. He paused a moment before slowly and with sad old man timbre limbs lowered himself into his chair. Once seated, he took in the stained rusty gloom of the chill wintry kitchen, with its sadness and empty spaces. Shaking his head of memories that caused nought but ache, he opened the tin of pilchards and placed them before Mr Woddington, Stanley was quick to leap upon the table and gracefully lower his body, as if he was about to pounce rather than settle down to eat, and began nibbling in the fashion of cats. Arises stroked Stanley's black and white fur, which was clean and shiny. In the dim shimmer of candles eerie glow, as the dark ripened outside, Arises petted Stanley Woddington happily and Stanley purred with appreciation, both at that point decided the other was not so bad after all. Suddenly a whining pitch shrieked about the kitchen, causing Stanley to turn in a start. Arises took a few deep breathes before he lifted his body from his chair and shuffled over to the whining kettle, and with a table cloth in hand he carefully picked up the hot handle and carried the kettle slowly over to the table, careful to keep it away from Stanley he poured himself a cup full of hot water, the tea bag and sugar had already been added, and so Arises let the kettle settle upon the table, whilst he stirred a few lumps of powdered milk into his cup, before sitting to rest himself Arises retrieved a large jar of pickled eggs from the same cupboard he had taken Stanley's pilchards from, he closed the cupboard door without so much as a thud and put the large jar upon the table next to his tea cup, Arises then stood for some time, contemplating the return journey to his seat, how his body ached and protested in the cold dark of a lonesome house in winter, after a time he slowly lowered himself back into his seat, he groaned sadly. He rested his elbows upon the table and lowered his heavy head into his hands that made a kind of rickety dry skinned cradle, he surveyed the cat nibbling away happily in candle radiance, he glanced at the tired old lifeless kitchen and breathed in the ever present stagnant absence of Victoria Kathleen Herzeloyde, it seemed as if the recalling of her name in Arises mind evoked her image inside Stanley's mind for the cat glanced up suddenly with an expectant look upon his face, his teeth glimmered viciously in the balmy blaze of candle glimmer, yet the cat soon settled back down and continued nibbling quickly at his pilchards. Whilst Arises dozed happily, indeed so deep was his sleep that Arises was not to wake in that last night to which he dreamed himself to death in the half shadows of kitchen moonlight, which pierced the glum candle airs and lit Arises face with a pale sadness no earthly eyes could see.
