A Journey's end

A Journey's End

John Smith stared hard through his rain soaked windscreen as the
wipers strained in a losing battle against the horrendous storm that
was raging outside. Thunder rolled overhead and sporadic lightning
flashes lit the cloud-blackened sky.

Normally, he loved a good thunderstorm, but at eight-thirty in the
evening when he'd already been driving for ten hours, it was, he'd
decided, not the best of conditions. The storm had been raging all over
the UK unabated for nearly 24 hours and was causing absolute havoc with
all forms of transport, all trains and flights running hours behind
schedule. Hence, he'd decided the quickest option was to drive from his
plush London home to his parent's home in Willowbank, a remote village
on the western bank of Loch Lomond. At least driving was keeping him
busy and his mind active, which, under the circumstances was definitely
for the best.

His eyes strained to see into the murk all around him. His headlights
on main beam made no impression at all on the dismal conditions.

"Welcome to Scotland" he said aloud.

Right now he was driving through some of the most scenic countryside
in Europe, though if he hadn't known it was there he would never have
guessed. The rain had cut his visibility to less than fifty metres and
the wind was continually playing the trees on either side of the road
into a violent ballet. The sky was black and oppressive and almost
seemed to be pressing on the roof of the car itself. Conditions not
uncommon in that part of the world. The road north from Glasgow to Loch
Lomond was perilously narrow and continually meandering, from left to
right and right to left, in tight bends which conspired to make it not
the safest route, even in the best of weather.

Normally at this time of year, late July, the lochside was continually
conveying a hotchpotch of caravans, camper vans, four by four's, estate
cars and bicycles. All loaded to the gills with holidaymakers with at
least one shared intent. To experience the stunning beauty of the
Scottish Highlands. Today, however, the road was empty and John had the
feeling that he was the only person in the country who hadn't the sense
to stay indoors. Bad weather, he thought, made Scotland even more
beautiful and spectacular than it was in fine weather, it seemed to
gain a different mood, an atmosphere which could make the hair on the
back of your neck stand up.

All of his childhood had been spent in Willowbank. His parents had
moved there from a Glasgow council estate when he was a few months old,
with the idea that they would not make him grow up in the squalid
conditions that they had. It was where he'd had his first serious
girlfriend, when he'd 'married' Patricia Campbell when they'd both been
the ripe old age of five and a half. Even now at twenty-eight, and
properly married, he still wondered on the odd occasion what had become
of her.

His thoughts wandered back to his childhood. His mother's house had
always been full of delicious smells, home made soup, home baking,
cakes, scones, biscuits, he could still smell them now when he
concentrated. It was the warmth of the place that he most remembered.
Always full of laughter and smiles and music. The memories raised a wry
smile. He wondered if he would ever hear his mother's laughter
again.

It had been a very long year since his mother, Janet, had been
diagnosed as having an incurable form of Cancer. By the time it had
been diagnosed it had already spread far enough so as to render any
form of treatment ineffective. Of course there were doctors and
specialists who urged her not to give up hope, they could perform
miracles these days they said. She was a strong, proud woman, and
dignified, and had resisted their attempts to expose her to needles and
drugs and other altogether less appealing treatments. She would fight
this last battle on her own terms and if it was, ultimately, to be a
lost cause then she would meet her maker with dignity, and no doubt,
give him a piece of her mind into the bargain.

Since that day there had been many arguments and more tears. John had
offered that they should live with himself and his wife, Sarah, in
London, which would make her time easier, but she had refused, as he
had known she would. She would end her days in Willowbank and her mind
would not be changed.

His father, James, was also a strong, quiet, proud man and as much as
he disagreed, he respected his wife's wishes and set about making her
time as comfortable as possible. Even after thirty years of marriage
they were still very much in love. Which was a rarity in these days of
fast travel, fast food and even faster divorces. He really hoped his
marriage would last as long, though not with the same end result. The
thought of losing his wife was one that he couldn't bear and his
respect for his father was only increased by the way that he coped with
everything. If their positions had been reversed, he thought, he really
didn't know if he could handle it.

It had been a call from his father, which had sparked his dash across
the storm lashed and rain sodden country. It had been around nine
thirty in the morning when the phone had rung, and he'd picked up the
receiver and felt the pain and desperation on the other end of the
line.

"Hello son" his father's voice sounded as though he'd been crying.
"It's your mum. She's bad, and she wants to see you. I think you should
come. I don't think she'll pull through this time", his voice trailed
away. He could almost touch the emotion in his father's voice.

"OK dad. I'll be there as quickly as I can", then he'd hung up,
dressed quicker than he had in a long, long time, left a note for his
still sleeping wife and rushed to the car.

A change in the weather brought his mind back, the storm really did
seem to be easing off. He pressed play on the BMW's in-car CD player,
and, to the strains of Def Leppard, he pressed his foot on the
accelerator.

Death stalked the streets of Willowbank. He enjoyed being here. There
wasn't an inch of this Earth, the Garden that he hadn't visited. But
unspoilt areas always filled him with a sense of wellbeing, of the way
the Earth was supposed to be before they, they called themselves
humanity, spoiled things with their cars and cities and nuclear
reactors and the list was so long as to be almost unending. Thinking
about the ways in which the Garden had been spoilt and abused was
enough to make his head ache.

It amused him to watch them leading themselves towards Armageddon,
with their petty squabbles and greed and what seemed to be an in-built
distrust and loathing of their fellow man. They were a law unto
themselves however, and a small few were even quite admirable in their
own little ways. They were such a contradiction these humans. Capable
of waging war on and conducting genocide on their own kind and
systematically destroying their own world, filled with wonder and
beauty, and yet capable of ingenuity, and understanding and love.
Still, he supposed he would never figure them out. That wasn't his job.
His job, was to bring Judgement to those whose time had come. He was
what these humans called Death, the Grim Reaper, and he struck fear
into their hearts. They knew so little, these humans. Death, was just a
beginning.

He wandered the dark streets. Waiting. He enjoyed his time here and
saw no reason to rush. He passed between dwellings which contained such
happiness and such heartbreak, laughter and tears. From street to
street he passed. A dog howled nearby. A cat hissed and spat at him,
the hair on its' neck and back standing erect. A young man strode past
him, unseeing, unknowing. Not yet your time, he thought, not yet, but
soon.

He wandered till he came to a pretty dwelling, with curtains drawn and
lights in the upper rooms. He sensed tremendous sorrow emanating from
within. He knew, of course, every detail of their little lives. It
saddened him to take the souls of such loyal, caring humans. Those who
would put there own feelings and fears aside and concentrate fully on
those of others. It seemed to him that humans with those abilities were
more deserving of Judgement than most of humankind, and yet, this would
become a far more hospitable world if such humans were to be here
longer. Still, he thought, Fate could not be outrun, and Judgement
could not be hidden from.

He studied the little dwelling, which, he thought, they called, a
cottage. It was an attractive building, with it's whitewashed stone
walls and flowers in hanging baskets on either side of the front
entrance. It was flanked on either side by cottages of the same type
with their neatly manicured rectangular lawns surrounded by flower
borders and herbs and shrubs, all contained by a lush green
hedgerow.

Here, he thought, but not yet. He waited.

James Smith sat by his wife's bedside, held her hand, and wept silent
tears. She was asleep and when she was asleep then it seemed she was in
no pain, and she was as beautiful as the day they had met. His despair
had grown to a peak over the last few weeks. Since his wife's
diagnosis, her health had been declining steadily, and with it, his own
resolve to see the situation through to the end. He wished his wife
would die, and he was both ashamed and disgusted that he could feel
this way. He had seen his wife eaten away little by little each day and
the strain of it was breaking his heart, and his mind. He was angry at
the hand that Fate had dealt, and he could not think of a person more
undeserving of her plight than his wife. "Why?" he asked. "Why you?"
"Why us?" Questions he had asked the heavens time and time again, but
they remained unanswered.

He watched his wife lie still. Her blonde hair against the white
pillow. The pain and anguish in her face was gone and she seemed
peaceful, at rest.

He had fallen in love with her the moment they had met and at the
conclusion of their first conversation he had known that she was the
woman that he would marry. This was the year of their thirtieth wedding
anniversary, and, he was sure it would be their last.

Janet was the finest person he had ever known. Kind, loving and also
determined and strong-willed. She had been the glue which had held
their family together through the good times and the bad. He respected
her decision to face her problems the way she had, with courage and
dignity, but to see her suffer every day the terrible pain with never a
complaint or a harsh word was at one and the same, uplifting, inspiring
and a terrible burden of which he would never speak, except to those
closest to him. She had always been stronger than he, without even
knowing it. She had accepted her fate graciously and was a shining
example to us all in humility and strength. Even now she was still
moved to tears when she saw the plight of the starving in Africa, or
the war ravaged homeless in the Balkans. She had enriched his life more
than he could ever find the words to tell her and he had tried to show
her each day that she was, and always would be the great love of his
life.

He was glad he had asked John to come. He would provide invaluable
support in case the end of his wife's journey through life was as close
as he imagined. He was a good man John, he thought, he had a lot of his
mother in him. The same will and determination and yet the same
compassion and capacity for love and friendship. Yes, he would need
John's help over the next few days.

He replaced Janet's hand on the bedclothes and stood up. His bones
creaked and he felt tired, weary. He turned to the window and walked
towards the closed curtains. He pulled them apart and peered into the
darkness. He pulled the curtains closed around him to cut out any
reflection, and as the bedroom in the glass receded, he caught a faint
glimpse of a young man in a dark suit leaning against a fence which
bordered the far side of he road. He concentrated on the view outside
but the young man was gone. He strained his eyes into the darkness left
and right but there was no one to be seen.

John Smith pushed the accelerator pedal still further. If it hadn't
been for the circumstances of his journey he would have been enjoying
himself. Throwing his silver BMW into tight bends, feeling the tyres
bite into the tarmac, and hold the road almost effortlessly. He hadn't
far to travel now, he was nearing home.

The worst of the storm had passed overhead, the incessant rain had
stopped and the weather had cleared considerably. So much so that he
could see bright moonlight streaming through the broken cloud. He
estimated that he only had a few miles left and then he would be back
where he really belonged, where he really felt at home. He couldn't
help wondering how much it was about to change.

Death waited patiently. He watched, and waited.

He saw the silver BMW roar down the street and pull into the kerb
outside the pretty cottage. He watched the young man leave the car and
rush to the front entrance. The young man rapped on the door, and an
older man with greying hair and a tired, ragged look answered it almost
immediately. They greeted each other warmly and stepped inside.

John Smith stepped inside after his father.

"How is she?" he asked, the concern showing in his voice.

"She's upstairs asleep" his father replied. He looked gaunt and tired
as though he hadn't slept in a long while.

"She's not doing so well", he continued. "I don't think she'll make it
this time. She's pulled through before but she's weak and getting worse
by the day." He walked to the large wooden cabinet which stood against
one wall and picked up a bottle of malt whisky and two glasses. He
poured two large measures and turned to face his son.

"Here, you'll need this" he said, and passed John one of the glasses
before taking a large swig of his own.

"She's coming to the end of her journey and there's nothing any of us
can do to stop it" he growled. John looked at his father and thought he
looked almost at the end of the road himself.

"You look like you need a long holiday, and to sleep for about ten
years" John said. The past year had taken its' toll on James more than
he was willing to admit, but its' effects could only be hidden for so
long.

John took a large gulp of his whisky. It was refreshingly fiery and as
he swallowed he could feel the warming sensation all the way to his
stomach where it burned pleasantly.

"That's more truthful than you'll ever know. I'm tired of this. I'm
tired of watching the woman I love waste away in front me." James
walked across the room to a large armchair and sank into it. He pushed
his head back and stared at the ceiling.

"It's right that it should end here. She always loved this place. She
made it a home for all of us. When she dies, so will this house. It'll
never be the same. Nothing will." Sheer desperation returning to his
voice no matter how hard he tried to stop it.

"No Dad. I don't see it that way. I think her spirit will always be
here keeping the old place alive and warm. Mum will always be watching
over us, making sure we don't wear the same pants two days in a row,
and that we don't drink too much, and that we don't miss her too
much."

The thought of his wife's ghost washing his underwear actually brought
the briefest of smiles to James' face and then he began to sob
uncontrollably.

Janet Smith was dreaming. She dreamt of a young man in a dark, almost
black suit who was stood in the corner of her bedroom. She was stood in
the opposite corner, watching him. He was a young good looking man in
his mid-twenties, with short untidy, blonde hair and the most piercing,
icy blue eyes she thought she had ever seen. He leaned against the wall
in the far corner of her bedroom almost nonchalantly, as though he
hadn't a care in the world.

Her attention switched to the large bed, which took up one end of the
room, and it she could see herself, lying still. Her complexion pale
and gaunt, her face pinched and drawn. The bedclothes were pulled up
around her neck and a large glass of water and numerous containers of
painkillers and pills stood on the bedside cabinet.

She wondered how she could be in two places at once but she felt calm,
as though she knew instinctively that something incredible was about to
happen.

So this must be what an out of body experience is like she thought.
She began to notice a tingling in her fingers and toes and she found it
almost warming and strangely comforting.

She concentrated once again on the young man and he was looking
straight at her with his icy blue stare. Otherwise he had remained
still.

She watched the door open and her husband and son enter the room.
Their eyes were red and faces tear stained. They crossed the room and
took up a vigil by her bedside. She tried to go to them, to let them
know she was fine, but found her feet would not move. She tried to
speak to them but found that she could utter no sound. Her husband
picked up her hand in his and held it to his cheek while her son moved
her damp hair from her face.

She looked once again at the young man, whose lips were moving as
though he were talking to her, and he began to walk across the room
towards the bed. His lips continued to move as though he were speaking
but making no sound. A voice began to fill her head as though the young
man were speaking directly into her mind.

"Do not be afraid" the voice intoned. "You are about to embark on the
most fascinating journey mankind can make. You're time for Judgement is
at hand and your spirit will be set free. You have nothing to fear. Do
not be afraid for your family. We have plans for them".

With that he touched his outstretched hand to her breast above her
heart.

She watched calmly, as her earthly body released it's last dying
breath. She felt the tingling sensation spread through her arms and
legs until her whole body was alive. The room seemed to fill with an
incredible warming light from which she could not remove her eyes. The
light seemed to grab her full focus of attention and nothing else
seemed to exist except the young man who walked towards her, took her
hand and gently, led her towards whatever the light held for her.

John Smith looked down the hillside towards the loch. The sky was
clear blue and the breeze was cold and refreshing. He watched a hawk
hovering above some unsuspecting prey. It stayed perfectly in position.
Watching patiently, before swooping behind some trees and out of sight.
The water of the loch was still, clear and blue and the sun reflected
off its' surface so it shone like glass, creating a mirror image of the
surrounding hillsides. A boat floated near the midpoint of the loch and
he could see several fishing rods dangling over the side. He wondered
if the fishermen were local or had travelled far.

When he was a kid he'd spent hours playing on this hillside.
Pretending to be a commando, or a spaceman, or even a cowboy on the odd
occasion. The memories were faintly embarrassing to him.

It had been two weeks since his mother's funeral and he'd felt no
desire to return to London, so his wife had since joined them in the
cottage. His father had taken his mother's death badly, everyone in the
village had, and there had been a great turnout at the funeral. Many
people who came to pay their respects he hadn't seen for years. They
still remembered him though, as 'Janet's boy'. The affection they felt
for his mother here was almost tangible and he felt as though her
memory and her spirit was all around him. He had always preferred to
keep an open mind on the subject of an after-life, or Heaven and Hell,
but he thought now that he might change his mind. He hoped, if his
mother was in some sort of after-life, then she would be looking out
for them in the years to come. He had a funny feeling his father,
James, would need her help. They all would.

He looked once again out over the loch. Smiled to himself, and headed
off down the hillside towards the cottage.

The End.

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