The Wanderer by Timothy J. Jarvis Read Free Book Online Page A

was one evening, when, at the end of a meal I’d enjoyed with Rachel, at a cheap, but good, French restaurant, I became distressed by a turn the conversation took and nearly drove her away. We’d eaten well and drunk a bottle of wine. After dessert, while we awaited coffees, Rachel took my hands in hers.
    ‘Strange. I’ve worked with you for a long while, but I’ve only got to know you in the last few weeks,’ she mused.
    I grimaced, partly mocking, partly in earnest. ‘You’re notregretting it, are you?’
    ‘Shut up! I just mean we wasted a lot of time.’
    At this moment our coffees arrived. I spooned sugar into mine, stirring vacantly.
    ‘I guess we have,’ I said, staring down at the scum whorling on the surface of my espresso. ‘It’s just, I didn’t think you liked me, not in that way.’
    Rachel pursed her lips, wrinkled her nose, petulant.
    ‘Well I did. Would’ve thought it fairly obvious.’
    ‘Not to me.’ I sipped my coffee.
    ‘That’s because you’re an idiot,’ she said, grinning.
    ‘Fair enough. Still, things have happened at the right time.’
    ‘I suppose.’
    Rachel looked away, bit a fingernail, said, ‘Are you keeping something from me?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Not maliciously,’ she went on, ‘but because, I don’t know, you’re scared of my reaction.’
    ‘There’s nothing. Really.’
    ‘But I might be able to help,’ she sighed, staring up at the light fixture. Then, looking down, ‘Your hands. You’ve got to be careful.’
    I glanced down at them. They were dry and cracked, boiled-ham pink. I’d been scouring them often.
    ‘They’re fine. Just get like that when the weather turns cold,’ I lied.
    She winced. ‘Look after yourself. I worry.’
    ‘Well don’t,’ I said, vehement.
    ‘What?’ She sounded hurt.
    I almost raged then, but damped my ire.
    ‘I just mean there’s no need,’ I said. ‘I’m fine.’
    Rachel nodded, turned the conversation to a less fraught topic.
    After the meal, Rachel stayed at my flat. We spent nightstogether often, which I was glad of; when alone awful thoughts kept me from sleep.
    (Soon it will be dark; the moon is setting out to sea, casting a wavering grey path on the water. Would that I could walk down it into eternity’s repose. Instead, I will sleep fitfully on the grease-stained blankets I’ve laid out in the wheelhouse of this ship. The moon was waning gibbous when I began this account, now it is in its first quarter; it seems a fortnight has gone by, though, due to listlessness and the unvarying routine of my labours, I’ve not been aware of the passage of time – I’m grateful to that wan satellite for alerting me to it.
    In fact, I’m thankful for more than that. All my writing has been done by moonlight: I’m wary lest the devil seeking me be close at hand, so lie low during the day, in the wheelhouse. It is always in murk, its windows are filth-caked, and I’ve no means of making light, bar an electric torch, whose batteries I wish to save, and flame, and one of my reeky hog-fat and bulrush tapers would soon choke the place with smoke; and when it’s been too dark to work outside, during the new moon and on overcast nights, I’ve been loath to show, on deck, a light that might be seen for miles around.
    During the time I’ve been writing this account, little has happened, save in my head and on the page, but perhaps I should give a brief portrait of my day-to-day life. The barbarians round about avoid me, perhaps suspicious of my pallor and stature: their skin is a healthy dusk due to constant exposure to the torrid sun – I burn, but do not tan; and, as men no longer attain the height they did in the past, I’m head and shoulders above even the tallest of their race. I have several times been ashore to forage for roots and tubers, or to hunt down and kill, with a spear bodged by binding a carving knife to a sturdy branch with twine, one of the small reddish pigs that wander abroad. In a clearing, a little