The Journeyman. A diary of an occult resolution assistant............Friday
Do you believe? believe in what is the hardest thing to decide upon. But I believe, I thought I always did until it happened, and then I really believed. But if I had to explain to you what it was that I believed in I think I would fail vocalise the sum of what it is. I do not know, but I guess that's the point in belief. All I know is that IT is there, burning in the cold, lighting the dark and providing the soundtrack to all our lives.
Music is the only constant; the universe has a beat all of its own and it is to this beat that the worlds circle and comets fly. Huge gas clouds pulsate to it and black holes ring with it as the consume everything before. How do I know this? I've seen it. I've not been there, or even remotely close to it; but my mind has travelled there past solar systems, distortions, lights, all these I have seen fly past my senses and each more beautiful that anything I have seen before. But the most impressive single thing in the whole of everything is the music.
I've swam through the void with an orchestra beside me playing melodies that were created with the birth of the universe and added to in depth and tone with every new star and modified riffs when the explode at their end. My heart beat in time with the one true beat and at all time I could feel the Journeyman, my employer filling every part of that space stretching from home, Earth, throughout all of space and time. He promised me an adventure when I arrived upon his door for an interview for a researcher position; and he has delivered everything I could have dreamt of and more. But then, at the start of it, I had no idea what was going to transpire nor did I expect to be taken from a small semi in the South of England and be propelled outwards to where I am now. .........ok, its a semi detached in the South of England; but I heard the sound and it opened up my mind.
I am sitting in a hospital bed, typing this on my phone, do you know how long it takes to hook up a sentence on a screen with the smallest touchscreen keyboard? Well, putting it simply, this small task should fill up my time before I get a clean bill of health and sent home..........or until my pitifully small battery gives out.
The first day here I spent trying not to move due to the pain in pretty much every part of my body, that and trying not to bleed too much. Yesterday I had a visit from my employer. I had asked him to bring me something to read following a text he sent to enquire about my recovery, not I am sure out of concern as he also asked if I could run into town on an errand.
Well, he brought me in some books; all handwritten note books, but I get the impression they are all the same to him. So I read them, and then I read them again. At first I thought they were a work of fiction, a start to a literary career but with the worst sci-fi fantasy plots imaginable and totally unbelievable. But with more time to read I am starting to believe they are diary entries as brief inter-net searches link to real time incidents reported in publications on weird and wonderful that I would never have though existed until now. I found comments and links to web addresses, this being one of them, and as yet the only one I could crack the password for. its reading is interesting and goes someway to explaining the strange feelings I get around my employer. For those that do not know, or for my family who worry about me getting a real job! My employer is some kind of antique dealer relic hunter type who fills his time hunting down weird and wonderful things (definitely not old dusty junk as I once observer) and reacquainting them with their old owner or new. My role in all of this is wearing down shoe leather by running between library, warehouse, old ramshackle huts and gothic mansions, or the odd pub or modern new build house filled with ramshackled, gothic and dusty odd people. So much for the newspaper advert which stated adventures in the occult for the brave believer for which I applied; being a witch it seemed too good to be true not to apply for. My intuition must have been having a bad day when I did.
The white walled hospital ward housed beds made to industrial spec, all two inch thick bars of cold metal sumptuously layered with stiff rough off white sheets. I don't know what would hurt more if I were to hit my head on them, the metal or the sheets. In my mixed ward there are 12 beds, currently all filled with an assortment of sleepers, coughers, drippers, mobile phone users and unfortunately for me, talkers.
"So, what are you in for?" asked the occupier of the bed two down on my left. "that looks like a nasty head wound." He had gestured as best he could with a broken arm towards the reddening bandage wrapped tightly around a distinguished gentleman's head. We called him the Gent as he insisted on keeping his tweed jacket on over the top of his blue/white striped pyjamas.
The sound that followed sounded like it came from a chimney and smelt like an ashtray, the Gent was speaking. "I don't remember much." he smoked. "I was in the polling station when one of my neighbours came in so I smiled at her and as I handed over her ballot paper I just mentioned I had seen her husband earlier; he was waiting when they opened the doors first thing and he must have been very eager to cast his vote and almost as quick to leave too. Next thing I know is she's leaping the schools folding table we borrowed for the day and was using my head to dent the ballot box. All very strange as I thought her to be the most gentle and caring lady in all our previous dealings." The Gent scratched his head as he talked and worried with his damp greying hair.
There was a small collection of nods from the willing (or otherwise trapped) participants in the conversation. Before anyone could offer their insights or sympathy to the Gent for his misadventure, BQ jumped in with his story, almost as if he hadn't really wanted to know what the others had to say but wanted generate a reason to talk about himself. I called him BQ for his obvious love of all things wood, glue and metal and the need to join them together at home without reading the instructions.
"Well, there I was at the front door on this beautiful sunny day, the first we've had and I thought to myself I'll get on and fit that door bell the Old Woman has been on about." He had a way of talking that was 90% laughing at his own story and 10% louder than anyone else in the conversation. "Well, the drill wasn't charged, so I got the old electric one out of the shed. Rusty but good, as I always tell the ladies. Well anyway, drill meets door and its wobbling all over the place so I obviously have to open it and hold it with my other hand. They never tell you this in those stupid instructions written by idiots who've never picked up a tool in their life! Never actually read them myself, only a nube needs that"
"Bingo" I thought as he mentioned the lack of instructional prior learning.
"Well the door still shook so I put my foot there to stabilise, obviously the doorbell people never thought of all this when they made their cheap rubbish, but you gotta fit it when the Old Battle-axe wants it or there's no end of trouble." He gestured boobs then horns with his good hand and as best he could with his plastered one.
"Well one thing led to another and I had to stretch to the middle of the door and get the drill straight, that's one thing the drill people don't think about then they make their rubbish, and how was I to know my hand was the other side! Drill bit went straight through door, hand and garden fence."
A few laughs abruptly stopped as the story continued fast so not to allow anyone to interrupt. "Had to call for the Little Lady to come and help, Well she was sitting down watching rubbish on tv or in the kitchen doing whatever it is they do in there and she had no idea what to do did she, couldn't put he drill in reverse and didn't want to touch it when the blood shot out."
"And they plastered you whole arm for a hand injury?" Asked Gent, managing to crowbar a comment into the torrent from BQ.
"Well, it was only a small hole till we got in the car to come here, then she saw the blood drip through my hanky she drove into a parked post van."
A sharp hurumph trumpeted around the ward.
"who's that?" Asked the Gent looking around for the source of the disturbance.
"I'm the bloody postman!" can the response.
This looked like it was going to turn into a long and tedious conversation and I was pulling back into my pillow to fake sleep (or failing that a coma) to escape my turn to talk when my employer, the enigmatic Mr Xanthic exploded through the double ward doors; a doctors coat pulled tight across his standard style.
"Ah, there you are." He said staggering in through the door. "Can I get you to do a little favour for me before they find me an drag me out of here."
I was shocked at the entrance but nodded my acceptance. Then, looking over his shoulder to check no unseen to me pursuers could witness, he drew out a large curved and very bloodied knife. Then with a smile he collapsed to the floor.
Music is the only constant; the universe has a beat all of its own and it is to this beat that the worlds circle and comets fly. Huge gas clouds pulsate to it and black holes ring with it as the consume everything before. How do I know this? I've seen it. I've not been there, or even remotely close to it; but my mind has travelled there past solar systems, distortions, lights, all these I have seen fly past my senses and each more beautiful that anything I have seen before. But the most impressive single thing in the whole of everything is the music.
I've swam through the void with an orchestra beside me playing melodies that were created with the birth of the universe and added to in depth and tone with every new star and modified riffs when the explode at their end. My heart beat in time with the one true beat and at all time I could feel the Journeyman, my employer filling every part of that space stretching from home, Earth, throughout all of space and time. He promised me an adventure when I arrived upon his door for an interview for a researcher position; and he has delivered everything I could have dreamt of and more. But then, at the start of it, I had no idea what was going to transpire nor did I expect to be taken from a small semi in the South of England and be propelled outwards to where I am now. .........ok, its a semi detached in the South of England; but I heard the sound and it opened up my mind.
I am sitting in a hospital bed, typing this on my phone, do you know how long it takes to hook up a sentence on a screen with the smallest touchscreen keyboard? Well, putting it simply, this small task should fill up my time before I get a clean bill of health and sent home..........or until my pitifully small battery gives out.
The first day here I spent trying not to move due to the pain in pretty much every part of my body, that and trying not to bleed too much. Yesterday I had a visit from my employer. I had asked him to bring me something to read following a text he sent to enquire about my recovery, not I am sure out of concern as he also asked if I could run into town on an errand.
Well, he brought me in some books; all handwritten note books, but I get the impression they are all the same to him. So I read them, and then I read them again. At first I thought they were a work of fiction, a start to a literary career but with the worst sci-fi fantasy plots imaginable and totally unbelievable. But with more time to read I am starting to believe they are diary entries as brief inter-net searches link to real time incidents reported in publications on weird and wonderful that I would never have though existed until now. I found comments and links to web addresses, this being one of them, and as yet the only one I could crack the password for. its reading is interesting and goes someway to explaining the strange feelings I get around my employer. For those that do not know, or for my family who worry about me getting a real job! My employer is some kind of antique dealer relic hunter type who fills his time hunting down weird and wonderful things (definitely not old dusty junk as I once observer) and reacquainting them with their old owner or new. My role in all of this is wearing down shoe leather by running between library, warehouse, old ramshackle huts and gothic mansions, or the odd pub or modern new build house filled with ramshackled, gothic and dusty odd people. So much for the newspaper advert which stated adventures in the occult for the brave believer for which I applied; being a witch it seemed too good to be true not to apply for. My intuition must have been having a bad day when I did.
The white walled hospital ward housed beds made to industrial spec, all two inch thick bars of cold metal sumptuously layered with stiff rough off white sheets. I don't know what would hurt more if I were to hit my head on them, the metal or the sheets. In my mixed ward there are 12 beds, currently all filled with an assortment of sleepers, coughers, drippers, mobile phone users and unfortunately for me, talkers.
"So, what are you in for?" asked the occupier of the bed two down on my left. "that looks like a nasty head wound." He had gestured as best he could with a broken arm towards the reddening bandage wrapped tightly around a distinguished gentleman's head. We called him the Gent as he insisted on keeping his tweed jacket on over the top of his blue/white striped pyjamas.
The sound that followed sounded like it came from a chimney and smelt like an ashtray, the Gent was speaking. "I don't remember much." he smoked. "I was in the polling station when one of my neighbours came in so I smiled at her and as I handed over her ballot paper I just mentioned I had seen her husband earlier; he was waiting when they opened the doors first thing and he must have been very eager to cast his vote and almost as quick to leave too. Next thing I know is she's leaping the schools folding table we borrowed for the day and was using my head to dent the ballot box. All very strange as I thought her to be the most gentle and caring lady in all our previous dealings." The Gent scratched his head as he talked and worried with his damp greying hair.
There was a small collection of nods from the willing (or otherwise trapped) participants in the conversation. Before anyone could offer their insights or sympathy to the Gent for his misadventure, BQ jumped in with his story, almost as if he hadn't really wanted to know what the others had to say but wanted generate a reason to talk about himself. I called him BQ for his obvious love of all things wood, glue and metal and the need to join them together at home without reading the instructions.
"Well, there I was at the front door on this beautiful sunny day, the first we've had and I thought to myself I'll get on and fit that door bell the Old Woman has been on about." He had a way of talking that was 90% laughing at his own story and 10% louder than anyone else in the conversation. "Well, the drill wasn't charged, so I got the old electric one out of the shed. Rusty but good, as I always tell the ladies. Well anyway, drill meets door and its wobbling all over the place so I obviously have to open it and hold it with my other hand. They never tell you this in those stupid instructions written by idiots who've never picked up a tool in their life! Never actually read them myself, only a nube needs that"
"Bingo" I thought as he mentioned the lack of instructional prior learning.
"Well the door still shook so I put my foot there to stabilise, obviously the doorbell people never thought of all this when they made their cheap rubbish, but you gotta fit it when the Old Battle-axe wants it or there's no end of trouble." He gestured boobs then horns with his good hand and as best he could with his plastered one.
"Well one thing led to another and I had to stretch to the middle of the door and get the drill straight, that's one thing the drill people don't think about then they make their rubbish, and how was I to know my hand was the other side! Drill bit went straight through door, hand and garden fence."
A few laughs abruptly stopped as the story continued fast so not to allow anyone to interrupt. "Had to call for the Little Lady to come and help, Well she was sitting down watching rubbish on tv or in the kitchen doing whatever it is they do in there and she had no idea what to do did she, couldn't put he drill in reverse and didn't want to touch it when the blood shot out."
"And they plastered you whole arm for a hand injury?" Asked Gent, managing to crowbar a comment into the torrent from BQ.
"Well, it was only a small hole till we got in the car to come here, then she saw the blood drip through my hanky she drove into a parked post van."
A sharp hurumph trumpeted around the ward.
"who's that?" Asked the Gent looking around for the source of the disturbance.
"I'm the bloody postman!" can the response.
This looked like it was going to turn into a long and tedious conversation and I was pulling back into my pillow to fake sleep (or failing that a coma) to escape my turn to talk when my employer, the enigmatic Mr Xanthic exploded through the double ward doors; a doctors coat pulled tight across his standard style.
"Ah, there you are." He said staggering in through the door. "Can I get you to do a little favour for me before they find me an drag me out of here."
I was shocked at the entrance but nodded my acceptance. Then, looking over his shoulder to check no unseen to me pursuers could witness, he drew out a large curved and very bloodied knife. Then with a smile he collapsed to the floor.
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