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Acuff, Gale |
Ahern, Edward |
Allen, R. A. |
Alleyne, Chris |
Andersen, Fred |
Andes, Tom |
Appel, Allen |
Arnold, Sandra |
Aronoff, Mikki |
Ayers, Tony |
Baber, Bill |
Baird, Meg |
Baker, J. D. |
Balaz, Joe |
Barker, Adelaide |
Barker, Tom |
Barnett, Brian |
Barry, Tina |
Bartlett, Daniel C. |
Bates, Greta T. |
Bayly, Karen |
Beckman, Paul |
Bellani, Arnaav |
Berriozabal, Luis Cuauhtemoc |
Beveridge, Robert |
Blakey, James |
Booth, Brenton |
Bracken, Michael |
Brown, Richard |
Bunton, Chris |
Burke, Wayne F. |
Burnwell, Otto |
Bush, Glen |
Campbell, J. J. |
Cancel, Charlie |
Capshaw, Ron |
Carr, Steve |
Carrabis, Joseph |
Cartwright, Steve |
Centorbi, David Calogero |
Cherches, Peter |
Christensen, Jan |
Clifton, Gary |
Cody, Bethany |
Cook, Juliete |
Costello, Bruce |
Coverly, Harris |
Crist, Kenneth James |
Cumming, Scott |
Davie, Andrew |
Davis, Michael D. |
Degani, Gay |
De Neve, M. A. |
Dika, Hala |
Dillon, John J. |
Dinsmoor, Robert |
Dominguez, Diana |
Dorman, Roy |
Doughty, Brandon |
Doyle, John |
Dunham, T. Fox |
Ebel, Pamela |
Engler, L. S. |
Fagan, Brian Peter |
Fahy, Adrian |
Fain, John |
Fillion, Tom |
Flynn, James |
Fortier, M. L. |
Fowler, Michael |
Galef, David |
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Glass, Donald |
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Grech, Amy |
Greenberg, KJ Hannah |
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Held, Shari |
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Jackson, James Croal |
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Jeschonek, Robert |
Johns. Roger |
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Karl, Frank S. |
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Kennedy, Cecilia |
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Kirchner, Craig |
Kitcher, William |
Kompany, James |
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So Bright They Were, So Bright by Paul Radcliffe
Memory
was a distant shore. Familiar landmarks were shrouded
outlines in gathering mist. Falling snow had settled and brought with it silence. In the
lost hours after midnight, the hospice was quiet. Earlier that evening, a local choir had
walked the corridors. It would soon be Christmas. They had sung of joy, of stars, and of
journeying kings. The last echoes of the carols had long faded into the night. Peter did
not sleep. There were other voices. They were distant, but grew harsh and insistent. They
were calling for help. Voices that blended with screams. It was an unearthly
pleading wrenched from the bodies of burned men, drowning men. There was desperation and
the final anger, the terrible anger that came before the silence. He remembered the flames,
reflected and dancing in mockery on the burning sea. The full moon glowed brightly above
the hospice. With it came shapes and shadow and the crash of a distant ocean. Dying men. A dying ship. The
merchant vessel Antaura in the early years
of the war. It had been a clear night. The wake of the torpedo was glittering and arrow-straight
in the waves. Antaura was an older ship, perhaps
the oldest in the convoy. It had followed a weaving course. This made it a more difficult
target for the predatory U-boats that followed. The pattern had slowed the Antaura. It had lagged behind the main
body of the convoy, and thus beyond the protection of the gray-hulled destroyer escorts.
It was the way of the enemy to track any stragglers. The crew of the Antaura
knew this, as did every other sailor in the convoy. All knew they were exposed. On
earlier voyages, they had seen the horror of other ships sunk. Death came from below the
surface in the shape of six hundred pounds of explosive at the tip of a torpedo. He remembered
the loss of a ship carrying iron ore. It had broken into jagged pieces. It sank in three
minutes as the holds filled. None of the crew had survived. Some were shredded as the torpedo
struck. Others would have died a terrifying death, splintered hands clinging to wreckage
or pulled beneath the water as their ship sank. He had heard forty-seven men had been lost.
He knew there was no rescue ship with the convoy. Rescue ships were adapted vessels with
specialist equipment and accommodation for any fortunate enough to survive a U-boat attack.
There was little chance of survival. All the crews were hopelessly vulnerable. Behind the closed door of his hospice room, Peter opened his eyes.
The lighting was subdued. There was a wreath of plastic holly fixed to the wall. In curving
letters, it proclaimed Season’s Greetings in glittering
purple tinsel. A smiling Santa beamed out from the wreath. It had been placed there by
a kind-hearted volunteer. It would be Peter’s last Christmas on this Earth. His vision
seemed to blur and shimmer, and he closed his eyes. He could still see the luminous
trail in the water. He had known, with the bleakest of certainties, that the Antaura
could not evade. The U-boat had followed. It had watched and anticipated the labored
path of the aging vessel. Peter remembered that night. In the still winter air, he heard
the howl of alarms and the whistle blasts piercing the night. The shouts of frightened
men, the flurry of activity. Those few seconds became a lingering eternity. Time had
slowed. As he watched the onrushing torpedo with its churning wake, something, impossibly,
had come from the sea. He had no name for it, nor ever would. His life was running out,
days like sand in an hourglass, yet the sight had remained vivid in his memory. So much
was forgotten or no longer recognizable. What he saw that night had remained with him.
It would remain till death and perhaps to whatever lay beyond. If there was anything beyond
fire and sea and lost friends. There
was a green radiance. It revealed a scaled figure. The outline rippled and writhed. The
arms ended in glinting talons, the neck broad as a bull. It did not move with the waves
but seemed, impossibly, to stand on the water. In an instant, he thought it some primitive
creature risen from the lightless ooze of the ocean floor. The torpedo was rushing forward.
Peter looked at the creature’s head. At the eyes. They looked directly at him and
he saw stark malice. He saw cunning. And purpose. The jaw opened. He glimpsed two rows
of curving fangs. There was a mouth, and it stretched, a parody of a smile. It
raised one arm and pointed at him. His vision blurred. There was a sudden and terrible
pounding in his head. The wake of the torpedo was arrow straight and closing rapidly on
the helpless merchant vessel Antaura. Above the wave-tops, the creature gestured
toward the ship, and seemed to smile again. The brief moment passed. An explosion shook
the world. It tore the Antaura into
shapeless fragments, and hurled Peter, barely conscious, into the angry sea. Others may
have survived, however unlikely, but he could not know. Barely conscious, he was supported
by his life preserver. It had been a calm and still evening before disaster struck. He
became aware of a growing wind that seemed to move him away from the rapidly sinking Antaura. He heard the screams of the dying. The
pleading. He recognized some of the voices. They were far from even the hope of rescue.
Hope is a desperate cruelty. It lingered briefly, dying in an ocean far from home. The
flames were further in the distance now. Perhaps a few men still called, but time was unmeasured.
The force of the impacting torpedo had hurled him into the welcoming sea, and a strange
wind had borne him away from mortal peril. The night was passing. Dawn fringed the horizon.
Peter could not see the convoy. It had disappeared into the distance. It was, he knew,
for the greater good. To have halted would have rendered more ships vulnerable to the preying
submarines that would be following. More ships lost, more men dead. A cruel and simple
equation. Peter knew the Antaura had been far
from land. It had been further from hope. The green sea was calm. As the long day
drifted into evening, sunset shaded the waves. Beyond hope, Peter felt a deep resignation,
a sadness shaded by resentment that a spiteful fate had brought him here. His life preserver
seemed heavier now, though perhaps he imagined it. Peter’s chin was rubbed to a raw
soreness. It did not matter. He would die of thirst or drown. It would end the same way.
His friends had perhaps been fortunate, at least those who had died without warning. Preferable,
maybe, to this slow drifting to a slower death. There was an aching in his head.
Dehydration. It would continue. The
hours passed. The sun fell below the horizon. A full moon rose. It cast a shifting track
of light across the ocean. At another time, at a time when death was not following, he
would have thought it beautiful. Absurdly, he remembered a childhood rhyme, a story about
the man in the moon. How strange that he should think of that now. How strange. He noticed
a froth of bubbles swirling in a growing circle. There was a spreading light. It was below
the surface and seemed to be following him as he drifted. There had been stories about
U-boats surfacing to assist survivors, even to direct lifeboats on their most favorable
course. Hope flickered and died. This was not a submarine. It could not be. Perhaps it
was some chance combination of wind and water. In any event, he would soon join his crewmates
in death, taken by nature itself. As the light grew, he thought of what he had seen from
the rails of his lost ship. Whatever it had been–and he knew he would never know–it
had not been an illusion, a mirage born of imminent danger and horrified anticipation.
It had been real, as real as the salt water that stung his eyes, and there had been a knowledge
there, a bleak malevolence and a grim purpose. The light beneath the waves grew brighter,
brighter than the reflected moon. The waters swirled. There was a piercing glow against
the moonlight. For a fleeting, terrifying moment, he thought it a whirlpool, that he would
be dragged to the depths. Something
was rising from the sea, surging upward in a cascading rainbow of spray and froth. Peter’s
eyes focused as he swayed in the churning waters. The figure was tall, taller than a man.
Silhouetted against the darkened sky and the full moon, it continued to rise. In a wide
and shifting circle, the sea around it seemed to calm. It was still. Beyond the edge of
the circle, the waves were moving. Peter had known dread. It was always there for the men
of the convoys, but there was a feeling now that he was in a world beyond drowning and
whirlpools. It appeared to be cloaked. It was hooded. He could not see a face. He was,
perhaps, within a few yards of the figure. The figure seemed to be looking at him. He
was in a circle of still water. Peter was beyond fear. In a trackless ocean, he was confronted
by something far beyond his understanding. It did not speak, yet he heard a voice. It had
a faint echo. He heard, and he would remember for the rest of his life. It was hollow,
clear against the lapping of the waves. “I am known as Vepar, though I have
had many names. Your ship is gone forever. Your crewmates are all dead. You are in an
ocean, as far from land as you are from hope. I am your hope, though I am far beyond your
understanding…” Peter was swaying gently in the faint current. He was not hallucinating.
He could taste the salt. He could feel the waters. The voice continued. It had saved him.
For the moment. “...I aided you
because of the ungracious intrusion of another power. I am Vepar, and I have dominion over
many things. I have ascendancy over armored ships and those that they guard, over weather
and storm. Below the surface, there are other forces. I think you have seen one such. They
are not benign, Peter. Not benign.” The voice knew his name. It continued. "It did not convey to
me the intention to sink your ship. In our world–of which you should be thankful
you are ignorant–this is an act of grave discourtesy. To bring you safe to land may
bring about their contrition. It is to be doubted.” Peter could still not see any
features, but he looked at the silhouette of the figure. From somewhere, he found one word
from cracked lips. “How?” There was a
silence, and the answer came. “Governance over the water is a noble authority. It
does not serve me to see you die. I have powers of levitation, and you will rise over the
ocean and be brought safe to land. Or would you rather become mud on the ocean floor, or
perhaps a name on a monument marked NO GRAVE BUT THE SEA? To save you is to show the other
power something of the consequences of contempt. You should know, however, that it
will do evil for evil’s sake. Nor will it forget. There may come a darkness.” Peter remembered
these words as he felt himself rising from the water. He saw the stars, and the figure’s
outline fading against the moonlight, and there was a rushing of air. He closed his eyes
and knew no more. An eternity later, there was sand between his fingers, the crashing of
waves on a shore, and the mocking cries of seabirds. In his room in the hospice, on a
night in winter, he opened his eyes. There was a framed quote from C.S. Lewis, placed there,
perhaps, to give hope to the dying. It read: ‘There are far, far better things ahead
than any we leave behind.’ Peter hoped that this was so. The hospice was not a place for doubt,
and the pain in his head had been an unwelcome visitor over the passing years. It had been
diagnosed as migraines, long ago. There were certain triggers that made it worse, bright
light and, curiously, being caught in high wind. His vision would blur, there would be
lights, and nausea and pain would encompass his world till it passed. In recent years,
the headaches had grown slowly worse, the medication less effective, and other dark changes
loomed on the horizon. It had started with memory loss. He thought this regrettable but
not wholly unexpected in a man of his age. The memory of the sinking and what followed
did not fade, but many other things did. He noticed his balance deteriorated, but Peter
was one of nature’s stoics, and rarely complained. The changes were slow, months
drifting into years, until one day the lights flashed more intensely before his eyes. The
migraine would not leave. It was fierce, unending, and he fell. He had struck his head
on the unyielding pavement, and there was blood on his clothes. He woke, slowly and confused,
as he was lifted onto a trolley in a brightly lit hospital room. Peter heard loudspeaker
announcements, children crying, and drunk voices swearing. A nurse crossed his vision and
explained. He had had a seizure. Did he have any history of seizures? Was he on medication
for them? He wasn’t. Since he had struck his head, a harassed doctor explained that
a CT scan of his head would be necessary, “just to be sure you’re OK…”
Peter asked when that would be. “When
CT calls for you, not sure when; they’re a bit pushed at the moment…”
Peter lay in the cubicle, curtains open, and he could see the nightly tragedy and comedy
of Emergency unfolding. Screaming, crying, a drunk voice insisting he could leave, staggering
past the cubicle. Someone vomiting. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when
an orderly unplugged his bed from the wall, and called for the nurse. She would escort
him to scan. They went through deserted corridors and into Radiology. The radiographer
indicated the humming scanner. His name was already on the digital display. She indicated
a headrest as he lay on the table. He laid back. His head fitted snugly. The radiographer
went to the control room, and the table slid into the machine. The scan was rapid. In the
control room, images appeared on the monitor. On the image of the brain, there was an irregular
gray area. The radiographer looked again. Peter was taken back to Emergency, and he waited,
drowsy and sick. The cacophony outside continued. The young doctor returned,
and explained, with medical euphemisms, that there was “something on the scan. We’ve
asked neurosurgical to have a look at you.”
So began Peter’s odyssey to this hospice room. That night, he had been admitted
to the neurosurgical ward. It had been a clamor of ringing bells, flickering lights,
and disturbed fellow patients. Morning came, and with it a ward round. The neurosurgical
consultant was smartly suited, surrounded by junior doctors dressed casually. The days
of white coats in hospitals had long passed. The consultant left Peter to be seen last.
The junior doctors and students went about their day-to-day work, and the consultant and
registrar pulled the curtains around Peter’s bed. There was still dried blood on
Peter’s face. He explained that there had been an area on the scan that looked very
like a tumor. Based on the consultant’s experience–“and pending the formal
report from our colleagues in Radiology–it is almost certainly a glioblastoma, and
the appearance and location are very suggestive of a–glioblastoma multiforme.” It was explained to him that the prognosis
was very poor, though further scanning and biopsy would confirm the likely diagnosis. The
consultant and registrar were very sorry. They left the ward and went into an empty lift.
The registrar turned to the consultant. “It’s definitely a GBM.” The consultant looked straight ahead “We’ll
wait on the MRI. We will keep him comfortable. You know what we called glioblastoma multiforme
when I was training?” The registrar shook his head. “The Terminator.” Glioblastoma
multiforme is extremely aggressive. It carries a very poor prognosis. There followed days
of investigations, of waiting for results, and surgery to enable a biopsy to be taken.
Peter had commenced medication to control seizures. There had been talk of therapeutic
levels and symptom control, and–another bleak phrase–‘keeping comfortable.’ The headaches were always there, varying in
intensity but never leaving. In moments of clarity, he knew they had begun so many years
ago. He saw the nameless creature pointing at him and the flash of pain. The face, and
the memory of it, did not leave. He could see it now, as the neurosurgical consultant came
into his room. He had been moved into a single room. Those who know hospitals and their
ways know that this is rarely a good sign. So it proved. The consultant and registrar came
in and closed the door quietly. They spoke of areas of eloquent brain, of tumor growth,
and the inadvisability of surgery. He mentioned astrocytes, star like brain cells that
assisted–if that was the right word–the inexorable growth of the tumor. Peter
heard that surgery was not an option. It was highly unlikely to be helpful and would, in
all likelihood, make the symptoms worse. Peter sensed his life crashing down around him,
and thought of the stars on the night the Antaura was
sunk. So bright they were. So bright. The consultant was speaking again. “...So, our best option is to refer you to our colleagues in palliative
care. They are experts in controlling symptoms, and they will keep you as comfortable as
possible… but it is inevitable that these symptoms will progress. In my opinion,
you should make the most of what time remains. Is there anything you would like to ask?” There wasn’t. The
hospice had a bed available the following week, and Peter left the bustle of the ward.
There was a short ambulance journey. He saw snowflakes swirling, framed by the window,
and felt faintly nauseated by the jolting of the vehicle. He was helped from the ambulance,
a cold wind whipping at his hospital dressing gown. A friendly nurse led him to his room.
The reception desk had a sign reading ‘Season’s
Greetings.’ Christmas carols played
in the background. The nurse helped him to his room. They went past donated artwork on
the walls. Wildlife and local scenes. Peter murmured his thanks, though words were harder
to form now. He laid down, and again the images returned. Christmas was drawing nearer,
and the days passed. They passed in a growing haze. The tumor was growing, and when his
headaches were at least subdued, he slept. Days drifted into nights, and always the sinking
returned. Something other had brought him to land. He remembered the words and the name
of the figure. It had said “there may come a darkness…” It echoed in his tormented head. The creature that had pointed at him,
knowing and infinitely vindictive, was here at the edge of memory. Peter was drowsy now, barely
able to walk with assistance. He lay in his room. When someone is close to death, an enduring
belief is held by some that their relatives, their friends, and even beloved pets–all
of whom have preceded them in death–congregate to assist their transition to whatever
lies beyond their mortality. This belief is especially prominent in some older nurses.
However unwell the patient is, they speak, they even converse with figures unseen and
often seem to reach toward those that they once loved and, given the imminence of death,
with whom they will soon be reunited. The assumption is one of benevolence prevailing,
of peace prevailing over suffering. It is a well-intentioned assumption. It is also mistaken.
The door of Peter’s room was open, the curtains pulled around his bed. He was dreaming,
if dreaming is the right word, of a night at sea long ago. The door clicked gently shut.
The rooms were lit by a faint red glow at night. Peter heard the crashing of waves, the
screams and he could smell acrid smoke and salt water. He raised his head and stared at
the end of the bed. As his tumor had advanced, Peter’s speech had been affected and
was slurred and indistinct. He recognized the figure. He saw the fangs, the skin rippling
and glinting. Water dripped from it. Peter reached for the bell that would call for help,
but it had slipped beyond his reach. He heard a voice, a voice that seemed calm and tinged
with a bleak certainty. The voice continued. It was the tolling of a rusted bell. Peter
raised his thin arms, but not in welcome. He lifted his head. He could still see the quote
from C.S. Lewis, framed on the wall and reflecting the dim light. “There are far, far better
things ahead of us than any that have gone before.” The voice, like none he had ever
heard, a message from somewhere beyond distance. “We have met before. I inflicted
pain–you will remember that pain–and that pain has continued. It has stayed
with you like an old and valued companion, has it not? You will soon join your friends
in the place prepared, a place where time has no meaning. What you fondly imagine is death
is very close to you, but a part of you–some call it soul–will endure. You
escaped it when another intervened…” Peter
tried to speak. The words would not form. The figure continued. “I
hold sway beneath the waves, and I showed your enemy the path. I can cause pain in
the heads of mortal men–but you know this, I think…” The
laughter was cold and hollow. The creature raised an arm. For the second time in his life,
Peter was beyond fear. Words came at last, between rasping breaths…“who…”
There was an answer, though no sound broke the stillness of the room.
“The Greek ancients changed
my name. We have endured for time beyond measure. They thought themselves significant when
they called me Aura–Bride of–the Wind–but you will be familiar with my
given name soon, more familiar than you would like…” Peter could no longer
speak. His breathing was labored. The lights flashed brightly for the last time before
his eyes. He slipped into his final unconsciousness. The outline of the figure
shimmered. In death, hearing is said to be the final sense that departs. As hearing and
life faded, Peter heard the final words, tinged with mockery and tainted with malice. “My name is Antaura.”
What is the Song the Children Sing? Paul
Radcliffe ‘ What is the song the
children sing When doorway lilacs bloom
in spring?’
Rudyard Kipling,’ A Counting Out Song’
The little girl was lost, and the little girl was sad. She felt she had always been
sad and she did not know why. She knew her name was Rosalind, and there were other things
she remembered. Mummy. Daddy. They had always looked unhappy when she thought about it.
Well, not always, but sometimes when they thought she wasn’t looking. Why would they
be unhappy? And they had told her the headaches would soon go away. Everything would be
okay soon, then she wouldn’t be so sleepy all the time and maybe we would all go
home. They never said when we would all go home. They always said ‘soon.’ But
she didn’t know when ‘soon’ was. Maybe nobody did. Go
home. Go home for strawberry ice cream and stories and the nice things. The teddy bears
and the books and the cartoons. But Rosalind had never gone home with Mummy and Daddy.
Not ever. They had left her, but it wasn’t their fault. Rosalind remembered being
in the hospital. It was a scary place sometimes, lots of funny noises and strange smells.
It was nicer in that quiet little room that was only for very special children. The nurses
had told her that, and they were very nice. The headaches didn’t go away. Sometimes
she felt sick as well, so sick she didn’t even want the ice cream. And everyone likes
ice cream. Especially strawberry. And the light, of course. it hurt her eyes so she squeezed
them shut. Mummy and Daddy just turned off the light. There was just a little one in
the corner. At home, in her own room—ROSALIND’S
ROOM, it had said on the door. She had had her own lamp by her bed. On the wall, there
were shiny pictures of kittens playing. She would say goodnight to the kittens just before
she fell asleep. She loved kittens. So happy and so silly. She could see Mummy and Daddy,
but they were shadows, like the pumpkin faces and candles at Halloween. It had been harder
and harder to hear what they were saying, and she had just wanted to sleep. When she was
asleep, the headaches went away. She thought they waited outside the door, and Rosalind
had wished they would go away. Bad, bad naughty headaches. And one day they went
away, and they had never come back. That was good. But she was lost, and that was bad.
She was looking down a long corridor. There were signs on the walls, but she couldn’t
read some of the words. They were too long. She began to walk down the corridor, and Rosalind
guessed it was night. It was so quiet. And then she remembered. It was the hospital, the
scary place with the funny smells and the noises. She looked down, and on the polished
floor she saw a toy duck. An old, yellow toy duck with the red, soft beak almost hanging
off. It was Diddley. Diddley had been a Christmas present when she was very little. He
had always been in the quiet room with her. She had cuddled him while she waited for the
headaches to go away. And he was here, in the corridor, and she picked him up. She did
not know how he got there, but she was happy. He had always been with her, just like her
friends had until the headaches came, and she couldn’t play anymore. She had hated
that, that she couldn’t play, and she had told Diddley all about that. And when she
couldn’t play with her friends, Diddley was always there. He was with her now. Now,
when she was lost. She was remembering some other things now. Going to sleep for a long
time in the quiet room, the special room where the headaches finally, finally went away.
Rosalind thought she remembered something. A long walk to a charity shop, a place full
of second-hand things that people no longer wanted or cared about. She had gone there because
Mr Fuzzypants was there—she did not know how—and he was a teddy bear, her
favourite even more than Diddley. She had brought him out, and she could not think how
she had done it. At first, it was like reading a book from the end instead of the beginning.
You were left trying to guess what had happened before. She had not opened the door of
the shop. She was just there. It was not hard to find Mr Fuzzypants. He was waiting for
her. A very special teddy bear, thrown on top of a heap of broken toys. They must have
put him there by mistake. He was missing an eye, but never mind, the other one still worked.
He was an old bear now. She had sometimes heard people say things change when you get older.
She really wasn’t sure what they meant. Rosalind did not know she would never
become older, and that this was not a choice. She had taken Mr Fuzzypants home, not far
from the hospital. She had put him on a red cushion in the living room. He liked watching
television with Rosalind. They liked all the same shows, and watched them together. The
little girl had left Mr Fuzzypants there, and she did not know quite why she had left.
But it was home, and one of the many sadnesses of children is the belief that home will
always be there. If they are lucky, they can keep the memories somewhere safe but the place
will become something else—and so will the people—and it will not be what they
remember. Still, somehow, she had left and she was back in the hospital. Back in the corridor.
Rosalind was holding on to Diddley, swinging gently but gripping him tightly, just as
she had in the special room when she had whispered to him. Diddley had whispered back,
but only she could hear. But she did hear.
The hospital was close
to a hill. Paths wound their way through it and there were secret glades hidden by trees.
In one of the shaded places there was a bench. There was a little sign on it, a reminder
of someone who could no longer be there but who wanted to be remembered. The harbour glittered
below. She had loved seeing the sunlight on the green water. Rosalind had wanted to take
the sunshine home with her. When she was even smaller—even before the headaches
came—Mummy and Daddy had taken Rosalind up to the playgrounds on the hill. Her friends
had come as well. There was a shining slide that had small patches of rust here and there.
Some crude, basic swings hung by ropes from an old and battered tree. Rosalind’s
favourite was a kind of fixed rocking horse which had room enough for four children, but
which was fixed firmly to the ground. They grabbed the metal handles and used them to rock
the horse frantically. It would rock so quickly it was as if it was trying to run away,
run away from this playground to a field of green grass where the sun was always shining.
Sometimes, not always, Rosalind would look over her shoulder when she was leaving, the
day growing colder. The blue painted eyes of the rocking horse would look at her,
as Mummy and Daddy and her friends were leaving and she lagged behind. She thought the
horse wanted her to stay. To be his friend and have adventures. Rosalind thought it was sad that
the children were leaving, and soon there would be no more sunshine. She missed those days
on the hill. They seemed far away now. And she was still in that long corridor. Rosalind
walked a little way, and she saw doors, big doors with round windows like you might see
on a ship. She remembered those doors, and there was a sign next to them. Big letters,
big words. She didn’t really know what they meant.
PAEDIATRIC ONCOLOGY She was still lost,
but she thought she remembered that sign. Those doors. Rosalind put her hands on the doors,
and she did not need to push. She was on the other side and looking down a ward. Dim lights
and sick children. She saw the quiet room, the special room. Her room. And she went in.
There were the kitten pictures and there were cards on the table. Get Well cards. Hope
you’ll soon be with us cards. When she had been in this room, she had had cards like
that, signed by all the children in her class. Nice to look at if the headaches let her.
But she stopped looking at the kittens and the cards. She saw a little boy on the bed,
and she knew he was sick. Very sick. One of his hands was outside the sheets.
It was very white. Rosalind was still carrying Diddley. Diddley had been her friend.
Perhaps the little boy, in the special room where she had been with the kittens
and the cards. He was very sick, and Rosalind thought he needed a special friend.
Had anyone looked into the room, they would perhaps have seen a gentle, formless
shimmering, and a toy duck laid gently on the pillow. Diddley had been her friend, but
the little boy needed Diddley, who would whisper to him as he had to Rosalind. Her headaches
had gone, she remembered the room, and perhaps she was not quite so lost. Rosalind remembered
something now. She drifted into that long corridor. She thought it would be nice to help
the children, nice to help them while she waited for Mummy and Daddy. They would take her
home. She just had to stay there, and they would find her.
There is a dark beauty to separation, to distance from those we love and who we
know love us. The beauty lies in the anticipation, that the separation will end.
Rosalind would stay there, and visit the sick children. She was lost forever to
Mummy and Daddy, though she would wait forever down the passing years. Only the
children would see her, and some would join her. They would play quietly in the
corridor, but sometimes they would sing. It was the song of all the children whose
pain had finally gone away. The song was heard only by those children who would soon join
them, gathered by the wind and carried to a rocking horse on a hill. Tears fell unseen
from painted eyes, but they were not the tears of sadness and separation. The song of lost children, no longer
lost, and waiting forever.
Paul
Radcliffe is an Emergency RN. In the past, he worked in an
area where children were sometimes afflicted with sickness of Gothic proportions.
Some are ghosts now. As a child he visited an aunt in a haunted farmhouse. This explains
a lot. Paul has worked in a variety of noisy places unlikely to be on anyone’s list
of holiday destinations. He is also a highly suggestible subject for any cat requiring
feeding and practicing hypnosis.
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