Of Illnesses And Antidotes

Epilogue

Spikes of sunlight pierce the wooden slats, bathing the terrace in a honeyed light. He sits in his rocking chair, positioned to directly face the mouth of the track that weaves through the village. He rocks gently forward and then gently back. He waits. He waits for someone to drive through the village en route to their destination. Someone to purposefully arrive and visit a relative of theirs. Someone to stumble upon this tiny cluster of houses and realise that this wasn't an accidental discovery but a fork in the road they are journeying down.

An unusual, stifling warmth saturates the air today. Beads of perspiration dribble down his brow but he wipes them away with a flick of his hand. He hasn't felt weather like this since he first took residence in this place he now calls home. Maybe it's a sign. Closing his eyes, he listens to the breeze snaking around him, taunting him, teasing him. Somewhere in the distance, a lark is singing. It's a sombre song that reminds him of his loneliness. It reminds him of the thirty-five years that he's waited for someone else to join him. Hide with him. Bury themselves away in the epitome of an afterlife.

"Lovely day, isn't it?"

Cocking his head, he opens his eyes and spies his neighbour, Lydia. Tilting his cap at her, he smiles warmly. "I can't agree with you more. It's been a long time coming, this weather."

"Aye, a very long time." Lydia returns the smile. As she does, the wrinkles around her eyes crease into deep furrows, stretching to her ears. "Not for thirty odd years, it must be."

"You are quite right, my dear." He's always had a soft spot for Lydia. She was the first friendly face he saw when he arrived. He remembers her sitting on the lawn in front of her porch, her legs curled up and her hand leant back against the grass as the other held up a paperback. A pair of round, black-rimmed sunglasses were perched on her nose and her rich, chestnut hair (which had gradually faded to a sombre grey over the years) was loosely arranged into a bun above her forehead.

"I guess you remember." Lydia eyes him knowingly, arching her eyebrows.

He chuckles. "Of course I do. How could I forget?"

Lydia takes a step down from her porch and looks towards the horizon. "Something's going to happen today."

"And what makes you say that?"

Lydia glances over her shoulder at him. "I just feel it. In my bones." She turns her head back to the front. "There's just something that feels... different."

"Good different or bad different?"

"Just different." She turns back around and heads up onto the porch, towards the front door. Just before she goes inside, she pauses and looks to him. "Are you still coming to the meeting?"

"That depends if they want me there."

Lydia puts her hands on her hips, frowning. "You walked out. That was your choice."

"It was obvious they didn't want me in the original place. They didn't listen to any of my contributions."

"You didn't contribute anything in the first place."

"I did. I bought them a bottle of wine, but none of them drank it."

Lydia laughs. "That's not the sort of contribution they're after."

"It was better than nothing. What did they want me to do, complain about something that will never get fixed?"

"That's what happens anyway." Lydia shakes her head, smiling. "I'll see you at the alehouse at six. Be there or-"

"Wait for you to drag my arse down there. Okay, I'll be there." He sighs and closes his eyes. He hears Lydia close the door and everything turns silent. Peace.

Coldness. Something chills his spine. His eyes open wide and he stands up, leaning heavily on his staff. He carved it himself, and was rather proud of that; it helps with his bones. He knows what happens when you reach his age.

Then he sees it.

Movement. In the distance. He squints, shielding his weathered face from the glaring light of the sun. There's a figure, along the horizon. He, she, it, is moving this way. Shuffling forwards, he carefully picks his way down the steps and carries on down the path. He stops at the gate. For sure, there is someone moving. Through the patchwork of fields and the intertwining hedgerows, a person is heading towards the village. Towards him.

Amongst the mass of sagging skin and wizened features, he manages to smile. He smiles like he did on that day those many years ago. When he first stood where he stands now. When he took his first glance at the life he had ahead of him and pushed the remnants of his past as deep into his memories as he could. During the time between that day and now, he spent every second on that terrace or by the window, watching for that something. Hoping for that something. And here it was.

Turning around, he hobbles back up onto the terrace and slumps down in the rocking chair. He doesn't have long to wait. Maybe an hour or two at the most? However long it takes, he knew that it would arrive. And it would change everything.

THE END