A Walk With the Past

Chapter Nine

Tom tore across Stratford-Upon Avon stretching his long legs further than ever before. The late October sky grew even darker above him, and the wind thrashed in relentless, breathtaking blasts. He bulldozed  past pedestrians and shouted apologies when unable to avoid crashing into them. More than once brakes screeched and angry car horns blared in protest at the foolish fellow who darted between moving traffic.

The center spire of Holy Trinity Church towered against the churning sky as Tom sprinted down Mill Lane. The Heavens opened up and sheets of icy rain came down with brutal force, pelting Tom’s skin and stinging his eyes. He pressed forward; his thigh and calf muscles screaming for reprieve as he sloshed through deepening puddles. Tom slipped on the slick cobblestone outside of the church’s entrance and his lanky form floundered for stabilization to no avail. A few failed, stuttered steps and Tom’s face smacked the cold, wet pavement.

“Bloody hell,” Tom winced, sitting up and rubbing his bruised and bleeding cheekbone. Remembering where he was, Tom’s eyes went to the cross atop the spire and a pang of guilt shot through him. “Sorry for the language,” his sheepish apology sounded out of place on the deserted walkway. “But I could use a little help here, you know.”

As if God Himself was directing the scene, an apparition appeared before the doors of the church in answer to Tom’s indirect prayer. Still sitting on his ass and soaked through, Tom slicked his wet hair from his face to be sure what he saw was truly there.

Elizabeth.

Dry, and smiling; waiting for him.

And more beautiful than ever.

His pulse, already pounding from his haphazard sprint across town, now raced even faster as Tom clamored to his feet.

“Is this it?” he panted around the water cascading over his lips. Tom’s chest heaved in an effort to stabilize his erratic breathing. Standing in the downpour, he reached into his pocket, retrieved the velvet bag, and then held the key out to Elizabeth. “Is this what you’ve been waiting for all this time?”

Mossy green eyes fell to Tom’s hand, brimming with tears kept bottled for nearly one hundred years. Elizabeth looked back up and her head moved with a slight nod before the doors behind her clicked open and she vanished before his eyes.

He would never get used to her doing that….

Tom took guarded steps into the church; unsure of how he would explain himself should anyone ask why he was there. With a trail of rainwater dripping from his soggy clothes, Tom made his way to the chancel and Shakespeare’s grave.

Not another living soul stirred within the silent house of worship.

He stood beneath the funerary monument gripping the key, at a total loss of what to do next. Tom was a tall man, but even at his full height the bust of the Bard and its hidden keyhole was mounted a good four feet from his reach.

He pivoted in search of something to give him a boost, but to Tom’s utter dismay he came up empty-handed. Frustrated to be so close to his goal and yet further than ever from accomplishing it, Tom stomped his foot and tore at his hair in defeat.

“Careful there, son,” a voice admonished him from the shadows.

Tom’s attention snapped in its direction to find a bald, aged man wheeling a tall ladder across the church’s floor.

“You pull too hard at that stuff,” the fellow pointed to his hairless head before flashing Tom a sarcastic wink. “And it might all fall out.”

Tom puffed a light laugh at the joke, but then settled his gaze on the old man. He was shriveled and well-worn from his time on Earth, but his blue eyes were bright and keen. They shined with understanding, as if the man knew Tom’s purpose before it could be explained. From the look of his uniform and tool belt, Tom assumed he was a groundskeeper. The nametag stitched onto his chest read ‘Basil.’