The Amulet
Mark saw the light glinting off something in the tall grass ahead.
With each step he took, the reflection seemed to flash, to beckon him towards it. He became more curious as he approached, although in truth he was expecting to find nothing more than a piece of discarded foil wrapping from a chocolate bar or a crumpled cola can.
When he reached the spot he could see nothing; his own shadow blocked the sun’s rays. Moving from side to side letting the light shine onto the grass, Mark scoured the ground to try to find what had caught his eye.
Brushing the grass lightly with his hand, he dislodged a small piece of metal, an irregular, worn, coin-shaped item. This, he decided, was what had caught the light. It must have been, he could find nothing else amongst the grass.
Mark held the metal object, twisting and turning it to see if he could make it glint as it had when it first caught his attention. He juggled the small coin in his palm for a while before slipping it into his pocket and continuing his journey home.
Mark sighed as he walked along the garden pathway leading to his house. It was a sigh of despondency tinged with reluctant acceptance. Mark loved this house, a house he and Maria had, over many years and with hours upon hours of hard work, turned into a warm and welcoming home. But it was a home he was soon to lose, a home that was due, at any time now, to be repossessed by the mortgage company. Any day – any moment, in fact – Mark was expecting the arrival of the bailiffs who would eject him from his home.
This past year had been the worst year in Mark’s entire life. Maria, his wife had left him. They were childhood sweethearts, destined to be together, yet life wove its cruel tendons about them. It had all become too much for Maria to bear. Mark had lost his job when the company went bankrupt and he had only been able to find a menial position as a rest-room attendant. He not only disliked this position with a passion, but it did not pay enough to cover his mortgage repayments, let alone meet all his other bills too.
Mark had made so many sacrifices to try to keep his head above water, painful sacrifices that no one should have to make. He had sold his car, cancelled his cable television, cancelled his cell phone contract, sold his gold bracelet – the one Maria had bought him as a wedding gift – along with his signet ring and chain. He had even sold his vinyl record collection for far less than it was worth. But whatever he had tried to do, the money just disappeared, swallowed up by bills and necessary living expenses. Now he was resigned to losing the last item that held any value in his life.
His home.
Mark tossed the contents of his pockets onto the kitchen table and switched the kettle on to boil while he changed into some casual clothing. Sitting at the table sipping his hot tea, he picked up the small metal disc he had recovered from the grass verge.
Inspecting it closely, he noticed it was not a coin as he had first thought, but a charm, a talisman of some strange origin. The disc was roughly circular, possibly it had once been hexagonal, but the corners had worn, smoothed away over time. On one face the centre was inscribed with a pentagon surrounded by stick-shaped marks, small gouges in various groups. Mark thought these must be ancient runes.
On the reverse side another symbol sat in the centre, an odd collection of lines, some touching or crossing, others not. Again the surrounding edge of this face was inscribed with various runes. Mark decided he would, at some point, go to the city library to try to discover what these runes and strange symbols meant. But for now a hot meal and a bath were far more important.
The following morning Mark was just about to leave for work when the house phone rang.
It was a call from a company that Mark had applied to for a position as a marketing manager several months ago. It seemed that his application had been mislaid, which is why he had not had a reply from them. However, the person they had awarded the position to had recently left without notice, creating a vacancy once again. This was when Mark’s previous application had come to light. The caller, a woman named Sarah, asked if he would come to the office that morning for an informal interview. She said it was urgent that they fill the position quickly.
Unlike most interviews Mark had attended, he did not have to wait very long in reception before Sarah appeared and led him to an office where a rather large woman with bright red lipstick sat behind a huge desk. The woman with the lipstick introduced herself as Becky, the Managing Director.
Without any preamble she announced that they needed a marketing manager right away and by right away she meant today.
Becky said, “If you can drop everything you’re doing and start right now the job is yours.”
“That’s rather short notice.” The words came out of Mark’s mouth before he realised he had spoken. “It is,” Becky agreed, “but we have major clients arriving this afternoon, clients we cannot afford to lose.”
Mark was taken aback by this turn of events, which rendered him speechless. He stood there simply nodding into thin air.
Becky clearly thought that Mark was considering his options so added, “Enhanced package, expensed car, pension, health scheme, welcome bonus, it’s all yours.”
Mark simply smiled and asked, “Where’s my office”.
Mark was especially grateful for this new job, since he detested his current one, but Becky did not need to know that!
Ten minutes later Mark was ensconced in a comfortable office, had his own secretary – a young girl named Sharon – and a department of five marketing executives. He sat back in his leather chair for a moment to consider the fact that two hours ago he was a toilet attendant about to become homeless. Now he was in a good position with a sizable company and had a welcome bonus that would pay off the arrears on his mortgage, thus saving his home from being repossessed.
Mark smiled to himself, hardly believing the turn of events. Pressing the intercom on his desk, he asked Sharon to call a meeting. Mark had work to do and he needed to get to grips with who was who and what they were or were not doing. He had to hit the floor running, and running fast.
Mark worked until nine o’clock that evening, when security insisted he had to leave as they were locking down the building for the night. But instead of having to walk home or wait for a smelly, overcrowded bus, Mark took the elevator to the basement and collected his company car, a brand new black Jaguar. He drove home slowly, savouring the luxurious ride.
He turned into his drive, his headlights reflecting off a small white car already parked at the house and blocking his entrance to the garage. As Mark opened his door the driver got out of the white car. Mark hoped it was not a bailiff; by tomorrow he would have his welcome bonus in the bank and could settle his outstanding debts.
It was not a bailiff. It was Maria, his estranged wife.
“Hello Mark,” she said, somewhat sheepishly. A little smile pulled at the corners of her mouth.
“What have you come for?” Mark replied sternly.
“You,” said Maria simply.
Mark and Maria sat in the kitchen drinking coffee and the last few tots of whisky from a bottle of fifteen-year-old Glengoyne that Mark kept for ‘medicinal purposes’.
Maria asked Mark to forgive her for leaving. “Everything got on top of me, my mother’s death, the funeral and then you lost your job…and…and…” Maria paused, sniffing back the tears forming at the corners of her eyes. “Finding out I couldn’t have…couldn’t give you children, a family. All the things we talked about. It’s all my fault, I was letting you down. I felt like everything I had promised you was just a lie. Oh Mark, I’m so, so sorry. Can you ever forgive me?” Maria fell to her knees and began weeping into Mark’s lap.
Mark looked down at Maria. She was trembling as she sobbed. He lifted her face and gently kissed her. Her lips were soft and sweet through the salty tears.
Mark realised how much he had missed her tender softness. That night they made passionate love, both wanting to share and reaffirm their bonding, somehow trying to make up for the time they had spent apart.
Neither had slept by the time the morning sunlight began to shine through the window.
Five months later Mark was strolling through the park towards his favourite bench. It was where he liked to eat lunch during these bright summer days, when the sound of a busker drifted towards him. The park was a haunt for many street artists during the summer being that it was an excellent location, away from the noise of the traffic and full of people who were relaxing. They were far more likely to pull out a handful of loose change than those in the hustle of the city streets.
Yet the sound, the voice that attracted Mark was different. It was soulful and melodic, filling the air with a certain vibrancy. He sat and unpacked his lunch while watching the girl busk. If he had not seen her sing, heard her voice himself, he would have never believed that so much sound could come from such a small and lithe little thing.
Mark pulled a ham sandwich from his lunch box, almost unaware of the person who had sat down beside him until they spoke.
“Are you enjoying that, Mark?”
Mark twisted his head to look at the figure sitting next to him.
Rarely do you see someone on a hot summer noon clad in a thick black coat and large hood like a cowl, pulled way over his face so that the only luminosity were those pale green eyes peering out from the dark shadow. It was indeed a strange and rather intimidating sight to see on such a sunny day.
“How do you know my name?” Mark asked.
“That is of no concern,” said the figure, waving a bony hand dismissively in the air, “but you have something that does not belong to you.”
Mark frowned and tried to shuffle farther along the bench, away from this bizarre man. But he found he could not move. Neither could he stand. Somehow he was stuck, fixed, firmly planted to the bench.
“You have a good life now, Mark,” the darkly dressed man continued. “Your home is safe, you have a good job, your wife has returned and you are both in love more than you ever were. All is well in your life now, is it not, Mark?”
“Well, yes…but…how do you…who are you?” Mark stumbled, perplexed.
“Your recent fortune is because of the talisman, the one you picked up from the grass verge, the one you keep safely in your wallet. It is the amulet of fortune, Mark. It has worked its magic for you, now it is time to pass it on.”
“Pass it on. What do you mean pass it on? I found it, I saw it when the sun shone on it.’
“No, Mark, you did not find it, it was left there for you, passed on to you.”
“Left for me? Left for me by whom?”
“That you shall never know; you must never know or the magic will cease working for you.”
“Who are you? How do you know all this?”
“I am the guardian of the talisman. I guide the deserving, those who are in need, I keep the amulet safe. Listen carefully, Mark, you have benefited from the amulet’s power, you have gained wealth and happiness. Now you must pass it on, you must give it to another worthy soul. But you must pass it on without them knowing who provided it. Do you understand?”
“Yes, yes I think so. But who do I give it to and how do I pass it on without them knowing?”
“You must find a way, Mark, and you must choose wisely, that way the amulet will bless you with further fortune too.”
The dark figure stood and placed one hand on Mark’s shoulder. Bending close, he said, “You already know who you must pass the amulet to. Oh, and congratulations, Mark…” The figure placed a thin index finger against Mark’s lips after he made this final statement, keeping Mark from answering, from questioning, before he walked away, disappearing into the crowds.
Mark sat stunned, disbelieving what had just taken place. Magic, talisman, amulet, guardians. It was all fantasy, fiction.
None of this actually exists in the real world, does it?
Mark finished his lunch, threw the packaging into the waste bin and began his walk back to the office. Passing the young busker with the wonderful voice, he tossed a handful of change into the collection hat.
Mark arrived home as usual that evening, dumping his briefcase on the table before plonking himself on the sofa next to Maria.
“Gently, Mark,” Maria scolded.
“Sorry, I am just knackered tonight. Thank goodness it’s Friday.”
“Well, you’re just going to have to take a little more care from now on,” said Maria, looking pointedly into Mark’s eyes.
“Why, why do I need to take care? I’m tired and just need to crash out.”
“Because of the baby, Mark. Because of our baby.
“Baby, what baby? You can’t. The doctors said you can’t…you are…are we…” Mark’s voice trailed off as Maria wrapped him in her arms.
“Yes, Mark, I am pregnant. You can say that word, you know! The doctor is as surprised as I am, but he said these things can still happen now and then, even when it seems medically impossible. Oh, and he said congratulations.”
“Congratulations.” That was what the figure in the park at lunchtime had said to Mark. “Congratulations… The amulet will bless you with further fortune… But you must pass it on without them knowing who provided it.”
This was all too farfetched. It was impossible.
But it was also impossible that Maria was pregnant.
Gabby zipped her guitar into its soft leather case, tipped her donated coins from the old hat into her bag and walked towards the exit of the park. It had been a good day for busking; she could feel the weight of her earnings pulling on the shoulder strap of her bag.
Once seated in the corner of the Frog and Gribbitt public house, Gabby spread the coins on the table and started to separate them into piles. She found that this method was the most efficient way to tot up her day’s takings.
Apart from two euros and an old franc, Gabby found a strange coin with a pentagon and some rune markings. There was something unusual about this coin that made Gabby put it into the little pocket in the back of her purse. Grabbing a few coins, Gabby ordered a beer and sat back in her chair, relaxing in the comfort of the plush fabric.
She noticed two men enter the pub right then. They caught her eye because of the expensive suits they were wearing, suits that would not have looked out of place in a central London wine bar, but were definitely out of place in this scruffy backstreet ale house.
One of the men saw Gabby sitting in the corner and indicated such to the other. The two men went over to Gabby’s table. She became apprehensive as the two men sat themselves opposite her without invitation.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know your name,’ the younger of the two men said, ‘but I heard you singing in the park today. You have an amazing voice. It’s truly beautiful.”
“Oh, thank you. I hope you gave me a few pounds,” Gabby replied jokingly.
“We can do better than that,” said the older man.
“Yes. Yes indeed,’ said the younger. ‘We want you to come to the studio to record, to cut a few tracks, if you will?”
“We think you could be a future star, having such a melodic voice, even a great artist,” said the older man. “Will you come on Monday for a session?” The man slid a business card across the table.
“Are you serious? Is this a wind up?” questioned Gabby.
“No. It is not a wind up,” said the older man. “Nine o’clock Monday, all-day session. We’ll have a contract ready for you.”
“Then yes, I will be there,” said Gabby, nodding and shaking the men’s hands.
Gabby watched them leave the pub before picking up the card they had left. It read ‘Abbey Road Studios, 3 Abbey Road, London, NW8 9AY’. Gabby placed the card in a small pocket inside her purse, the small pocket where she kept those little valuable and important things, like the strange amulet she had found amongst her coins that day.
Gabby excitedly called her mother, who simply said, “Well, girl, you never know how lucky you can be. Just make sure you make the most of it while it lasts.”
She had to laugh. H
er mother was always so practical.
Paul White’s Bio & Links
Paul White is a writer of modern contemporary fiction.
While each individual story Paul weaves may concentrate on a particular theme such as Life, Love, Emotions, Depression, Trauma, Suspense, Sex, or Romance, Paul’s writing features the most important matter of all, the human condition; the hopes, dreams and wishes, the fears and self-doubts, the anguish and uncertainties that lie within us all.
These emotions and issues are portrayed through the characters that inhabit the worlds within the pages of Paul’s Novels and Short stories. They are also reflected in his Poetry and Blogs.
To find out more about Paul White visit his web page: https://paulznewpostbox.wix.com/paul-white-writer
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