Soulmaker

Blasted awake by the alarm. Leaping out of bed, another journey, another fortune to be found. The invincible hero, rescuing soulings, vanquishing the enemy, stealing from the rich in another time and another place, the perfect crimes for the perfect future for Sylvie and him. Charge! Down the hallway! No Sylvie, go back to bed, don’t let Papa hear you. I’ll be back with a bag of gold, then we can go, I promise, then we can go.

  He hammers down the wooden staircase living a dream, each railing a spear ready to run him through if he hesitates. The foot of the stairs, she whispers at the top of her tiny lungs, “Will, Wait, wait, take me with you. Take me with you!”

  “When I get back we will go away. I’ll get you away from him and you’ll be safe.” Slam, he’s out and running, don’t look back, crash, therrump, keep running don’t look back. No you didn’t hear anything. Just this one more trip to the Timefold, one more bag of gold…even diamonds”

  Mr Johnson woke up in a sweat. He checked the clock. 5:45. “I’m sorry,” he said and wiped his eyes.

  Brimming with purpose once more, years of stagnation over, he put on his old brown suit, fastened his tie and tapped down his hat. The last of his possessions fitted neatly into his beaten leather case. The last of his possessions.

  He sat back on the bed and stared out the window. He cleared his throat. Yes, it was time to go. And quickly. He scrutinised the paper in his hand once more. It may not have said Certifiably Insane in those exact words, but it amounted to the same.

  When charges had been brought against him, the truth he told about the Timefold had saved him from a jail cell and kept him safe from the beasts who wanted him dead. Being insane was a much safer option all round. But who knows. Maybe he was.

  The grief for his dead sister had never passed. The scars from his father’s abuse still hurt and the sight of his body strangled by the fig still shocked. The brokenness of his mother and her distrust of him, her vile new husband and hateful step sister, his hunger for friendships that never bore fruit. Was he crazy yet? What about the pact to betray the boy for access to the gateways? Wasn’t saving his sister’s life worth that? Weighing that up over and over and over could drive anyone mad. And now, outside, didn’t beasts still lurk for him? They left him for dead in the shower but would they be back? Every shadow made threats. They didn’t need bars to keep him locked him up. He needed the fluorescent lights and the nurses and the sentence itself to keep him safe because he knew the real reason he felt like he was going mad every day and fighting his sanity to escape his burden. Guilt.

  Mr Johnson removed his hat to wipe his brow. His gaze went to the bed and the inviting hospital whites. He should stay. He had told Ashden a week but he needed more than that. He ran his hand over the top sheet, closed his eyes and counted.

  New thought. Ashden had succeeded where he had failed. He delivered the right Soulmaker to the beasts. They were now satisfied and he would be free to return. He could drink from the lake and heal his mind completely then he could find a gateway back in time to save Sylvie. Mr Johnson took a green pill out of his collection, pleased he had saved enough. With his new thought and his pill, his anxiety would pass. As long as he didn’t think too hard about that other girl. About Elanora.

  Fifteen minutes ticked by.

  Mr Johnson stood up and screwed up the letter. Indefinitely consigned to permanent psychiatric care or to stand trial for...Lies!

  If the girl is still alive I will help her. If not, I’m in the clear! he thought, satisfied at the rightness of this decision.

  The strum of nails on his door made him start. The matron stood in the doorway, observing him. She stared with her usual hardness but it didn’t have quite the effect when she was dressed in casual pants and blouse. She gestured with her head and Mr Johnson took the handle of his case firmly in hand before leading the way out of his room. She followed him out along the corridors, her note of resignation effective immediately lay on the desk and she tossed her set of metallic claws onto it as she left.

  In silence they climbed into her hatchback and ground the gravel drive into tracks.

  “I must say, you have surprised me, Mr Johnson,” said the matron as they pulled up outside the train station. “If you hadn’t softened the blow, I would have taken great insult at your deception. Insane indeed,” she smiled thinly, stroking the velvet pouch poking out of her jacket pocket. “Watch yourself out there.”

  “And you, Matron.”

  As he slammed the door she yelled through her window, “It’s Matilda,” and floored it away from him, dark hair flailing in the wind, pink striped lips smiling.

  “Oh yes William, it was worth it,” he said to himself as he headed, eyes down, hat low, for the train. In a few hours Matron Matilda would be on a plane to Europe with a spoonful of his diamonds in her pocket. How clever of him to have concealed them in the framed photograph of his sister. The Timefold had yielded much profit for all the loss it had inflicted.

  Mr Johnson took a deep breath, boarded the train and sat with his eyes fixed on the seat in front, wading through his muddled thoughts. Exactly which purpose would he be returning to? Which girl was he saving?

  Caramel walls with black cankers consuming light and warmth. Down the tunnel, bestial muzzles snatching at him from festering patches. His sword brandished, a beast chasing his ankles. Falling against the wall, bitten and bleeding, a gateway to hide, away from danger. What was that therrump at the foot of the stairs as he left the house, nothing that wouldn’t wait. No I didn’t hear a thing. Save yourself, use a new gateway, there’s safety in a new time and plenty of treasure to steal, you can always go home and help Sylvie later.

  His head jerked him from slumber. “Forgive me,” he whispered and hurried to the opening doors of the train.

  Mr Johnson’s heart beat noticeably fast as he walked on stiff legs to Wallsend Lane. He checked his watch and walked faster, refusing to look sideways.

  The laneway was in a decrepit state with half demolished buildings and debris everywhere. The wind picked up and rattled strips of metal and flapped at awning cloths for his attention. It swept up dust and chip packets to fluster his face and it moaned as it barrelled through the huge dumpsters. He secured his hat and carried on down the street towards the second hand shop at the end, gulping down a double dose of green pills.

  Chimes sounded frantically as he fought the door open in the wind. “Ooh Mr Johnson, do come in out of that horrible weather. So lovely to see you, come on through and let me take your hat,” Nory greeted him warmly.

  “Hello Ma’am, Ashden, sorry I’m a bit late.” Mr Johnson put his case down beside the chair he was offered.

  “That’s all right. It’s good to see you. Did everything go okay?” asked Ashden finishing his third cup of tea.

  “Yes, yes. I must say it’s a little strange being on the outside after so long cooped up.” His hair certainly appeared to be enjoying its freedom, sprouting like mushroom clouds at his temples. He settled back into the chair and gave his legs a shake before taking the cup of tea delivered in a flurry by Nory.

  “So, gentlemen, you really like my teddy bear? Ashden said you want to hear all about him. How wonderful that he’s going to be featured in a book about famous teddies. And what makes you so interested in bears, Mr Johnson?”

  “Well, I’m very interested in soft toys generally, but especially bears. I’ve been researching their origins and have become quite captivated. I’ve found it’s often the older toys that seem better loved. Ones like yours, for example. Perhaps children today don’t love soft toys as much because they have so many different playthings to choose from. They’re always changing from one to the next and never love one long enough or hard enough, not enough to bring it to life in any case.”

  “Yes, they seem almost alive, some toys, don’t they?” said Ashden quickly to cover for Mr Johnson’s lapse into the truth. He smiled and gulped his tea. “Nory said her bear belonged to her mother who came to Australia back in 1911.”

 
“Well, we do have a rare specimen then.” Mr Johnson leaned over and gave the old thing a pat on the head, shivering with delight. “Why don’t you tell us all about his history?”

  Nory beamed at them, crossed her ankles against the old tapestry armchair and began.

  “My grandfather gave this bear to my mother after he had been abroad for business. They were just becoming the latest thing in children’s toys and he was lucky enough to have visited the factory where they were made.”

  “In Germany, by any chance? The Steiff factory? ” Mr Johnson’s cup rattled on the saucer.

  “I believe that’s right,” Nory answered. “He knew his little girl would love it and she did. It meant a lot more to her later that year when her father passed away unexpectedly. But you probably don’t want to hear all about my family.”

  “Oh yes, it makes his story more interesting. It’s his family too,” said Mr Johnson.

  Nory smiled, “My grandmother was devastated, of course, and they had to sell everything to pay off his debts. She worked so hard for them both and it took its toll. She passed away herself from an illness and my mother was taken in by a poor girls’ charity.” Nory shifted uneasily and took out her hanky. She knotted it up and wrung it straight, then gave her glasses a clean before settling them back on her nose.

  “Oh Mr Johnson, now I’m going to tell you something my mother never knew, but I’ll only tell you if you promise it won’t go in your book. It’s been on my chest for years and I think this is quite the time for me to tell it, after all I couldn’t tell my dear old mum. But,” she said quietly, “my mother was only told my grandmother died. I checked the births and deaths register and her name wasn’t there. I might have thought she was just a nobody and no one noticed that she died, but I found her real death certificate dated 1927. Mr Johnson, I believe my grandmother gave my mother up to the institute herself.” She dabbed her eyes with the creased hanky.

  Mr Johnson put a consoling hand on her knee, “In those days, Nory, mothers wanted the best for their children and sometimes the best was to give them a chance at a life they couldn’t provide. Don’t think badly of her.” He gave her knee a gentle pat.

  “Yes, I’m sure you’re right. Anyway, I won’t forget the name of that charity house, The Institute for the Betterment of Girls,” she sniffed. “They had rich patrons who paid for young girls to be shipped off to Australia for a better life.”

  “Yes, I’ve read about that sort of thing. They’d been doing something like it since the 1600’s to places all over their Empire. But I didn’t think it was happening in Australia till the 1920’s,” Mr Johnson said, tugging his ear.

  “Oh, I can assure you it was. And very illegally. The matron who ran the school over there in Scrubstone was actually selling the girls under the orders of the Founder. My mother had some frightful stories about living there. Anyway, I haven’t much mentioned my bear during all this, have I? Well he was a real comfort to Mother in those days but she had to keep him hidden because she didn’t want that woman to take him away.

  “Strangely enough, one day the matron just up and vanished. The police were called in then the government got involved and the whole scandal was uncovered. In effect, a child slave trade. Thankfully all the girls were put into the care of a legitimate charity group and given a fine education. My mother moved to this town and got married. My father died in the war, God bless him, and she and I worked hard together, but we got by. I know my old mum wouldn’t ever have sent me away,” she sighed. “And every step of the way was Edward Arthur Jameson. My old mum wouldn’t let him out of her sight. She knew there was something special in him. Her best friend had told her to look after him forever because he had a life in him that was as real as her own. You know how young girls are with their toys,” she smiled.

  Ashden nearly choked on his own breath, “What was the name of that friend?”

  “That’s an easy one, love, I was named after her. Elanora.”

  Mr Johnson and Ashden stared at Nory. “What happened to her?” they asked in unison.

  Nory took another sip of tea, a little surprised by their enthusiasm for such a trivial detail. “Well, not long after my mother was married, she moved away. She came back on and off over the years. Mother always missed her when she was gone. The last time I saw her was at Mother’s funeral. She did say something strange to me, though. And I did what she said because she meant such a lot to Mother.”

  “What did she say?” Ashden was stuck to his armchair by the skin of his pants.

  “She said… I really don’t like to say, love, because it’s a bit morbid.”

  “Go on, Nory, it’s very important.”

  “To the story,” added Mr Johnson.

  “She said before I pass on, you know what I mean, I should leave Edward in my will to a particular person in Scrubstone who would look after him as well as I have. She wrote the name down on a piece of paper and I did it, I added it to my will. My solicitor knows who it is but I never wanted to know in case it jinxed me!”

  By this time Ashden’s jaw was hanging so far open you could have put the entire tea cup in his mouth, with saucer!

  Mr Johnson looked at Ashden then back to Nory, “Do you know the name of that person, Nory?”

  “Like I said, Mr Johnson, I was never inclined to know. But I do have it written down somewhere. A copy of the will,” she added in a trembling voice.

  “Nory, do you think you can find that document?”

  “I don’t know why that ...”

  “Think of the intrigue in the story, Nory. What a chapter in the book! Aren’t you dying to know, Ashden?”

  He nodded mutely.

  Nory brought out her hanky and fluttered it about. Finally she rose to her feet to fetch her Last Will and Testament from the third drawer of her kitchen cabinet.

  “It’s in there, on the last page,” she said presenting them a thick envelope at arm’s length.

  Mr Johnson reached inside and rummaged, peering intently into the opening. He withdrew a stapled stack with reverential care and both he and Ashden scanned the last page for the name.

  Tears sprang into Ashden’s eyes and he cradled his head in his hand, shaking. It had only been over a week since he had seen her, yet here she was reaching out to him from decades past.

  “Are you all right, dear?”

  “Nory, we know the person named in this document,” said Mr Johnson.

  Nory twisted her hanky, glancing from man to boy and back again.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to know the name?”

  “Well, I...”

  Ashden looked up at her with eyes that gleamed.

  “Oh all right, then,” she shrugged. “I’m really not the superstitious type anyway.”

  Mr Johnson cleared his throat and read from the page. “I, Nory Evans, leave my antique teddy bear, Edward Arthur Jameson, to Ashden Jaybanks of Scrubstone to look after and love.”

  “Yes, I remember saying those words, but my solicitor added in the name, you know,” Nory muttered, reaching for her tea cup.

  Mr Johnson smiled and held out his arm.

  “Nory, this is Ashden Jaybanks.”