Immortal Memory (Iris' Atlantis 1)

21: Little One

"Yes. Well. I didn't really mean that she would have started it. But she is waiting for something to happen, and that something is happening right at the center of her domain."

"Mmm... I wonder... There goes a rumor in the Witch Towns that... But my, what is this presence?"

The voices stopped. But the sound of something being tossed and caught didn't cease. I could feel them watching me from somewhere. I breathed out a great white misty cloud. And turned my head slowly. Two shapes were standing to my right. They had stopped some ten meters away, exactly where the cat had been a moment ago.

Neither was dressed for the chilly evening. The woman had on her a modern summer dress and had cut her white hair short. The man wasn't wearing a shirt at all but stood on the path barefooted. He had a long mane of beaded dreadlocks. The very only item either was carrying was a common metal can the man was tossing in his left  hand. Both had gleaming eyes that shone red because of some reflection I couldn't place.

"I don't think she's a witch," the man said. The can came to rest in his hand, where he curled long bare fingers around it.

"Well, if she isn't a witch, then what is she?" The woman asked.

The man didn't answer but came to greet me, with a "Nice to meet you. Would it be very disrespectful of me to ask what kind of a spell you are wearing?"

I stared at the red eyes. There was a hypnotic quality to them.

I frowned. Where had I...? There was something in those eyes that made me uncomfortable. Something that had nothing to do with this man that didn't seem to be drunk, nor carried anything threatening. There was something familiar about the way he talked and carried himself that I couldn't pinpoint.

And where did that reflection come from? I broke the eye contact to search for it, but I couldn't find any sources of red light.

"See?" the man was saying. He pointed at me with the can. I couldn't tell in the dim light whether the drink was a beer or a soda. "Not a witch. She cannot really see us."

The woman came closer as well. Up close, I could see that the eyes of the two were not of the same shade, for while the man indeed had eyes almost blood red, the woman's irises were vividly orange.

"It must be the cross. See, Weasel? She is wearing a cross. I don't think it's decorative."

The man nodded to me. I wasn't sure why I couldn't look away, or just leave. I did rose to leave, and they made no gesture to stop me or follow.

I took two steps away.

"Do me a favor," the man whispered. "Look behind the church before you go."

I stopped.

My head was swimming.

Suddenly, I found myself standing in a graveyard. And I had the most intense of feelings that I shouldn't turn, no matter what I did.

I was safe if I didn't turn.

It felt like in those nights after watching a horror movie one felt they were safe if their toes were covered under a blanket. But if they left their toes unprotected by the soft fabric, then they themself would be visible for a nocturnal monster. I knew it was an irrational fear. There was no monster under the bed, nor was there any behind me, lurking by the deep shadows of the churchyard.

I took more steps.

When I turned to look behind me at the end of the row of tombstones, there was nothing there. Just an empty gravel path.

Deep in thoughts, I circled the church. I wanted to exit the yard from the same gap in the wall where I had entered.

As I turned to a path that led me behind the stone building, I saw a man. He was laying on the ground, supporting his upper torso against a grave. There was a bag of cans to his left and a very similar plastic shopping bag of something else to his right. His hand was flung over the second bag. The puffy winter coat on him was torn in various places and it was difficult to tell what color it had been under all the dirt and stains.

Usually I would have passed him by without a second glance. Someone who had drunk themselves to sleep in a public park. But it was cold. It wasn't unheard of for people to freeze to death in the nights, even this close to spring.

And something of him reminded me of Aunt Chime's late husband Mathew. Maybe it was the bushy beard. God only knew the reason.

He didn't lift his face to me as I stopped in front of his worn out boots.

"Mister?" I started.

No reaction.

With a knot in my stomach, I nudged his boot with my own shoe. I crouched down. I took the glove off my right hand and tapped his cheek. I was the only one breathing white mist to the space between us.

I wished there had been someone else in the graveyard. Or that I could have still walked past. I wished I hadn't stopped in the first place. If I hadn't decided to circle behind the church, I would have never found him.

But, as things stood, I had found him. And now he was my responsibility.

Just before I dialed the emergency number, I raised my face to the church, frowned deep, and wondered about the reason for this encounter. What was God trying to communicate with the body of this homeless man? Was it a lead to the Little One? A warning? Or both?