Pilgrimage (3 page)

“I said you sleep on the floor,” he forced out, a little louder. Then he passed out.

Chapter 2

Roland rarely had exactly the same dream twice, but the dreams he had never varied much. They always began with feeling of warmth, a body lying close to him. Then he saw the sterile, white walls of a doctor's clinic and that one sunflower painting hanging on the wall in the waiting room. The dreams always ended in the dark, listening to the sound of distant sobbing and an unending, paralysing sense of shame. The most he could hope for was to not dream at all.

Roland woke and immediately regretted it. He dragged himself to the bathroom sink, shedding himself of his unbuckled jeans somewhere between the bed and the bathroom door. He drank deep, straight from the bathroom tap, letting the cool water soak his face. Then he turned around and threw it all up into the toilet bowl, along with the yellowish-brown remains of the previous night’s beer and chips. When he was sure he'd finished, Roland got another drink from the sink and sluggishly crawled back onto the bed.

Then memories of the night before began flashing in his mind like a broken light. Roland sat up and scanned the room. Except for him, the room was empty, clear of any evidence that it had happened. Mustering all the strength he could, Roland stood up, pulled his jeans on and checked the rubbish bin. A solitary, shining steel blade sat before him. He wanted to write off his memories of the night as a drunken hallucination or a concussion-induced dream. That would have been easier. He could make sense of that. But the damned knife ruined that hope. The realisation that last night's episode was real wasn't easy to swallow. It made him sweat – But then again, that might have been the hangover. He wasn't sure. Either way it demanded a cigarette.

Roland opened the door and stepped out onto the walk-way outside his room. He lit up the moment his two feet were on the other side of the door. He'd taken two drags before he noticed the mop of brown hair and uneven eyebrows attached to the stranger sitting against the wall outside his door. No, not a stranger. He was the kid from the bar, the lemonade drinker. He'd dragged Roland out of the bar and back to the hotel. Roland struggled to imagine a light weight like this kid holding him up, and yet there he was.

Roland leaned over the railings and took an uninterested look around the car-park below him. Nicotine had started doing the job of calming his nerves. Though his brain was being uncooperative, Roland carefully considered what to say.

“Who are you?” That was the best he could come up with.

“Griffith. My name is Griffith.” The stringy-haired kid answered.

“Griffith. Right.” Roland turned around, blinked a few times to clear the crust from his eyes and sized him up. He was small and unimposing but, now that he looked, Roland could see an athlete's muscle tone. The kid was petite, but no push over. His thick hair hung in a fringe just above his bright blue eyes. The kid wore the unfortunate, baby-faced expression of an optimist. He obviously needed a few more years of thankless toil under his belt before the cynicism kicked in and really started to age him. “But
who
are you?”

“I told you. I'm Griffith.”

“No, I mean...”

“I know what you mean.” Griffith looked up and down the walkway. “But that's a more difficult question. Do you mind if we go inside?”

“Yes.” Roland answered. He hadn't even finished his first cigarette and he planned on having several more before the end of this conversation.

“All right.” Griffith paused and took another look up and down the walk-way.

Roland raised an eye-brow at him. He wondered what the kid expected to find on an empty walkway at this time of morning.

Griffith continued in a low voice: “Tell me, Roland, have you ever—”

“No. No questions. No stories. No bullshit. Just tell me who or what you are.”

“Um...” Griffith took a moment for his derailed train of thought to get moving again. “You might call me a magician.”

“Can't hear you.”

Griffith stepped closer. His voice was barely more than a whisper. “We - that is, people like me – call ourselves sorcerers. Lucky for you, my magical speciality is healing.”

“Hold on.” Roland raised his hand to silence Griffith. He exhaled the smoke from his lungs and peered at Griffith through the haze. When the smoke dissipated, he reached out and prodded the self-proclaimed sorcerer. “Yep. You're real.”

Griffith nodded slowly. “Yes. I'm real.”

“Damn.” Roland put the cigarette back in his mouth and breathed deep. It was unbelievable. It was insane. And yet, he couldn't just ignore what had happened the night before. As drunk as he was, the images were imprinted clear in his mind. Griffith was there in front of him. It wasn't a hallucination. The only explanation was magic. Wasn't it? There was nothing else.

“You're taking this well,” Griffith said to break the silence.

“Have you ever been stabbed in the leg?” Roland asked

“No.”

“Neither have I.” Roland lifted his leg and bent it backwards and forwards. He could see the hole in his jeans where he'd been stabbed. “But I'm sure it doesn't just get better overnight.”

“It gets better faster with magic.” Griffith shrugged. “That's one of the benefits.”

“So you're, like, a magical doctor?”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

“Keep going.”

“Sorry?”

“You were telling me about magic.” Roland almost choked on the word
magic
. It was unacceptable. Magic didn't exist. Except now it did. He hoped this wasn't how his whole day way going to be. It probably would be, but he still hoped.

“Uh... Okay. There's more sorcerers out there than you'd think, but still not many. Some of us do a little bit of everything with our magic; I mostly use mine to help people who are hurt.”

“Mostly?”

“Well, I can do some of the basic stuff that everyone learns but mostly I do the healing thing.”

“Why?”

“Because it's the right thing to do. What else is life for, if not for helping others?” Griffith answered without pausing.

Roland raised his brow at the kid. “I don't believe this.”

“It's true.”

“Prove it.”

“Sorry?”

“Prove it.” Roland clenched the cigarette between his lips and stretched his arms. It felt and sounded like every bone cracked in his body. He stared out towards the road while he spoke. “Do something magical.”

“I'd rather not.” Griffith checked the walkway again.

“So how can I be sure it's not some kind of con? Maybe you drugged me last night. Maybe it was a trick and I was never really hurt.”

“Why would I do that?”

“I don't know.” Roland smothered his cigarette on the railing and lit another one. “But it makes more sense than magic.”

“Proof, huh?” Griffith muttered. Roland shot a glance at him and then looked back down at the car park. The so-called sorcerer looked thoughtful.

“Or you can admit you made it up. I imagined the whole thing and we can never talk about it again.” Roland shrugged and more bones cracked. He took another quick look at Griffith from the corner of his eyes. He hoped the kid would agree and just walk away. He didn't need any of this crap.

“All right.” Griffith nodded and looked towards the door. Roland followed his gaze. For a while nothing happened and then the numbers 306 on his door started bending. Roland's jaw went weak and the cigarette fell to the ground. The numbers on the door folded like paper, smaller and smaller. He counted them fold seven times and then drop to the ground.

“Well...” Roland stuttered. He breathed deep and sighed.

“Happy?” Griffith smiled. He looked more pleased with himself than anybody should after breaking the laws of physics.

Roland lit another cigarette. He got half-way through it before he spoke again.

“So you're a sorcerer. What the hell are you doing in Armidale?”

“I'm just passing through.”

“To where?”

“Salem.”

“Why?”

“I heard there's a sorcerer of legendary power living there. They're like me. They specialise in healing magic, I mean. I'm going to ask him to take me as their student.”

“And this place, this...”

“Salem.”

“Right. Is Salem near here?”

“No. This is just the closest I could get by train. Salem is on the Queensland border. From here I have to make my own way.”

“So how do you get from here to Salem?”

“Walk.”

“Walk?” Roland asked, waiting for the punchline. He flicked the butt of his cigarette down into the parking lot.

“That's right.” Griffith nodded. He was still smiling the whole time he explained.

“No offence, Griffith, but that's stupid.”

“It might sound reckless but it's all part of the plan. I walk there and, while I'm at it, if I meet anybody who I can help, I do. In doing so, prove I'm willing to undergo any hardship as his student. That way he'll have to accept me as his apprentice.”

“How do you figure?” Roland watched the smoke leave his mouth and waft up. It pooled at the roof before overflowing past the gutter and towards the sky.

“It's like a test. I'm proving my worth to learn from him. And why not? Helping people is the right thing to do.”

“So, what, you're on some kind of sorcerer pilgrimage? Your own sorcerer spiritual journey. You do something stupid and, what, a good deed a day to prove your worth?” Roland asked. It was sounding stupider as Griffith went on and Roland wasn't sure whether to remain sceptical or feel bad for him.

“A pilgrimage? Yeah, I guess you could call it that.”

“Uh-huh.” Roland lit up another cigarette and mulled over everything he'd been told. A pilgrimage? Helping people just because it's right? Bullshit. Nobody does something just because it's the right thing to do. The kid's magic may have been the real deal, but he was either angling for something or he was deluded.

“Now it's your turn.” Griffith added before Roland was done thinking.

“The name is Roland. I'm unemployed and I live in a hotel. That's it.”

“That's it?”

“That's it.” Roland shrugged. That ended the conversation again and Roland went back to thinking. This time Griffith didn't interrupt and when Roland's mind forced out the most clear and rational thing it could force out through the throbbing ache of his hangover, Roland spoke again.

“Salem. Now that I think about it, it sounds familiar. It's on the Barwon river, isn't it?”

“Yeah, that's the place.” Griffith answered.

“If it's the place I'm thinking of, it's really out of the way. There couldn't be more than a handful of towns between here and there that are worth mentioning, depending on what roads you take. Not many places to stay or eat.”

“Are you trying to dissuade me from going on?”

“No, I'm just telling you it's stupid.”

“Well if you're so worried, why don't you come with me? It wouldn't hurt to have somebody who knew how to handle a bad situation – like last night.”

Roland chuckled and shook his head. “You don't even know me, kid.”

“I know you're a good person. You're not afraid to stand up for people you don't even know.”

“Don't read too much into it, kid. I just wanted a fight.”

“Still...” The word came out sounding almost like a desperate plea.

“You really don't know what you're getting into.”

“I've got a map.”

“And?” Roland waited for the rest of that sentence. He looked down at his cigarette. It was half burnt already and he'd hardly touched it. He flicked the ash off and took a drag.

“And what? I've got a map.” Griffith stepped closer and leaned over the railing with Roland.

“I guess you're set, then. Good luck.”

“You don't mean that. Come on, Roland, come with me to Salem.”

“No. I've got stuff to do.” Roland stood up straight and stepped away from Griffith.

“Like what? You said you don't have a job.”

“Like none of your business.”

“I'll pay you.”

“What?” He looked over at Griffith, expecting another punchline that never came.

“You can be my escort.”

“No.” Roland cut him off before he went any further.

“You could call yourself a body-guard if it would make you feel better.”

“Do you need a body-guard?” Roland raised an eyebrow at Griffith.

“No.” Griffith shook his head and quickly added. “Why would I need a body-guard? I just thought that would sound better than escort.”

“Stop calling it that.”

“Sorry.” Griffith smiled. “Not an escort.”

The sly smile didn't strike Roland as honestly sorry. “This whole thing is stupid. I don't see why I should waste my time.”

“I'm offering you a job. You help me get to Salem safe and unharmed and I'll pay you. Cash just for making sure I don't do anything really stupid.”