Note to reader: I'm sorry about the unpalatable form - I usually write in indented paragraphs.
Prologue:
“All things lead back to their sources,” my father had always maintained. For my sake, I'd always hoped that sentiment to be untrue.
I'm twenty-three. My name's not important. Peter, James, Gordon, Dave – it's all the same. Life never lived up to my expectations. When you think about it, life is made of two things: what we inherit; and what we're able to do. I guess what we're able to do is determined by what we inherit.
A job, dole pay, schooling, religion, marriage, divorce, commuting, insuring, buying and selling; living and dying. Life seems like a pre-determined set of events designed and conjured by some toothless, careless, loveless drunk.
I left home at the age of twenty-one. I was hesitant at first. The world runs only on the hard work of people; it could fall apart at any moment by accident of nature or some social cataclysm.
Who knows what motivates people? Money, love, faith, indifference? I don't know if people have faith any more. I don't believe in faith. Faith is for the helpless; the simple-minded. Faith is for those who need rescuing by the things in whom they invest their faith.
Religion, karma, money, luck, reward – who the fuck knows what bullshit people believe today to keep them from nearing the tipping point?
People are fucking nuts. And yet the only thing in which we can have faith is the goodness of people. Those rare scintillations of goodness people possess are the only things which separate us from the beasts of this Earth; and those things seem to be getting rarer - in my threadbare eyes, at least.
And so one day I began walking. I began walking, working as I went. Working merely to acquire sustenance and supplies. Walking and working to acquire some means of direction. Maybe I walk to put off identifying direction. Who knows? I've never given it that much thought; I just walk.
Chapter 1:
The moon filtered through the clouds. The closest, densest clouds were silhouetted black and slid across the Moon's face like behemoth circus elephants.
The closer clouds were grey and slid across like prison breakers evading a searchlight. Around the white orb, suspended in the atmosphere, hung a haze of diaphanous vapour, splaying the light across the immediate sky like a cluster of forlorn and dying fireflies.
The young man, wearing a travellers' backpack, trudged across the crests of the moor's many undulations. He'd given up on life's dreams. To live life's dreams, he'd surmised, required one to be asleep.
His shoulders and back were weighted with around fifty pounds of equipment. That's a heavy load, I'm sure, but he'd got used to the strain. In the pack was a basic cotton quilt (with no cover, of course), a few pots and pans, a portable heater, several books of matches, food (mostly non-perishables such as grain and dried fruit – which would keep his bowel movements at a steady pace), water, some spare clothes, and a few books.
He carried a wallet and a mobile, and he kept a wind-up charger and a phone charger to keep his essential little gizmos wired with life. The books he carried were classics, mostly – Dostoevsky, Camus, Kafka, Orwell. But he also carried the odd modern classic; one can't beat the odd Bukowski, Kerouac or Hunter S. Thompson.
He'd usually buy his books second-hand and give them back to charity shops upon completion. He'd read hundreds of books – thousands, maybe – but he couldn't take even one with him as he set out from home two years previous. He wore hiking boots, denims, two t-shirts, a black zip-up fleece and a skull-cap. The winter night was approaching its zenith as he walked. In seven or eight hours light would flood the horizon and pour into his travel-worn eyes.
Chapter 2:
In the distance I could see the faint glow of a town; a town like an ember held in the palms of a dark, horizontal giant.
As I approached, I could hear the clatter of glasses and the baritone rumblings of men coming from the sudsy hub of their homestead.
The warm smell of malt hung faintly in the chilled air. Vapour escaped from a vent emanating from the pub's steamy kitchen.
I entered the hubbub and removed my pack, looking for a place at the bar. I placed my pack beside a stool and sat, rubbing my palms and gazing from left to right as if sitting between two people engaged in fiery discourse.
'Hey, what's your local bitter like?'
'Wet and bitter.'
'Right. Well, I'll have a pint of that then, please.'
'Fine,' said the sanguine-cheeked, middle-aged, rose-haired proprietress.
At a table in the corner sat three local village girls. One – a blonde-haired, green-eyed gal with eyebrows like thin wisps of heaven and a gently tapering face – caught his eye. She was wearing an elegant, peach nylon dress but she looked younger than he.
She saw him scanning the corner; saw his hazel, piercing eyes and she smiled. He turned to his bitter and cupped the base of the glass with both hands.
In one movement he shrugged and stood, gesturing to the barmaid that he was to briefly leave his seat and pack. She returned with a smile and a knowing wink.
As he rose, the girl leaned forward and muttered something to her friends. It must've been along the lines of 'he's coming over', because they both rose, straightened their airy dresses and motioned towards the ladies' toilet.
He approached and gestured at the space. She shrugged, pushing out her bottom lip and lifting her hands, palms-up, in a 'what-the-hell?' expression.
He sat, supping at his bitter, and leaned back.
'What's your name?' he enquired.
'Susan - but you can call me Susie. What's yours?'
He paused for a few seconds, keeping her in suspense. She looked searchingly at him. He broke the moment: 'Henry. My name's Henry.'
'Well, it's good to meet you.'
'Are you sure?'
'Well, I guess I'll find out.'
'Susie?'
'Yeah.'
'What's a pretty young thing like you doing sitting all lonesome in a pub?'
'Well, what else is a girl to do of an evening?'
They both laughed. She tilted back her head slightly.
'So, Henry, what do you do?
'Do?'
'Yeah,' she laughed.
'Nothin'.'
'Nothin'?'
'Yeah.'
'You mean you don't do anything?'
'That's correct.'
'Well, what do you do?'
He paused for a second, jutting out his bottom jaw, raising his eyebrows and pressing together his lips into a quizzical countenance.
'Well, I travel. I'm a travelling man. I don't work.'
'No?'
'Nuh-uh. I don't believe in work; I believe in labour and recompense, but I have no calling.'
'No calling?'
'Yes. I've been to university, but my path has grown somewhat overgrown. This could be the end of the road, or merely an interruption. What do you do, Susie?'
'Me? Well, I'm at college.'
'Studying?'
'Sociology, History and Maths.'
'That's quite some line-up.'
'Thanks.'
'You like compliments?'
'Not really.'
She looked down at her side, laughed and then rose. Her mouth bore teeth like cut glass. She settled and gazed into his eyes. He sipped his drink and looked down at her half-finished gin and T.
'Care for another?'
She looked down at her glass, swirling the liquid and shaking the half-melted ice and lime in turn.
'Nah, I think I'm fine, thanks.'
'You sure?'
'Yeah, you know. I shouldn't.'
'You shouldn't?'
'Yeah.'
'Says who?'
She laughed. 'Don't be so blasé.'
'Blasé? That's quite a big word for a college student.'
'Actually, it's a short word'. She sipped at her drink and snorted, almost losing the last remaining ice cube.
'Come on. What are you having?'
'Another one of those-'
'Gin and tonics?'
'Yeah,' he mused. 'I haven't had one of those in, say... five months.'
'Well, it's a summer drink and I'm a summer girl, but the chilly November air won't stop me from glugging the odd gin.'
'Glugging? I don't think such an action befits a lady of such high esteem.'
'Really?' she enquired, in a 19th century Edwardian accent. 'Well, a-thank you, Mr Darcy.'
'Much obliged, madame.'
'Listen, I like you. Why don't we cut the crap and split.'
'Split?'
'Yeah, I've got a bottle of bourbon back home and the parents are away.'
She flicked her blonde curls from her shoulders, gesticulating to him to reply. 'What do you think?'
'Well, that's some proposal.'
'Indeed it is.'
He swigged the last of his bitter, wiping his top lip free of the sticky excess. 'Why not?'
They exited the pub. He adjusted his pack and lifted an arm invitingly. She snuggled up close and he settled an arm upon her shoulder. His skin brushed the coarse fibres of her knee-length coat. They began to walk.
Chapter 3:
He woke at 3am with a start, his head heavy from the bourbon he'd drunk earlier. The moon hung low in the sky and his brow was beetled with several large beads of sweat.
He gazed over at the girl. The sheet was drawn up to her mid-riff, revealing her shapely waist and back. The notches of her spine were bevelled startlingly against the soft, cold-defined satin of her pale, goose-fleshed skin.
Her breasts hung daintily; her hair was brushed back over one shoulder, revealing a lilliputian, gold, chain-linked necklace.
He reclined, kissing her shoulder. She turned, slowly.
'Hey.'
'Hey.'
She brushed the hairs of his chest with one hand and raised it to hush his speech-ready lips.
'How was it?'
'Sex.'
'Sex?'
'Sex is sex is sex.'
She laughed.
'You're different from most girls I've been with.'
'Different?'
'Yeah, you're that little bit younger... and that little bit tighter.'
He paused, then collapsed into laughter.
'Sorry.'
She thumped his arm and rolled atop him.
'I'll make you sorry you said that.'
'Honey, nothing you could do could possibly make me feel sorry.'
He pressed his lips against hers and slowly turned her to lay her upon her back.
Chapter 4:
In the morning, the birds chirped with vigour and the scents of her parents' many garden flowers filled his nostrils. The whirring of a steam kettle finally stirred him to life. He rose, sitting on the edge of the bed, and began to rub his eyes.
Clad in boxer shorts, he strolled into the kitchen and caressed her gown-covered shoulders.
'Morning.'
'Morning. I hope this isn't the usual method by which you obtain life's necessities.'
'No. You know, most women are content with just oral sex.'
She tapped him and giggled.
'Toast?'
'Yes, please.'
'Coffee?'
'Milky, two sugars.'
'Jam, peanut butter, Marmite?'
'Marmite? Fuck that! Jam, please.' He paused briefly. 'Hey, it's Sunday, right?'
'Yep. What do you wanna do?'
Well, ideally I'd like to do the following in the following order: breakfast, sex, pub, sex, stroll, sex, sex, sex. Maybe the sex parts are negotiable.'
'What am I to you, some floozy?'
'I'm sorry.'
'Don't worry, honey: that I am.'
He smiled at her. 'Oh, let me pour that coffee for you. Sugar?'
'One, please.'
He placed the cups upon the table. She brought over the toast.
'So, Henry, you've fucked me – wanna start discussing marriage?'
'I would do, but I'm already tethered.' He raised a hand to show his ring finger. 'Shit! I must've pawned my ring by accident.... Oh, well.'
She tilted back her head and released a gaggle of hearty laughs, settling after a few seconds to look at Henry.
'So, shall I introduce you to my friends?'
'What am I - your pet?'
'No. Not yet. But they may just find you interesting; possibly more interesting than I do.'
'That's hardly likely.'
'Correct.'
They both paused for a few seconds. Henry looked uneasy, rubbing his palms, then he proceeded.
'Listen, we haven't had a chance to talk. I really have to leave tomorrow. I've got to cover a lot of ground.'
'Well, you don't have to. What is it exactly you're aiming to do?'
'I want to walk this country – length and breadth. Then I want to walk it some more – working and reading as I go.'
'That sounds amazing.'
'Yeah. I hope it will be.'
'Is there one more space on the itinerary?' she joked.
He looked at her piercingly and then relaxed into a smile.
'I have thought of that; it's a lonely road, after all. But I have to walk it alone. If I were to invite another, my entire interpretation of events would become skewed; different. You see?'
'Kinda, but what if the second version is the better?'
'I don't think it can be. I must experience the yet-to-come with solitary eyes. If another were to walk with me I might lose track of things. Besides, you're young; pretty. You've got your entire life ahead of you. You've got college. I'm just a passing stranger. I may change you but I'm not your future; I'm not any future....' He paused. 'I'm just a moment.'
She gazed at him - half in pity; half in adoration – as he looked into his lap. She slid a hand over to his and held it.
'What is it you want to accomplish?' She squeezed his hand, urging him on.
'I don't know.'
He removed her hand from his and settled it on the table reassuringly, giving it a soft tap. He bit into his toast and raised the cup to his mouth.
'Do you want to go for a walk in a minute, Henry?'
'Why not? Do you want to go now?'
'Well, yes, but what about your breakfast?'
'Forget about it – I'll warm it later. Shall we go?'
They spent the afternoon wondering the woodland paths and cobbled streets of the small village. She nestled her head in his chest as they walked. They sat briefly on a park bench and watched the afternoon sun drift into view and then continually hide behind grey giants in the mottled winter sky. They talked. They kissed. Friends of her parents saw them and gazed with a mixture of curiousness, mild scorn, interest and envy.
He left her early the next morning. He came into her life briefly and exited with haste; a man of impetus, searching for nothing in particular; a victim of the twenty-first century – just as confused, dazed and disenfranchised as the next person, but in need of some supra-city existence. A compulsion no more and no less than finding his soul drives him on. He'll lose and gain whilst on the road. He'll make many a valuable friend and lover overnight - and lose them by the afternoons of a few days later. This is the life he's chosen. He chooses to live it with conviction. He's building towards something immense. Who knows what's around the corner?
Chapter 5:
I went to university at the tender age of eighteen in 2005; I finished in 2008 at the age of twenty-one. I bummed around for a few months. I worked at a call-centre, selling some shit-poke set-top box insurance.
'Good afternoon, Miss I've-Got-No-Fucking-Time-For-You. How are you today?'
'Go fuck myself?'
'Well, thanks for your time?'
'May I arrange a call-'
'BEEEEEEP!'
Fuck that shit. I left within three weeks. I sat around at home, feeling like killing myself. I'd never been laid. I'd never been happy. I'd always been hateful. The summer of 2008 was a good one. I found Ray LaMontagne's Till the Sun Turns Black, and I got into a little Washington State-based band called Modest Mouse.
I wanted to become a happy person; a good person. After three months of bullshittin' and smooth-talkin' people, I took a good, long look at myself in the mirror.
'Who the fuck are you, you ugly fuck?'
'What the fuck do you want with me?'
'Is this living? You fucking tell me.'
With a little preparation I suddenly knew my direction: I had no fucking direction. Maybe I was young and reckless and willfully ignorant of all things sensible, but I had to get the fuck out of there; out of that soul-devouring city. My home town wasn't all bad. Don't get me wrong. But all one sees is crowd after crowd of painted, confused faces; too many faces. Every few months, I'd look back at how I was a few months earlier – and I'd be fucking disgusted. I'd always see some pathetic cocoon writhing around trying to become a butterfly.
I'd wake up in the small hours and those faces would be on the wall – haunted and haunting. My face would be in there somewhere, too; lost within the incongruous features.
I came to a conclusion: I had to walk. People go on and on about travelling. Where? Where the fuck do you want to travel? The Far East? Why? Is that the popular locale this month? Is it one of those 100-places-to-see-before-you-die locations? Travelling isn't an activity; it's a state of mind. You move. You never stop moving. One day, you're going to die. There's only one certainty: you'll probably be horizontal when you kick the bucket.
Chapter 6:
To be continued....
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