Joshs Blog

THOMAS I

A ghostly wind blew from the west accompanied with a relentless rain that turned creeks into rivers and lakes into oceans. For six days and the seventh night, luminous lightening with sprawling arms and glass shattering thunder stubbornly hung over Portsmouth. Like the night before, and the night before that, Thomas waited alone for the supply ships to make dock; his hair raggedly soaked with clothes two shades darker. Portsmouth, a naval base receiving critical supplies for the war effort, was a city of thousands; workers, guards and jobless drunken sailors.

Thomas loathed the task. Along the pier’s length, a conveyor belt of English-loaders transferred the ship’s cargo without gloves that developed painful calluses and penetrating cuts from the poorly crafted wooden-crates; especially excruciating when the salt water ravaged wounds. Seething as the sea was, the vessel would make dock; it always did. While his mates that linked the human conveyor belt quaffed their ales and intoned inside the Keeper Inn., Thomas faced the sea with his hands laced behind him.

“Beautiful night, Tommy,” a man tall sarcastically observed from behind.
“Aye, reminds me of home, truly.” Thomas remembers a rain like this, cascading against the Mountains of the North Yorkshire Moors into the streams and rivers; even once flooding the growing fields. Sometimes it was difficult to remember the soft pale skin of his sister’s face, or the feeling when embraced by a proud mother. He hardly tried anymore; when their faces were resurrected, soon they’d burst into flame and shout an agonizing scream.
“And where did you say that was?” the tall man said.
“I didn’t,” Thomas turned to Marcus smiling, and then back to the rolling sea, escorted by penetrating lightening that defined great black clouds. “She’s late,” Thomas said changing subjects. Marcus, a repository of selective secrets, would cut through that; that much Thomas Tensile was certain.
“Aye, I don’t imagine she’ll make good time in this. Seven ships have been lost since the rains began, three tonight, I heard. The sea wages a brutal battle against them, mate, like gods trying to clean the land for their children.”
Stupid comment, Thomas strongly thought to himself. “What you hear is often not what happened.”
“I’ll grant you that, true. Nevertheless, I am no liar, I pledge you. I am a man old. Sometimes what I’m told holds no veracity. Anyway, it makes no sense to stand stiff-legged in the rain, Tommy. Come to the Keeper Inn. The ale is thick and warm tonight. Might even warm up those frozen veins of yours.”
“The ship could dock at any time. I need to be here when she docks.”
“Come Thomas, we can give coin to some child. Poor, most of them are here. A coin could buy bread, honey and even warm water for a bath.”
Against the fog of the flooding storms, it was difficult enough to spot approaching ships, even with state-of-the-art guidance systems. Tonight vessels were forced to ease into port; roughly, 30 minutes from visual approach to dock, Thomas calculated observing the other arrivals. He turned to Marcus and nodded, figuring he could use a drink anyway.

Late was the hour at the Keeper Inn; drunken shipmates reduced to pleading for work with townspeople foretelling a new war. Water dripped from Thomas’ wringing wet clothes that collected into a trifling pool under a four-legged wooden chair in the corner, opposite of the catty cornered bar. While waiting for Marcus with the ales, Thomas repeatedly observed the Beggars and drunks that hung off shoulders, holding their pints with outstretched arms singing a horrible rendition, of “I have a Yong Suster”. Many of the tables were pushed aside and light bulbs swayed from an electrical cord stapled against the ceiling. Few women joined the ruckus; whores, mostly that captured the strongest man and led them up the staircase into a room on the second floor. “She sent me the brere wythouten any rynde, she bad me love my lemman wythouten longynge,” they sang.

Thomas perceived the room; thirty or so men singing in the room’s middle, a young man drinking alone with his dull eyes glaring at the table’s degraded wooden finish, another man teasing a malnourished whore sitting on his lap. Across the room sat a light-brown hooded cloak exposing only a pointed chin while drinking no drink, singing no song; just the exhale of tobacco smoke verified he breathed. “How sholde any chery Ben wythouten ston? And how sholde any dowve ben wythouten bon?” nearly thirty men sang crammed in the room’s middle.

“Seems we’re joining a celebration tonight, Thomas,” Marcus said softly setting Thomas’ ale, keeping two for himself. “See that man there, the one drunk with the white linen shirt? He’s marrying into royalty. Not that it matters today with parliament and the ministry; Lords, Kings and Queens are figures and celebrities, nothing more. After the public executions, I’m not certain I would advertise it so freely.
“But you know something of royalty, don’t you Thomas? God works in a way I’ll never understand. You do believe God exists, don’t you, Thomas?”
“I believe in many things,” Thomas said indifferently.
“Aye, I know you. If you can touch it, you wouldn’t have to believe in it, is your belief. That’s it, isn’t it? Believing would mean blind faith into something that you couldn’t touch. Didn’t you read the old fables and stories of faith during Sunday school? Sometimes, when bad times bring dark skies, we have to believe in something to keep us strong.”
“If this is all you wish to talk about, our conversation is over,” Thomas said.

Thomas’ body stirred with a taste of dark-roaster barley, milk sugars and the heavy scent of esters. Warming his bones, his drink only accelerated the cobble-stone fireplace three clicks to his left. For the past week, a virus infiltrated his body like the invading army that occupied his country. At times, he went into coughing fits; it could be the smoking’s degradation of his lungs, Thomas reasoned. Just the warmth against his skin, the drink inside his body, Thomas felt a renewed strength.

“No, of course not,” Marcus said solemnly. “I haven’t taken a stroll in your shoes, so I don’t blame you. I’m not sure what I would do if I lost what was most important to me.” Marcus leaned closer when Thomas rolled his eyes and readying himself to stand. “So I met a man last night; he called himself Francis. Since England was sacked two years ago today, the Americans have established an underground resistance group.”
“Resistance to what, it’s not like they sallied themselves to our defense while our mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters and Penelope,” Thomas stopped dead cold for a thought. “Why should we aid their resistance when they wiped their asses with our pleas for help?”
“Aye, it’s true. The President elect made a promise on his campaign to remain neutral and the people voted for it. Can’t say that I blame them though, who wants to vote for someone that leads them to war? They are our friends, true, but they had no immediate threat, and she is going to protect herself than their friends.”
“Fuck the Americans, Marcus,” Thomas exploded. “They smile to our faces and call us friends. What friend sits idly by when millions of her friends die? Do tell me, because I haven’t figured it out. Even now, after the Japanese attacked her ports, they rally for war against her, not with us.”
“Europe is occupied; there is nothing they can do without calling it suicide. You must understand what’s going on these days. We’re going to be working with them, you will see. Perhaps even their cause will gradually help us regain control of our country, give us a fighting chance.”

Dying for a cause, with honor, darted through the blood of his antecedents back to the House of Plantagenet. When the Americans didn’t willingly defend against the invasion, Thomas spit at them. Trying to solidify their claim to friendship, the Americans supplied her majesty’s armies with provisions and a handful of fighter pilots; it nauseated Thomas’ stomach. In the course of time, it made no difference; the enemy sent wave after waves until every city, town and village in England was sacked. After King George was publicly executed as a show of a brutal occupation, the armies of Britain were reduced to resistance groups, mostly militias, easily overrun or paid off. Many took up work on the ports, like Thomas; some took arms into the underground waiting for helpless villages to saturate them with coin they didn’t have.

Marcus continued, “I understand the anger you feel, especially knowing the family that you come from. However, we must put that aside, at least for awhile. I have a proposition to give you, and it pays handsomely.”
Thomas eyebrow slightly rose. Marcus was not a man to be trusted; he was like a spider concocting events for his own means. Money drove him and nothing paid better than sensitive information; most of which were preconditioned falsely. “Do not play me for a fool, Marcus,” Thomas leaned closer. “The last time you gave me information, it was wrong, and people needlessly died. The truth of it is that I would gladly kill you. Therefore, tread lightly before you hand me your lies. Do you hear me well enough to understand my meaning?”
“Thomas, I’m hurt. All I ever did was at the service of England, nothing more. What happened at York, I had no hand in. I was given information from a traitor that set you up. That informant has since fallen to the Wolf; buried in the wicked ground of traitors.”

“Truly, the Wolf lives?” Thomas asked, feeling childish for his outburst.
“Aye, he does, hiding in the Mountains of the North Yorkshire Moors one day, the fields of Bontuchel the next day.” Locals told tales in villages and towns that Thomas crossed of a ghost called the Wolf; killing traitors and savages, defending the guiltless mates and the weak-minded fools from the occupiers. It was a myth, a child’s story, Thomas assumed. From different villages, even beyond the four corners of Britain, the stories had a thousand variations, though the ending was always the same. When the moon raises high, full milky white or split with the heave of an axe, the Wolf expelled their numbers. Panicked by their own creation, the enemy sought him by torturing those that claimed to see him. They said nothing; he was their defender, their mother, and they protected him even to their death.
“You’ve seen him?”
“Unfortunately, no I haven’t. He’s a ghost, Thomas, as legend has it. You cannot see a ghost if it wishes not to be seen.” Marcus flipped his wrist and waved off the conversion. “It matters not. Take a package to America, to a man named Bernard Yates. He will invite you to a cause, and you must follow him.” Marcus said.
“I believed you said the pay would be great,” Thomas said suspiciously.
“Aye, I did. They will pay you, set you up with a home even.”
“You want me to be a mailman, now, while Britain is occupied? She needs me, needs all of us. People benefit if I’m here, now.”
“Your abilities are unrivaled, it’s true. How is that, Thomas?”
Since a child, Thomas was quicker and stronger than most. His eyes could see microscopic details from miles away, hear the minutest descriptions and when he touched something, he felt its memories. He hadn’t known what he was, or how he became. When friends climbed trees, he glided over the ascent. When friends took twenty minutes to swim across the river, he was already dry. It confused him why his older brother or twin sister didn’t exhibit similar gifts. Not that it mattered to him; he was what he was and used his gifts for his own means.

Marcus continued, “Save a few, I’m sure you could do easily enough. Nevertheless, it’s on account of your abilities, with a twist of luck no doubt, that you do this,” Marcus pleaded. Marcus had the truth of it, Thomas knew.
“What is this package, Marcus? And what is their cause?”
“That, I cannot say. It’s best you don’t know but if there’s a hint of trust left in your heart for me, then do believe me when I say that this package could change everything. Turn the tides of war, even destroy the enemy and bring home our country, once again.” Marcus appealed to Thomas’ ego, “And you will be a hero, Thomas, praised as the man that set off a series of events that won our liberation. Now that sounds good, doesn’t it?”
Thomas had to admit, it sounded appealing; statues erected in his honor, songs with his name. “Does Price know?”
“Does Price know what? That you are to carry a mysterious package across the Atlantic? Of course he knows.” Marcus looked at his watch. “As a matter of fact, I believe he’s extracting it now.”
“I’ll have to consider it,” Thomas said suspiciously wondering Marcus’ intentions.
“Don’t consider long, mate. There’s nothing you can do here, for your country. Sure, you might save a damsel in distress, and perhaps have her play with your bridges. Even so, this will reward you greater. Wouldn’t you like to bring honor to your family, once again, as they once were? I assumed so. You will see me again, no doubt. When you do, we will be friends rather than associates and conspirators. Now, drink my second ale, I fear another spider might be admiring my work. Take care Thomas and god speed.” Marcus’ elderly frame stood, smoothing his thighs and set about before turning back. “Take the northern road tonight and when the shadow of the church touches you, make sure your senses are heightened.”

Thomas watched Marcus exit the Keeper Inn’s with an overlooked glide when something in his gut stirred. Old shipmates sung less coherently, swinging and swaying while locked around shoulders to songs that Thomas recalled as a child. “Hey boy,” a petite green-eyed woman said wearing a faded white flower-pattern dress ripped above the knee. “Want to have some fun?”

Thomas put down his barely sipped pint of ale, looked at the whore and smiled, “My dear love, what fun do you speak of.”
She was roughly Thomas’ height, with long straight golden hair and a noticeable scab on her bottom lip. “I know many games we could play.”
Thomas laughed hysterically, “Games? Do tell, I’m a man with rough hands, callused to the bone and ignorant of such games.”
She hesitated, her mind querying the bait that might interest her pray. After draining his ale, Thomas gazed back to her.
“What is your name, love?”
Thomas approved of her stuttering, “It… it… its Angel.”
“Indeed. Take yourself to my brother; he’s a single-father whose wife died a year ago. He will be pleased, no doubt.” Thomas wrote the address on a small napkin square, handed her a roll of bills, and watched her leave.

The second ale tasted as delightful and smooth as the first, swimming down his throat and warming his stomach. Thomas felt relieved when Angel left, but wondered about the boy. Were his heals still kicking the wooden crate, watching the pier for the vessel’s approach? Perhaps he found a mate to kick around with, to pass the time while Thomas elongated the time after Marcus’ departure. Playing the role, Thomas smiled and scanned the room, accepting greetings when they passed. When he turned to the shadow in the brown wool-cloak, it was no more; the unsettling feeling in Thomas’ stomach nearly gagged him. Where did he go? Difficult as it was to see through the drunken standing chorus, Thomas saw nothing of his likeness. Not among the drunken chorus, or the bar’s caddy corner counter. Not along the second floor railing, or the doorframe near the rear stockrooms.

A moment later his fear was realized when the Keeper Inn’s front door smashed open and ten guards wearing dark gray uniforms burst into the room with rifles drawn. Quickly, the commotion went to silence. A single man followed ten minion-like guards dressing stylishly elaborate in comparison; a triple-v patch on the right sleeve, a swastika arm band on the left, decorations covering his left breast pocket, a brown leather strap elapsed from his right shoulder to his left waist sealed with a belt buckle of pure silver embroidering an eagle over a green shirt and tie. Two patches sewed into his collar on opposite sides; the right had duel-lightening bolts and the left with three diagonal squares over a triple-line underscore.

Thomas knew the man as Lieutenant Erik Schmidt, underling of Admiral Günter Adler; overseer of occupied Europe in the stead of his Fuhrer. Schmidt’s heavy leather boots walked over the hollow wooden floor, mischievously approaching the men that once sung in the middle of the room. His left eye was pure white, a pupil long destroyed evident by the vertical scar that ran five inches over his eye. Meticulously judging with his good green eye, undoubtedly searching for a band of rebels or the Wolf himself, Schmidt appeared proud with the nervous sweat dribbling off the commoner’s noses.

Ten guards, plus Alder himself, would be a difficult fight to survive. Thomas’ knew his best chance was to remain anonymous and submissive; a hero would only invite a death that served no purpose at a god damn bar in Portsmouth. No statues would be erected, no songs sung honoring his family name, not even a state funeral to grieve the man that’s to give liberation to all. Sacrifice for the sake of martyrdom was a pointless contrivance by desperate minions that lacked intelligence.

With a heavy-German accent, Alder introduced himself in the commoner’s native tongue. “For those of you that are ignorant, my name is Lieutenant Erik Schmidt, vice-commander of what you once called England. This poor, wet, dreary land is now under my care. We are the conduit that will make England great again, prosperous with riches, wealthy enough that even the poor will be rich by your standards.” Schmidt clapped his leather gloved hands one time and five guards restrained five random commoners. Once realized a struggle was futile, the man in the white linen shirt, standing nearest to Thomas, became subdued; even a mist of rusty-red formed around his big white eyes. Removing a luger from his right thigh, Schmidt placed the pistol to the temple of the left-most restrained commoner and squeezed the trigger; already dead before falling to the floor.

Schmidt guided around the blood decanting from the lifeless man and spoke. “But in order for us to make Britain great, we must cleanse the land of disease. If you give us information regarding the rebels, then this needless killing will stop. We will live together, in peace and harmony. All of you will have jobs, back at sea where you deserve to be. Your dreams will be fulfilled, your families well feed and your sons will grow at your heels to become better men than what you are.”

By the time he paused, Schmidt flattened his pistol against the temple of the next man and squeezed the trigger. After an instant of brutal seizures, the man was lifeless. The Lieutenant continued, “Do you not wish to become prosperous? I see, what you really want is freedom, of course. Freedom, a pure basic human instinct handed down by God. Fear not, my new countrymen; we are brothers, walking on the mountains and hills of freedom, all servants to God. As a matter of fact, you’re free to leave now if you wish it.”

It was a trap, Thomas figured. This display was two-fold; they wanted to display a ruthless edge to install terror among the commoners as a form of control, eventually provoking the Wolf into a stratagem. His arrogance proved somewhat surprising to Thomas, if not revealing. The bartender didn’t perceive things similarly, hurriedly lifting the trap door and heading for the front door. It was as if the bartender would never understand what happened, after seeing his blood, and fragments of brain matter, cover the pub’s front door. Schmidt’s pistol was still smoking when he swung around and fired two shots killing two restrained men leaving only the man with the white-linen shirt standing.

“We know who you are,” Schmidt said directly to the man in the white linen shirt. “We know your claim, your ambitions to murder us and liberate this shit country. Did you think you could escape us?”

The man in the white linen shirt sobbed audibly. A mistake, Thomas thought. A man like Schmidt was easily provoked, especially challenging his arrogance; or things he perceived as orderly. “Tell us where the Wolf is and you may yet live to see your woman. She’ll be pure when you see her next, I assure you. Wouldn’t you like that? Yes, of course you would. Just tell me where the Wolf is and you may go home to fuck your woman. Would you like that?”

The man in the white-linen shirt knew nothing, Thomas was certain. The just Gods had written the order to execute him, long before his executors mobilized. Typical with idiosyncrasies of a God that sat idly watching with sick enchantment; just like they did with Penelope. Even if God existed, he loathed him, cursed his symbols and spat his name. “I will have my revenge,” he cried that night, kneeling aside his wife’s torn body.

After the man in the white shirt sobbed, not even claiming a lie to extend his life, the Lieutenant levels his pistol at the man’s head and claimed his life. “Let this be a lesson,” he shouted, “if the Wolf comes, and any of you aide him, we will burn all of you alive.” The Lieutenant smiled at the dead bodies on the ground, spun on his heel and left, followed by his ten guards.