She hoisted the heavy pack’s strap onto her right shoulder and slowly jogged to where the Holden sat idling. Approaching on the left, she bent low and peeked in the window. There was only the driver, an older male, sixties, white hair, a craggy, leathery, pleasant face. Immediately, she felt safe.
As this was an older vehicle, hand-rolled windows, she opened the door wide enough the man might get a look at her. This was always a bit of a dance. She’d tell the driver where she was heading, driver’d reply where he was going, she’d hop in or she wouldn’t. Here, it didn’t mattered just so long as she got out of this place, lovely as it was, else she might be stuck in Godknows, Otago forever.
An agreement in place, she opened the back door to drop the pack onto the seat. The driver suggested the boot might be easier, but she just smiled and said thanks, back seat’ll be fine. It had never happened to her, but she’d heard of instances where the hitchee places bag in the boot, slams down the lid, and immediately the driver speeds off. And though she always carried everything of value on her person -- passport, money, smartphone -- to lose your pack in the middle of nowhere is not a terribly joyful experience.
Once seated, she offered her name and a hand to shake. The driver, name Morrie, then shifted gears and away they went. The next phase generally was your obligatory feeling-out process: where’re you from, what do you do, is it safe for a young woman to be hitching alone.
Morrie didn’t seem to care where she was from, what she did, and obviously figured a female hitchee was just fine. Refreshing. Only thing the man did ask, was she a reader, and when she said yes, wondered what she read. Anything that’s well written and not beyond my mental capacity, she replied. Morrie smiled, as the response appeared to satisfy his curiosity.
“I only ask because not many people these days are readers. Not real readers. Me, I’m old school. Like to get my nose into a good book, bigger the book the better. Love to get lost in a story. Biographies mostly, but give me a good thriller, I’m in heaven. “I’m lucky, I suppose. Grew up before telly got a foothold, so as a kid I listened to radio drama. Had to form your own pictures, create the characters’ faces and the environment around them just from the sound of some actors’ voices. For me, it was like going to an imagery gym, really developed the mental picture-making muscles. I can remember lying in bed at night listening to those voices, spellbound, not a thought in my head besides being right there with the characters and their situations. Don’t like to sound as though the good old days were better than now, but I do believe all this new technology gives people too much information, cuts down on folks creating their own pictures.”
“Well, Google and the like, Wikipedia, are terrific,” she said. “But only if you use them as tools, not the be all and end all. I have to fight with myself not to get lazy, let the internet do my thinking for me.”
“If it’s thinking at all. Do you wonder about things like life and death and god and the hereafter? I don’t mean in the religious sense. But whether they in fact exist, and is there meaning to it all?”
“Not as much as I should, I suppose. And when the walls begin closing in, Instead of sitting around thinking philosophical thoughts, I just strap on the pack and head off somewhere I haven’t been before. Traipsing around a new place, everything so fresh and different, seems to blow those walls back and give me breathing space.”
Morrie nodded his appreciation. “I like that.”
They drove several minutes without a word. “Are you able to, as they say, think outside the box? What I mean, if somebody brought up, oh, say, UFOs, do you immediately jump in and either cry rubbish! or say yes, and the US government is hiding captive aliens at Roswell?”
“Nah. I’m a researcher. I need data before I form an opinion. Sometimes I think I ought to take more of a gut stand on certain things. But I just don’t know enough to even be halfway certain.”
“And life after death?”
She laughed, a soothing sound like wind chimes. “That’s the biggie, isn’t it. I can’t see everything ending when this body finally gives up the ghost. But other than viewing religion as a reason to keep people apart and start wars --.”
She suddenly grew wary this might be the jumping off point for a sermon, and in a minute Morrie would reach over and pull a few pamphlets out of the glove box. But neither happened. Instead, he looked kindly at his hitchee and asked, “You in any hurry?”
“Well, my boss might start looking around for a replacement if I don’t show up for work in a couple months. Why?”
“What I was wondering, if you have the time, I’d like to take you a bit out of your way, over to a village not far from here, meet some people you might find interesting.”
She had a moment of concern. But she trusted her instincts and knew it’d be okay.
“This isn’t a prayer meeting, or something.”
“Nope. Just a delightful old couple I’d like you to meet.” He glanced at his watch. “This is kind of a special day for them, and maybe it’d be of interest for you to share it with them.”
“Well, yeah, sure. Don’t see why not.”
“Fine. Now, without getting all mysterious about it,” Morrie said, a bit more seriously, “may I ask that you simply observe without asking questions? When we get back on the road after leaving there, you can ask me anything you want, I’ll try my best to answer.”
“Wow, sounds, I don’t know, am I going to be given a glass of dosed wine, wake to find myself hanging upside down in the basement next to all the others come before me?”
“Arsenic and Old Lace, eh. Teddy Roosevelt charging up the stairs while the two old sisters sweet talk Cary Grant. Loved that movie. But no, these folks don’t even have a basement.”
“Then sure. I mean, you only live once. I’ll take a punt.”
“Good. And again, eyes and ears open; mouth, for the most part, closed. Okay?”
A few kilometres along Morrie made a left onto a dirt road that was even narrower than the one they’d been on. She took out her smartphone, but the new road must have been so insignificant Google maps didn’t even show it. Funny thing was, she didn’t feel the slightest bit apprehensive. Besides, she reckoned, isn’t this why I’ve ventured down all this way, to find what remains of real New Zealanders who were rapidly phasing out of existence? Lead on, McDuff!
They drove maybe twenty minutes when a village seemed to appear out of nowhere. Small, looked-after houses, well cared-for gardens. Your prototype NZ dairy which stocked everything, the petrol station, butchery. A car passed slowly and Morrie and the other driver exchanged a wave.
“Someone you know?”
“Not really. It’s just sort of tradition in small places to say gidday to another driver. I often wonder just where the line is drawn, where a road becomes sparsely frequented enough for this to happen. But you don’t really think about it. The other driver waves, you wave back. Here’s our place, just up ahead.” Morrie pulled up and parked on the verge.
When they got out she eyed her bag in the back, then over to where Morrie was standing. “Look, I’ll lock if you want,” he said, “but I can assure you --”
“No, it’s okay. Really. Force of habit when you’re travelling.” Following a moment’s hesitation, Morrie did lock the car. Didn’t make a big thing out of doing so, nonetheless his rider felt a bit guilty.
They walked up the pebbled drive. There was a screen door, a rarity in these parts, and behind it the front door was wide open. Morrie knocked lightly, waited, then again. Through the screen they could see a small older woman approach. She seemed hesitant, her hand to her mouth. But when Morrie softly said, “Afternoon, Fiona,” she immediately took her hand away and smiled.
“Well hello, Morrie. What brings you around today?” She opened the screen door, allowed them to step around it and enter.
“I wasn’t far off, and I reckoned you might like to meet my young friend here. And for her to meet you and Graham. He’s here, I take it.”
“Yes, of course. Please.” They paused to take off their footwear. The younger woman’s no doubt still carried evidence of her recent four day tramp, so she didn’t mind all the untying and tugging off. They then followed Fiona into a lounge area that might have been decorated just after WWII, but was clean and uncluttered and had the warmest feel to it. An older man put aside the newspaper he was reading, took off his glasses and got up, a hand extended. Morrie introduced her by name, but said nothing about having picked her up by the side of a road.
“I imagine you’re both waiting,” he said, “and I hope our showing up won’t get in the way.”
“Oh, no,” Graham replied. “When he comes, he comes. Nothing to do but wait patiently.”
Fiona disappeared, and a short while later they could hear the sounds of a jug boiling and cups and dishes being laid out from the nearby kitchen.
Morrie and Graham engaged in small talk for a time: the weather, rising prices, frustration with some recent government decisions. Fiona returned with a tray containing a large steaming teapot, four cups and matching saucers, a small pitcher of milk, bowl of sugar, a plate of still warm home-baked cookies.
As the young woman sat there holding on her lap a tea-filled cup on its saucer, a cookie nearby upon her leg, feeling the old-fashioned goodness of the place, the gentleness of the old couple, she couldn’t help sense a nervousness in Fiona. She hoped her presence wasn’t the reason. Usually in situations like this she felt a responsibility to say something to break the ice, ease any awkwardness, and was all set to start in with conversation when she remembered Morrie’s gentle admonition to look, listen and keep mum. So she simply smiled, took some deep breaths and tried to listen to the surface chatter taking place.
And then something changed, quite dramatically. Fiona suddenly looked past her, her eyes growing wide. She placed her cup and saucer gently on a tiny table alongside her chair and rose up to full height. The two older males did likewise. The hitchhiker twisted around in her chair to see a man standing in the doorway, which she thought a tad odd in that he hadn’t heard anyone enter the house. The man appeared to be her own age, late twenties, and was wearing a military uniform, perfectly clean and pressed. His head was bare, revealing short, thick, dark hair. He was a handsome sort, almost a glow about him.
“Mum, Dad. You’re both looking well.”
As she stood up and turned to face the new arrival, both parents moved slowly across to where their son stood. She figured they’d give him hugs, as it was apparent they hadn’t seen one another for some time. Fiona, especially, made like there was nothing in the world she wanted more than to reach out and touch her boy. Instead, they stopped a few feet from him, peering up at his face with shining eyes.
The hitchhiker happened to look over to Morrie, and noted the man was trying to catch her eye. Time to go, he appeared to be saying in silence.
They set their cups and saucers on a table and stepped around the trio. Morrie smiled at the soldier, who smiled back. The young woman might’ve been invisible. Just by the screen door she picked her boots off the floor; Morrie did the same with his shoes. Outside, they sat on the step and slipped on footwear without a word. Walked down the drive to the accompaniment of soles and heels scraping pebbles. Just a single vehicle, Morrie’s, was parked on the verge. How, she wondered, did the old couple’s son get here if not by vehicle, and she hadn’t heard one pull up. Anyway, out of habit she checked to see her pack resting safely on the back seat prior to setting hand on the front door handle, forgetting Morrie had locked it.
Once they were settled inside the car, Morrie started the motor, drove a short distance then made a U turn and proceeded past the house and away from the village back the way they’d come. It wasn’t until they’d returned to the main road, made a left and continued on that any words were said.
“So, my friend, what did you make of the scene back there?”
“What do you mean? Parents welcoming a son they apparently haven’t seen in a time.”
“Uh huh.” They drove a few kilometres further, again in silence. “And if I told you their son, Stanford was his name, was in the Gulf War?”
“Okay.”
“The first Gulf War?”
“Wait. That was --” she paused to do the math. “-- top of the nineties, right? Daddy Bush was president then. But he – Stanford – looks around the same age as me. And I think I was around three at the time.”
“True, true.” They drove a while longer. “Were your eyes and ears working, as I’d suggested?”
“I think so.”
“All right, tell me what you noticed.”
“You mean things out of the ordinary.”
“Mm.”
She took a breath, let it out slowly. “Like, his sudden appearance without any sound?” Morrie nodded. “He didn’t take off his shoes.”
“Good.”
She looked over to her driver. “No touching, although Fiona certainly wanted to.”
“Yep. Anything else?”
“Mate, you’re beginning to spook me out a little.”
“Sorry. Not meaning to. It’s just, you recall what we were talking about before? And I asked can you think outside the box?”
“Uh huh.”
“Put together everything you’ve just told me about what you observed.”
“Guy looks too young to have been in the first Gulf War.”
“Right.”
“Suddenly appears without any sound.”
“Go on.”
“They don’t touch.”
“Anything else?”
“I think this has just gone from spooky to creepy.”
“Not really. Well, not really if you’re used to it as I am. So take a guess. Or as many guesses as you’d like.”
“He’s actually some sort of hologram.”
“Now, that’s a fascinating thought. One I’ve never considered. But no, not a hologram.”
“Didn’t think so. I mean, he sure looked sturdy, real flesh and blood.”
Morrie nodded slightly. Then a bit harder, as though coming to an understanding with himself. “Stanford may well be flesh and blood. But he was killed in Iraq on 15 February, 1990. Operation Desert Shield, they called it.”
She felt a chill run up her spine. “Today’s the 15th of February.”
“He appears every year this date. Just for a few minutes. In that wee village, and so far as I know, it’s the only place in the world this happens, dead children come back on the anniversary of their death to visit their parents. Problem is, the parents age but the child doesn’t.”
“And that’s the only problem you can think of? Jesus Christ! Look, just for the hell of it, I’ll assume this whole number wasn’t staged for my benefit. Which, were I considering this from a, um, normal state of mind, it would have to be. But okay, I’ll play along here. How do you account for it?”
“Oh,” Morrie laughed, “you’ve just asked the unanswerable question. Even more remarkable than the fact that it happens, is nobody really remembers when it first started. Very few outside the village have the slightest idea this takes place there, and only there.”
“But you don’t live there, and you know.”
Morrie looked over with a touch of sadness. “I used to live there. I was the local vicar. Doubted what I heard. Doubted what I saw with my own eyes. Then I made a mistake. I was invited to observe a meeting by a lovely family whose fourteen year old daughter, whom I knew well, was killed in a car crash. When on her anniversary she appeared in their house, just as Stanford did back there, I reached out to touch her. I had been warned, mind you, but my doubts, oh my doubts. I just had to do it. The whole situation was against everything I had been taught, you see; what I believed in. She was flesh and blood, all right. But the moment I touched her, she vanished. And never again appeared. Can you imagine the pain I caused that family? That’s when I took off the collar. I travelled overseas some years. When I returned to the area the people in the village begged me to again be their vicar. I couldn’t. Just could not.”
They drove on another half hour, until they reached the town she had originally told Morrie she was headed. She stepped out of the car, retrieved her pack from the back seat, strapped it on. Morrie waved good-by. She waved back. The car slowly pulled away, and she walked into the town to find accommodation for the night.