IT CAME FROM THE SKY: The Trail You Blazed Amidst the Stars

THE TRAIL YOU BLAZED AMIDST THE STARS

by Anya J. Davis

I was the only one who knew where he kept it, but I was the only one who really cared. 

“When my time comes, you make sure you look after that.” He’d jabbed his dessert spoon in my direction, before plunging it back into his pudding to release a splurge of chocolate sauce. “You can take everything else I own to the tip. Just not the suitcase.”

He leaned across the table. “Everything that matters to me is in that. Including the…” He uttered the final words of his sentence in a stage whisper: “…you-know-what.”

If my mother had been there, she’d have rolled her eyes. “Not that rubbish again”. It was her standard response when he talked about his most treasured possession; spoken quietly enough to seem like it was under her breath while ensuring everyone heard. 

Dad, on the other hand, would have winked at his brother. “Right you are, Harry”, he’d have said. “We’ll make sure it’s as safe as houses.” 

Dad’s eyes always twinkled when the topic arose and his top lip would curl into a half-smile. Sometimes, as a child, I’d suspected he didn’t believe a word of Harry’s story, but when pressed on the matter, he’d simply say “Well, Uncle Harry says it’s true, so it must be, mustn’t it?”. 

As I grew up, it dawned on me that they’d probably invented the whole thing between them; an in-joke transformed into family legend, the truth of which they’d agreed never to reveal. I didn’t want to know the truth by then, either. Revealing the fabrication would dispel the magic. It would shatter something precious that couldn’t be repaired. 

So, when Harry finally revealed the object’s location, I didn’t laugh or question him. 

“I’ll take good care of it, I promise.” I patted his arm. “It won’t fall into the wrong hands. But you’re not going anywhere yet. I won’t allow it.”

Of course, I was powerless to do anything about the timing of his exit in the end, just as I had been with my parents before him. He slipped away one night while I was in a bland hotel room in another city, watching something trivial on TV. I wish I had a tale to tell about it, but I don’t. I didn’t have a premonition or a prophetic dream. I didn’t wake and check the time at the exact moment he passed. I didn’t see him turning down a corridor ahead of me, as I headed to reception to check out after the hospital had called.

I could have made one up, of course; created something as a tribute to the family storyteller. It didn’t seem appropriate though. It would have felt like I was mocking him, or trying to outdo him. The story about Harry that mattered the most already existed; and it was the only one that needed to survive.

Harry didn’t have any children, however, so the role of custodian of the tale – and the “you-know-what” itself - fell to me. I’m still not sure whether my inheritance was a privilege or a curse.

#

We leave so much behind; so many legacies. Houses; clothing; photographs; memories; unwashed dishes; love. However far we travel, and however little we have, we always leave something in our wake. 

Harry didn’t leave much in the way of physical possessions. He’d lived the sort of life that some call “simple”, when they mean “without a lot of stuff”. He wasn’t a minimalist in the contemporary sense of the word – no clean lines, clear surfaces or crisp, white linen here – but he used his income to fund his adventures, rather than, as he put it, to “gild his cage”.

His adventures weren’t grand ones. He didn’t go on expeditions into jungles in Belize, climb lofty mountains, or save sea turtles on sun-drenched beaches. He did, however, explore the winding streets of Britain’s historic cities, traipse across the moors, and head to the station and take the first train he still had time to buy tickets for.

According to Harry, it was on one of these adventures that he’d found the “you-know-what.” He went on fewer of them after that, cautious of leaving his treasure unprotected at home or losing it on his travels. When he did go, he spent most of his time looking for signs to support his new beliefs.

It wasn’t that he had any doubts about what it happened. 

“I know what I saw,” he said, one summer afternoon, as he leaned back in one of the patio chairs on my parents’ terrace. “And that means I’ve got a higher than average chance of seeing it again. That’s not wishful thinking. It’s just the facts.”

I’ve never tried to find out whether that’s statistically correct or not. To be honest, I don’t want to know. Checking up on Harry’s theories about the subject always seemed disloyal; and even more of a betrayal once he’d died.

That’s why, when I’d managed to navigate my way through the legal obstacle course that the bereaved are forced to tackle, and cleared his house of every other indication that he’d ever existed, I took the battered suitcase from its hiding place, took it home and, without even opening it, stored it away in our loft. I didn’t want to see the “you-know-what”.  I also didn’t want to discover that the “you-know-what” wasn’t there to be seen. I wanted to preserve the story, leave it frozen forever. It was perfect as it was.

#

Of course, seeing the “you-know-what” was a problematic issue anyway. Harry’s story had a get-out clause built in. At least, that’s what cynics would say. When, as a child, I’d pressed him to produce the single piece of evidence which would back up his favourite tale, he’d shake his head.

“I can’t. You know that. It’s invisible.”

Eventually, having learned that seeing wasn’t the only path to believing, I pestered him about it again.

“Surely I can touch it – feel how heavy it is? It doesn’t have to be visible for that.”

“If only it were that simple, sweetie.” He’d pat the top of my head and imbue his tone with sadness. “But it hardly weighs an ounce. I don’t want you to touch it, either, not even with gloves. I don’t know what it’s made of or whether it would make you ill or not.”

Despite my inevitable protestations, Uncle Harry always stood firm. “It’s not a risk I’m prepared to take.”

The only options were to dismiss what he said as nonsense or believe in something that defied belief. I chose to reject the scientific option and put my faith in Uncle Harry instead.

I don’t recall the first time he told me about the “you-know-what”. Perhaps I was too young to remember it; or maybe I overwrote the memory with the version I preferred. That took place one evening, during a walk through the local woods. We stood at the Bird of Prey viewing area, gazing at the distant tor. It loomed over the moorland like an ancient guardian, a black shadow beneath the stars. The autumn chill snapped at our skin. My parent’s elderly Labrador snuffled around the grass, following strange, entrancing scents. 

“Right now, millions of pieces of metal are flying around above our heads.” 

Instinctively, I stared at the sky. 

“Did you know that?” Harry nudged me with his elbow and I shook my head. 

“We’ve caused so much damage to this world. We’ve wrecked the earth, created huge piles of waste, polluted the seas.”  He stepped forward, his face raised to the stars. 

“We’ve wiped out whole species for fun. But that wasn’t enough for us. No, we had to go into space in the name of exploration and fill that with rubbish too.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Bits of old satellite, fragments of rockets, pieces of missiles. They whirl around the Earth, colliding with each other. It’s a bloody disgrace.”

The dog whimpered, unsettled by the tension in Harry’s tone.

“Someone even lost a glove up there once. It floated about for ages before it burned up. We just can’t help ourselves. Mankind; the eternal litterbugs.”

He strolled towards me. “Mind you, we’re not the only ones. The “you-know-what” is proof of that. I must have told you all about that before. About how I came to have it.”

He told me again anyway.

#

The first train on the departure board was a local service, destined to travel along a branch line that skirted the Devon coast. Harry disembarked at the first seaside town it stopped at and booked himself into a guest house overlooking the ocean.

On the second evening of his trip, the bad-tempered roars of the autumn waves drew him out of his shabby single room. He made his way onto the clifftops, sat on a wooden bench and inhaled the salty air. He watched the skies change hue and greeted the moon as it peeked through the clouds. He traced imaginary lines from star to star, trying to drag the long-forgotten details of the constellations from their hiding places in his mind; and then the light show began. 

Red, then blue, then green; the colours stained the sky for seconds at a time. At first, he thought the lights were reflections, from a distant festival, perhaps; but all was silent. No muffled voices filled the air, no thudding bass sounds echoed across the bay. He wondered if it was the Northern Lights, but they were rarely visible so far south, and this didn’t look the same. Then, as suddenly as they had started, the lights stopped, and all was as before.

Harry willed them to return, knowing that he’d witnessed something few others had ever seen. Instead, the world began to hum. The vibration cut right through him. Sharp pain in his eardrums made him wince. He slapped his palms against his ears, trying to block out the sound. The throbbing, mechanical drone made his heart pound, but the piercing whine that followed was excruciating. He dropped from the bench to his knees and vomited on the damp grass. Something was malfunctioning; he recognised it in the way he’d have recognised the sound of a failing car engine. And then the darkness came.

#

He was woken by the screeching of the gulls as they wheeled across the sky. It took some time before he realised that he was on the ground, outside. He pulled himself to his feet and took a few tentative steps, concerned that he may not be well enough to walk. Dark thoughts raced through his mind, gripping him with fear. Had he had a heart attack? Should he wait for help or try to find a hospital? 

The sun had already spread its orange cloak across the horizon. He must have been on the cliffs all night.

He didn’t feel unwell. Shaken, yes, and his body was aching in protest at having been denied its usual night in bed. He could probably make it to the guest house though. He’d consider his options there. He shot a final glance at ocean. He remembered the lights and the deafening noise. What the hell had happened? Had that been a fevered dream? Or a hallucination? Some sort of warning that a medical emergency was on its way?

None of the possible answers seemed appealing, so he pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind. He hoped the rising nausea that had accompanied them would depart too. He turned his attention to the task at hand, and made his way across the clifftop and down the hill. Each step was an almighty effort, each metre walked felt like a mile, but eventually he reached the seafront promenade. He could see the guest house now; its gaudy yellow frontage was tantalisingly close, yet painfully far away. 

He could reach it. He knew he could. He just needed to catch his breath first. He stumbled over to a bench facing the beach and eased himself onto it. He wiped his hand across his forehead, transferring beads of sweat onto his palm. He wished he had a handkerchief to wipe his brow with. He imagined how refreshing the sea water would feel upon his skin. As soon he came into contact with it, he would recover, he was sure of it; the ocean would be his saviour. 

He clambered down the nearest set of stone steps onto the sand, and trudged towards the sea. He bent to fill his hands with water and splashed it onto his face, relishing its coolness as it trickled down his cheeks. He kicked off his shoes, pulled off his socks and immersed his feet in ocean. He rolled his trouser legs up and advanced until the water reached his knees. He was feeling more like himself again already. 

He saw it then, in front of him. Bobbing up and down on the gentle waves. Intrigued, he paddled closer and plucked it from the sea. It seemed to be made from metal. It was sleek and shiny, like polished stainless steel, but although it was several inches thick, it weighed no more than a piece of paper. There were markings on it, but they were random lines; perhaps part of a larger brand name or design.

It was warm, despite having been in the water; and, as he studied it, he realised it seemed to be getting warmer. In fact, it was hot now, searing hot, so hot he could hardly bear to hold it …and suddenly, it disappeared. He could feel it in his hand, trace the edges of it with his fingers, and yet he couldn’t see it there. It was cooling rapidly. It was now more comfortable to hold than it had been when he’d picked it up. He gripped it tightly, terrified it would slip from his fingertips and be lost in the sea.

He made his way back to the beach, and retrieved his shoes and socks. Carrying them in one hand and the invisible thing in the other, he padded back to the guest house barefoot. Back in the safety of his room, he sat on the bed, his sandy, still damp feet dangling over the edge, and clutched the object to his chest. He didn’t want to put it down in case he mislaid it. Eventually, he stole a bright yellow towel from the shared bathroom next door and placed it, folded, on the chest of drawers opposite the bed. He positioned the object on top of it.

He slept until mid-afternoon. Seconds after waking, when the memory of the morning’s events returned, he darted over to the dresser. The object was still there. He wrapped it in the towel and packed it in his bag. When he got home, he stashed it in an old suitcase in the wardrobe and, although he occasionally removed it to examine it, that’s where it stayed.

#

We’re all unreliable narrators when it comes down to it. Our stories twist and alter over time. As the years went by, Uncle Harry added details to his tale too; darker, more sinister events. It wasn’t that he extended the narrative directly; it was more that new elements emerged. 

Sometimes, he’d be chatting about the football or something he’d seen on TV, and glance out the window. The sight of someone walking past or a car parked across the road would be enough to distract him. He’d mutter something, draw the curtains, usher me into another room. Later, he’d be just fine again.

One day, the telephone rang three times, stopped, then rang three times again. “I don’t know why they bother,” he said. 

“They want the “you-know-what” back, of course.” He pulled the phone wire from the socket. “They’ve always wanted the “you-know-what” back. They’re not having it back though. Finders keepers and all that.”

He sank back into his armchair. “I did think about moving it, but I figured they’d have taken it back by now if they could find it. So I guess it must be safest where it is. I don’t know why but there’s a lot I don’t know or understand.”

Not long after afterwards, I decided I was going to try to cajole him into seeing a doctor as soon as an opportune moment occurred. But then he died.

#

The nightmares started shortly after the funeral but that was to be expected, I suppose. Dealing with death is part of life, but however hard you try to rationalise it, it always takes a toll on you. The first few nights, I dreamed of Harry, waving at me from a train window, or walking through the woods and pointing at the night sky. It was comforting, in a way. 

The dreams, like Harry’s story, grew more disturbing over time, however. As the train departed, I’d see shadowy figures, stalking through the carriages towards him. While he walked through the woods, something menacing would follow him through the trees. Finally, Harry wasn’t in the dreams at all; instead, the strangers followed me. One night, I woke up screaming, convinced two men, with corn-blonde hair and unearthly bright blue eyes, had marched right through the bedroom wall, stood at the foot of the bed and glared at me.

It didn’t take long before I was too scared to sleep. Months later, the thought still terrifies me. I stay awake until the early hours, watching the news on television to reassure myself that the real world is still there, while my husband and son sleep peacefully upstairs. 

The tiredness makes me imagine things as well, which doesn’t help. I see things out of the corner of my eye: two blonde-haired men watching the house from a car across the street, or someone in the hallway, beneath the entrance to the loft. When I do drift off, sometimes I’m woken by the sound of a helicopter, hovering so low that the whole house vibrates. There are more and more helicopters flying over here nowadays, although nobody else seems to have noticed.

I have wondered if the fact that Harry’s suitcase is still in the house is affecting me, but I don’t want to get rid of it. I don’t know what else is in there and I’ve always liked the idea of passing it onto the next generation, complete with the story, to keep Harry’s memory alive. I need some sleep though. The exhaustion is making me forgetful. I meant to contact the telephone company today. I don’t use the landline that much, but it’s handy to have it, and I think there’s a fault on the line.

Oh. It’s ringing. 

It’s stopped again. 

No, hang on, it’s ringing…

Bio: Anya J. Davis is a fantasy and horror writer from Devon, in the South West of England.  She has had short stories published by World Weaver Press, Massacre Magazine and more. One of her stories was longlisted for the 2016 Exeter Writers Short Story competition. 

You can find links to more of her work on her website (https://anyajdavis.wordpress.com/short-stories/), or find her on Twitter: https://twitter.com/traumahound23.