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The final journey to Pelican Valley was a quiet one. That is not to say previous drives were particularly joyful; they too lacked conversation, the only sound being that of the too-quiet voices from the car’s radio. This silence was different. The radio still played, the occasional cough or sniff still found its way from one of the three family members seated, but this was not the silence of a bored child eagerly awaiting the moment the vehicle would slow. This was the silence of a condemned man approaching his final meal.
There were a great number of cars parked near the town’s rundown bus stop, all sleek and modern and grey. One had to wonder how the owners could tell each machine apart. The woman at the driver’s seat stepped out, careful to not let anything muddy her shoes. She began to briskly walk towards the old farm, cursing under her breath as her heels caught against various rocks and weeds. Her husband was soon to follow, shockingly calm despite his father’s condition.
Finally, a child stepped out from the backseat. Eleven years of age, Al was not dressed quite as smartly as either of their parents. A too big t-shirt bearing the logo of a band they hadn’t heard of was tucked into the waistband of shorts so long they were practically trousers. They looked down and clumsily wiped at their tear-filled eyes as they trailed behind their father, hoping to hide what he had called an “embarrassing tantrum”.
It was a beautiful day, far too beautiful. Golden sunlight gently played with the now abundant grass. Crickets sang their melancholy songs, joining the chorus of birds alighted on the farmhouse’s roof. Butterflies lazily floated through the air, coloured as though reflecting the orange-pink sky. The coops once full of the chickens Al had helped raise during summer visits were now empty, overtaken by plants crawling up their exteriors.
“Gil Reef?”
Al started at the voice. A group of around twenty were sat in the tiny porch area of the house, most of them completely unfamiliar. One man stood, dusted off his shirt and smiled at the person who had just called his name, before ducking through the door.
Taking their hand, Al’s mother pulled them towards the porch. There they stood, sandwiched between a woman who insisted she was a distant cousin of Al’s and a man wearing an ill-fitting suit. Despite standing on a dying man’s doorstep, none seemed particularly upset. One would tell a joke full of terminology that Al didn’t quite understand, others would politely laugh, and then the group would fall back into silence.
Not two minutes after entering the ramshackle house, the man (presumably named Gil) left. Half the heads snapped to him with the rest following soon after, a question on all their lips that none could quite speak. A second passed before Gil shook his head, waved a miniature wood carving in the air, and then stormed off, his brow furrowed and eyes dark.
“Elizabeth Woodley?”
One by one people entered the cabin. One by one they left. With each the routine went the same way. Some would leave angry, brandishing small trinkets that once had a place in Grandpa’s house; others would leave wearing small smiles, holding what Al could only assume to be slightly more valuable than the rest.
It was clear, however, that the item most were here for hadn’t been given. Despite the constantly vanishing light and their obvious indifference to the situation, no one left until their name had been called. Even Al’s parents, not nearly as close to the old man as Al had been, awaited each name with bated breath.
The group grew smaller and smaller and the sun sank lower and lower, until just three remained standing outside the house. The man in the too-big suit had just left, sweat carving its way down his face as he clutched a small purse containing what must have only been around 30g. Al’s mother’s anxious glances had dwindled, a smug grin appearing that she did not attempt to fight.. All was quiet.
Of course, Al’s parents had been called in hours ago, earning nothing but a simple pocket-watch and some silverware for their troubles. But it didn’t matter. An investment unknowingly made years ago was about to skyrocket in value. Their child, sent to live with their grandfather every summer, was about to bring home the reward they still dared not speak of.
A small, shaky voice emerged from the farmhouse, not the same as the one that had been calling names before. Rather than the previous voice’s careless efficiency, this one spoke cautiously, pausing between each word for just a moment too long as if in an attempt to recall what was being said as it was spoken.
“Al? Would you step inside for a moment?”
**********
Al shivered as they stepped through the door. The farmhouse was still warm, lit by the dying flames still hanging on to their last sliver of life in the fireplace, but it was totally bare. Walls once crowded with ancient photographs and amateur paintings were now empty, leaving only their shadows not yet affected by grime behind. In the centre of the room - pushed from its normal spot against the wall to be closer to the fireplace – was a bed, its multitudes of blankets rising and falling as they followed the irregular, shallow breaths of the man who lay beneath them.
The tears began to fall again, relentless and never-ending. Al wiped furiously at their eyes with the grubby neckline of their t-shirt, desperately trying to stifle hiccups and sobs occasionally emanating from their mouth. It wasn’t fair! No one else was crying, no one else was grieving, no one else cared. Grandpa was dying, and no one cared!
The old man slowly turned his head towards Al’s silhouette against the still open door, a small smile stretched across his sallow features. He drew a breath in, shaky and weak, his eyes closed, and then he spoke.
“I’m glad you could come,” he spoke gently, using the tone one would use to reassure a very young child who just lost their favourite toy. “Do you know why there were so many people here to see me?”
Al kicked at a loose floorboard by their feet, and then nodded.
Grandpa chuckled. His right hand lifted, trembling, into the air. In its palm sat a delicate azure shell, silver twisting round its spirals and forming a halo beneath it. The ring danced in the dim light of the dying fireplace, reflecting its sparks back in opalescent beauty.
“This was your Grandmother’s wedding ring, and now it is yours,” he sighed, his tired eyes wistfully gazing off into memories long gone, “it took the local blacksmith weeks to create, as I had insisted it would be absolutely perfect. My ring was of a much simpler variety, none of the delicate work you see here…”
Al carefully took the ring and, slipping it onto their index finger, settled down to listen to the rest of Grandpa’s story. It was one they had heard hundreds of times before but still they treasured every word, every exaggerated description, every petty complaint. It was only once the fireplace had almost completely died out that the story came to a close.
But then came words that were not as familiar as the rest.
“When I was twenty-one, I was unhappy. The constant race for more and more resources encouraged by our employers, the exhaustion I felt at the end of every day, knowing tomorrow would be just the same. There will come a time in your life when you feel this burden too, and when that time comes-” he reached under his pillow, retrieving a piece of weathered parchment sealed with purple wax, “-I want you to open this.”
Al look the closed letter, thumbing its edges and tracing the shapes formed in the seal.
“It has been a good life,” Grandpa was now speaking quieter than Al had ever heard him before “but I am ready to go. Goodbye, Al.”
**********
The final journey home from Pelican Town was quiet. Any interrogations were complete before the family reached the car, and the mysterious letter was still safe, secret, hidden deep in Al’s pocket accompanied by a rock that looked vaguely like a frog and several pieces of sea glass found years prior. Their gaze fell over the shell proudly adorning their right index finger, and their left hand remained within their pocket, fiddling with the corner of the parchment.
The ancient sign greeting visitors to the valley rushed past the window, and the car took a too fast turn. The warm light of the town was gone, obscured by the rocky face of a cliff. Al let one final tear fall before gazing out across the mountains that towered over the valley. Out away from home.