Chapter Text
They say if you dream a thing more than once, it’s sure to come true.
Dreams are curious things; a manifestation of one's deepest thoughts that shows themselves when you're asleep. Dreaming about your past isn’t strange, we all have a subconscious desire to reflect, relive the past, remember the good times or soak up nostalgia.
But what does it mean to dream about a past that isn’t yours?
Does that saying still count if that dream becomes reality? Surely it just means that you had the willpower to make it so, but if it was never a dream to begin with, then it was always real.
Maybe that person just wasn’t looking hard enough.
September 5th 2022
6:30 am
I dreamt again last night. Of that place.
Every other month or so it's the same dream if you could even call it a dream. It feels more like a memory, or multiple memories of a past that I've not lived, a life I've not had.
It's someone else's. Whoever they are, this place, this setting is important to them.
Everything is hazy, dripping in a warm orange glow, the smell of ale, horses, smoke and rowdiness hangs in the air. There's laughter, shouts and a chorus of noises. The kind of sounds you'd expect to find nowadays in a pub on a late Saturday night after a League Match; doesn't matter which side won, it's all the same noise.
But still, it's not my memory.
Not sure why, but every few months or so, since the beginning of the year, when I sleep my head becomes full of these thoughts, feelings, sounds and sights. Memories, or observations of bygone times, stood in the shadows, an outsider just watching a play.
I remember the first dream I had of this place was around mid-January I believe. Didn't seem like much at first, as all dreams start off with the usual, a black void as you enter the deepest of sleep. But I’ve known my previous dreams, they’ve never felt so real that I could reach out and grasp it with my fingers. That when I wake up I can remember conversations as if they’d just happened. If only I could have held it before I was so rudely interrupted by the morning radio station, maybe I could have made sense of it. I know one thing though.
It is real.
The setting I found myself in was clearly a pub, inn, tavern, ale house whichever you'd want to call it. If I knew my history well enough at the time, I'd place it around the mid to late 1300s or therabouts.
It's crowded, with jointed, hastily made wooden trestle tables on a floor mixed with clay, dust and dirt that leaves small clouds with each footfall. People sat either huddled in groups on stools or the floor or just stood about in twos or threes, leaning against thick rough wooden pillars deep in conversation, laughing over jokes or drinking and complaining.
"Death is…stupid. All of you will die because you just go along with it. I've decided."
"I'm not going to die"
The ale isn't great, tastes more like some concoction of dirt, spit and piss than anything but it seems to do its job. It keeps the money rolling in from its patrons, some of whom arrive as early as the sun does in the east.
"Did I hear you say you have no intention of ever dying?"
My ears pick out a conversation that stands out amongst any others, everything else is almost muted. The sounds come from a group sitting at the back of the tavern by the brick and mortar walls, a group of 4...no 5 men, the rest are seated but one is standing, dressed in black with a matching shock of black hair, he seems to tower above them; almost a lordly presence, an air of smug and ego about him.
I wonder why he's there, entertaining this group of peasants.
Whatever he's said seems to have been funny enough to make 3 of the 4 chortle and snort with laughter. But one man stays silent, staring up at the figure all clad in black with a look of captivation on his face. The man standing seems to stare down at him, from the angle of his face, at a slight tilt, one could guess he is somewhat quizzical.
Is this a game?
No.
It’s a wager.
"I will see you in the year of our lord fourteen hundred and eighty-nine then?"
Just as quickly as that dream had begun the edges of it began to swirl, and melt away. The figure in black turns and leaves, but I can't make out his face, it appears shrouded in smoke and black tendrils, and the group of men have all but become a mixture of colour and shapes, but before I succumb to consciousness, I can still make out one figure who watches the man leaving, eyes wide with bewilderment.
“Who was that then Hobsie?”
“No idea mate, but I’ll tell you what….I’ll ask him in a hundred years' time”
That's when I woke up.
September 5th 2022
7:15 am
The September air is crisp and chill as the sun slowly rises over the horizon. Summer is clearly leaving and that wonderful time of golden sunsets, tones of orange, brown and yellow is starting to make its appearance once again.
I love this time of year.
I have a copious amount of woollen cardigans and jumpers just waiting to be taken out of the darkness of my wardrobe. Longing to be worn again, with that smell of lavender and honeysuckle detergent that envelops my senses. I briefly glance down at my schedule of classes for the week. It's just my luck that the first class started at an ungodly time of 8:00 am. Even more my luck, of course, that it's in a building that's a good 20-minute walk away from my University accommodation. There are just three classes today and there is nothing on the schedule for Tuesday, so that's some sweet, small relief at least.
I can do some general exploration tomorrow; I’d made a mental note to head into Soho, London and take a look at that corner bookstore I’ve heard my neighbours talk about.
Apparently, its owner is an absolute angel.
Outside my windows, a large black bird that had been standing on my windowsill flies away with the breeze and you can see the birch and oak trees that line the pavements are starting to shed their leaves, conkers, twigs and the like, which fall onto the grass and stone below.
My University room is small, which I don't mind, but it feels cramped as there are still boxes I've not unpacked, full of decorative items, mostly of fake plants, small trinkets and rather too many small plushies. My desk by the window is already cluttered with paper, books and important documents I probably should be more careful with. A computer monitor sits tilted to the side with a graphics tablet plugged into it. I couldn't get it to work last night; but then knowing me, the wires are probably in the wrong inputs again.
I swivel in my desk chair and take a glance at my, rather lopsided wall clock, which doesn’t actually hang on the wall but rather leans on a high shelf, through the steam of a cup of a hot blackcurrant drink I've partially raised to my face. I’m not really a tea or coffee person, could never really stomach the stuff.
7:20 am
Crap!
I'd better get going already.
The second time my dreams took me to that place it wasn't just the world that had changed.
My head was clearer, and for this, I was rewarded as the picture was sharper.
“I’m. Interested.”
“In ME?”
“I’m interested in your experience.”
Might have been because there wasn't any smoke lingering around anymore, filling your head and lungs with lead. Chimneys have recently been materialised now, one in particular sticks out at the back end of the tavern, made smartly out of red brick.
The place was somewhat tidier, or whatever counts for tidy in this time period; the windows had trappings now so it was certainly warmer than before. It was still rowdy with the noises of patrons but at least there was a floor now. It needed a sweeping but it was better than what was there previously, which was just the bare earth. One thing stayed the same though, I distinctly remember from the last time, the place was bathed in that warm, amber-orange glow again. Lamplight that flickered and burned.
Dancing. Casting shadows.
They were there again, just two men this time, seated in front of the red-bricked chimney. Their features are a little more defined now too. The more broad-shouldered one sitting on the left had a slightly bronze complexion like the sun had settled on his skin. He had dark, almost chestnut-coloured hair, mid-length so it fell just short of his shoulders, the front few long wisps of a fringe framed a square nose and jaw. He wore more common clothing; suited to the times, layered in browns, greys and greens but was smarter than last time. This is a typical Englishman.
"It's fucking brilliant!"
"What will you people think of next?"
The other man, sitting opposite, had a familiar air of pompousness around him, dressed in all black again with long jet-black hair to match, that fell just past his shoulders. His face seemed more angular, with little to no curves but was still what one would consider well-defined. Almost chiselled like a statue. Definitely too defined and regal for this time period. He’s pale as well, in comparison to the man he sat with, you'd think he's not seen the sun in years, but a glint of red hangs at his chest. He looks somewhat dumbfounded.
"A hundred years then?"
"Oh yes!"
Again just as before the figure in black rises from his seat to leave, but he doesn't make any noise as he does so. Almost like he's gliding, floating across the floor.
How is that possible?
"You never told me who you are!"
The picture I'm seeing starts to unravel, the edges of the frame melting away again. It falls away in wisps, grains, and the tiniest of particles until there's just black nothingness.
September 5th 2022
7:45 am
It's the start of a new term for students, no matter whether they're in their first or last year. Freshers Week has come and gone, everyone's moved in and someone anonymous has already made a fool of themselves spray painting, everything from moustaches, glasses and all silly manner of accessories on the University statues and the fountain on the front on a drunken dare, I wonder if they found the culprit.
Maybe it was these dreams I've been having that spurred me into choosing a major in English Literature and History to take for the next three years of my young adult life. It's the first class of the semester and the campus is massive so I've got no idea where I'm going of course. I’d left the room of my flat, a silent nod to my two still very hungover housemates and locked the door behind me. Fumbling, I put my earphones in and absentmindedly started finding a tune to play on one of my many random playlists. I hadn’t been walking far but I was already questioning certain choices I’d made, one of these being why I had chosen to stuff so many books into my already overfilled backpack.
It certainly wasn't my brightest idea, my arms will feel the strain later.
But there are some new and recent favourites in there; The Art of Living, Deep Wheel Orcadia and The Iliad to name a few. They're crammed in there with a laptop, notepad, countless pens, pencils and who knows what else, I never bother to really check. It might come in handy.
I'm letting my feet take me where I need to go, following the winding cobbled paths, my hands stuck deep into the pockets of my hoodie. My eyes dart around looking at the sky, the clouds and the treeline; a flock of birds dances in the air, I swear one of them looks a lot larger than the others, must be a different species of bird. Head down and eyes now on the pavement hopefully, I'm on my way to what's down on the schedule as my first class of the day.
Theory and Text.
It was around May when I had the third dream...memory or meeting and it was a little different this time.
There was actually feeling and emotion to it. That was new, waking up actually feeling like I had been in that space, the sounds and smells still embedded in my head. The setting once again was bathed in that warm orange glow. It feels almost like home.
But it's not my memories. I'm just an observer, a curious outside party.
That feeling lingers though; in the back of your throat. The environment was all too dissimilar yet familiar, this time everything was decorated, and it felt more welcoming. Paintings in tarnished bronze frames hung on the walls. Patrons, maids and gentlemen were dressed in fine clothes, ruffles, breeches, textures of silk, velvet and embroidered patterns. Seems the world has been kind this time around.
Two men sit in the west corner, one nursing a broken leg and holding a feather quill. The other pawns over layers of parchment paper, covered in various Old English words, their conversation is muted, but has pitches in tone to it; highs and lows. In front of an ornately carved wooden fireplace, where previously stood red brick sits a table covered in a buffet of rich meats; beef, duck and chicken, fruits; plumbs, pears, apples and pastries; pasties, cakes and rolls.
Surely I’m not dreaming if the food smells this good?
The chestnut-haired man sits behind this feast, wearing an ornate well-fitted doublet embroidered in gold. His face and age don't appear to have changed, almost like it's frozen if that's even a possibility. But his hair is different this time I've noticed. It's shorter, thicker and more structured. He has facial hair now too, a dark goatee that fits itself around his mouth. It's befitting of the era, even though he comes from a time long gone. He looks content as he heartedly chews through a small pasty, and mutters words with his mouth full.
“My fair Eleanor, and little Robyn. My first son born in over 200 years on this earth…well that I know of anyway”
His company sits at the end of the table on the right, the same as last time. Slightly leant against a wooden pillar, he has not changed either, but there's a pique of curiosity that shadows his frame. He's wearing what looks like a leather doublet, all black of course. His hair is shorter too, styled with volume and a slight wave. There's movement from a single silver earring. The glint of red from the last time I can now see is a square cut stone, hung around his neck with a plaited cord.
"The Queen herself stayed at my house this summer. Now that was expensive!"
There's a sudden twinge of jealousy in the air, it travels down the spine and into the dark herringbone floorboards. The figure with jet-black hair is clearly distracted, his attention drifting away. Following his eye line, he's staring at one of the two men in the west corner as he stands, arms and hands outstretched as the man, no more than 5 and a half foot, speaks, in rhyme, riddle and rhythm.
I think I recognise these words. I'm not unfamiliar with the works of one playwright; William Shakespeare.
"Who is that?"
"His name's Will Shaxberd. Acts a bit; wrote a play"
"Is he any good?"
"Nah he's crap! Now the chap with the broken leg, he's a decent playwright"
Will finishes his speech with a flourish and takes a bow before his audience of amused patrons. There's a smattering of applause as he takes his seat again. The shock of black hair rises from his chair, silent and intrigued, and makes his way over to them. His face has all the makings of a question with what I might almost say is admiration. His chestnut-haired acquaintance looks away disheartened and plays absentmindedly with a silver fork. The lamplight seems to dim and die down, the orange hue lingering as the picture starts to dissipate.
There's that twang of jealousy again.
Jealousy and....something else. Envy?
As the scene around me continues to wash away, like the tide of the ocean; I watch as the man with jet black hair; an otherworldly presence about him wanders off with the young William Shakespeare. I look back to see glimpses of his initial companion's face, there's a different look about him. He looks miffed. I can somewhat understand why, I feel rather annoyed for him.
"Nowhere to go but up."
Yep. He's jealous….and disappointed.
September 5th 2022
10:45 am
It's now mid-morning. That first class went surprisingly quickly, it only finished half an hour ago, but it already feels like a distant memory.
Sitting down at a well-chosen, hidden desk in the back, typing up and jotting down notes until my wrists are sore, and they pop as I flex the bones. The professor, a tall woman, dressed in check, blue and black in her late 30s talked away about prose, anthologies, and other various literature terms whilst sprinkling in snippets of her outside life. Other students sit typing or looking through socials, and a few late stragglers come in and try to make themselves invisible as they find spare seats.
It's exactly what you'd expect from your first class.
An assignment has already been set, but there's no point in starting it yet. That will be done later, well after the moon has risen and the clock has already ticked over into a new day. Steam rises from the hot chocolate that sits in a mug on the table in front of me. It's sweet, rich and full of flavour, just what you need on a day with slight chills. My second class isn't for another hour, and I’ve situated myself at a small on-campus café, it's very quaint, family run and is an apparent favourite with students. I’ve chosen to sit outside for now, as there’s a queue forming inside and sitting on decorative iron chairs, I can watch the world go by. Looking at the statues, still with graffiti on them, I see another large bird perched on top of an angled head, there's a lot of those around today.
I've got time. Might have some food now while I can, maybe a small cake or something.
Behind closed eyes, pictures, still photographs and flashes of light dance freely, all encompassed by a very familiar orange glow. Shuffled music from my playlist of 80s classics, the particular song of choice, a favourite; The Clash's "Should I Stay or Should I Go" makes its way through my earphones, down through the nerves and the words, instruments and tune embed itself into my brain.
Food might be a good shout.
He's late.
He's never been late for these meetings. All the times previously, he's always been here; usually, the first to get there. I wonder where he is.
Again, this is just a dream, someone else's memories.
Why am I worried?
The black-haired, black-clad and pale-faced gentleman is already sitting at a table in the middle of the Inn. His hair is long again, it ends well past his shoulders now. The inn's decor has once again developed, and adapted to suit the times. It seems darker though. The lamplight is still there, but is dim, and feels cold. There's no familiar comforting, warm, orange glow.
He's here.
A kerfuffle, some obscenities, thumps and raised voices confirm as much. But this can't be him surely. His chestnut-haired acquaintance is dragged over, and he looks rough. He's been through the wringer, dragged through a hedge backwards. Whatever happened between now and the last meeting can't have been good.
"Leave him be. He is my guest"
“I KNEW you’d be here!”
Memories of hunger, anger, guilt and despair linger like a dark cloud over the scene as it unravels in front of me.
His chestnut hair is dirty, and greasy and hangs like a mop over his face. It clearly hasn't been washed for some time. His clothes are baggy, tattered, and torn, they swallow his frame. He sits down and starts shoving bread rolls and grapes into his mouth. Not chewing either, almost inhaling. He's saying something but with his mouth full it's difficult to make out.
"I have hated every second of the last 80 years. Every bloody second."
Seems he's not been treated kindly. He has lost everything, even his life a couple of times by the sounds of it. His family is gone, he's been drowned on suspicions of being a witch, starvation and death. The means and thoughts of how this man is still alive have long since passed, instead, my thoughts linger on how someone could put up with so much, how it wouldn't drive them to the brink of absolute madness.
"So do you still want to live?"
"Are you crazy?! Death is a mug's game, I've got so much to live for!"
The lamps flicker a little brighter, that orange glow starts to worm its way around the edges of the scene as the words ring like a bell. Clear with hope, his brown eyes are shining, wide with enthusiasm. His black-haired companion stares back at him, eyes and face also wide but with looks of befuddlement.
How had I never noticed the eyes before?
Maybe I just hadn't seen them clearly, but I'm looking at them now. Set back in the sockets of his so well-defined face, I notice how dark, but how alive they are. Like pure black inky pools with speckles of the far-off cosmos in them.
"Now can we please order 'cause I'm about to eat the fucking table!"
Are those stars?
September 5th , 2022
2:30 pm
My second class was over fairly quickly, and of course, it had to be on Shakespearean Drama. I shouldn't have been surprised that he would crop up in lectures. The lecturer is clearly a fanatic, he speaks with passion, love and enthusiasm for his work. If it wasn't for the fact that this was clearly a very new professor to the University, fresh out of being fully qualified then it would have been funny.
It's just slightly embarrassing.
I've only got one final class to get to but there is some time to spare. So I decided to take a leisurely stroll across the park to the next building. Looks like it's going to start raining, the sky has a distant dark grey to it, all the makings of a good English downpour.
Gaggles and groups of students walk from point A to point B, carrying a variety of small suitcases, laptop cases, tote bags, coffee cups and more. Some are with others, or alone, speaking over the phone about this and that, and some sit on benches eating small morsels of leftover lunch. Wrapped in layers of clothing, their either passing the time between lectures or watching the world go by; which is usually a means of procrastination. It usually ends up being the latter. That reminds me, I need to call my mum about my brother's birthday present; I’d ordered it to arrive at their house a week ago, so hopefully he’s not already opened it.
My next class was situated fairly close to the University library, a massive building made out of huge stone and marble slabs. It's old, ornate and sturdy, the stories these walls could tell, I could likely listen to them for hours.
Maybe one of those tales be a familiar one?
In this particular memory, the sky outside is a bleak grey painting, and clouds hang thick and low, but inside the inn is welcoming, full to the brim and overflowing with hungry and dehydrated patrons.
The place has now fully furnished a bottom and top floor to account for the number of characters weaving in and out. An informal British Empire had been established in competition with other European powers and what one would call the shipping business was rather regrettably booming.
People will learn to regret and not forget this time period.
The two men are sitting in a room away from everyone else, the noise of conversation from other patrons is muted behind closed doors. I guess this is what one would call a VIP section. It's quiet, save for the clinking of china teacups on small plates. The fireplace mantle has grown in size behind them. But there's a rustling, someone else is here watching them.
Waiting.
A woman, clad in a vison of velvet, red and gold appeared on the stairs from the floor above. Two burly figures move as shadows from the other side of the room out into the light, their faces covered by dark tricorn hats.
"Please don't trouble yourselves to rise. These are Michael and Tobias "
Both men look perplexed as their meeting had been, so rather rudely interrupted and watch the woman who seems to command the room, despite her short stature. She gives off a certain high class London smugness, and her small painted face looks hungry. She's after something.
"They tell of a tale in these London parts; that the Devil and the Wandering Jew meet once every century in a tavern"
The men side eye each other with a hint of amusement and confusion. I can't help but wonder, silent to the scene but aloud in my head.
Who on earth brings knives to fight the Devil?
These might not be my memories, but these two are certainly not the Devil, or Jewish for that matter. As if they heard my thoughts, both of them simultaneously agree with me, hitting back the woman's words with a hint of sarcasm. No matter who they are, the woman's words don't seem to do much, a small nick on the surface of skin. The chestnut-haired man, his hair tied back, looks like he's itching to thump one, or maybe both, of the two bodyguards. The other, his jet-black hair also tied back, sits in silence staring at the woman in front of them.
"No. No I think not"
The two bodyguards advance, knives drawn ready to attack, but the chestnut haired fellow moves first, hitting one over the head with a half full china teacup, still warm Earl Grey lands in the man's face, before he's suprised with a good, solid uppercut by a right hand. He takes the other one down with ease, smashing the guy's head into the rounded corner of a nearby table. Next thing, almost like lightning, the woman has a knife at his throat, but he's grinning, a smirk plastered across his face.
Seems like he enjoyed that a little too much.
Then as silent as a cat toying with its prey, the other man stands, something grasped in his hand. The air, once still, now moves and winds its way around the room as he holds out his palm, his long fingers unfurling and he blows something into the woman's face. Her once pink face turns as white as a ghost, that air of ladylikeness has now vanished, replaced by a look of shock, terror even, as she drops to the floor muttering.
Both men are now standing, staring at each other, then at the small mess of a fight surrounding them. Is that a smirk I see etched on the pale ones face, or is that something else? A flicker of admiration? A flirt?
Surely not.
"You need not have come to my defence"
"Clearly. Still I didn't want to be drinking alone here in a hundred years time."
He tugged on his ear, he's almost flustered, a slight pink in his cheeks. This is probably the most he's even spoken to his companion and has actually got a conversation, or more than an unbothered response from him.
The two men stare at each other, a shadow of admiration makes itself known in the lamplight. It's quick and fleeting. Once again the memory starts to fade, the mist starts to descend again, what was once clear becomes clouded.
That was perplexing, to say the least.
September 5th 2022
2:50pm
The University library is huge, an ideal place to spend some quiet time. For a student of English Literature and History there's countless reading material, genres, authors to peruse through. All of recorded history is here, and you can feel time standing still on the countless shelves that run in aisles as far as your eye allows. After browsing a few shelves, I've come across a good find, Sir Gwaine and the Green Knight.
You can never go wrong in a good library, I remember spending time in my home town's library as a young teen, spending hours pouring over books. Carrying stacks of them to a table and plonking them down, sitting and inhaling the stories. At the time I had a certain penchant for Arthurian legend. If I’m being honest with myself, I still do.
To me, it was real.
The final class of the day. History in Practice doesn't start for another 10 minutes and the lecture hall is only next door. For the time of day, the library is quiet, the silence is deafening. The only noises being made is the sip of a bag or coat. The squeak of a chair being moved, or the tapping of laptop keys. No matter how many people there are in a library, there's always that comforting feeling. Full of peace.
Huge glass windows let in what little light they can, as the sky has now darkened and rain starts to patter against the glass, colouring the pavements outside. I breeze over my book of choice, eyes darting across each page as I read the words aloud in my head.
I've always liked the rain. It was raining in one of the more recent dreams I'd had. That one was only a couple of months back and I distinctly remember feeling sad upon awakening from sleep. There are feelings of guilt, anger and a sense of misunderstanding.
The rain pours.
It's dark outside, made all the darker by the water which falls in heavy droplets from the heavens. There's a familiar scent in the air that wafts from the tavern's chimney though, where those after a long day's work sit and replenish themselves.
The place has grown in size again, the bottom floor now has three rooms, and the floor above, held by pillars and balustrades, creaks and groans, with the weight of many patrons, tables and stools sitting on it.
The people make it feel warm, as they go about their days, weary and aching. Chattering away in toned conversations, laughing with old friends or complaining about those in power. That warm amber glow is there again, brighter than before, more encompassing. The light dances and shifts around faces, tables, glasses and adorned artworks.
You'd never be able to tell it's a downpour outside.
“They call her ‘The Hospital’ here”
“Why do they call her that?”
“Well, ‘cause she’s in ‘em a great deal and she puts men into ‘em. No idea what her real name is though.”
I easily spot those two men again, both sitting at a small round table just in the middle of the room. Over the months and the times I’ve spent in these settings, it's like my eye is automatically drawn to their presence. Both are dressed, once again befitting of the times, in jackets over waistcoats, in much warmer fabrics. The one with the jet-black hair, who I think I have identified by now is clearly not a human, has cut it short again, structured to the side with a few wisps here and there. The other's hair is also short, with what you could describe as a quaff at the front to the right; he's got small sideburns and faint stubble around his square jaw.
There are small goblet-like glasses next to them, a lamp lit in the middle of the table. You'd think if you saw them in a modern pub nowadays they'd be on a date of some kind.
It suits them.
"I think perhaps it's you who's changed. I think you're here for something else."
"And what might that be?"
"Friendship. I think you're lonely"
Time stands still at those words and there's a shiver that runs from my head, down my arm and legs into the very roots of the Inn. Everything else is silent, people are still talking but there's no noise. The only sound is my own heartbeat and a low rumble of thunder. But it's coming from inside the inn.
The pale face has grown dark, there's a shadow over his eyes. Those eyes again, the stars burn like fire. This is a look of fury and offence if I've ever seen one. But why is he offended so? Surely having a friend is a good thing?
"You. Dare."
His companion's face drops, and his mouth opens to utter an apology, but the words fall on deaf ears as he speaks again.
"You dare suggest that one such as I would need your companionship?"
A face looks up at him, determined, full of hope again. He’s always been so full of stuff. Maybe that's why it seems like he's about to dig this hole he's in even deeper now. Whatever idea he has, I don’t think it will end well for him.
"Yes. I do."
His face is almost covered in shadow, save for two blinding pinpricks of light that would be where one's pupils sit. His presence seems to envelop the space, he almost grows in stature. He turns abruptly and leaves, heading straight for the door.
The chestnut-haired man follows swiftly outside and I can't help but do the same. Call it curiosity, anxiousness or just being plain nosey, but I can start to feel the memory ebbing away, slipping and giving way to consciousness.
I need to know what happens.
"Tell you what. I'll be here in a hundred years' time. If you're here too it'll be because we're FRIENDS. No other reason. RIGHT?!"
He's met with silence, the dark and the rain.
Fuck.
September 5th 2022
3:06 pm
Our lecturer is late.
They always say there's that one teacher at University who usually is. But with the rain, he might have been held up, stuck in traffic or otherwise, whatever the reason it's understandable.
This class is only a small one, with a group of maybe 10 or more in attendance. I sit off to the side, next to the wall. There are old maps, scriptures and art adorning the walls, some of them looks too good to be copies. The room is syprisingly only a small one, but it looks well lived, a podium at the front, side board covered in paper, notes and scribbles. At the front is a whiteboard, blank.
I take out my laptop and start pursuing Reddit, Twitter and the like. There's a lot going off in the world right now. The Internet is abuzz with news of the UK government, political situations abroad and more. There's a few messages on Discord that I really should respond to, but I'm procrastinating. I open a Word file containing notes from earlier in the day and start adding in references and footnotes for later.
Always best to make notes.
The room is silent, save for the tapping of laptop keys, the zip of a jacket or bag. Reminds me of the library not 10 minutes earlier. The rain is starting to subside now, everyone's waiting.
The clock hands move to 3:10pm
I wonder where he is.
The most recent memory, dream, whatever these images are, was the one I had last night. Despite it being several hours since I'd woken up; the picture sits in my head like a freshly taken polaroid, but there's a different air to this one.
Worry. Concern.
The city across the river is still very much under construction, scaffolding winding around tower blocks, cranes and shouts of site foreman are faintly heard. It's only lightly raining outside, a drizzle even, as people still sit outside the building. It looks old. The place has been falling apart for sometime now. A part of the roof caved in and it looks like nature is starting to take over.
It's the late 80s now, one of my favourite periods. A time of massive hair, broad shoulders and brick phones. Music is fantastic, the colours are bright. The second Star Wars film had been released, an arcade game about a little yellow circle eating pellets was one of the highest earning in Japan, the 1980 Summer Olympic Games had been held in Moscow, Italy had won the UEFA Euro; and a certain Iron Lady runs the UK Government.
There's not many people inside the pub, it feels emptier than usual. Less homely. Looks like the place is starting to run it's course. There's still groups of young people standing at tall tables, laughing and joking, or complaining.
The British sure do love to complain.
That certainly hasn't changed, no matter how many years pass. But because there aren't many people I can see him sat, at a table relatively close to the bar. He's playing with a half full pint glass, next to him sits a thick glass ashtray, full with cigarette butt's and leftover smoke ash.
He hasn't aged.
I don't think he ever will. His hair is still chestnut, slicked back with gel, as the men often wear it. He's got a white t-shirt on under a grey jacket and his eyes are staring at something, something far off. He takes a swig from his glass and sits, and waits.
Time passes by, sped up like a VHS tape, before I realise the lights have come on, there might be electricity now but that warm orange glow still lingers. He's got up now and has wandered over to the bar, holding a huge phone and newspaper. His face is still square set, his jawline and nose haven't changed. But it's his eyes that give away his age, they're a dark brown, and they have years etched into them.
I guess one would say they look well worn.
"I think I've been stood up "
He takes a small sip of whisky from a rounded glass. It's from a bottle of the stuff that's old enough to be his grandfather according to the bartender.
If only he knew.
"We had a fight last time we were here. Wish I could say I was drunk at the time…but I was just an idiot"
He takes another sip. The bartender speaks back and offers words of advice. His time behind a bar has meant he's seen plenty of similar situations and the man in front of him looks worried, or maybe slightly tipsy. Who can really tell.
"Maybe in a hundred years"
"You'll have to have found another pub by that point. This place is going to be demolished to make room for more council flats……."
The air stops, instantly I can tell there's a frog in the back of his throat. There's one in mine too. The bartender continues speaking but it's falling on deaf ears. He's sat rigid on the stool, his eyes darting across to the door, hoping, maybe praying even that his stranger, companion, friend comes through with a dramatic entrance.
I’m hoping the same, maybe he’s just running late. Though what could cause an otherworldly entity to miss a repeat centennial meeting is beyond me.
The door stays closed. No-one is there.
September 5th 2022
3:12pm
A door opens. There's an almighty thump as presumably our professor comes falling through the threshold of the lecture hall. A green cotton scarf over a dark brown coat trails along the floor, which he stumbles over again.
"Sorry! So sorry I'm late!"
His bag has fallen on the floor, countless historical writings, strewn across the vinyl boards. He stops and throws down what he can on his desk before turning to face his students, everyone's staring and he looks red with embarrassment.
One of his books that fell out of his bag, has found its way under my desk. I pick it up and turn it over to look at the title and stifle a chuckle.
"Norse Mythology" by Neil Gaiman.
Not a bad read. An ironic choice for a History professor. He wanders sheepishly up to the row of desks where I'm sitting and he mumbles an apology. I get up slightly to stretch across the row to hand it back to him with a gentle smile.
That's when it hits me.
That square face, those dark brown eyes.
It can't be.
Not here of all places.
My head flashes through like a pictogram, of all those memories, dreams, imaginings that I've glimpsed in my sleep over the last year. I'm sitting, time moving millisecond intervals, back down in my chair as he makes his way to the front, clearing his throat. Surely I’m actually dreaming.
"Once again, apologies for being late guys. Hope you weren't waiting too long! Don't worry that won't happen every lecture. O r if it does then I guess I'll have to treat you all to a round at the local."
That voice rings with hope as clear as bells, just as it's done in my dreams. My brain can't seem to process all this information.
- How can he be here?
- Why have I been privy enough to see these memories?
- Is this some kind of destiny, or low latent psychic ability I never knew I had?
- How. Why is he here?
It was all real.
This man in front of me is really immortal. He walks around to the whiteboard and picks up a marker. I'm now under the sudden realisation, now that he's only a few so many feet in front of me, that it feels like I've massively intruded on his personal life, or lives should I say. He's lived hundreds of them by now and the feeling in my chest is akin to meeting an old friend for the first time in years.
Full of nerves and excitement.
"So for all you first-years, unfortunate enough to have chosen a History major, welcome to my class. Hopefully, I can teach you something before the term is up, or else I've not done my job properly"
"If I have done my job properly then at least among other things my curriculum will provide that by the end of term, one or two of you will agree that Kit Marlowe was a better playwright than Shakespeare. Because Shakespeare is a twat."
Everyone chuckles, myself included; but no one else will ever realise that he’s probably incredibly serious about that particular statement.
The marker hits the whiteboard, squeaking as he moves it across the blank canvas. He's writing his name, this will confirm if it really is him and not just some distant third-generation, the first cousin twice removed kind of deal.
"Professor Robert Gadling. But if we become friends then you can call me Robbie, Rob, or Hob. Odd nickname I know, my parents were incredibly old-fashioned."
It's right there, verbal confirmation and written.
The man who has lived hundreds of years, who's experienced the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. He's my professor.
You'd never find a truer historian.
I settle back in my seat, head still racing. My brain makes a mental note for later.
Speak to him after the lecture and agree with him that Shakespeare is a twat, and maybe if I'm careful enough I could somehow find the words to ask about his tall stranger clad in black. Did he ever see him again?
"Right guys, let's get started! T odays lesson, History in Practice; where through examining and researching established historical contexts you'll gain the most important skills to be a successful historian. Like me!"
He's grinning. Jesus that smile really hasn't changed.
If this is a dream, I don’t want to wake up.