AN: I'm back, and it's been a long, long time. I am sorry for my long absence, but I have no excuse to offer except life happens. I have not forgotten these stories, and I plan on continuing them, but I cannot say when the next installment will be up. Hopefully this one will serve for now, however, and give you a little glimpse into some pre-Land of Make Believe territory - Edmund is returning home from his National Service with the newly reformed Special Air Service in the British war in Malaysia. It is also a teaser/prequel for the longer Edmund and Maureen story, Who Dares, Wins.
The poem quoted here is found on the SAS Memorial in Hereford Cathedral, England. I have done my best with research with the time I have these days - please forgive any errors.
The Golden Road
…But who are ye in rags and rotten shoes,
You dirty-bearded, blocking up the way?…
May, 1950
Bracing himself against the swaying of the train as it rounded a particularly sharp curve, conductor Tom Hood carefully pulled his battered watch from his vest pocket and peered down at it through the spectacles perched precariously on the bridge of his nose. "Wonderful," he muttered, "At least twenty minutes behind schedule." He sighed and returned the timepiece to its place, pushing at his spectacles and glancing back through the carriage behind him. "At least this time of night doesn't mean missed connections."
The piercing blast of the whistle made him jump slightly as the train rocked, and beneath his feet, he could feel its shuddering momentum begin to slow as it crossed through some sleepy hamlet or other on its journey into London. The whistle sounded once, twice more as lights began to flash intermittently past through the carriage windows, smearing luminescence across their black canvas. Then, in what seemed only the space of a breath, the train was through and picking up its pace once more, leaving the nameless and hopefully still sleeping good folk of whatever town it had been oblivious to its passage.
Tom sighed and almost went again for his watch before he remembered having just done so. "Expect I'd better make the rounds," he said to himself, "Late or not, 'twon't be much longer 'til we pull in."
He turned with the expertise of one long used to the capricious dance of the rails and began a slow pace down the carriage, peering into each compartment carefully. Most were empty, for this late hour and the particular point of departure precluded many travelers, but those few were usually dozing as they nodded to and fro on their seats. Tom rapped gently on the doors and announced their impending arrival as succinctly as possible before moving on, leaving the frowsty passengers to scrub at their faces and look about with glazed eyes before slowly moving to gather their belongings.
When he arrived at the last compartment in the carriage, however, Tom saw its occupant had not actually succumbed to the sibilant call of sleep and instead was writing in a small notebook, the tiny overhead lamp bathing him in enough light to edge away angular shadows. The conductor cleared his throat as he tapped against the glass. "Sorry, sir, excuse me," he said, "We'll be arriving shortly, so you'll be wanting to make ready."
The young man looked up, turning slightly, and Tom saw striking dark eyes in a pale face before noticing the wink of brass buttons and pinned rank marching in neat rows down and across an army uniform jacket. A kit bag and folded, beige beret sat beside him on the seat, and the conductor recognized him as one of the demobbed National Service soldiers who had embarked with them much earlier in the day.
"I see," the young man said, closing his notebook and slipping the pencil into the loop on the side. "Thank you for letting me know."
When he finished stowing it away in his bag, he reached for his beret, settling it firmly over his closely cropped dark brown hair – that short, he must have gotten a fresh cut at some point before leaving base – and glanced back up at the older man. As he did so, the cap badge on the beret caught Tom's eye, and his brow furrowed as he tried to place the odd, seemingly winged dagger, the long blade a threaded bolt of lightning across a field of black.
"Where did you serve, son?" he asked, strangely reluctant to move on until this mystery was solved. He abruptly noticed the abject weariness pinching the soldier's features and was suddenly sorry for him, alone and returning from God knew what hellhole to a life that had most likely moved on without him.
The young man paused a moment, his lips compressed into a thin line and a brittle cast to his expression, and then took a breath. "Malaya," he said finally, "I was in Malaya."
There was a heartbeat or two of uncomfortable silence before the conductor 'hrmphed' slightly and nodded awkwardly. "Well," he said, shifting automatically to find steadier footing as the carriage gave a hiccupping lurch. "Welcome home, then. Welcome home."
The young man inclined his head briefly in acknowledgment, though he said nothing in return, and after another moment or two of hesitant silence, Tom decided he would be best on his way. He gave another small nod and moved on, finding his discomfort settled in the other tasks that needed to be completed before the train finally began to slow for the first of the many small stations on its journey deeper into London.
It was at the second of these stops the soldier finally left his compartment, his kit bag slung over his shoulder and purpose in his stride. Tom happened to be assisting an older woman down the steps of the passenger carriage onto the station platform when the young man appeared behind them, coming up so quickly that he almost overbalanced when he stopped short to avoid a collision.
"I say, young fellow!" the woman said severely, a frown darkening her face.
"I'm so sorry," he said, but his tone was distracted and his gaze was already roving the platform and the small receiving area. "I do beg your pardon."
"Did you need something, son?" Tom asked as the other passenger moved away with a disapproving sniff. The soldier had come down the carriage steps and paused, still scanning the area with an intensity Tom knew meant he was expecting to see someone waiting.
"No, thank you," he said, giving the conductor a once over as if he'd not just seen him twenty minutes past, "I am quite all right."
"If you're sure," the older man said doubtfully, for the other disembarking passengers were either making their own way or being greeted by their friends and loved ones and led off into the station. As of yet, no one had stepped forward to claim the young soldier. "Might I put you in touch with the stationmaster, to call someone for you?"
The National Serviceman turned to face him fully, drawing himself up, and Tom found himself taking a involuntary step back. The dark eyes were blazing with heat - impatience at the forefront, with a burgeoning confusion, irritation, and just the barest hint of anxiety coming into view. Seeing this, Tom remembered that this young man had just come from fighting in the jungles of the Far East. Perhaps it was wisest not to upset him. He felt his earlier sympathy evolve into full-blown pity as he held the soldier's gaze firmly with his own and cleared his throat.
"I'd like to be of help if I can, son," he said as gently as he could. "We all need it sometimes."
The soldier blinked and turned his head to look out over the platform once again. While his broad shoulders were still stiff with tension beneath the sharp lines of his uniform, Tom could see the exhaustion he had noticed earlier limning the edges of his stance. He was quiet for a moment, mastering himself, and then he closed his eyes briefly before glancing back to the older man.
"I'm grateful for your kindness," he said, "but I'm sure my brother will be here."
The conductor tilted his head inquiringly, and the young man gave a small smile, a wry twisting of the lips. "He's not failed me yet," he said, and after extending his hand for a farewell shake, moved slowly off down the platform.
Sighing a little, Tom climbed the steps back into the train carriage as the whistle blew shrilly for their departure. He told himself emphatically he had done what he could - it was his business no longer. But as he turned to head back down the long corridor and prepared to punch the lone newcomer's ticket, he caught one last glimpse of the young man through the quickly blurring windows, still standing, still waiting, and still all alone.
…We are the Pilgrims, master; we shall go
Always a little further: it may be
Beyond the last blue mountain barred with snow,
Across that angry or that glimmering sea,
White on a throne or guarded in a cave
There lives a prophet who can understand
Why men were born: but surely we are brave,
Who take the Golden Road to Samarkand…
~ James Elroy Flecker, Epilogue, the Golden Journey to Samarkand