Chapter Two: Lost and Found/ Frank
He felt leaden, and agonisingly slow, as he tried to run, pain searing through his body as he breathed. He screamed something incomprehensible, pure crystalline defiance at fate, and swung his impossibly heavy sword once more. Someone cried out behind him, and the sound filled him with a kind of sadness. He had failed, and he was lost. He lowered his sword for a moment, and fell to his knees, his vision blurred by sweat and bood and tears of useless rage and grief. Lost, then. He looked up at a dark shape before him, its face twisted into a hideous parody of a grin, as it moved, and an impact to his chest sent him reeling and downward. At first he thought he had been punched, but the long feathered shaft caught his momentary attention, and he knew he was dying. Lost, he told himself. Someone screamed, and he turned his head, but could not see who. He fell back into the arms of the earth, the damp forest grave soil, full of rotting things, and sighed. "I am Lost," he breathed, and then gave himself to blackness, and lost himself utterly… again …
He awoke quickly, aware of his strange surroundings, and the dead weight of his limbs, and the luxuriousness of the lazy warmth that spread through him. He blinked, and flexed his hands beneath his covering. He was in a chair. A large, comfortable chair, although he ached all over as if he had returned from a battle. He paused, and considered that comparison, then forgot it. Battle? He looked down. His covering was colourful, many scraps of fabric sewed together, soft against his raw skin. Skin. Another thought came to him. He lifted the cover a little, and looked own to see a slightly grimy white robe, too small for his large frame, but adequate. Beneath it – nothing. Enquiring fingers found some mostly healed wounds that made him hiss when he probed them. His head felt heavy and unfamiliar. He looked around him. He was infront of a large fireplace with banked embers still smouldering. He sniffed. Apple wood. Then he considered where that thought came from, and gave up. He looked around again. There was another large chair opposite him, and a colourful rug on the wood floor at his feet. Bare feet. Beyond the opposite chair was a stone wall, and a tall shelf with – things – on it. Beside it was a small writing table with a smooth black object sitting on it, flat and rectangular. Above the desk a small window let in sunlight, and beside it, a door which closed only at the bottom half let in the outdoors. On the other side of the room there was a square of what seemed to be a bench, waist height, and wooden, smooth and varnished, scattered about with bowls of fruit and other items. He smelled a faint scent of – bread? Lured by the sunlight, he attempted to stand. He moved his feet, one by one, then stretched his legs straight in front of him. Finally he stood, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders, and walked slowly toward the door, fumbling with the latch, and then out into the day.
Tamar was picking some late flowers and grasses to arrange in her bedroom. The breeze plucked at her long brown skirt and green shirt, and playfully tried to rearrange her hair in its braids. Chulainn lazed in a patch of autumn sunshine beside her. Earlier he had been attempting to dislodge a mole, but had realised the apparent inevitability of defeat, and instead arranged himself artfully across the patch of grass she was investigating. He raised his head and barked a gruff noise of interest. She looked back toward the cottage, and spied her strange man, standing in the sunshine, quilt puddled around his feet, robe barely covering him as he stretched out both arms on either side and turned his face to the sun, as if he had not felt it in a long long time. She watched him for a moment, unashamedly admiring his body as he stretched, this time upward, then got to her feet and joined Chulainn in heading back to the cottage.
"Good afternoon!" she called as she approached. He started, and dropped his arms, looking at her warily. A woman, the same woman who had taken him here last night. Tall, curved, long blonde braids hanging on either side of a passably pretty face, arms full of cut branches of flowers and coloured and textured grasses. His eyes drank her in, as if she were a lake and he a parched traveller. She smiled at him, and he grew warm.
"Good afternoon" she said again. He adjusted his robe, a little self consciously.
"Good…" he said, then stopped, startled by the sound of his own voice. "Good afternoon," he replied, a little cautiously. She nodded.
"Yes, its afternoon. You've slept the day away, I'm afraid, but you seemed to need it." She stopped, watching him. He looked away.
"How are you feeling?" she asked. He looked back at her, and swallowed.
"I believe my injuries are almost healed, madam," he said gruffly, as if unaccustomed to speech. She cocked her head to one side to look at him critically.
"You look awful," she said. "You need a bath, and some food, and then you and I will have a chat. Okay?"
"Okay?" he asked, the word unfamiliar to his tongue. She nodded, and gestured him into the house.
He followed her into a small room with a man sized tub, and several smaller receptacles. She turned a silver valve, and after a moment, water poured from it into the large tub. He blinked in bemusement as steam began to curl from it. He thrust a hand beneath the stream and pulled it back as it burnt his fingers. The woman looked at him with something approaching amusement, and he bridled for a moment.
"Haven't seen hot water for a while?" she asked. He shrugged and frowned, trying to remember hot water from his past, which remained largely unseen, composed entirely of vague shapes, and the occasional triumphant rememberance of sensation and words.
He settled for: "Not such as this, I think," and watched the water fill the tub. She turned another valve, and cold water joined the hot, and soon the tub was full. She looked at him expectantly.
"Okay," she repreated, and he frowned in frustation at her repeated use of the foreign term. She pointed at a small shelf, and said "Towels. You can use the green ones." She pointed to the corner of the tub, where a small white object sat. "Soap," she said. She took three steps and crossed the room to the door. She turned, and looked at him over her shoulder, then left him closing the door behind her. He stood still for a moment, then cautionusly tested the temperature of the water. Quite warm, but not intolerably hot. He ran his hand through the water, a flickering memory of this sensation returning for a minute. The fact that he remembered that much cheered him, as did the sunshine filtering through the small window above the tub. For some reason, the sunshine was more precious to him than… He savoured every moment of warmth, and every shadow cast by its light. After a moment, he returned his attention to the water. It was obvious that she expected him to wash, and upon inspecting his hands briefly, he agreed with her judgement. He gingerly removed the soiled robe, and dropped it in a corner. Looking down, he saw with mild surprise that the wounds he had thought were but half healed were almost reduced to puckered scars. He wondered what had happened to cause them. Aching and stiff, he climbed awkwardly into the water, and crouched down, acclimatising himself to the temperature, before easing his length into the warmth. He was slightly too tall for the tub, but the heat stole into his muscles, and he sighed as he felt himself relax once more. It felt like an unaccustomed sensation to him, a slightly dangerous and almost guilty pleasure. He grew wary for a moment, but nothing happened, and he released the feeling. Grime floated away from his body, and he was almost surprised at how filthy he was. But, he reasoned, its hardly surprising considering the way he had been living, sleeping rough, walking all day, and the battle – he jerked back, surprised, and tried to pinpoint the why behind that thought. Why had he been travelling? To where, and with whom? And the battle… He reached for the soap, contemplative, and scrubbed away more of the dirt, scrutinising it as it rinsed away, as if it could hold clues to his past, and present self. It remained obstinately silent.
Tamar leaned against the kitchen bench, and pursed her lips. Where had he come from? Why was he in such a state? He was obviously in a bad way when she found him. How on earth had he been wounded like that? Stabbed? And naked. And almost incomprehensible. And possibly, she realised, quite possibly a little mad. She remembered a tale from a lurid tabloid that a friend had clipped and sent as a contribution to the scrapbook she kept of interesting bits and pieces for inspiration. It was about a man in Mexico, who had been reported missing in 1975, after having simply vanished while filling his car at a petrol station, only to turn up in 1989 living in a cave in Central Park in New York, with absolutely no knowledge of who he was, let alone how he had gotten there, or how he had spent the last fourteen years. He had been reintroduced to his Mexican family, and had eventually regained his identity, but no memory of the fourteen year gap in his existence. The prevailing theory in the article was alien abduction, but Tamar had always found the ease with which every acknowledged oddity was blamed on extra – terrestrials with nefarious plans and equally nasty senses of humour a little disappointing. Surely, she reasoned, there were stranger things in heaven and earth, without having to look beyond it. She grinned to herself, then frowned in thought. Should she call the police about him? Perhaps he had been reported missing at some stage, had a family waiting to take him in? She considered the possibility. The muscle on him, and the obvious callouses on his hands meant that he had been recently involved in some kind of manual work or activity. He was filthy and covered in blood, granted, yet beneath it, his beard was trimmed, his hair cut, although longish, and his muscle tone sound from regular meals. He was an enigma. She decided to talk with him about what he remembered, and discuss with him what he wanted to do. He was a grown man, and she had to assume that he would take some interest in his own future. She listened for a moment for noises from the bathroom, and was caught by a soft regular sound. Intrigued, she crept closer, and paused near the bathroom door. He was humming.
Half an hour later, he emerged, wrapped once more in the white gown, hair wet and stringy, face clean, and looking scrubbed. Tamar was sitting at her desk, reading over the previous night's chapters. Her story was floundering, lacking in direction. She wrote under a male pseudonym, spy thrillers and action stories once named by a reviewer as being 'Clancy – esque in style and elegance.' She had published three novels as George Mear, and had bought the cottage on the strength of the royalty cheque from the last one. But with this one she was stuck for ideas, for plot, and for passion. The story sounded too familiar, done over many times before, by better writers with a firmer grasp of the nuances of nuclear devices. She was bored. The work she had done last night sounded wooden, her characters more like cardboard cut out action heroes than real living breathing people. She sighed, willing her mystery guest to reappear and distract her from the frustration of her contractually motivated novel. A noise behind her made her jump, and turn. He stood in the kitchen, looking awkward and uncomfortable, but cleaner, calmer, and with better colour. His hair was a light reddish brown, as was his beard, although darkened from the water. His face, neck and hands were tanned, darker than the rest of his skin, and more weathered looking. His demeanour had been much improved by the bath also – he stood up straight, and although fatigue still dragged at his eyes, he looked around with something approaching interest, tempered by caution and unease.
"Hello there," she greeted him, rising and closing her laptop. He looked at her, and moistened his lips.
"You look much better," she added, smiling. "Almost human again, I'd say. Are you hungry?"
He appeared to consider the question for a moment.
"Thankyou," he replied. And then attempted a small smile, a little lopsided but none the less serviceable. He was a little embarassed, she suspected, and began to think of how to clothe him more appropriately.
"I'll fix you some tea, and some food, and then I'll look into some real clothes for you, yes?"
He nodded, once, twice, then smiled his rusty lopsided smile again. He stood aside as she entered the kitchen and filled the white plastic kettle at the sink, watching intently as she replaced it on the bench and plugged it in. He moved to see around her as she flicked it on, seemingly fascinated by the appliance. If he likes the jug so much, she thought, wait'll he sees the toaster. She glanced at him, and saw his attention had been diverted by a bowl of apples on the draining board. She gestured to them.
"Help yourself, if you want."
He looked up at her, then carefully selected one apple from the top of the bowl, turning it over and over in his large hands, and smelling it almost blissfully.
"I like these," he said, with an expression of wonderment. "I like these very much," he repeated, firmer, more determined. He raised it to his mouth and took a large bite, eyes closed. Tamar almost felt as if she were intruding on a personal moment, but he opened his eyes and grinned broadly at her as he chewed.
"Good apple," he said, gesturing with the fruit. She raised her eyebrows, and exhaled slowly, nodding. She retrieved a loaf of bread from the cupboard, and some left over chicken from the refrigerator. When she returned her attention to him, he was gazing away, out of the window, contemplatively gnawing at the apple core. He was, she thought, an extremely attractive man. He moved with an unconscious grace, almost like a cat, despite his size. Tamar deposited the cut bread and chicken joints on a plate. He turned to her, and she pointed to a bucket by the sink.
"For the core," she supplied. He stooped, deposited it in the bucket, and stood. She handed him the plate of food, and gestured at the table. It's an odd, semi – silent kind of conversation, she thought, perhaps he has problems with language. I've certainly never heard his accent before. Making two cups of tea, she sat opposite him, and blew at the steam in her mug as he ate like he had not eaten in days. Which, she considered, he may well not have done.
"Good?" she asked. He nodded.
"We need to have a talk," she began, then stopped, uncertain of what she wanted to say. "Have you recalled anything at all?" she began. He paused in his motion, and looked thoughtful.
"I have small memories," he said slowly, "nothing really clear." He popped a piece of bread into his mouth and chewed. "I remember a battle. I think."
"You mean a fight? Like you were attacked?" she asked, sensing something important.
He shook his head. "No, well, yes… I mean…" He sighed, and shrugged unhappily. "I don't know. I'm sorry."
She looked at him.
"Your name?" she asked gently. Again, he looked thoughtful, his brow creased.
"I think… Ffff… Ffff…" he stuttered, uncertainty written across his features.
"Fred?" Tamar supplied.
"Ffff… Frrr…Fa –" he uttered something softly which sounded like a curse, then looked surprised, and repeated it.
"Vara's tits!" he said, almost triumphantly. Tamar, grinned in spite of herself.
"Is that your name?" she asked. He shook his head earnestly.
"No. Ffffaaa something. Fffrrr…"
Frank?" she tried. He looked unsure.
"Well, I have to call you something," she pointed out. He cocked his head, considering.
"Frank?" he suggested.
"Frank, then," she agreed.
He smiled, and then bent his head to his plate, and finished the meal.