Mimosa

After an hour long call, I closed the phone, put it to mute and closed my eyes for a moment. Aunt Chime had called me about a printer that was apparently dysfunctional. After some twenty minutes of trouble shooting, it had become obvious she had erroneously plugged a cable while cleaning.

The cable had been easy enough to plug back in. But then the whole device had required a reboot. And the next paper didn't come out right from the printer.

And all the while aunt Chime had been insisting that I had used to solve the issues faster. On top of it, she had asked if I still wanted those cookies she made.

And I knew I had never before had to troubleshoot her technological issues. The effort had drained me dry. And I really wasn't a fan of her odd honey and cinnamon cookies that stuck to the roof of your mouth when they were fresh and tasted of ginger bread once they got old. I really disliked those cookies and had managed to evade even tasting them during family Christmases... Except the latest one. Everyone had to take a few. And mother had later offered some to the neighbours as well once Chime had returned to her home in the capital.

I was starting to get more and more convinced that something odd was going on. I had tried praying to God to explain to me the uncanny feeling. The little misplaced details.

But all I got was a haunting dream of one of His angels standing guard at the front door of our old house, warning me from entering. She wore Valentina's face. Behind her the house seemed to tower and it twisted into an old haunted castle. And the angel's gown was tinted black, the colour spreading like ink up from the hem.

I opened my eyes to the ceiling.

The house was somehow at the root of all of this. Everything odd had started there.

I lifted my phone up and opened a chat application. Just a few days before the accident I had sent a message in a chat. It hadn't been a lively chat, but consistent and old. The number was saved in my phone as Little One.

Last month I had gotten finally enough and had tried to call the number, but it was disconnected. I had tried again last week with the same result. Little One had obviously either changed numbers or they didn't keep their phone on very often.

"Who are you?" I asked the ceiling.

It didn't answer. And I felt it wouldn't. In that sense the dream was clear.

God wouldn't answer me, it wasn't in His interests to do so. Our old house was part of something that didn't form part of His kingdom.

I should have left the thought alone and accepted that it was His will for me to live in ignorance.

But I couldn't leave it.

I had seen Mum clearing cheerfully away pictures with a boy in them. I was in some of those pictures also. And the boy was clearly younger than I was, he was not a friend. He was part of the mystery.

He could have been the Little One of my address book.

And mother hadn't seemed at all troubled by it. She had just taken them out of sight in a sudden gust of reorganization energy.

But I had seen dad's eyes follow thoughtfully the little box that had been destined to the basement.

He had been troubled by the changes as well, though he hadn't said anything.

Half a year had passed since the accident, and I still couldn't lay down the case. And it wasn't because of some troublesome phone calls from Aunt Chime.

After some meditation, I decided that I felt like going on to a walk after all. I drew a coat on and picked up a black pair of woolen gloves. I wasn't sure whom the gloves really belonged to, but the detail fit perfectly well my mood. So I took the black pair.

It was dark outside, even as the light had augmented with the approach of summer. But I was late out and the warm sunny day was only a memory as my breathing misted around my head. Every surface glistened as the day's moisture had frozen with the night's shadows.

Without really intending to or even thinking about it, my feet seemed compelled to a destination. I let them guide me toward the center of Dale. The traffic was slow and I didn't need to worry about cars when I crossed roads. Only every now and then I heard the hum of an engine and bright front lights passed me by. A motorcycle sounded too loud.

I came to the river that separated me from the old center. I walked by its bank, passing by bridges to the other side of the stone canal. I didn't cross. My destination was on this side of the river.

The clock must have been past eleven by the time I found myself standing in front of an old stone church. It wasn't a cathedral by any measures, just a big stone house with a high ceiling. And it was closed for the late hour. But there was no gate to the churchyard, just a gap in the stone wall surrounding it.

As I understood it, the Dale Church was the oldest church building in Atlantis, dating back to the twelve hundreds. It was built by the first congregation of Christians from Europe.

There was no one else wandering between graves when I entered. I liked graveyards, though most of my friends thought it slightly odd. Which I in return couldn't comprehend. There was no park better kept and respected than a graveyard. Not a single misplaced candy wrapping to be found. Of course, in Atlantis it was common to burn the deceased. So there weren't that many graveyards. And the American media, for some reason, insisted on rendering graveyards the home of ghouls and ghosts.

I sat on a bench to watch a stray cat slip underneath a bare hedge. It glanced in my direction. It had caught something in its mouth, though the shadow was dense there and I couldn't tell what it was holding. Then the cat went and left me alone in the towering shadow of the stone building.

I didn't look at it, but stared at the nearest tombstone in front of me. It was a rough, simple stone, as most stones in the yard were. Very few were especially ornamental. It was an old yard.

I sighed a long, misting exhale.

"I don't understand," I said aloud in a whisper. "Couldn't you explain it with a sign? I know I already saw the dream. But why is this knowledge forbidden? Is this a temptation? Why is my faith put to test? Have I not always followed Your path?"

Who the hell was Little One?

Why did he affect me so much?

And should I go and ask Valentina about it? I didn't have her number, but surely I could find out some contact information on social media.

But then again, God had clearly warned me to stay out of this matter.

My thoughts traveled in circles. And I was ready to leave the mystery as it was and return home, when my ears picked up humans speaking. It seemed like someone else had also decided that a graveyard was a good place for a late night walk. The conversation was punctuated by a rhythmic sound, as if one of them were toying with a small rock, tossing it in the air and then catching it again. Over and over again.

"I tell you, she is up to something. The Queen hasn't left the capital for many months. Something is cooking in Breasinghae." A woman's voice.

"Mmm... I don't really think it is her though. The Queen hasn't been much of an actor for some centuries." A male.

"Yes. Well. I didn't really mean that she would have started it. But she is waiting for something to happen, and that something is happening right at the center of her domain."

"Mmm... I wonder... There goes a rumor in the Witch Towns that... But my, what is this presence?"

The voices stopped. But the sound of something being tossed and caught didn't cease. I could feel them watching me from somewhere. I breathed out a great white misty cloud. And turned my head slowly. Two shapes were standing to my right. They had stopped some ten meters away, exactly where the cat had been a moment ago.

Neither was dressed for the chilly evening. The woman had on her a modern summer dress and had cut her white hair short. The man wasn't wearing a shirt at all and stood on the frosty path barefooted. He had a long mane of beaded dreadlocks. The very only item either was carrying was a common metal can the man was tossing in his left hand. Both had gleaming eyes that shone red because of some reflection I couldn't place.

"I don't think she's a witch," the man said. The can came to rest in his hand, where he curled long bare fingers around it.

"Well, if she isn't a witch, then what is she?" The woman asked.

The man didn't answer but came to greet me, with a "Nice to meet you. Would it be very disrespectful of me to ask what kind of a spell you are wearing?"

I stared at the red eyes. There was a hypnotic quality to them.

I frowned. Where had I...? There was something in those eyes that made me uncomfortable. Something that had nothing to do with this man that didn't seem to be drunk, nor carried anything threatening. There was something familiar about the way he talked and carried himself that I couldn't pinpoint.

And where did that reflection come from? I broke the eye contact to search for it, but I couldn't find any sources of red light.

"See?" the man was saying. He pointed at me with the can. I couldn't tell in the dim light whether the drink was a beer or a soda. "Not a witch. She cannot really see us."

The woman came closer as well. Up close, I could see that the eyes of the two were not of the same shade, for while the man indeed had eyes almost blood red, the woman's irises were vividly orange. That, for some reason, troubled me even more.

"It must be the cross. See, Weasel? She is wearing a cross. I don't think it's decorative."

The man nodded to me. I wasn't sure why I couldn't look away, or just leave. I did rose to leave, and they made no gesture to stop me or follow.

I took two steps away.

"Do me a favor," the man whispered. "Look behind the church before you go."

I stopped.

My head was swimming.

—

Suddenly, I found myself standing in a graveyard. And I had the most intense of feelings that I shouldn't turn, no matter what I did.

I was safe if I didn't turn.

It felt like in those nights after watching a horror movie one felt they were safe if their toes were covered under a blanket. But if they left their toes unprotected by the soft fabric, then they themself would be visible for a nocturnal monster. I knew it was an irrational fear. There was no monster under the bed, nor was there any behind me, lurking by the deep shadows of the churchyard.

I took more steps.

When I turned to look behind me at the end of the row of tombstones, there was nothing there. Just an empty gravel path.

Deep in thought, I circled the church. I wanted to exit the yard from the same gap in the wall where I had entered.

As I turned to a path that led me behind the stone building, I saw a man. He was lying on the ground, supporting his upper torso against a grave. There was a bag of cans to his left and a very similar plastic shopping bag of something else to his right. His hand was flung over the second bag. The puffy winter coat on him was torn in various places and it was difficult to tell what colour it had been under all the dirt and stains.

Usually I would have passed him by without a second glance. Someone who had drunk themselves to sleep in a public park. But it was cold. It wasn't unheard of for people to freeze to death in the nights, even this close to spring.

And something of him reminded me of Aunt Chime's late husband Mathew. Maybe it was the bushy beard. God only knew the reason.

He didn't lift his face to me when I stopped in front of his worn out boots.

"Mister?" I started.

No reaction.

With a knot in my stomach, I nudged his boot with my own shoe. I crouched down. I took the glove off my right hand and tapped his cheek. I was the only one breathing white mist to the space between us.

I wished there had been someone else in the graveyard. Or that I could have still walked past. I wished I hadn't stopped in the first place. If I hadn't decided to circle behind the church, I would have never found him.

But, as things stood, I had found him. And now he was my responsibility.

Just before I dialed the emergency number, I raised my face to the church, frowned deep, and wondered about the reason for this encounter. What was God trying to communicate with the body of this homeless man? Was it a lead to the Little One? A warning? Or both?