I love this time of night, and I love this place. Sitting here at the last bus stop on the Templemead line as the fog creeps over the edge of the escarpment, I feel as though I have my own secluded island oasis during the witching hour. This hour is when Margaret feels closest. If not spent with her then its spent in quiet contemplation of my time in the service. To sit in silence with her or reminisce with my old pals from our days in uniform.
From the fog, a disturbance ripples through the still air. Murmurings drift toward me, sometimes close, sometimes fading as the fog swallows and releases sound. The night seems to breathe with them.
“The edges have bled away. The edges, the edges. I need to feel them. I need to see them. I am lost. I have been here before. I do not like it here. Never here.”
My tranquility shatters as a haggard man stumbles into my pool of light. He drops onto the bench beside me with a twitch, breaking my seclusion. Irritation prickles through me. This is my hour. My place. He shuffles closer, crowding my space. I cannot abide his touch. Grabbing my cane, I rise and turn away, trying to center myself.
He jerks upright. His gaze locks onto me, sudden and sharp. His antagonism is palpable. The skills I gained in the service then later honed by my senseis, bring my senses to full alert. His aura is a roiling miasma of bloody orange swirls and ebony spikes of violence. A storm of a man. With a ragged scream, “You looked! You judged!” he launches himself at me.
I sidestep but his shoulder grazes mine. A flash of pain. Darkness blooming at the edges. I think, I am slowing in my old age. My knee falters, a reminder that time has taken more than I care to admit.
Reflex takes over. I guide his momentum with my cane. He crashes into the corner of the shelter. Slurring and staggering, he pulls himself upright and charges again, arms windmilling. I sidestep once more, but one of his flailing fists clips me. The world tilts. I strike out with the haft of my cane, hoping only to keep distance as we fall.
I am fortunate to come first. We are lying side by side, not tangled as I feared. The night air cools my cheek. Slowly, my thoughts return. I examine his chakra points. With steady hands, I apply measured pressure, redirecting his flows. With each touch, the miasma settles into pools of sunset hues. The ebony spikes soften into a sequined turquoise. His breathing eases. The storm quiets.
I push myself back against the shelter wall and wait for my companion to regain his senses. His breathing is measured now, no longer erratic or spasming. After a few moments, I hear soft sobbing as awareness returns. Quietly he stutters, “Wa… why? What did you do?” He pulls himself into a sitting position and asks what happened. His eyes flicker with something childlike. Fear, maybe. Or memory.
There is clarity in him now. Looking out into the night, I say, “I just restored some peace, that’s all.”
“This is my place to reminisce and reflect,” I tell him. “My time to sit with old friends and family.” He drops his head, breathing out softly. “I’m sorry. I’ve ruined your time.”
“It’s alright,” I say. “This is also a place of meeting, a place to make acquaintances and find new starts. I know this is only a moment of quiet for you, but I’d like to offer more. Why don’t come with me? I have a friend named Mary Frances who has time and resources to help you in the long run.”
We sit together, two silhouettes in the fog. Not strangers anymore. Just two men trying to find a way forward. The low rumble of the 110 Templemead climbs the escarpment ramp. I struggle to my feet and offer my hand to my new friend.
When the bus grinds to a halt and the door swishes open, the driver calls out, “Tony! What’s this?Someone has joined you on your nightly vigil?”
Looking toward the door, I say, “Eric, this is my new friend…” I glance sheepishly at the young man beside me.
“Tom,” he says.
“Tom here is going to join me on the ride down to take a connector over to St. Benedicts.” I hand Eric a crisp five.
“Tony, you know the fare is three fifty. This will not cover both of you.”
“Come on, Eric. Every night I hand you the same bill and never accept change. Surely that has garnered a fare for my friend tonight.”
With a hiss of hydraulics lowering the bus so I can access the steps, Eric sighs. “Fine, fine. You and Tom can come aboard.”
With the sound of tearing, Eric hands over the transfer tickets, and the doors sigh shut.