Bohemia Village Voice

The Sign

Martin was both undecided and prepared. If insight were to be found anywhere, then the clearing in Kenton Wood was the place. He sought a sign to help him make a difficult choice.
Martin had lived a good life, but now his ticker was playing up and put a stop to most activities that made life enjoyable. His dear Diana had died last year and though he knew his children wanted to take care of him, he dreaded going through a protracted exit. Martin laboured up the wooded footpath, made treacherous by criss-crossing tree roots.
He caught his breath and steadied himself against a large elm. New green leaves waved above him and shafts of dappled light danced at his carpet-slippered feet. Intermittent gusts of wind rustled through the trees which drowned the distant drone of traffic. The pace of his heart slowed and his legs felt lighter. He checked on the flask inside his jacket pocket. Good, it was still there. He took a deep breath and set off again.
A white feather lay amongst the wood anemones. Twenty paces onward lay another. White feathers marked enchanted places. He breathed in the warm spring air that carried sweetness and the scent of wild garlic. Children’s playful voices floated towards him as he followed the trail of white feathers. Martin entered the small clearing and made straight for the seat, carved into a fallen oak. He sank down and felt it take his weight.
Two children, dressed in jeans and polo shirts played a game of catch with their father. Martin acknowledged them with a nod, while they continued their game.
“Do you mind us being here?” asked Dad.
“Not at all,” smiled Martin.
To the south, a gap in the trees showed the land falling away to the sea. Fields of unripened wheat swayed and rippled in the breeze. To the east, north and west, the clearing was enclosed by well-managed woodland. Martin identified the tuneful melody of a blackbird and in the distance, the haunting call of a cuckoo.
He closed his eyes. A gentle energy coursed through his body. This place was special, magical; like tapping into a power supply. It was almost palpable. After a few minutes, he opened his eyes.
“Dad, get this,” called the younger boy as he tossed his Dad an impossible catch.
Time doubled in length. The ball moved slowly through the air and was easily anticipated by Dad’s waiting hands.
“Wow!” said both boys, clearly impressed. The man looked at Martin and smiled.
“Martial arts training, slows things down, it gives you more time to prepare.”
The shared moment of a different interpretation was broken by the children.
“Let’s go and build a camp,” said the younger one.
“Okay,” replied his older brother, “Dad, come on, let’s go to the old quarry.”
“All right,” said Dad. He pocketed the ball and slung his rucksack over his shoulder. The boys ran ahead and the man observed Martin.
“You okay?”
“I think so. Farewell and bless you.”
The man hesitated and Martin smiled. This seemed to reassure him.
“Boys, wait for me,” Dad called out, and ran after them. Martin closed his eyes. The sign had been the slow moving ball. A spiritual invitation; time to move on.
He reached inside his jacket pocket for the hip flask, unscrewed the cap, raised the flask to his lips and opened his eyes. Brightness radiated through a chasm in the blue sky. Martin dropped the flask. He didn’t need it; he was free, weightless and guided towards the light.