Wyk

The Street

The street was wide yet narrow; fixed, yet shimmering with movement; altogether there, and yet not there at all. It was at once shifting and still, like a major thoroughfare sharing space with a vast, motionless sea. Tall-fronted houses, shops with apartments above, red-brick units of industry, each building quite literally jostled for position, their structures moving subtly in and out of each other’s space. Within and without moved people, animals, beings of all shapes and sizes, walking and talking, howling and squawking. The resulting hubbub, punctuated by an occasional clear voice, or a bell’s peal, or a screech of brakes, served as a nondescript, dissonant soundtrack to the kaleidoscopic scene.

And yet, all was calm.

It would be enough to make you pause for thought, unless it was all you had ever known. Which might be true enough, reflected Wyk, as she stared abjectly at the constantly changing backdrop. Any points of reference, any memories seemed clouded and distant, like she had woken from a dream. She shut and opened her eyes, only to face the street once again. Nothing looked familiar to her: she could see no points of reference or, for that matter, anything of any help at all.

Just as she was feeling more hopeless than ever, something ahead caught Wyk’s gaze. She screwed her eyes shut and open again, doing her best to rally her dazed vision. Halfway up the morphing, bustling route, barely discernible but nonetheless present, was a frontage, altogether different to those around it. Whilst nestled between the other buildings, it was somehow calmer, more restrained.

Wyk focused as hard as she could, forcing herself to block out the multifarious distractions. Through the blur she made out a grey-stone façade, several storeys high, seemingly minding its own business; and, if she wasn’t mistaken, a dark brown sunshade extending at ground level. A café, perhaps. Not an unusual sight, now that she was looking at it, but that was the strange thing: it was, amid the chaos, perfectly still.

Wyk knew, more than anything, that she wanted to go to that café. Girding herself, stumbling but resolutely putting one foot in front of another, she moved forward, willing her exhausted limbs up the street and towards the still-stoic edifice. Shifting closer, she recognised the kind of eatery that might have appeared in a central New York suburb, or maybe a Parisian boulevard. For a fleeting moment, nearby buildings looked like they, too, were trying to appear French, before the concept dissipated in front of her eyes.

Still, the café pervaded, an oasis of tranquillity within the cacophony of sights and sounds. As Wyk trudged, she dared not stare too hard, for fear it might disappear, engulfed by its surroundings. But each, furtive, upward glance brought it more into focus. Drawing closer, she made out wrought iron tables and chairs, dark-checked tablecloths, and there, a woman in a bright red coat, staring into the distance.

It was too much for Wyk to imagine, that she might be nearing the end of her journey. Each faltering step, each cruel pause while waiting for some character to move from her path, each distraction sapped the little energy she had left. At one moment, the road seemed to buckle and crack, almost collapsing before reverting to its former state; then, without warning, a large yellow truck swerved out of a side street, forcing Wyk to jump out of the way. On its trailer was a jazz band in matching colours, improvising with seeming indifference to its jolting direction of travel.

Taking a deep breath, Wyk willed herself on. One more step; then a pause, to deal with some equally bizarre happening; then, another step; and so on. Almost without warning, Wyk found herself right in front of the café: she’d been concentrating so hard on getting there, the idea of actually being there was still alien. Holding her breath, she looked all the way up to the top of the building before tracing her eyes down, mapping out windows and ledges, pillars and balustrades. Drinking in the unmoving calm of its stonework, she prepared herself for a sigh, and…

“Hey,” came a voice, breaking Wyk out of her reverie. For a moment, she heard this as another noise to deflect, a distraction to add to the rest. But then, she reflected, the “hey” sounded friendly: she didn’t want to write it off immediately, however tired she was. And, if she was not mistaken, the voice had come from right in front of her. All in all, she concluded, she was perhaps thinking too much, and should possibly turn her attention to whoever had said, “Hey.”

There, seated at a small, circular table, was a young woman. Her black hair was swept back; her brow was furrowed, her lips were pulled together, and her piercing eyes were focused directly at Wyk’s nose. She didn’t look particularly happy, Wyk thought, somewhat anxious that her efforts to reach the café might have been for nothing. Next to the woman, over the back of a chair, was a red coat, carefully folded. On the table was an empty coffee cup, a notepad, and, on top of the latter, a pen.

The woman gave no impression that she might speak again, so Wyk decided she’d better reply. “What?” she said. Not the most profound response, in hindsight. Wyk knew she could do better than that, if she could only rest for a moment. Strangely, as this thought entered her mind, all others seemed to vanish. In unison, she noticed, the street tempered its motion just a little, became less vibrant, the hubbub less noisy. Wyk found this unusual, but welcomed the relative peace.

“I said, ‘Hey’.”

“Yes?” replied Wyk. Still not too articulate, truth be told.

“You don’t look too happy.” The woman spoke with an accent Wyk couldn’t quite place, despite knowing that she was good with accents. Wyk wasn’t sure how she knew that, but, she reflected, it didn’t really matter as long as it was true. Besides, she had more pressing things to think about.

“That’s funny, because, I, I mean you, …” Now she was just babbling.

“What are you doing here?” The woman was, by now, locking Wyk squarely in her gaze. Her tone was more curious than anything else.

As much as Wyk wanted to have an answer to this, perfectly ordinary question, she found nothing came. “I… I don’t know,” she said, slightly astonished. Now she came to think about it, she had no idea whatsoever.

“Well, you might as well sit down,” said the woman. “We can’t have people standing around, not knowing things. It makes the place untidy; and besides, nobody else has stopped to talk for ages.” She shrugged. “Some company would be nice.”

“Oh. Okay.” Wyk was too exhausted to say any more. She genuinely wanted to project a more, well, interesting image: what might Sahil say, or Lucy, or any of the people she knew? Once again Wyk tried to focus, to articulate something interesting, but any such ideas kept slipping like silverfish from her grasp. She felt overwhelmingly useless: her head was fuzzy, her eyes, oh, so heavy. Unable to say, or do, anything else, Wyk just shook her head.

The woman stared at Wyk pointedly, seemingly unperturbed by her lack of wherewithal. “It’s normal, you know,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“What’s… normal?”

“What you are feeling. But, you should be over it by now. That’s less normal. What’s your name?”

“Oh, ahm, Wyk,” said Wyk. For that was indeed her name, in a manner of speaking.

“Wyk?”

“Yes, Wyk.”

“Fair enough. Will you please sit?” Wyk hadn’t realised she wasn’t sitting down already. But now she came to think of it, she was, indeed, still standing up. Given how the woman appeared certain that sitting down was the correct thing to do, Wyk slid into a chair. She carefully avoided moving it as she did, in case she disturbed something she didn’t know about yet. “That’s better. Hello, Wyk, I’m Marie.”

“Umm, hello.” Wyk finally felt ready to say something, anything, of worth. “That’s a nice name,” she said. Not brilliant, but it would have to do.

Marie shrugged again. “It’s the one I was given. So, how new are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You are quite clearly a fresh arrival. You are, correct?”

Wyk didn’t quite understand the question. “I, ahm, I haven’t been to this street before, I don’t think?”

Marie pondered this, picking up her pen and twirling it in her fingers. “That’s not quite what I meant. Tell me: do you feel like you’re not quite sure where you’ve come from, even though you know lots of things already, and you wouldn’t even know where to start, if you wanted to find out?”

“Actually, yes.” Even in her fuddled state, Wyk was impressed: that was exactly how she felt.

“Of course you do. This is very strange. Very strange indeed.”

Wyk wanted to agree, she really did. Her recent experience had, indeed, been very strange, but she wasn’t sure that was what Marie was talking about. Wyk watched as Marie continued twirling her pen for a while, before stopping abruptly. “Wait. I’m sorry. You will be thirsty, of course. Can I get you a glass of water?” As she spoke, a tall, moustachioed waiter emerged from the café, balancing a tray on the fingers of one hand. With a small, yet noticeable flourish he lifted a glass from the tray and placed it on the table, before tipping his head forward and vanishing back inside.

For a goodly moment, Wyk could do nothing but stare at the glass. Eventually she reached out, gingerly raising it to her lips. She was, as it turned out, fantastically thirsty: she took two quick sips, followed by an enormous gulp.

“Hmm, yes. That is also to be expected,” said Marie with a firm nod. She was still staring at Wyk, as if she was a laboratory specimen. “Well, well. Well, well, well.”

“What is it?” asked Wyk, who wasn’t quite sure what to make of so many wells.

“This is most odd. I haven’t spoken to a new arrival for a long time. Normally, they are quite up to speed by the time they reach here. But you,”—Marie looked at Wyk over the top of her glasses—“you haven’t a clue where you are, have you?”

It was true. Wyk found herself feeling a tiny bit upset at this, perhaps correct but rather blunt statement. Perhaps more than a tiny bit. Actually, quite a bit, but she didn’t have the energy to argue. “I… oh, dear,” she said, in a quiet voice. As she did, the surrounding buildings seemed to loom taller, the noises get louder until they were screaming around her head. She put her hands over her ears, but to no avail. The whole journey had been confusing; the street was horrible; and what she thought might be a peaceful oasis, was turning out to be nothing of the sort. Wyk scrunched her eyes tight shut, and held them closed as long as she could before daring to open them again.

“Oh dear, indeed. Oh dear, my dear, you’ve got lost. But that’s okay, we can find where you went wrong. Tell me, do you remember how you got here?” Marie was twirling her pen again. Wyk forced herself to focus on this motion, blocking out her surroundings as best she could.

“I walked. I think,” Wyk stuttered.

“From where?”

“I, well, I came up there,” said Wyk, pointing back down the way she had come. As she did so, the street jumped noisily back into life, almost expectant. Inadvertently, she let out a tiny yelp.

“Stay with me. Look at me. Calm, yes? You must be calm. Unless you are calm, we cannot continue.” Marie paused, staring at her rotating pen. “Right, let’s start again. You have nothing to worry about. O-kay?”

“O-kay.” Whilst Wyk wasn’t absolutely confident about this, it did help that Marie had said so. She nodded and turned back to the table (and even as she did, the street behind sagged back, disappointed). “It’s all so…”

“Confusing? Yes, I know. That’s fine. Don’t worry, we will work it all out. You need some food, perhaps? A sandwich?” The waiter appeared again with a tray, only to withdraw quickly when Wyk shook her head. “See? Calm,” said Marie, matter-of-factly. “Calm. All we care about, right now, is what you did before you got here. You came up the street”—the street briefly perked up again—“but what came before that?”

“Before the str… there was a hill. It was steep.”

“Yes, that’s right. A grassy hill?”

“Yes, I think.”

“Did you go up any steps?”

Wyk’s eyes widened. “Yes, stone steps! I remember them, there were hundreds, all the way up the hill.”

“And they are steep as well. You must have been quite out of breath.”

“I was! A couple of steps were missing, half way up.”

“Ha. It’s a very old set of steps. And at the bottom of the hill, what was there?”

“I came up a track, oh, from a big archway. I’ve not seen anything like it before.”

“Yes, that’s right. Might you say, medieval?”

“It looked like the gatehouse to a castle. Like in a story.”

“That’s funny.”

“Why?”

“Oh, nothing. Anyway, yes. You came through the stone archway, yes?”

“Yes.” Wyk sighed with confidence, remembering her steps more and more clearly.

“Up from the Square,” said Marie.

“What square?”

“You must pass through the Square. Everyone does.”

“I… I don’t remember it. I remember the hill, and the staircase, and the track, and the gatehouse. Before that… just more track.”

“No. That’s not right.”

“Oh.” Wyk’s brow furrowed.

“Drink, perhaps. It might clear your head.”

Wyk sipped, and thought, and thought, and sipped. But all she could see in her mind’s eye was the gatehouse, and the track beyond. Though, beyond that… “Wait,” she said, biting her lower lip. “I remember seeing mountains.”

“You saw mountains?”

“Yes,” nodded Wyk.

“Mountains. Are you sure?”

“I think so.”

“You think you are sure?”

“No. I mean yes. I mean, I saw mountains. I’m certain,” nodded Wyk, firmly now. “They were covered in mist.”

Marie looked up. “Mist?”

“I think so. Is it important?”

Marie furrowed her brow. “That can’t be,” she said, shaking her head slightly. “No, it’s fine,” she continued, nodding now. “It’s – fine. Do you remember anything before that?”

Wyk thought really, really hard. Really hard. “I can’t think of anything else. I’m sorry. I’m really tired.” She was, now she thought of it, very tired indeed. Retracing her steps had been interesting, to a point: but now, as her mind tried to extend beyond the gates, it seemed like her memory just stopped. And yet, her other memories—the people she knew, Tammy and Mo, and Sahil, and Adam and Lucy, and her little brother, and the places they all had been—those memories were as clear as day. Marie was right: none of this made any sense at all. Wyk was unable to help her lower lip from trembling. I honestly don’t remember anything else at all. Just… mist.” The only thing Wyk could remember was, well, the general mistiness of it all.

“And no Square?”

“I… I don’t think so.”

“And mist?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not right. None of it.”

“It isn’t?”

“No. You’re going to have to go back.”

“What do you mean?” Wyk’s head clouded.

“It’s okay. You just need to go back to the Square, then go see the Arthurs, and all will be well,” Marie said, in that cheery voice people use when they are not feeling very cheery.

“The Arthurs?” This was making less and less sense.

“Yes, of course. Then everything will be clearer.”

“It will?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“But, I’m not sure…” Even as Wyk began to speak, the street around her sprang back into action. She recoiled, involuntarily. “But, I can’t.”

“Well, you really can’t stay here, can you? You’ll have to… oh dear. It’s okay. There, there.”

From the onlooker’s perspective, nothing much happened after that. Wyk maintained a static position on one chair; Marie sat on another, looking uncertain.

Inside Wyk’s head was a void, meanwhile. Her consciousness was a spent vessel, devoid of anything resembling thought, occupied only by wisping, whistling currents of anxiety, which rushed around the empty space between her ears like a storm. Eventually, she felt what she assumed were Marie’s arms pressing on her shoulders. While it didn’t block out the noise, it eased it a bit. “I can’t. I can’t go back. Please don’t make me,” she said, in a small voice.

“Yes, you can. Because I am going to help you. Is that okay?”

“Help me?” Wyk looked up, her expression simultaneously infinitely hopeless and just the tiniest bit hopeful.

“Of course,” she said, leaning back, “here you are, and here I am, and we will work it all out. Yes, we will. Together.” As Marie spoke, she took the red coat from the back of her chair and placed it on her lap, smoothing the rumpled fabric with her long fingers.

“Will we?” Wyk didn’t know whether to be confused or relieved, so she felt both.

“Yes. We will! If that’s okay by you, of course.”

“Well, I suppose…” Wyk wasn’t sure, not completely.

“First, we shall go find the Square, and then…”—Marie’s gaze clouded briefly—“…then we shall see where we get to, okay?’

“Umm…. will I have to go…” Wyk looked down the street.

“No, no, no! We can miss all of that. Come on, I’ll explain on the way. Everything will make sense, trust me!” With surprising speed, Marie jumped up and grabbed Wyk’s hand, pulling her to her feet. “This way!” she announced.

There, next to the café, was a small passageway. It was clearly visible, though Wyk had no recollection of having seen it before. Marie was not waiting around: barely had she stood and brushed her sides before she headed off, straight down the passageway.

Not knowing what else to do, Wyk followed.