Date: Thu, 26 Jan 2006 17:13:40 +0000 (GMT) From: Veneration Subject: Empty Vessel Part 2 Any comments are welcome. Send to veneration2003@yahoo.co.uk EMPTY VESSEL BY VENERATION PART 2 CHAPTER 6 Beresford High Street reflects the history of the village and the district. The oldest building on the street is the medieval church, flint-built, dark, squat, modest. The cemetery to one side and at the back of the church is protected by a waist-high flint wall and shaded by mature trees. With its mossy, time-blurred headstones, lush grass and occasional benches, it is a haven from the commercial bustle of the street. The one remaining 17th century lathe-and-plaster building lost its charm after an unattractive shop facade was added in the 1930s, followed by an unsympathetic renovation in the 1960s. Most buildings on the street are Victorian, red-brick and stolid, dating from the period of maximum prosperity of the village, when it was engulfed by the growing city. A small row of three shops was built on a bomb site in the austere 1950s. The construction is cheap and gimcrack and the building is now badly showing its age. High Street was once spacious, but is now too narrow for the demands of modern traffic. There is only room for parking on one side of the street, and barely room for the two lanes of traffic to pass each other. Cars and vans, small trucks and buses, stop and start, idle and sidle, along the street, waiting impatiently or edging past buses stopped for passengers and vans parked as their drivers make deliveries to shops. The sounds of engines, brakes, and horns bounce off the buildings, while petrol and diesel fumes taint the air. Beresford High Street is part of the thoroughfare through this part of the city and suffers for it. Roger makes his way along High Street and over the bridge that crosses the Beres River. He comes to a shop past the river and notices a 'Help wanted' sign in the window. Yardley's Sci Fi/Fantasy Bookshop is one of those speciality shops that can be found in odd corners of the city. They are squeezed out of prime shopping areas by high rents and the standard chain stores found throughout the country. But those who are serious about their science fiction or fantasy know about Yardley's and are prepared to make the trek from wherever they live, in the city or in the surrounding district, to visit the shop. Roger stops and looks thoughtfully at the sign. He realises that he needs to make something of his new life. At one time he would have thought that becoming a shop assistant would have been too much of a come down from what he expected of his career. But his career never achieved his expectations and is now finished. His life is now in a new phase where working in a bookshop could be ideal. Roger enters the shop, setting off the bell attached to the top of the door. There is a counter to the left, against the wall, and rows of bookcases stand in ranks from the street towards the back of the shop. The street noise becomes muffled as the door closes behind Roger and a sense of quiet peace returns to the room. Behind the counter stands a young man, with pale narrow face flanked by long, lank black hair. A row of studs lines the edge of one ear. He wears a black T-shirt with a Deadhead logo in stark white and red lettering across the front. "Is the owner available?" "Andy, there's someone here wants to see you," the young man calls and a figure appears from the doorway at the back of the shop. The figure approaches with a slow silent glide like a ghost. His face is pale and lined, his eyes a pale washed-out blue, his hair salt-and-pepper grey. He is dressed in a white shirt and black trousers and the only colour is a startling bright paisley tie. Roger introduces himself and explains that he is enquiring about the job. "Andrew Yardley," the ghost introduces himself with an unexpectedly firm handshake. "Do you have experience in the retailing aspects of the publishing industry and exactly why is it that you are seeking employment?" Roger explains that he had worked in the office of a large company, until he was recently made redundant. He is now looking for something completely different and prefers to have a job close to where he lives. The corners of Yardley's mouth turn down and he frowns. "Perhaps you would like to explain why you think that you would be suitable for employment in this establishment." "I'm methodical, conscientious, and I like books. I'm used to dealing with people and I have a good knowledge of Sci Fi-Fantasy, which will be useful when giving advice to the customers," Roger replies. "Do you say so, indeed?" Yardley says sceptically as he raises his pale, almost invisible, eyebrows. "One of our steady sellers is Star Trek, with which one therefore presumes you are intimately familiar." "Only in general terms, enough to know that it is pretentious crap. If someone wants to buy Star Trek books, that's fine by me and I'll point out where to find them on the shelves," Roger says. "Ah, hmmm . . . . Then what might be your opinion of the Foundation series?" "Asimov had good ideas; it's just too bad that he couldn't write. His characters are unconvincing, the dialogue wooden, and the plot mechanical." "You do appreciate," Yardley responds severely, "that you are being critical of what is generally acknowledged as one of the classic stories of the Golden Age of science fiction." "Yes, of course. But the Golden Age was simply the period when science fiction became popular and widely read and a lot was published, especially in Sci Fi magazines. However, the writers were still focused on the science fiction ideas and hadn't yet developed their literary qualities. That came later." "One supposes, then, that you are equally disdainful of Frank Herbert's oeuvre?" "Not at all," Roger replies. "I enjoyed the Dosadi stories and, of course, Dune. And while the later books in the Dune series weren't wonderful, overall the series is greater than the sum of the parts." Yardley purses his lips. "I do concede that you appear to be somewhat familiar with the science fiction genre, but I rather doubt that your attitude to the literature is appropriate in this establishment. Our staff are meant to sell books, not persuade the customers against doing so. There is also the matter of your maturity and experience in the workforce," he continues. "I fear that with your previous occupation as a professional, you will find the position I am currently advertising too low paid, too mundane, and too boring for a man of your evident intellect. You would, no doubt, resign within a short period of time, which would be most unsatisfactory as far as I am concerned. I find it preferable to employ younger staff who are just starting out in employment, like Charlie." Yardley looks towards the young man behind the counter. "You are doing splendidly, are you not young Charles, with a rewarding career in retail sales to look forward to?" Charlie sneers with the arrogance of the young urban male. "Yeah, whatever." "I think you will find that I'm quite satisfactory," Roger replies. "Unlike the young, I know how far I can go and I know what jobs are like. I don't have high expectations and at my stage of life I'm simply happy with regular, not too-demanding, work. It's young people just starting their working lives who expect their jobs to be high paid and exciting. It is the young who have a low threshold of tolerance for boredom and are likely to leave in search of something better. After all, with all these young people that you have employed, how long did they stay?" he asks. "Well, um, yes, it is just possible that you may have something of a valid point," Yardley concedes. He stands in thought for a minute and glances over at Charlie, who has returned to reading his Dungeons and Dragons magazine. "We do need more help," he continues, "and there currently appears to be little interest in the position available. Perhaps I'm prepared to take the risk of offering you the job, with a one month trial. Are you able to start work in the morning?" That suits Roger and, after thanking Yardley, he leaves the shop. He looks forward to the next day, as work will give some focus to his life and he needs the money. . o O 0 O o . CHAPTER 7 It is a wet Friday evening and Roger sits on a sofa, reading a book. The doorbell rings and he goes to answer the intercom. "Hello?" "It's me, Sam," he hears in reply. Roger is surprised and pleased that the boy is at the door. "Come on up, Sam, the flat door is unlocked," he says and he buzzes open the building door. A few minutes later Roger hears his flat door close and Sam appears at the door to the livingroom. The boy looks rather like a drowned rat, with hair plastered to his skull, wet jacket, soaked trainers and jeans that are wet at the bottom of the legs. "Hello Sam, it's good to see you, but you look a bit soaked there. Get your wet things off, before you get chilled," Roger advises. Roger goes to get a towel for Sam to dry his hair. He returns to find the youth sitting on a sofa with wet jacket, socks and shoes in a heap on the floor. He hands Sam the towel and collects the wet gear to put in the drier. "Are your jeans OK? I can find something for you to wear if you like." "Nah, they're fine." Sam rubs his hair vigorously and drops the used towel on the floor beside him. Roger finishes cleaning up after the teen and sits on the sofa. He looks over at the other sofa, where Sam, with wildly tousled hair, gazes at the blank TV. Roger wonders at the visit and how he can entertain his guest. "Do you want to watch TV?" "Nah, there's only crap on. Watcha doin' anyhow?" "I'm reading a book. I'm pleased to see you again, Sam, but I'm afraid you're going to find my company very boring." "That's OK, I jus' wanna chill out, ya know?" Sam glances over at Roger with a tiny smile, then returns his gaze to the TV. "Um, Roger? Is it OK if I stay the night?" Sam stares at the wall as he asks, as if hide his hurt when he is rejected. "Yes, of course. You're most welcome to stay." Roger wonders at the reason for the request, but as Sam doesn't look as if he is about to explain, he decides not to ask. "Look, I was about to have supper. Do you want a drink?" Sam smiles happily. "Yeah, I'll have a beer." "I'm not offering a beer. I was thinking of a hot drink, like tea or hot chocolate." "Hot chocolate?" Sam replies scornfully. "That's a little kid's drink." "Well, I'm having a chocolate drink and I'm not a little kid." "Maybe you're in yor second childhood, seein' as youse gettin' old and senile an' all." He grins wickedly at Roger. Roger laughs. "Maybe. So, what do you want?" "I'll get supper," Sam offers. He jumps to his feet and disappears into the kitchen. Roger can hear a clattering and banging of cupboard doors, then the boy appears at the kitchen door. "So how d'ya want yer chocolikkey anyways?" he asks. "Four teaspoons in a mug, a little milk and no sugar, thanks." "Wot! Four teaspoons? We only have a half at home." "You can have half a teaspoon if you like, but I find that doesn't have enough taste for me." With a sniff Sam disappears again. Sam returns, proudly carrying two steaming mugs of hot chocolate and a plate of biscuits on a tray. Roger hasn't even realised that he has bought a tray. "Thanks, Sam, you're a champion." The teen shrugs diffidently as he places the tray on the coffee table between the two sofas and reclaims his seat. "I found the bikkies," he states. "Ah, yes, the boy who has to have something to eat with his hot drink." "What? Oh, yeah." Sam grins as he remembers their meeting in the park. "I put four teaspoons in mine too," he announces as he takes a sip of the drink. He looks surprised, takes another sip and smiles. "Hey, this ain't too bad. I mean, for a little kid's drink, that is." Man and boy sit and have their supper in companionable silence. Roger looks down at the dirty supper dishes and over at Sam, who is looking at nothing in particular, quietly, almost pensively, but relaxed and peaceful. There are limits to how much you can expect a teenage boy help out, so Roger collects the supper dishes and returns them to the kitchen. Roger announces that he (Sam) is welcome to stay up as long as he likes, but that he (Roger) is going to bed. Sam supposes that he may as well go to bed too, as it's not as if there is anything to do. There is a bustle of preparations, with clothes fetched from the drier, top bunk bed made up, clean towels handed over. Roger gives the boy a new toothbrush. "Wot dus I wan' this for? I brushed me teef only las' week." "Well, you'll have to brush tonight, if you want a goodnight kiss from me." "In yer dreams, mate," Sam scoffs, but he readily stands besides Roger at the bathroom sink as they share toothpaste and running water. He smiles as he places HIS toothbrush besides Roger's in the rack. Then with 'Goodnights', but no kiss, they retreat to their bedrooms, and peace and quiet returns to the flat. Roger lies in bed, thinking about Sam's visit. He would have expected the evening they had just spent to be unbearably boring to an active, hardened, street-wise kid, but the boy had appeared content and the quiet seemed to have satisfied some inner need of his. * * * Sam lies in bed. He expects that Roger will come to his room and is ready to smash his face in when he tries it on. When he realises that Roger is not going to appear, he turns over, relaxes, and falls asleep. . o O 0 O o . CHAPTER 8 Roger sits in meditation on the livingroom floor. First he withdraws his awareness to the core of his being, then he extends it to encompass the connections between his spirit and the world outside. He feels the warmth of the morning sun shining through the window. The air that wafts through the open window has been washed clean of dust and smog by the previous night's rain and has a faint smell of vegetation and moist soil from the nearby park. The noise of the living city provides a barely audible undertone to joyful birdsong. Roger feels at one with the world. He becomes aware of a presence at the door. "Good morning, Sam. Do come in." The presence comes closer, until he hears the slight sounds of a moving body, feels a minute change in the air currents around him, and smells unwashed boy. Roger opens his eyes. Sam sits in front of him, knee to knee, dressed only in boxers and crumpled T, with a puzzled look on his face. "Hey, watcha doin'?" "Meditating." "Huh?" Roger explains what he does and the benefits of meditation. Sam is disbelieving. "Yeahbut, it's all bullshit, init?" "Is it really?" "Well shure, it's all jus' words; it ain't like it's real or anythin'." "Yes, that is a problem," Roger concedes. "But just because you can't see or touch something, it doesn't mean it's not real. But then the issue is how can you tell whether something intangible is real or just someone's bullshit? I know that what I experience in meditation is real; the challenge is how to show you that it's real." Roger thinks about the problem, while Sam is content to sit quietly and drowsily as he slowly wakes up properly. "I wonder," Roger says, "whether it might be possible to show you. Perhaps I could use the energy and awareness of my spirit to let you become aware of yours. But to be able to do that, our spirits have to be able to touch. While the spirit is intangible, it is an expression of the mind and centred on the brain. We obviously can't get our brains to touch, but might be able to get close through our fingertips. They are very sensitive with lots of nerve endings and the nerves connect directly to the brain." "What we could try," Roger suggests, "is to touch fingertips to fingertips." He demonstrates by propping his elbows on his knees and holding up his hands, ready for Sam. "Wot!" Sam leans back in rejection of the suggestion. "I'm not gonna hold hands or any of that faggy stuff. No way, man." "We wont be holding hands," Roger reassures the boy, "just touching our fingertips. And if that gets too scary, you can always break contact." "Hey, I'm not scared." Sam is offended by the suggestion. Roger smiles at the youth. "I know that of course you're not scared. It's just a bit of verbal manipulation to persuade you to give it a try." Sam narrows his eyes as he considers this, then shrugs and grins. "What the hell, it don't worry me. Wot dus I do?" Roger tells Sam to hold up his hands so that their fingertips can touch, then to close his eyes and try to imagine sinking into a still, dark, pool of water, so that all perception of the outside world fades away. As Sam does this, Roger enters into a state of meditation himself. He tries to extend his spirit across the gap in nerve endings between his and Sam's fingertips and slowly becomes aware of the boy's spirit. He 'sees' it with his inner vision as a glowing aura, with its twists and folds and tangles. Some parts of the aura are bright and vigorous, while other parts are strangled and dull. "I want you to remember something that has made you very happy," Roger says. He sees Sam's aura pulse a little and, with his own spirit, lends energy to that impulse. "Now, remember something that made you very sad." Roger next instructs Sam to remember something that gave him a great sense of achievement, and something that made him angry or fearful. Each time he aids the boy's perception of the memories through an awareness of his spirit. Abruptly, all contact is broken and Roger opens his eyes. Sam has pulled away his hands. His face is screwed up in distress and tears run down his face. "What the fuck are ya doin'," Sam yells. "Yer a fucking shitty wanker to make me think that stuff." He stands and looks down at Roger. "Jus' keep yer creepy hands off me an' stay away from me, ya stinking queer." Sam storms up the stairs and a few minutes later, back down again, fully dressed. "Fuckin' arsehole," he shouts and disappears from the flat with a slam of the front door. Roger is left to face the aftermath of what has happened. The experience of unhappy memories that he has tried to forget was too intense for Sam. Roger wonders if he did the right thing. While in meditation he could see that Sam's spirit is sensitive, loving, but scarred. Truth is usually better than lies and deceit, which corrode relationships, but sometimes truth comes at a high cost. Facing the emotional wounds in a person's life can hurt intensely as the experiences are relived, but how can his spirit grow if he doesn't confront those wounds and allow them to heal? Roger knows that if the distortions and knots in Sam's spirit are not untwisted, the boy will never reach his potential. His life will then most likely be typical of all too many of his peers in Beresford; violent, criminal, drug-ridden, empty. Roger sighs. He regrets the probable loss of Sam's presence in his life, with his energy, liveliness, and, under the street-wise exterior, his sweet nature. And with Sam gone, he won't be seeing Trevor or Bill. The three boys have started to give meaning to his life, but everything has its consequences, and some actions are right to take in spite of their high cost. All Roger can do is to get on with his life. The events of the morning have affected his spirit, but he is not in the mood for meditating at present. . o O 0 O o . CHAPTER 9 Roger looks up at the sound of the bell over the door. The boy who walks into the shop looks uncertain about what to expect inside. He glances over at Roger, looks away and scurries out of sight between two sets of bookshelves. He reappears a few minutes later, carefully not looking in Roger's direction, and darts between the next set of bookshelves. The corners of Roger's mouth quirk upwards in a slight smile. 'Looks like we have a bookshop virgin,' he thinks as he keeps an eye on the boy's progress. The boy, clad in tidy brown check shirt and tan cargo pants, approaches the counter. "Um, 'scuse me?" Roger looks down at his fresh-cheeked face, with bright blue eyes and short light brown hair. "Yes, how can I help you?" "Er, do you have 'Lord of the Rings'?" His eyes briefly meets Roger's, then flicker away as if that is too intimate a contact. "Yes, we do. It's shelved under T for Tolkein." Roger smiles encouragingly at the boy. "Cool. I really loved the movies, so I thought I'd get the book." "Well, I'm afraid that it comes in three volumes, not a single book." "Oh." The boy's face falls. "And, ah, have you read 'The Hobbit'?" "Um, no?" "That story comes before 'Lord of the Rings'," Roger explains. "It's probably best to read that first as it introduces the hobbits and other characters and the rest of Tolkein's world. And, of course, it's a very enjoyable book to read." "Oh." The boy's shoulders sag a little and the corners of his mouth turn down. "And, er, how much are the books?" Roger regards the dejected boy in front of him. "Look, 'The Hobbit' is OK, but 'The Lord of the Rings' can be pretty heavy reading. So, rather than spending all your money on the books and finding that maybe you don't like them, why don't you borrow them from the public library and then see what you think." Roger hears Yardley clearing his throat and glances over to where he standing by one of the bookcases, with a disapproving sour look on his face, then returns his attention to the figure in front of him. "Yeah, that's a great idea." The boy's eyes start to sparkle and a wide smile grows, transforming his appearance to a luminous vision that makes Roger's heart miss a beat to see. "I'll go do that. Thanks heaps, mister." "Mister? There's no need to call me mister; my name's Roger." Roger holds out his hand and the boy reaches out to shake it, small warm hand engulfed in large strong hand. "I'm Zack," he says shyly, with a face that is now almost serious again, but with a lingering sparkle to his eyes. "I'm very pleased to meet you Zack. Is that short for Zachary?" "Yeah, but everyone calls me Zack. 'Cept for Mum an' Dad when they're mad at me." "I'm sure that doesn't happen very often," Roger replies gallantly. Zack shrugs, looks down, blushes slightly, and gives a small tug with his hand. Roger realises he is still holding the boy's hand and quickly releases it. "Oops, sorry." He blushes at being caught holding Zack's hand for too long and wonders what the boy thinks of it. Zack grins at Roger, with that magical sparkle still present, and ears still slightly pink. "Thanks again for the suggestion. Bye," and he turns away from the counter. Roger gazes at Zack's pert bum as the boy leaves the shop with a tinkle of the bell and sighs. Andrew Yardley walks to the counter, frowning, florescent pink tie emphasising the pallor of his face. "Correct me if I am mistaken, but I seemed to have gained the impression that you dissuaded a potential customer from making a purchase, possibly even a substantial one of a three volume set of books. Perhaps you have not yet been fully appraised of my expectations, but in this establishment I would prefer that you sell books to our customers, not bring their attention to the ready availability of the aforementioned books at the local public library." Roger shrugs. "Make the boy spend lots of money for something he can't read and you will most likely put him off coming back. But get him hooked on owning and reading his own books and you will have a customer for life." "Hmmph, well, that is one opinion, and we will have to wait and see how over-optimistic such a belief eventuates. In my experience, the local youth are young delinquents, hoodlums in the making. They are far more likely to steal books than purchase them, though the prospect of them being sufficiently literate to actually be able to read and comprehend proper literature beggars the imagination." Roger stares at Yardley for a moment, then walks away towards the staff room at the back of the shop. He enjoys working in the bookshop, and the chance to catch up on some of the latest SF books, and he likes Yardley well enough, in spite of his pompous ways which he mostly ignores. And Roger concedes that Yardley's generalisations are not too far off the mark for many of the local youth in what is still a pretty rough neighbourhood. But there is something different about Zack, with Roger seeing an intelligence and gentleness that he can't but help respond to. He's not about to stand around and listen to Yardley running down the boy. . o O 0 O o . CHAPTER 10 Roger sits on the sofa as he reads the latest book that he has brought home from Yardley's bookshop. The long twilight outside is fading into dark and the few wispy clouds that can be seen through the western window are rapidly deepening from rosy pink to angry red. Roger sighs as he puts the book down for a moment and gazes at the sunset. He hadn't realised that spending all day in a shop could be so tiring, but there is also the satisfaction of having done a good day's work. Today's society so often defines and values a person by his occupation. Besides, it helps fill in the day. The doorbell rings and Roger gets up to answer the intercom, slightly puzzled at who would be visiting him. "Hello?" "It's me, Sam," comes the reply. "Oh, hi, come on up." Roger releases the front door and unlocks the flat door. As he waits for Sam to appear he wonders at the boy's visit. He hasn't expected ever to see Sam again after their last encounter. There is a slam of the door and Sam walks into the livingroom, dressed in black track pants and black top, hood shadowing his face. "Good evening, Sam. How are you?" The boy shrugs. He slumps on the sofa, hands in pockets. "Er, Rog . . . ?" Roger looks over at Sam, who has fallen silent and is staring at the blank TV as if it held the secrets of the Universe, if only he concentrated hard enough. "Yes?" "Um, well, I wuz jes' wond'rin, iffen I could stay the night?" "Yes, of course," Roger replies. "I'm pleased to have your company." Sam flicks a glance towards Roger and away again, and the sullen look on his face lightens. "Ta." Roger smiles gently as he regards the boy. "Do you want to watch TV?" "Nah, she's right." Sam hesitates, then says "Ma 'n her boyfriend are havin' a party tonight. It's gonna get pretty wild, so I wanna get outta da place." "Well, Sam, you're completely welcome to stay any time you want." "Cool." The teen's shoulders drop slightly as the tension in them eases. Then, with a rapid shift in mood, he looks over at Roger and grins. "I'll go get us supper." He leaps to his feet and rushes into the kitchen. Roger thinks about the difficulties Sam has, typical of so many teens, of communicating with others and asking for their help and support without revealing his feelings, or admitting that he needs help. As the man can be seen in the boy, this leads naturally to the manly habits of seeing emotions as a weakness to be hidden. Communication with his friends is to be limited to nothing more threatening than football, pulling birds, and the next party. A good fight affirms his manliness, while gentleness is to be suppressed. Marriage is something that is stumbled into and, as the kids arrive, endured whenever he can't escape to be with his mates at the pub. Being gay is often not easy, but does give an escape from the need to conform to the traditional working class male stereotypes. Sam returns with supper. The hood is back off his head, revealing his smooth, tanned cheeks, untidy mop of dark hair covering his brow, sweet kissable lips, narrow chin, and broad smile. "There's ya goes, mate," he announces as he places the supper dishes on the coffee table and settles back onto his sofa. Sam sniffs the aroma of his hot chocolate, takes a sip and smiles at the rich luxurious taste. "Wonder what this'd be like wit', oh, lets say, eight spoons a choccy." "You would need a knife and fork to eat it," Roger suggests and the boy giggles at the thought. "I called round earlier, but ya wasn't 'ere." Sam looks accusingly at Roger. "I was at work." "Oh? But you tol' me 'n Trev that ya didn't have a job." "That's right, I did tell you that," Roger agrees. "Wot, was ya stuffing us about? " Sam pauses and his brow wrinkles in thought. His brow clears and he triumphantly shouts "Ya din't have a job then but yer got a job now!" "That's perfectly correct." "So ya jus' messin' wid me 'ead," Sam grins. "So, watcha doin'?" Roger explains. "Oh, zhat all? Yer jest a shop assistant." Roger looks steadily at the youth. "Even shop assistants contribute to society. And having a role in society gives a purpose and value to your life. Everyone needs a job of some sort and work is as good a way of having a point to your life as any." Sam shrugs. "I don' have a job." "Your job and responsibility is to go to school and get an education. At your stage of life that is the most important role you could have, and it is a highly valuable contribution to society." Sam shrugs again. "Well mebbe. It's jus' that school sucks." He pauses and thinks for a minute. "Hey Rog, it's cool you havin' a job 'n all." Roger accepts the implicit apology. "And it does bring in a few pounds, which is no bad thing." They grin at each other and settle in for the evening. Roger announces it's time to go to bed and there is a bustle of preparations. After sharing the bathroom to clean their teeth, Roger briefly rests his hand on Sam's shoulder and wishes the boy a good night. "G'night," he replies and disappears into his bedroom. * * * Sam lies in bed, waiting for Roger to come into his room, but knowing that he wont and that he is perfectly safe with the man. His experience of meditation with Roger last week was strange and highly disturbing, as it raised a storm of painful memories and emotions. But after he left the flat and eventually calmed down, Sam felt curiously at peace, as if a poison had been purged from his body. Roger's home is a calm, still haven that is a complete contrast to anything else in his life, but which Sam increasingly feels the need of. He sometimes feels that the turmoil and anger that fills his life is going to overwhelm him, and that the only future that awaits him is full of violence, crime, despair. Sam still feels the loss of his father, who left five years ago. He wishes for the security and love of his father's presence, imagining that he would be something like Roger, even though he remembers his father well enough to know that he wasn't, and would never have been, like that. Spending time in Roger's company leaves an ache inside him for something that Sam doesn't quite recognise. * * * Roger lies in bed, thinking of the evening with Sam. The boy had been peaceful, happy to be quiet, and didn't swear once. Sam's friends would have been amazed, but Roger thinks this is part of his true nature showing. The true nature of a person is not always how he behaves, as that is affected by the world around him and how it has impacted on him. Most people are not by nature killers, but will kill if the violent society around them compels them, or they are defending themselves and family, or in the line of duty such as the police, or when their government sends them off to war. If people could be true to themselves, there would be far fewer killings in the world. Roger is just about to drop off to sleep, when a shadowy figure appears in his bedroom, clad only in boxers. "Can I sleep with you?" Sam asks in a low voice. "Of course." Roger holds up the duvet. Sam climbs into bed and lies on his side, facing away from the man. Roger senses that Sam has come into his bedroom because of some deep need. He hesitates, as he doesn't want to do the wrong thing and upset the teen, then tentatively reaches out and lays a hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam immediately scoots backwards until his back is pressed against Roger's belly and chest. Roger drapes his arm over the youth in a light embrace. Sam lies rigidly for a minute, then gives a deep sigh, relaxes completely and falls asleep. Roger lies awake, feeling the warmth of Sam's body against his and hearing the quiet sound of his breathing. The boy is beginning to steal a place in his heart, and he hopes that he can help Sam grow into the fine young man that Roger thinks he has the potential of becoming. . o O 0 O o . CHAPTER 11 Roger sits at the table, barefoot, dressed in shorts and T shirt. The morning sun streams over him as he sips his coffee. Sam appears at the foot of the stairs, sleepy eyed and droopy, with hair a tangled mop. His body is well developed, with nicely muscled chest and flat belly, sturdy legs, and strong large feet that promise his future growth as he reaches manhood. "Good morning, Sam." The boy grunts. "Would you like breakfast?" Sam grunts again and drops into a dining chair. He is not a morning person. Roger prepares breakfast for Sam, and more coffee for himself to keep the teen company. By the time they have finished, Sam is properly awake. His eyes have fully opened and brightened, and he is alert and ready for the day. "Uh, 'bout las' night. Don't get the idea I wus looking for, well you know, sex." Sam blushes. "I was jus', . . . " His voice trails off in embarrassment at exposing his vulnerability and as he doesn't understand what made him go to Roger's bed. "Anyways, why din't you try it on, seein' as youse qu . . . , um gay?" "But I did," Roger replies. "I waited until you were asleep, then I thoroughly ravished you. I'm surprised your bum doesn't still hurt." Sam narrows his eyes, then grins. "Ah, piss off, ya never." "I'm very happy that you trust me. I care about you deeply and I hope you know that I would never do anything to betray that trust or to hurt you." This is getting too emotional, which makes Sam feel a little uncomfortable, so he doesn't respond. "Are yer goin' to do some a that weird medy 'tayshun shit?" "Yes, are you going to join me?" Sam screws up his face at the thought, then shrugs. "S'pose. May as well." The two sit on the livingroom floor, knee to knee, fingertip to fingertip. Roger leads them into the meditative state. He perceives Sam's spirit as diaphanous semitransparent veils that fold and drape, obscure and reveal. In places they shine with colour, like sunlit silk, and form shapes of beauty and strength. In other places however, they are twisted and knotted, and the colours are muddy and dull. Roger brings Sam's attention to the simplest of the knots and lends his direction and strength to the boy's efforts in untwisting them. It's not possible to remove old memories of unpleasant events and experiences of the past, neither is it desirable, as this is part of a person's life experiences and contributes to the essence of what he is. But by smoothing the distortions in a person's spirit, the psychological harm can be reduced, enabling him to use the experience to strengthen his soul. This can happen in life through the simple passage of time, or spiritual growth, or counselling. The benefit of meditation is that it brings awareness to unsuspected spiritual damage and allows the meditator to work on repairing that specific damage. But such meditation is not easy, even with help, and requires great effort. Roger observes that Sam is starting to tire and his efforts are weakening, so he removes his fingers and breaks their spiritual contact. Roger opens his eyes and Sam looks back at him. His face is calm, though two tear tracks run down his cheeks. Roger smoothes the tears away with his thumbs. "Why does it hurt so much?" Sam wonders. "There's a lot of old hurt and sorrow to work through. It takes work to heal those old scars, but when you do you can move on with your life." "Well, maybe." A hint of a smile appears at the corners of Sam's mouth and the skin around his eyes crinkle. "My friends better not find out I'm doin' this weird shit, or I'll never live it down." Man and boy get to their feet. Sam stretches with unconscious animal grace, arms above head revealing wispy tufts of black hair in his armpits, slightly bulging boxers hinting at what lurks inside. "Gotta go, man," he announces. "Me too," Roger says. "It's time I get ready for work." "But it's Saterd'y." "Even so. The shop's open on Saturday mornings, so I've got to be there." There is a domestic bustle as they get ready to leave, with Sam dressing and Roger changing into his working clothes. Back down in the livingroom, Sam approaches Roger, then hesitates, as if there is something he wants but is uncertain about asking for. Roger is wary at offending Sam, but senses a warmth that he finds irresistible, so he reaches out and gives the teen a hug. Sam immediately wraps his arms around the man and holds tightly, as if he were hanging onto a life-ring to keep himself from drowning. Roger kisses him on the forehead. "I hope you know you are completely welcome to come and visit, and to stay the night any time you want." Sam murmurs something inaudible, then releases his hold, steps back, and with a cheery smile and a "See ya, Rog," he's gone. Roger wanders off to work, in a daze and barely noticing his surroundings. His thoughts of Sam fill him with a warm glow. To be friends with the youth again and seeing the beginnings of his transformation fills him with satisfaction. Sam is a sexy lad and spending time brings Roger pleasure, but also frustration. He would love sexual intimacy with the teen, but wouldn't do anything to hurt him or risk his development. . o O 0 O o . End of Part 2 To be continued . . .