Wayfarer (15 page)

Timothy's emotions were a discord of relief, fury, and disappointment. Part of him was amazed that Linden had given in so easily; the other part was annoyed she hadn't done it earlier. She was gazing at him with pathetic hopefulness, no doubt expecting him to apologize or at least forgive her. But the wound in his side still stabbed him every time he moved; exhaustion dragged at his shoulders like a burden, and his hunger was so intense he felt weak. So in the end he said nothing, only gave a curt nod and started walking.

If they turned right at the next corner, that would take them back toward the train station. He'd seen a pub there,
full of university students laughing over their pints and tossing chips at one another with the ease of people who'd never been hungry. Inside it would be warm, and he'd order a huge sandwich, or maybe even a steak….

“Wait,” said Linden suddenly, her voice thick with tears and cold. “I hear music.”

Timothy ignored her and walked on a few more steps, then realized that Linden was no longer with him. He turned to see her gazing at a squat, rough-plastered building across the street.

“I don't care,” he said irritably. “Come on.”

“They're singing,” she replied in a wondering tone. “I've heard Paul sing, a little…but they're all singing
together.
I've never heard anything like that before.”

Timothy was on the verge of losing patience and dragging her away when he remembered what she'd told him about faeries learning creativity from humans. Maybe his interest in music was starting to rub off on her? She certainly seemed absorbed in what she was hearing, although he couldn't hear a thing himself….

“Hey!” he called as she drifted away, but she was already crossing the street and walking up the path toward the little building. She pressed her ear to its wooden door, then eased it open and poked her head inside.

Curiosity was one thing, but this had gone too far. Timothy stomped after her and was about to pull her back when he finally heard the music that had drawn her there:

The words shocked through him. That wasn't a popular hymn. In fact, he was pretty sure that there was only one small group in Christendom that sang it. Timothy backed up from the door and swung around to look at the sign posted on the church's left side. It said, in worn black letters:

 

ABERYSTWYTH GOSPEL HALL

Lord's Supper 11:00 Sun.

Gospel Meeting 7:00 Sun.

Prayer 8:00 Wed.

 

“Oh, look!” exclaimed Linden, and before he could stop her, she darted inside. Timothy hissed at her to come out, but she didn't answer, so at last he ground his teeth and followed.

Inside it was warm, and Timothy found himself competing for space in the narrow entry with a coatrack holding twice again as many hangers as coats, a table stacked with tiny blue hymnbooks, a stand of old-fashioned gospel tracts, and a large corkboard on which someone had painted a map of the world, with photographs pinned up all over it.

Linden was standing right in front of the African continent, prying one of the pictures off the board. Timothy was about to demand whether she had lost her mind when she turned and held it up to him, and then he could only stare.

“It's you!” Linden said excitedly, waving the card. “Is this your family? Why do they have your picture here?”

She was halfway through the sentence when the hymn ended, and in the reverent silence her words echoed through the vestibule and into the sanctuary like a shout. The people in the congregation looked around with varying expressions of surprise and alarm, and after an awkward moment one woman got up from her seat and bustled over.

“What can I do for you, love?” she said in a hushed voice, blinking as she took in Linden's sodden clothing and bedraggled hair. “Have you lost your way?”

“Not exactly,” said Linden before Timothy could answer, “but we have lost all our money, and we're very tired and cold, and then I heard you all singing and it sounded wonderful, and when I looked in here I saw this.” She held up the photograph, which showed Timothy and his sister, Lydia, with their parents standing under a jackfruit tree. It was labeled
Neil and Priscilla Sinclair—Uganda
.

The woman's expression had become wary when Linden mentioned money, but now she looked from the picture to Timothy, and her round face lit with delight. “Well, isn't that wonderful!” she exclaimed. “You must come in and join us!”

“That's kind of you, but we really—” Timothy began, but Linden had already followed the woman into the main hall and was gazing around the room in fascination. Her eyes lingered on the scattered congregants in their chairs,
most of them elderly, the women all wearing hats. She watched with interest as a thin man with a gently drooping face got up and began reading out requests for prayer, and when everyone bowed their heads and a voice boomed out from the other side of the aisle, “OUR GRACIOUS HEAVENLY FATHER…” she jumped and stifled a giggle. But she clearly had no intention of leaving, so at last Timothy shuffled to a seat in the back row and resigned himself to wait until the meeting was over.

After the third or fourth prayer he must have dozed off, because when he lifted his head again people were getting up from their seats, and the woman beside Linden was talking in a voice loud enough to carry to the back of the hall:

“Poor lamb, you look done in. What a dreadful experience for you. How did it happen?”

“Someone picked my pocket,” said Timothy quickly, stifling a yelp of pain as he got up and hurried to join them. “There was nothing the police could do. But it's all right, we'll manage.” He nudged Linden. “Ready to go?”

“Go where, I'd like to know?” asked the woman with mild indignation, and patted Linden's knee. “You sit there, love, while I talk to my husband. We'll set you right.”

She hurried over to the droop-faced man who'd read the prayer requests, and talked rapidly to him while he listened in sober silence. The two of them came back together, and the man said to Timothy, “Neil Sinclair's son, eh? I'm Owen Jenkins. Our chapel's been supporting your parents these past…how long would it be, Gwladys?”

“Must be going on eight years now,” said his wife, taking off her hat and passing a hand over her frizzy curls. “Visited us on furlough, showed us lots of lovely pictures of the work they were doing in Uganda. Such a nice couple.”

That must have been after his parents left him at Oakhaven the first time, Timothy realized in surprise. He knew they'd done a lot of traveling, but he'd never guessed they'd been all the way out here.

“So,” Mr. Jenkins continued with a shrewd look from Timothy to Linden, “who's this young lady?”

He couldn't pass her off as his sister; the picture on the board was too recent for that, and the two girls looked nothing alike. “My cousin,” Timothy said quickly. “I've been in the UK since September—for school, I mean—and when Linden wanted to visit some friends of hers in Cardigan, her parents asked if I'd go along. But when my wallet was stolen we got delayed looking for it, and when we finally got here we'd missed the last coach, and, well…”

The story was thin at best, but it was all he could think of on short notice. He could only hope that Gwladys and her husband didn't ask too many questions.

“What a shame!” exclaimed Gwladys, and then in a stage whisper to her husband, “It's so late, dear. Don't you think…?”

“Yes, certainly,” said Mr. Jenkins. “You'll come home with us, then. Our children are grown, so we've a spare room for both of you. Have you eaten? Would you like to call
your friends in Cardigan and tell them you're all right?”

Having grown up in the Brethren church, Timothy was used to such invitations, but Linden's eyes became huge. She blurted, “Do you mean it? You'd do that for us, even though we can't repay you? Oh, you are so kind!”

The woman looked surprised but gratified. “None of that, my dear,” she said. “We're pleased to do it. Now, we'll just have to wait until my Owen locks up, and then we'll nip out to the car and take you home.”

 

Within an hour Linden was sitting at the Jenkinses' kitchen table, warm and dry in a robe that had once belonged to Gwladys's youngest daughter, while Timothy pressed buttons on the telephone at random and pretended to talk to their friends in Cardigan. By the time Linden had eaten her first slice of toast with blackberry jam, he had finished the call and started on his sandwich. But he still did not look happy.

“What's the matter?” she whispered across the table to him when Gwladys padded off to make up their beds for the night. “This is wonderful!”

“Yes, well, you would think so, wouldn't you?” said Timothy in acid tones. “You're not the one trading on your parents' reputation and making yourself a hypocrite.”

Linden flushed as she had when he challenged her on the street, but this time with anger. “Not as much of a hypocrite as you wanted to make of me!” she retorted. “I told Rob
that taking things from people without paying for them was wrong, but if I'd listened to you—”

“Oh, don't talk rubbish,” said Timothy. “It's not the same thing. I wasn't telling you to be selfish or lazy or take advantage of people just because you could. This was an emergency.”

“Well, it's not an emergency anymore. So why can't you be glad that we've got food and a place to stay, instead of sulking because it didn't happen the way you wanted?”

Timothy did not answer, only took another savage bite of his sandwich. Linden watched him a moment, then tried again more gently:

“I don't think you're being a hypocrite. You never told them you believed the same things they do. And do you really think they'd be any less kind to you if they knew the truth?”

Timothy raised his head, his mouth a bitter line. “Actually, yes.”

“Well, I don't,” said Linden firmly. “Or at least, I don't see why they should. I think you're just being miserable and assuming the worst about everybody.”

“And I think
you've
led a sheltered life and have no idea what you're talking about,” Timothy snapped back.

Linden took a deep breath.
He's in pain,
she reminded herself.
He's exhausted. And you're tired, too.
“Think whatever you like,” she said, pushing away her empty plate and brushing the crumbs from her lap. “I'm going to bed.”

On her way through the parlor she nearly bumped into Mr. Jenkins, who looked so grave that she feared he'd overheard. But all he said was, “Sleep well.”

“Oh,” she said, flustered, and then “Yes,” and ducked him a little curtsy before following the sound of Gwladys's humming to a bedroom papered with red roses.

“There you are, my dear,” said the woman, turning down the sheets. “Here's some towels for you, and the toilet's the second door on your left. We'll give you a good breakfast in the morning, and then Owen'll run you into town and put you on your coach to Cardigan.”

Linden couldn't bring herself to say “thank you” in the casual way that humans did, but she clasped Gwladys's plump, wrinkled hands in her own and gave her an impulsive kiss on the cheek, which seemed to please the woman just as much.

“You're a sweet child,” she said. “I didn't think they made 'em like you anymore. Mind, I'd not seen clothes like yours for quite some years either. Hand sewn, and looks like handwoven cloth, too—did your mother make them?”

Linden nodded, embarrassed by the half-truth but not knowing how else to respond.

“Well, isn't that something?” said Gwladys. She gave Linden a pat on the shoulder, added, “I'll just finish up your laundry for tomorrow. Let me know if there's anything else you need,” and waddled out.

Linden slipped out of her borrowed robe and climbed
into the bed. The sheets felt deliciously smooth, and the blankets were a comforting weight against her skin. She was just closing her eyes when an unpleasant thought jolted her—the Blackwings! What if they caught up to her and Timothy in the night?

But no, it would surely take them longer than that to fly so far, and in any case, they couldn't get into the house without an invitation. The knowledge comforted her, and she relaxed again. Though she had a nagging feeling that there was something else important she'd forgotten…but before she could remember what it was, Linden had fallen asleep.

 

Timothy was still in the kitchen finishing the last of his sandwich when Owen Jenkins shuffled in, all long limbs and stooped shoulders, and pulled out a chair at the other end of the table.

“Well then,” he said. “Everything all right?”

Timothy swallowed with an effort. “Yes, thanks.”

“Hm,” said Mr. Jenkins, and drummed his fingers on his knee. Then he said, “You're a good deal like your father, by the look of you. Fine man, Neil Sinclair—enjoyed the talks we had together when he was here.”

Timothy gave a faint smile, but inside he was squirming. He could just guess what Owen Jenkins was like, because he'd met the type before: sincere and good-hearted, devoted to his faith, but with no real knowledge of the world outside
his own tiny Brethren circle. He'd probably grown up in the church, spent most of his spare time reading the Bible, and never had a serious doubt in his whole life….

“Take a lot to make me forget him,” mused the man. “Gwlad invited him and your mum to our house for Sunday dinner, and we ended up having a fine discussion about genetics—your dad and I, that is, and a couple of my students from the university.”

Timothy choked. “You're a
professor
?”