Some Things Must Remain a Mystery - Part Two of Three

Continued

The following day, Alan went to work as usual, using the last few credits on his oyster card. He had not even a penny for food and he spent a sad and sorry lunchtime dodging from shop canopy to shop canopy in a traditional London downpour, too dispirited even to look in the windows or complain about the other pedestrians who seemed intent on poking his eyes out with their umbrellas.

His request for a small advance on his wages went un-granted and he arrived home in the evening, hungry, cold, wet and absolutely miserable. He made what he could from the meagre contents of his fridge – a small piece of mouse-trap type cheese, half a carton of coleslaw and a hunk of dry bread, washing them down with a cup of black tea. Even the pint of milk he had was sour and ruined – exactly like he was, he thought bitterly.

All Alan’s habitual optimism had deserted him and he felt utterly bereft. He slumped wearily onto his unwelcoming bed and tears began to well-up and prickle his eyes. He’d not cried since … well, he couldn’t even remember when, but not since he’d been a small boy anyway.

He woke in the small hours of the night. He was still fully dressed but all was a rumpled mess - his clothes and the bedclothes both. The pillow was soggy with the tears he’d wept but his mouth was dry and his eyes were full of dehydrated grief.

He went to the bathroom, drank several glasses of cold water and washed his face. The eyes that started back at him in the mirror were as empty of joy as his pockets were of cash. It was with a slow, reluctant tread that he returned to his lonely bed.

As he stepped forward to re-arrange the pillows and duvet, his foot kicked something hard and he heard it skitter across the floor and hit the wall with a dull thud. He sighed and went down on hands and knees to recover whatever it was. Predictably, it had found the most inaccessible spot and he emerged, dust-smeared and coughing, with the article in his hand.

He looked at it in disbelief. It was the peculiar trinket he’d seen in the old junk shop.

“How did that get here?” he said aloud, partly to dispel his immediate fear that he was dreaming but mostly, just to hear the sound of a human voice. Still not entirely trusting his own senses, he switched on the bedside lamp. Despite the thing being largely covered in dust and cobwebs, light gleamed off a small patch of bronzy surface that did show.

“Bloody Hell! It is that oil-lamp thing. But …”

Alan was considered innocent or naïve by those who knew him and people often jumped to the conclusion that he was a bit simple but this was very far from the truth. He was just an uncomplicated, straightforward kind of chap and had a hopeful attitude was all. Or at least, that was his own take on things.

He knew very well that he had not brought this article home with him so its presence here was a mystery but he was not inclined to worry about it unduly; a reasonable explanation would probably occur in due course. The main thing was that it was a much needed distraction from his current gloomy mood. Accordingly, he set about making the best of it which, to his way of looking at life, meant giving it a good clean and polish.

He ran a bowl of hot, soapy water and placed it on a towel on the carpet in his bedroom. Then he rummaged around under the kitchen sink and brought out all the things he thought he’d need.

Settling down on the floor beside the bowl, he set out to restore his find to as close to a pristine condition as he possibly could. He worked on it for well over an hour, scrubbing and burnishing until all dirt and stain was removed and the thing fairly shone with its intrinsic, reddish-yellow gleam.

When he was satisfied that he could improve it no further, he turned the item over and over in his hands, studying it properly for the first time. It appeared to be in one complete piece, no joins or any way he could see to unscrew or prise it open. “That’s odd,” Alan thought, “How’s it filled up when all the oil or whatever, is spent?” He tapped it. Judging by the weight and the hollow, tinny sound it made, it was clearly not a solid piece. Then he held it to his ear and shook it gently. No sloshing sound or anything else. An empty vessel clearly, but with no obvious way to replenish the fuel.

Intrigued now, Alan examined what he thought must be the nozzle end. Now that he looked, it too appeared to be closed – not a capped aperture at all but a smooth, unbroken part of the whole.

“So, just a functionless bauble,” he thought. “But it is very pretty.” He made to wipe dry the blue felt on the underside but decided instead to remove it as it was worn and threadbare.

Most of it peeled away easily but left another blackened, tarnished surface to clean. Sighing heavily, Alan set to once again with his scrubbing and polishing. This time, the grime came away quickly and a quick buff-up was all it took to render the underside as immaculate as the rest of it.

Alan had half expected to find some kind of opening on the bottom given that there wasn’t one elsewhere but again, the surface was smooth and continuous. Well, not entirely smooth for he found something he did not expect at all. There was tiny writing engraved there. He could see that it was in four lines of script but it was too small to read unaided, no matter how much he squinted.

He needed a good magnifying glass and, as luck would have it, he did possess just such a thing, the last remnant of an adolescence misspent (his mother’s opinion) on a childish passion for entomology. He knew just where it was and plucked it from the desk drawer in triumph. A little dab of meths (for cleaning – not drinking) and a spectacle cloth, and it was sparkling and ready for action.

Holding his trophy to the light and directing his glass over the writing, millimetre by millimetre, he eventually made out the entire message.

To grant new life spend light,
Fulfilment for a season;
Three wishes are your right,
But let your rule be reason.

“So what does that mean?” Alan mused, his native curiosity quickly replacing initial annoyance at the enigmatic verse. Almost absentmindedly, he lit his last cigarette, the one he’d been saving for the morning in lieu of breakfast.

“Spend light? How do you spend light?”

He took a long drag on his cigarette and experimentally played his lighter over the body of the vessel. Nothing. He held the flame to the nozzle end. Again nothing.

Curiously though, the nozzle remained cold. He held the flame on it for longer, perhaps half a minute and yet again nothing happened but still it remained cool. For some reason he imagined he was making progress so he did it for a third time.

~ Whoosh! ~

Alan retreated in alarm but apart from the strange whistle of sound, like a gas ring trying to ignite, he could see no difference. He stared at the thing, ready to admit defeat but then a movement caught the corner of his eye.

He turned slowly, hardly daring to look but there was no doubt. His armchair was occupied. Moreover, it was occupied by a darkly beautiful woman with long hair. The vision was wearing a short black skirt and a startlingly white silk blouse.

She crossed one long, stockinged leg over the other in a graceful movement and spoke.

“You summoned me. I am here.” She followed with a nod so slight that Alan wasn’t entirely sure whether or not he imagined it.

“How did you get in here?” Alan blustered in disbelief.

“You summoned me. I am here.” Was it preceded by a tiny raising of an eyebrow? Again Alan was unsure.

“Who are you? Where did you come from? What’s going on?”

“Which question do you wish answered? I must warn you that I am permitted to advise you only so far.”

Alan slowly counted to ten in his head before speaking again. “OK. Let’s start with ‘where did you come from’?”

A faint smile this time – he was sure of it.

“The answer lies in your own hands.”

Alan pondered this – the immediate implication was clear but perhaps there were other things going on too. Carefully he said, “Must your answers always be so enigmatic?”

“Possibly. It depends upon the question.”

“Aaah!” Alan nodded wisely then continued, “God knows why I said that – I don’t really understand at all. Er … let’s try this … Can you tell me what the little verse on the underside means?”

“It is required that some things must remain a mystery.”

“Not terribly helpful,” Alan mumbled then said, “If I guess correctly though – are you able to confirm it?”

“Within certain bounds, perhaps.”

“What are those bounds?”

“It is required that some things must remain a mystery.”

Alan realised he was getting nowhere fast but he was actually beginning to enjoy the fencing and decided his best tactic was to blunder on in his own way and see where that got him.

“The verse implies that I have three wishes. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

At last; a straight answer.

“And your job is to grant those wishes?”

“Yes.”

“Am I limited by time … I mean can I make the wishes over the space of several days or months or years?”

His visitor smiled again, this time more definitely.

“No … yes … yes …yes.”

Alan smiled in return. He was now really enjoying this. “Are there other limits to what I can wish for?”

“Yes.”

“What are those limits?”

“It is required that some things must remain a mystery.”

Alan laughed. “OK, OK, I get it. But look, I want to think about this. Can I summon you when I’m ready to make a wish?”

“Yes.”

“You mean, just call for you?”

“Yes.”

“But how … no wait, I suspect you can’t answer that directly. Do I just put a naked flame to the nozzle thing?”

“Yes.”

“If I prefer it, can I just call your name?”

His visitor seemed slightly confused for a moment. There was a perceptible tilting of the head as though she were listening to something. Then she replied, with a seeming tinge of wonder, “Yes.”

“Can you tell me your name or do I have to guess?”

Again the slight tilting of the head and an expression of mild surprise. But instead of answering, she disconcerted Alan by asking him a question. “None before have ever judged this a matter of consequence. Why do you wish to know my name?”

But Alan wasn’t about to be caught out like that and he grinned. “I don’t wish it … but if we’re to be friends, I need to know your name.”

“So be it. I was named Schezebellianthe.”

“That’s a beautiful name but too long for me – I shall call you Belle.”

“As you please.” The woman nodded as if in recognition or appreciation though exactly what she was acknowledging was uncertain.

Unexpectedly, Alan yawned widely (he was suddenly very tired) and his visitor gave a brief smile. “You are weary. I shall leave you now. Call me when you will.” And with that, her image seemed to waver for a moment before she disappeared from view.

Alan’s eyelids drooped as he allowed himself to fall back onto his bed and the unexpected visitation was rounded with a sleep.

To Be Continued