The next day I drove, as usual, to take my swim, but rather than turning off the road to park in my regular spot, I continued driving. The road clung stubbornly to the edge of the lake before it suddenly veered off to my right and moved away from the water. A dense growth of trees now lay between the road and the lake, obscuring it from view, and I began to look for a turning which would lead me back towards it. Glancing to my left, however, I realised that either the lake had swelled towards me or the road had made an imperceptible turn back to meet it, as the shimmer of sunlight on water caught my eye once more. A few hundred yards later a small track led down to the lake side, and, making the turn, I pulled the car to a halt. I stepped out of the car and walked to the water’s edge. From here I could see clearly across the lake marking out place from where I always started my swim directly opposite where I now stood. On the pebbles on the far side, I could see the figure of the stranger poised, as I myself would soon be, ready to take the plunge. I had driven to this side of the lake, his side, to meet with him properly, to introduce myself and to swim together; he, would appear, had had the same idea!

Shedding my clothes I walked across the sand and entered the clear, cold water.

Despite my continual checking of our relative positions the swim followed in exactly the same way as it had the previous day; at some point we must have passed one another, but I was completely unaware of when that had occurred.

Dragging myself out of the water and onto the pebbled beach I knew, without having to turn, what I would see. The man waved in acknowledgement before stepping back towards the water’s edge and we dived as if we had been connected.

In the middle of the lake our met and we trod water as we exchanged pleasantries:

‘Hi,’ I said, keen to initiate the conversation. ‘I thought I’d come over to your side for a change, see how a change of perspective works. Always good to try something a little different, even if it’s the same old swim.’

‘My thoughts exactly,’ he replied. ‘The lake looks different from that side. I’d not really noticed before; you know how it is, swim, turn and swim back. All about the exercise, really.’

‘That’s true, just good to feel the water around you,’ I said, realising that I was on the verge of talking gibberish. I pulled myself back sharply: ‘I wondered if you might want to swim together this morning, that was my main reason for driving round the lake. I mean it’s clearly up to you – I know some people like to swim alone, and I’ve always thought of myself as a bit of a lone swimmer – but I thought it might make a nice change.’

‘Hmm. Not a bad idea, it seems we swim at a similar pace – I wouldn’t want to hold you back!’ his grin flashed in the sunlight: ‘How about we meet up tomorrow? Same time. This side. Ok?’

And with that he plunged back under the water, emerging in full flow as he headed towards the shore.

It wasn’t until I had stepped out of the lake once more that I realised that I wasn’t sure which side of the lake he was referring to when he had said ‘This side’.

The following morning, I decided that, by ‘this side’, he had meant the edge of the lake from where he had begun his swim yesterday; my usual starting point. However, as I walked towards the water, I could see no sign of the man, and I wondered why I hadn’t had the forethought to clarify what he had meant. It came as no surprise, then, when, looking out across the softly rippling water, I could see him standing, witing for the sign to begin the swim. I realised too that, in neither of our meetings, had either one of us spoken our names. I resolved then, as I dived into the lake, to make better use of our time to get to know him.

My first crossing passed in the same way as the previous two days; the one exception being that I made no attempt to track my strange companion. I swam with a greater intensity than usual, my one goal being to reach the other side and begin the return swim as soon as possible as if, by doing so, we would gain time to talk for longer. Surprisingly, as I climbed from the water and turned, I could see that the man had matched the increase in my pace, and he too was preparing to dive back into the lake.

‘I never asked,’ I called out, as we drew close to one another, ‘which side you meant yesterday.’

‘I never said,’ came his reply, ‘thought I’d leave it to chance.’

By now we were both treading water, holding our positions in the centre of the lake.

‘How about tomorrow we meet up on that side,’ I said, indicating the direction in which he was heading, ‘on the pebble beach. Same time as today.’

‘Sounds good to me. We ought to check out some of the other parts of the lake too, try some different swims, from what I can see there seem to be several places we could start from.’

‘I’d never really thought about that,’ I said, ‘I’ve always stuck to what I know, to be honest, I’m sort of comfortable with that.’

‘Well,’ he continued, his arms caressing the water around him, ‘there’s comfortable and then there’s staid. If there’s one thing that cold water swimming has taught me it’s that staying in your comfort zone gets you nowhere. It’s all about setting yourself challenges – before I started swimming here, I’d swum lots of lakes and rivers, each one offering something different. Never let yourself get too comfortable, otherwise you end up simply going through the motions. Swimming is a bit like a metaphor for life, really, you can stay on the same course and keep going back and forth forever or keep changing things up, keep pushing yourself to new goals and experiences. Changed my life, that’s for sure.’

A breeze had started to pick up causing the water to stir around us. Small dark waves swept across the surface of the water like tiny demons. They rippled against our bodies as if they were trying to say something, echoing the words of my companion.

‘I quit my job and decided to rekindle the plans that I had made years ago, and you know what, I haven’t looked back since. I’m not saying that it’s all been plain sailing, but then nothing worthwhile is, but nothing ventured, nothing gained, as they say. Cut out all the deadwood – time is too precious to be wasted on things that don’t mean anything to you. You should try it.’

Before I could say anything in response he had dived once more beneath the waves, before scything through the water and back towards the shore.

Stranded in the water I was felt as if I were suddenly drowning in the weight of what he had said. Each tiny wave brought back his words, connecting them with every aspect of my life as they crashed against me. I suddenly felt as if a part of me had drained itself into the lake, causing ripples of disillusionment and discontent to float out towards the shore, dissipating into the water. I felt hollow, as if I had suddenly lost all direction in my life. I gazed out from the middle of the lake, momentarily unable to catch my bearings, before I slowly started to swim back to the water’s edge. The one thought still in my head was that I had never even asked the man his name.

He was standing on the far side of the lake; little more than a shadow, a silhouette of a figure, waiting for the right moment to dive. I stood, watching him for a minute or two, trying to predict the moment that he would choose to enter the water if, indeed, that was his plan, before stepping onto the pebble scattered shore. I dived headlong into the lake, disappearing beneath its still surface for a few seconds. The coldness of the water stung me like a swarm of bees as my body screamed out its protests. My brain, however, simply took no notice; it knew all too well that adjustment to the cold would come quickly and that my muscles would spring to life of their own accord as the blood began to pump with vigour through my arteries.

My head broke the surface of the water, and I could see straight away that the man who had been standing on the other side of the lake was no longer there. I could only presume that he too had dived into the lake.

I began to fall into a regular rhythm of stroke, dragging myself through the water, and across the lake, my head disappearing and resurfacing as I started to pick up speed. Already the cold had ceased to be an issue. The initial shock had been replaced by a drive to cut through the water, my body burning through its store of brown fat as I could feel the energy powering my muscles. Despite being focused on reaching the other side of the lake I found myself glancing around myself every few breaths to see if I could see where the other man might be. Surely, I thought in between stokes, our paths must, at some point, if he were swimming the length of the lake too, pass one another. But I had not seen him since first spying him in those moments before I had dived in. Perhaps, after all, he had not entered the water, but had been merely gazing across it and, in the brief moment in which I had been submerged, he had turned and left the shore.

By now I was nearing the lake’s edge and could sense the shallowing of the water around me. Slowing my pace, I allowed my legs to sink until my feet grazed the gritty ground and I brought myself to a halt. Standing upright I walked the final few steps to the gentle embankment and stepped out of the water. Here, unlike the edge from which I had entered, the ground felt sandy and soft beneath my feet, and I wondered why I had always chosen to start from that side rather than this. I stretched my arms and legs, maintaining their warmth, as I turned to begin my return swim.

On the far side of the lake, in the same place as where I had entered the lake I could see the figure of the man once more. At least I had to assume that it was the same person as his features were no clearer now than they had been when I had first seen him. On this side of the lake the position of the Sun behind him had cast him completely in shadow, whereas now, the glare of the Sun as it beat down upon him, made it just as impossible to pick out any distinguishable features. I wondered if, like me, he was planning to swim back across the lake; if he were, I decided, I would watch more carefully and acknowledge him as our paths crossed.

My arms pushed out and dragged the water to either side of my body as I took the first few strokes away from the shore. The lakebed disappeared beneath me as the quietly rippling stretch of blue beckoned me on.

Breaststroke had never been my preferred stroke, its gentle nature lacking the intensity and power of my favoured crawl, but, I decided, if I wanted to avoid missing the stranger as he made his way towards me, it offered me the best chance of tracking his movements. Fighting my urges I tried to keep my head above the surface as much as I possibly could. I was gratified to see that my instincts had been correct – like myself, the other man, too, had taken to the water once more.

A steady, but persistent, breeze tickled the lake, causing the water to undulate gently. Small, dark waves criss-crossed the surface causing my view to be distracted and distorted. Occasionally I was certain that I had caught sight of the man’s head bobbing up and out of the water but, each time it submerged itself, I instantly became unsure of his position in relation to mine. I had figured that, like me, he would swim the most direct route and, that being the case, our paths were bound to cross. But then I had thought the same on my initial swim, and had never noticed when, exactly, we had passed one another.

About a third of the way to the opposite shore, I got the clearest view of him that I had had yet. The angle of the sun in combination with our respective trajectories meant that the light caught his face in both partial profile and partially full on. I could see for certain now that the stranger was, indeed, male and, given what limited information I could glean from such a distance, and with such little to go on, probably of a similar age and build to me. Fixing his current position in my brain, I continued to pull myself forwards.

The next few minutes seemed to drag like the time that one spends waiting for a delivery, but, suddenly, we were within striking distance of one another. It felt like the moment in which the captain of the Titanic realised that the ship was upon the iceberg, and the iceberg had no intention of moving. I pulled in my final stroke and began to tread water.

As if mirroring my actions the man did the same, allowing himself to be carried the final few yards towards me by the subtle currents.

‘Morning,’ I called out, ‘beautiful day for it.’

The man raised one arm out of the water and touched his forehead as if doffing an imaginary cap.

‘I’ve not seen you here before,’ I continued, ‘is this your first swim? Impressive work!’

A small trickle of water dripped from between his lips as he made to respond:

‘No, I’m here most days,’ he said. ‘Park up just beyond the trees over there, across and back, a quick walk and then home.’ He indicated in the direction of the trees which formed a dense barrier between the lake and the road beyond – the trees by which I had first seen him.

‘How about yourself?’ he asked. ‘You’re clearly no novice either judging by the time you made on your first crossing.’

‘No. I’m here most days too. Same as you. One side to the other and back again. Just surprised that I’ve not seen you before. And it was strange how I never noticed you pass me earlier.’

‘Probably your focus,’ he replied, sensing the tone in my voice. ‘To be honest, I didn’t see you pass either. Either we were both concentrating so much on our strokes or it was a trick of the light – the sun on the water here can do that – and yeah, odd how we’ve not come across one another before. Probably just a question of time. Good to meet you, though.’

And with that he disappeared beneath the water resurfacing several yards away from me, and I watched as he powered towards the shore.

I felt that this piece might warrant a brief explanation:

The majority of my posts of late have followed a theme of ‘Water’ (somewhat tenuously in some cases perhaps), but I thought it relevant to bear in mind whilst wading through this latest offering.

I decided that I wanted to write a collection of shorts based upon a single theme, and ‘Water’ seemed to have enough outlets (terrible pun, admittedly) for me to be able to fulfil my aim. Whether all or just some have been effective is not really for me to judge – but the process has been (and still is) challenging and fun!

So here we go:

Bridges

Is this a story about water? In the strictest sense perhaps not, but then that depends very much not only on the perspective of the reader but also their desire to attribute meaning to what they are reading. Combine that with other factors such as the amount of time that the reader may have to devote to their reading, their motivation, and their capacity to draw inferences from a text, not to mention the general state of mind in which they find themselves, and you have a question with no definitive answer. Yes, the story concerns itself with the actions of a protagonist who becomes drawn in to what becomes an obsession with bridges; bridges whose primary function is to span bodies of water allowing passage from one side to the other. So, in this sense, the story is very much one concerned with water – each bridge enables him to cross over rivers, canals and estuaries in order to fulfil a specific purpose; the water acting both as a conduit for his actions and a metaphor for his, as yet undisclosed, psychological motivation. But, if our character is merely crossing water, then is his story truly one about water? Bridges are used not only to span water but can be seen crossing plains, dry valleys, roads and railways; and that is before one has even considered bridges used as viaducts or aqueducts. Does it matter, then, that our hero sets out to cross only bridges which traverse water courses? Surely, if the bridges themselves are acting simply as metaphors for his actions, then any bridge would suffice, and his story could be told using structures which cut only across dry land or ravines; possibly even only bridges which run through cities; road, rail and pedestrian constructions designed to move people as quickly and as safely as possible from one point to another?

But let us not get too far ahead of ourselves; rather let us consider how our story starts: what was it that led the principal player in our tale to become embroiled in his obsession with bridges? After all, ever story needs a point from which to start, and this one is, in that respect at least, no different from any other tale.

Our story begins with a man upon whom life has, seemingly, smiled and given its blessing. To the casual observer our protagonist is a man who has known little other than success. Certainly his life has been one of drive, effort and dedication but the rewards that he has reaped have been disproportionate to the setbacks that he has encountered; a man who, to the outside world, has everything that he could desire, and more than most could dream of. Let us call him Thomas.

Thomas had, from an early age, known what he had wanted to do in life and what he, in turn, had wanted from it. He had made all the correct choices at the right times and been stoic in his application and focus, and the rewards that he had reaped had been exceptional. And yet, somehow, he always felt that there was something missing from his life, as if there were always something else, something better, which lay just outside of his grasp. Despite all that he had gained there remained that feeling that the things really were preferable elsewhere.

Now we discern that his story does not actually begin at the moment when, having achieved so much success, he comes to the conclusion that there are ‘better’ things to be had, but, in fact, it starts much, much earlier in his life. But when, exactly? Is it at the moment when his first business venture becomes successful, and he yearns for more? Or, perhaps, when he graduates form university with exceptional qualifications, and realises that his ambitions truly can be achieved? Or maybe, even, when, early in his schooling, the nature of his hopes and aims became clear to him?

No. In fact we must travel further back to the formative years of this early childhood and consider his upbringing. Is the status – both social and financial – of his parentage of significance? Probably not, as it is not so much what his parents could provide for him but the manner in which they approached raised him which is of importance.

Thomas’s parents read avidly to him when he was a child, and his head was filled with fairy stories, fables, myths and fantasies, but it was casual sayings and proverbs which seemed to sink into his body and attach themselves to him as if they had been growing there since he was no more than a foetus. And this is where his story starts to take shape, even though it will be many years before it becomes apparent; with one proverb in particular: ‘the grass is always greener on the other side’.

Thomas might have argued, and quite reasonably so, that knowledge of this specific proverb had always acted as a spur in his life; never settling for the mediocre and always striving for the best on both a professional and a personal level. What he was yet to comprehend, however (and perhaps he never did), was how such a simple saying had never grown beyond the literal interpretation afforded it by the mind of a child. Deep within him Thomas believed that, if he were to cross, quite literally, from one place to another, he would find that situations on the other side were not merely different but better.

Which leads us to the point at which our story begins to take shape; the point at which Thomas began, not just metaphorically but physically, crossing bridges to find newer – and better – opportunities on the opposite side.

And this, then, is where our story becomes one about water; at a time when our protagonist crosses his first river, heading towards a new town and new openings.

Of course – and it really goes without the need to explain – he is successful in his new venture. His reputation grows that little bit larger, and his name becomes known just that little bit more widely. Being driven by the desire to succeed Thomas crosses another river taking the bridge which will lead him to his next challenge in the next town. And, once again, his new endeavour comes to fruition, and a pattern begins to emerge. Gradually Thomas crosses more and more waterways traversing bridges the length and breadth of the country, knowing, apart from the occasional setback, almost nothing but success. Now not only we, the reader, but Thomas himself, can see an irrefutable pattern appearing; crossing water led to progress, achievement and prosperity. The bridges that enabled each crossing were, in their own right, instrumental in the accomplishment of Thomas’ goals; thus, it followed that the saying that he had learned as a child was true; the grass really is greener on the other side.

A story about water? Perhaps; perhaps not. But we are left with a consideration: how prominent in one’s life does something need to be in order for it to be of great significance?

He remembered how effortlessly their relationship had moved from the professional to the personal, and how little time it had taken for their romance to blossom; the coastline now was little more than a dark line resting on the surface of the sea. He thought of long walks and intimate meals, and the ease with which their dreams had intertwined; the ocean now had cast off the land, and the ferry had become little more than air-filled vessel bobbing in the cold, grey water. His memories brought back every conversation that Camille and he had shared, each one floating in his head as if they too were ships carried by the tides; and in every direction the concrete ocean stretched out like a wordless page.

As he stood, watching one slice of the channel slowly recede, only to be replaced by the next, each equally dull, indistinguishable, he could do nothing to prevent his mind picking over the words as they resurfaced in his head.

What had they meant, all those shared conversations, his words echoing hers and hers reflecting his? Did it really mean that they were, in some way that was deeper than the words themselves, bonded together like twins? Were they a manifestation of a universal connection that surfaces so infrequently that it is mistaken for something else? Or were they merely part of an elaborate dance, each participant circling the other, flush with affirmations, agreement and concord, in the hope of engendering a sense of harmony and solidarity? Were the words reflections of emotions, or stepping stones to an outcome desired by both, an outcome which neither party was willing to jeopardise?

And what of the all the declarations that had been made? Declarations of trust and honesty. Declarations of truth and hope. Declarations of love. Was it even possible that two people could share a love of equal magnitude; or was one of them always destined (or doomed) to love more deeply than the other? And, if this were true, who was qualified to say whom loved the most? Surely each would argue their own case, and, justifiably in their own heads, their own arguments would outweigh those of their partner.

The drab anonymity of the water had, by now engulfed the ship, reducing its size to little more than that of a toy on a pond. The foam still swirled and heaved behind the boat, but, without its constant motion, Michael would have had no idea that they were still moving, still heading from one country to another; from one life to another. The horizon revealed nothing of the place that he had left behind, and even less, if that were possible, of what. It merged now into a singular greyness with the sky as if to emphasise its total control of events.

Camille’s words continued to fill his head like an immeasurable bucket steadily emptying its contents into his mind. He could sense them spilling out of him and running away across the deck towards the scuppers.

What was it that she had meant when she had said those words to him? He had tried to understand her words, but the words were hers and not his and he could not be sure that they were entirely the same. They had talked, of course, but the past and emotions had done nothing but cloud their conversation, at least from his perspective. But then again, how certain could he be that he had not misinterpreted what she had been saying or that, in fact, it had been Camille who had been unable to use words to convey her true feelings? Perhaps, like the ocean that sprawled around him, hiding both the past and the future, words themselves were colourless and bland, living only in the moment in which they were spoken, their meaning lost once they have been voiced? Perhaps, too, love itself, exists only in the unspoken, in those moments of transience which cannot be explained let alone named?

The words continued to come, but now they seemed to be the same ones repeating themselves over and over again, drowning his own as if they no longer belonged to him. If love is freedom, Michael thought, how can we feel its bonds? And yet, if love is letting go, how can we ever hold on to our hopes, our dreams, our desires? If…

The ferry continued to plow through the water and, somewhere in the distance, the line of a new horizon began to come into view.

The ferry pulled slowly away from the port, turning its back on the bustle of the terminal and moving smoothly away from the country. The clamour of people on the dockside waved their final farewells as if those on board were still close enough to hear them and began to disperse. Within minutes the dock would once more regain its sense of calm and composure, bracing itself for the next onslaught. Loved ones, friends and acquaintances would return to their lives as if today were just one more day in the story of their lives. Some would harbour memories, some cherish hopes, whilst others would turn their backs as if the distance between the two nations meant nothing to them; the obstacle of distance no more than a concept of separation.

She had not come to see the ferry depart or to bid him farewell and wish him a safe journey. She had said her goodbyes and made her excuses – each one as plausible as the next – as he had waited for the cab, climbed into it, and then waved his goodbyes through first the passenger, and then the rear, window. She had not wanted to cry, she had said. She had not wanted to watch him go in sorrow, and to leave a pool of sadness between them. It would have been too much, she had said. She wanted only to dwell on the joy and pleasure of the time that they had spent together. And he, choking back his instincts, his urge to beg her for her company for just a little longer, had agreed. She was right. Nothing, he had said, should tarnish the memory of the happy time that they had spent with one another.

As the car had fought its way into the flow of traffic, he had watched her figure recede, turning and disappearing into a future that he was no longer to be a part of.

Standing on the deck of the ferry Michael watched as first the people and then the dockside itself became little more than dots in the distance and then a mere blur on the coastline; the edges of a foreign land stretching away to both the East and the West, yet growing smaller all the time. He saw them begin to fade, taking with them his hopes of a new life, as they gradually became an horizon to which there seemed no possibility of return. He wished that he had not been so quick to take her side and to agree with her reasons for her not coming with him in the taxi. He wished, too, that he had been able to find the strength to say what he really felt, and not fallen foul to his fears of upsetting and distressing her. But he knew that Camille had always been the force behind their relationship; that, in the end, it had always been he who had bent to her will.

Most of the passengers had made their way from the deck and into the warmth of the ferry’s welcoming body. By now Michael guessed that most would be enjoying a drink in one of the on-board bars or ordering food for the journey. There would be those, too, who were making the most of this final opportunity to stock up on duty free goods, or to souvenirs that they had forgotten to buy on the mainland – once bagged up who would be crass enough to turn down a free gift, even if its origins were dubious?

Michael, however, had remained on deck and made his way to the stern of the ship. He watched the wake as the ferry cut through the water, the churning, white spray spilling over itself as it danced away from the motion of the propellors to be swallowed once more by the sea. There was a turbulence followed by a calm that, to Michael, seemed to reflect his life; and yet now, he thought, the turbulence had returned.

France had been the opportunity for Michael to both reassess and restart his life. He had quit his job, having been passed over just one time too many for promotion for him to be able to maintain any sense of job satisfaction, and accepted a new job in Paris. Behind him he left the crumbling remains of a failed marriage and friendships which had dwindled to either casual catchups or passing acquaintances. Ahead of him lay the chance to do the work that he loved and to build himself a new life.

Michael’s job at a major publishing house not only utilised his translation skills, but also enabled him to meet new authors and, hopefully, be able to provide them with the opportunity to forge careers of their own. His bosses, without ever letting him know, had been instantly taken by how easily he had become part of their team, and impressed with his talent for spotting true talent. Of course, they continually had one eye on the financial recompense that would be due them, but it wasn’t long before they had begun to reward Michael for his efforts. Life had begun an upward trajectory and Michael felt, perhaps for the first time in his life, that things were going his way.

And then he had met Camille and, quite unexpectedly, as it was something about which he had given no thought, he had fallen in love.

Camille had travelled from her native Belgium at the behest of the publishing house, in the hope of pursuing her dream of becoming a full-time writer. She had been scheduled a meeting with one of Michael’s colleagues, Serge, but, as fate would have it, Serge had fallen ill at the last minute, and Michael had been asked to meet with her. She had arrived at the office hoping that she would be able to impress the man she was meeting as much as her writing had impressed Serge, but inside her the nerves had begun to take hold. For his part Michael had familiarised himself with her style as quickly as he had been able to in the short time that he had been given; but each new client demanded fresh eyes and a fresh perspective, and, never being one to form preconceptions, he knew that he would meet her with his usual enthusiastic but guarded professionalism.

Now, as he stood on the deck of the ferry, watching his life recede, he remembered everything.

The structure rose out of the ground like a gigantic stalagmite, its glittering towers reaching out into the blue, and shimmering in the cold, passive light. It stood as if it had simply ripped a fissure on the surface of the earth, freeing itself from some underground prison. Now its turrets, pillars and spires stretched themselves like limbs in the first wakening of morning, shaking off the dust of centuries of uneasy sleep. They stood in contradiction of themselves; their delicate form and composition belying an all but impenetrable design; their imposing presence a warning to those who might pass within sight of them.

Harsh, grey rocks gripped the base of the building like children grasping at toys; their feet rooted like foundations as their arms stretched out for acceptance and reward. Above them the fortress stared out, its indifference serving only as an impetus for them to cling on even more tightly, holding it rigid and unyielding. Formations of ice crept across the rocks, replacing grey with silver as they clung to the stone, sinking their tendrils into every crack and crevice; as far as the eye could see sheets of white stretched over a desolate and featureless landscape.

The walls of the palace were sheer and their frigid form unforgiving; their icy appearance reflecting their structure. High up on each wall windows had been hewn out of the frozen sheets, sucking in what little warmth the sun had afforded, whilst the ground that surrounded it stood gripped in glacial terror. The palace bore only one door, perched atop a mound of spear-like rocks whose grin was that of a voracious shark.

*****

He walked through the frozen wasteland as if it were as natural as breathing; as if this were the path that had always been offered to him. His eyes never left the ice palace as it slowly began to rear up before him. The light reflecting off the crystalised moisture made it impossible for him to know whether its growth was a matter of perspective or whether it was, in fact, pushing further out of the ground as he drew nearer to it. Either way with each step he took the palace became more imposing. More imposing and yet, at the same time, more welcoming, at least in his eyes. It felt like he had been walking in this direction for days – although, somewhere in his heart, he sensed that it could have been years – but the awareness of his arrival brought with it neither trepidation nor satisfaction. Destiny was merely another step to be taken.

For a moment he stopped. He stood at the foot of the enormous fortress, which still seemed to be growing, as he gazed up at its ice walls. They glimmered as if they were blinking at him and sending him a message which only he could comprehend: ‘Come. Come, we are waiting for you. Step inside; and stay with us.’

He looked around. A barren, bleak landscape sprawled out in three directions; a frozen, lifeless desert which offered nothing and asked for the same in return. His eyes returned to the only feature in a forsaken landscape, and he stepped forward.

The jagged rocks seemed to widen their jaws as he stepped up towards the huge door. The door, which seemed to be attached to the ice walls with invisible hinges, swung soundlessly open and he walked through it. Behind him it relaxed itself back into its frame, the only sound was the sound of a lock being turned.

A series of carved ice tiles led him through the hallway and towards a staircase which wound itself up to a gallery. As if knowing the way, he walked towards it and began to climb. The gallery looked over the hallway as if it were bidding an old friend goodbye, and, as he stared back across it, an understanding of the feeling resonated within him. One glance had been enough.

A further staircase led off the gallery, and he made his way up this second set of steps, arriving at yet another long landing. From here he could see two sets of stairs now, each one leading upwards. Taking the ones to his right, he continued his climb, his feet not once faltering or slipping on the ice beneath them and amazing himself with the stamina that he felt after such a long and arduous journey.

Eventually he came out onto a long corridor which he began to walk along. Its clear, frozen walls made it impossible for him to judge its length, and, as if to confuse him, it seemed to curve gently away from him as he walked making it impossible for him to see where, or indeed how, it ended. Everything here looked identical; small chambers had been carved out from the solid ice on either side of him, none of which had a door. At first, he peered into each one expecting to see something – he wasn’t entirely sure what, exactly, but something nonetheless – but each one was completely empty; he had not, perhaps, expected to see adornments or decoration, but in his mind’s eye he had envisaged some kind of furniture. After a while he gave up stopping to look inside each of the rooms, preferring to continue to follow the corridor to discover where it would lead.

Just when he had begun to feel that he had been walking a circular path with no apparent end, the corridor opened into a large chamber. This room, too, seemed devoid of any furniture, but, unlike any of the others that he had investigated, this one had a small window cut into one of the walls. Instinctively he made his way towards it. Much of the thickness of the wall had been cut away but, rather than feel the chill of the outside, the room seemed to retain an uncanny warmth, and he realised that, rather than glass, a pane of crystal-clear ice separated the inside form the outside. He stared through it, astounded by the clarity that it gave, but all it revealed was the desolation that he had left behind – there was nothing there, he knew, that would draw him back.

Turning from the window he noticed that his first impressions of the room had been incorrect – rather than it being a large, empty space, it did, indeed, contain several items of furniture. Along the wall furthest from the window a small bench had been built into the ice and, to one side of it, a table jutted out from the wall. The starkness of their construction, as well as their sheer whiteness, had played tricks on his eyes. Beyond them he now saw a bed too. Like everything else in the palace, it was constructed of solid ice, but draped across the top of it was a blanket, its whiteness indistinguishable from everything else that he had seen. There was a chair too, close to the doorway through which he had entered the room, and next to this a bookcase, empty, it was true, but a bookcase nevertheless. Like the rest of the palace, both had been made from solid ice.

He crossed the room, leaving the window and its barren vista, to examine what he could now see. The tabletop was smooth beneath his hand as he ran his fingers over it. He had expected it to feel cold and for a dampness to form on his skin as he touched it, but neither of his expectations proved to be the case. Walking towards the chair he was suddenly taken by how large the room seemed to be; it appeared far more spacious now than when he first entered it, of that he was sure. He moved past the empty bookcase and, feeling a weariness wash over him unexpectedly, decided to sit down for a moment. He was surprised at how warm and comfortable the chair was, its form fitting his frame as if it had been made especially for him.

The tiredness that he had so suddenly felt had vanished, replaced by a sense of belonging and reassurance. From somewhere a gentle current swept across the room whispering as it brushed his ears: ‘welcome home, welcome home.’

It was winter. A fierce northerly had set in bringing with it an icy rain which bit into the skin. The skies were blanketed with purple, bruised clouds, so many that it was impossible to distinguish one from another as they were thrust towards the south. The radio had warned of severe storms resulting in destruction and danger to life and limb; the advice had been firmly given – stay indoors, no journeys should be undertaken. Trains had been cancelled and smaller fishing boats hurried back to the safety of their harbours. In the lighthouse Mark felt reassured by the thickness of the walls which had stood for generations against the elements. Walls which kept the warmth inside and the icy chill out. Walls which offered him protection from everything that he had escaped from.

The storm had intensified rapidly. Rain lashed against the windows and the wind was already approaching gale force. Had Mark been willing to venture beyond the safety of his walls he would have felt the icy chill which had gripped the air and felt the sea spray as the waves gained momentum and began to rage against the rocks. He gave an involuntary shudder as he peered out through the ever-darkening sky to the sea beyond.

Mark was all too familiar with the way the sea would suddenly swirl and rise up, as if trying to escape itself, hurling itself against the rocky outcrop on which the lighthouse stood. It was for no insignificant reason that it had been built on the island, and why, indeed, it had been replaced by a more modern design recently. The sea here had a way of catching sailors out, tossing their boats like matchsticks, always seeking to thrust them upon the rocks, shattering them into myriad pieces. In the distant past countless ships, both large and small, had been lost to the rocks and cliffs which dominated the coastline here – yet the riches of the ocean continued to prove too enticing to resist.

But, on this particular evening, the storm that raged below him seemed more menacing, more insistent, than any he ever witnessed, either here or throughout his years of globe-trotting. It felt as if, not only the wind, but the sea itself were trying to speak to him.

The waves had begun to crash higher and higher up the cliff face, breaking themselves against the walls of the lighthouse. Their regular beat thumped in Mark’s brain like a drum, pounding out a rhythm like a heartbeat, a steady pulse which took hold of him as if he had fallen into a trance. Grabbing a guitar, he raced up the staircase to the top of the lighthouse.

The lantern room was warm and dry, its recent upgrades doing all that had been expected of them, yet even so the howling wind seemed to have found its way into the chamber. It whistled an unfathomable strain – a melody which implanted itself into Mark’s head like a virus. Round and round it twirled, repeating itself over and over again until its tune felt like one that he had known for his entire life. Mark sat in the armchair which overlooked the ocean as the tempest continued its rampage outside, the melody lodged firmly in his mind as he strummed out a pattern of chords – chords that he could neither name nor place, but ones which matched the ferocity and beauty by which he was completely surrounded.

The words came in a stream of semi-consciousness, automatically, as if they needed to force themselves from him and onto the page which he held open in front of him. They tumbled from his brain and his mouth simultaneously, the melody taking them and dancing them around the room magically as if they were alive; which, in a sense, they were. It was as if the storm had penetrated the walls of the lighthouse, joining the inside with the out, and sweeping Mark and his words with it. For the first time in his life he felt as if he belonged; as if he mattered, not so much as a musician, or even a person, but as a part of something organic; something true.

Caught by the tempest he moved effortlessly towards the staircase, as if he were a child being led by the hand, and fell.

It had been a bargain. Not that the price had ever been an issue – he had enough money in the bank to have purchased half of the county, had he been inclined, and had it been up for sale – but everyone loves a bargain.

When he had seen it come up for sale on the market he had jumped at the prospect of owning it. It was so remote as to be almost unlocatable, and the fact that it was situated on its own island served only as a bonus, the icing on the cake of the deal, as it were.

The lighthouse sat atop a small island, less than one hundred metres long and slightly fewer wide and roughly half a mile from the shore. Apart from the lighthouse itself there were a couple of stone outbuildings – one of which housed a generator – and a small boat house on the leeward side of the island where the rockface sloped more gently towards the sea. The lighthouse itself had been recently decommissioned by the coastguard and, rather than upgrading it, the decision had been taken to construct a brand new and fully automated lighthouse on a nearby promontory which jutted out from the mainland. To recoup some of the significant cost of the new building the authorities had placed the lighthouse up for sale, complete with a small shoreside cottage for use when the new owner began to feel the isolation of the lighthouse become a burden. The cottage, like the island, also had its own boathouse, and two small dinghies to facilitate travel between the two.

Marcus, who, by now was going by his birth name of Mark, had known instantly that this would be the perfect place for him to make his disappearance from the life that he had once known. Not only had he reverted to his given forename he had also taken the steps to legally change his surname from his father’s name to his maternal grandmother’s maiden name, whilst his solicitor had arranged for all incoming monies to be transferred to accounts bearing his new identity. And so ordinary Mark Jenkins who had evolved into the cult hero Marcus Bosch had now become quiet Mark Jones, lighthouse owner and recluse. His past career, which he now thought of as a past life, had brought him some fame, a certain notoriety and an impressive fortune which, despite reports to the contrary, he had invested wisely and nurtured to provide him with enough wealth to last several lifetimes. Of course, being a musician, and a front man at that, he had, whilst not exactly fabricating stories about his life, done nothing to play down the excesses of the lifestyle that was expected of him. At the height of his fame reports of substance abuse, financial frivolity and a life of general debauchery would regularly crop up in one form or another – no doubt embroidered by both his management and the record label as they sought to heap publicity upon both the band and Marcus – yet virtually all of them were little more than make believe. He was encouraged, too, by his band mates who very much took the view that ‘any publicity was good publicity’, and they had, of course, been proven right.

By the time Marcus had made his decision the band had all become very wealthy, although none more than Marcus himself who, being the primary song writer, and making sure that he owned the rights to all his material, was assured of an annual topping seven digits.

The rest of the band, not to mention the record company and their management team, had done their best to dissuade Marcus from his decision, but no amount of cajoling, pleading or emotional blackmail would sway him; the band was finished and he would fade away leaving only his legacy, and an extensive back catalogue, for his fans. The band were, he had told them, free to carry on playing under the same name and were more than welcome to continue to play his music, but they had known, despite their bravado and various vitriolic comments, that they would be unable to carry on in his wake; they simply did not have it in them, regardless of how hard they tried, to produce work of the quality and impact that Marcus had.

The first thing that Marcus had done after leaving that final band meeting was to go straight to his solicitor’s office and set about changing his life. Reverting to his given name at birth he realised would make him far too easy to trace and the last thing that he wanted was for any of his fans to track him down to wherever he found to live. His mother’s maiden name had seemed a reasonable choice, but his solicitor had recommended that he go a little deeper if he really wanted anonymity, and so he had decided to pick the maiden name of his mother’s mother: Jones.

Mark sat in his Land Rover looking out over the sea at his new home. He was parked up by the cottage, keys to both properties nestled in his lap. The sound of a horn broke his reverie, and a small van pulled up behind him. The driver stepped out of the vehicle and walked towards the Land Rover. Mark opened the door and greeted the approaching man. The pair shook hands and Mark indicated at first in the direction of the lighthouse, and then at a sheet of paper that he took from the passenger seat. More words were exchanged before the man returned to his van emerging once more with a large box of tools. Mark walked over to help him to retrieve various pieces of equipment from the van before they headed to the boathouse and began loading it up.

It took Mark and the van man the best part of a month to refurbish the lighthouse and transform it from a stone shell with basic living facilities to an impressive home, fitted with all the comforts that Mark had become used to. Cables had been laid to ensure a reliable source of power and the generator overhauled just in case of failure. Mark had toned down his appearance and dressed more casually than he had done in years, and, in his wellington boots and donkey jacket, now looked more like a farm labourer than a reclusive rock star. He had even paired down his musical equipment to a couple of guitars, a keyboard and his computer so as to maintain the illusion of music being merely a hobby; after all, he had never intended on giving up playing entirely, it was just that now the music was purely for himself and not for an audience.

There were few local inhabitants who ever wandered his way. The closest settlements were a small inland hamlet and a fishing village which were both a couple of miles away from the lighthouse. There was talk, of course, about the stranger who had bought and now lived in the lighthouse, but the general consensus was that he was just some eccentric millionaire who had fancied the idea of living somewhere remote – probably whilst maintaining a luxury apartment in the centre of one of the distant cities. As long as he kept himself to himself no-one seemed to be bothered, and interest in him faded quickly. He generally drove into the village once a week to pick up some groceries and other supplies, and those who met him agreed that he seemed pleasant and friendly enough, even a little quiet; nobody questioned where his money had come from, or what job, if he had one, he did. Life was like that.

As children we had always wanted to believe. We knew, of course, in our hearts, that it was nothing more than make believe; nothing more than a tale made up by our parents in order to create a sense of wonder and longing. And, as we grew, we continued to think of it as something on which to wish; something to keep our hopes high when the world seemed against us and when we were feeling low. Even when we knew the science, when we understood that it was nothing more than a mirage, an illusion created by light and water, we still wanted to hold on to what we had known as children: we wanted to live those days over and over again, as if childhood had never given way to adolescence and adulthood; as if we had forever remained in a time of innocence and hope.

When we were young, we had seen each other almost as often as if we had been siblings. Our respective parents lived on the same street, a handful of houses away from one another. Our mothers worked in the same factory, whilst our fathers had office jobs in the city. It was a time when, like most other children, our parents’ lives were a mystery to us; what they did and how much they earned seemed like secrets that were kept from us, not for the sake of keeping them secret, but rather because that was how life was – the grown-ups lived in a different world from us; a world to which we would be denied entry for many years.

It was our mothers who had become close at first. The transition from workmates to friends had happened in the blink of an eye, and it wasn’t long before they had fallen into a shared social life. Their husbands too, despite working in different environments, began to develop a friendship; weekend evenings spent at the local pub, and sports events drawing them ever closer. Before long they were two couples sharing days out and holidays, and it had been no surprise to anyone when both women had fallen pregnant within the space of a few weeks.

I had been born first, a little late that much is fact, but those few days between our arrivals meant the world to me as we grew up.

When she was born I, apparently, although clearly, I have no recollection of this, was one of the first people, aside from her immediate family, to greet her. Perhaps it was this, or perhaps the long hours that we spent, first as babies, and then as toddlers, together that bonded us as if we had been twins, I will never know, all I can say for certain is that she was as much a part of me as one of my own limbs.

The first time that I remember seeing a rainbow is a dim and distant memory, but I recall, the words of my mother as if she had spoken them only yesterday: ‘Make a wish,’ she had said, ‘because, at the end of that rainbow, there is a pot of gold, and a place where all your dreams will come true.’

We had been entranced, kneeling on the edge of the bed, gazing out through the window and into the brilliant, blue sky as the sun burst out from behind the clouds to chase the rain away. And she, like I, had believed every honey-laced word that had fallen from my mother’s lips. That afternoon we made a wordless pact as we looked from the slowly fading rainbow into each other’s eyes: one day, we would find the end of that rainbow; find it and live happily ever after.

Life, of course, has its way of thwarting even the most fastidious of plans. For a while we kept our hopes alive; if we were ever together when we saw a rainbow we would close our eyes and wish, even after we had learned the truth. For us, the adult world was still a million miles away and had nothing to do with dreams and rainbows and pots of gold. Even if I were alone beneath the patterned sky I would close my eyes and think of her and make the wish we always shared.

As we grew, however, our lives began to take their own paths, as if we no longer had a say or any control over our destinies. Like the twins we had never been, we spent so much of our days in one another’s company that we grew to know each other’s thoughts. People would joke that we were like an old married couple, finishing one another’s sentences like psychics. But we knew, deep down of course, that things would never stay as they were.

At eighteen our studies took us away from our home town – she to a university in the South whilst I headed North. Our friendship became one of long phone-calls and eagerly awaited catch-ups during the long summer breaks, interspersed with the occasional weekend shared in one another’s company. After three long years I returned to my family home and the career I had worked so hard towards. But she had chosen to stay in the South – a new town and a promising future within her grasp.

As the years passed by our long telephone conversations slowly became replaced by long letters; they themselves gradually become less frequent as other aspects of put lives took over. Your job meant that you were often out of the country, whilst mine kept me busy here. Before either of us realised it our friendship had become one of short notes in greetings card and the occasional message left as voice mail. It hadn’t been deliberate on either of our parts, it was just that other aspects of our lives seemed to take precedence.

I got married, discovering later that you had too, and just a few days after I had, albeit in a different part of the world. Once more, those few days, for me at least, proving significant. For us both, however, our marriages would not run the course. It was some time after your separation that I found out that you had become divorced, and I never knew the reasons why – although there was no reason why I should, in truth. For myself it had been the one thing that I had never believed could happen: we simply fell out of love with each other. Our friendship remained, and as strong as it ever had been, but where there had once been love a vacuum had grown.

I had tried to write to you, to reconnect and reignite our friendship, but could never seem to find the right words. For the first time in my life I felt conscious of a space between us.

It was a Saturday afternoon when my former wife dropped around with some post addressed to me. Although I had moved into a new house several months previously, she still received the occasional letter from someone who was unaware of my change of address. She came inside and, dropping the mail on the kitchen table, I made us some coffee. She wished me a happy birthday, and we chatted idly as we sat and drank it. As we talked, I opened the letters one by one, reading the greetings or, in the case of junk mail, depositing it straight into the recycling bin.

The final envelope was written in a familiar hand and, when I opened it and saw the card, the rainbow cutting from one corner to its centre, I knew, without needing to look, who it was from. Nestled safely inside the card was a letter. I slipped it back into its envelope to read later, when I was alone.

We met at a small, canal-side café where we shared coffee and cake as if the years that had kept us apart has simply vanished. So much time had passed, and so much of our lives had been different, yet so much more had followed similar paths, and I was amazed – but not surprised – at how close our lives had remained. We talked about our hopes for the future and reminisced about the past, sharing our memories like tiny treasures. There was a warmth between us that was greater than the Spring sun which shone brightly in the clear, blue sky outside.

As we walked along the towpath, chatting about the changes there had been since we had last walked this way – asphalt where there had once been mud, and water in which one could actually see fish – we both felt the first droplets of rain. Looking up we could see a band of grey clouds swooping in to smother the sun. In a matter of seconds the sky had turned from blue to purple, and we were caught in the deluge. We darted into the nearby trees for shelter, giggling wildly like youngsters embarking on an adventure. You wrapped your arm through mine and squeezed it to you as we laughed.

The clouds passed as suddenly as they had arrived, edging their way across the sky to reveal the sun once more. We both looked up, knowing what to expect. Stepping from the cover of the trees we watched as the rainbow took hold, resplendent against the blues and greys which painted the sky. Our eyes followed its path, expecting it to disappear from view at any moment, but it seemed only to come closer and closer to where we were standing. We gazed in awe as its tail appeared to thrust itself into the canal, throwing a prism of light upwards and outwards.

We looked into one another’s eyes, and knew.

Before long I saw what appeared to be a bed positioned close to the water’s edge. As we came closer, I realised that not only was it a bed but, in fact, it was a hospital bed. I could see the shape of a woman lying on it. She was partially covered by a sheet and tubes and wires led from her prone body to a collection of machines which surrounded the one end of her bed. A bandage had been fastened around her head, and a further tube was protruding from it, disappearing somewhere beneath the frame of the bed. 

As we sailed nearer, I realised that the woman was my mother. 

When I was twelve my father had died. He had suffered a devastating cardiac arrest, and my mother was left with only me. She never remarried, and had come to rely on me, especially when she started to become ill herself. Early onset dementia. Her behaviour had started to become erratic and, although I had grown and left the family home, I spent as much time as I could helping her to maintain as much independence as she could. But sometimes the weight of caring for her, and the disregard for most things that I said and did that she had become prone to show, became oppressive and I felt that I needed to take a step back to be able to care for her in the best way that I could. Not to mention in order to preserve my own sanity. 

Now the recollection of the events of that day rushed back to meet me as if I were reliving every second. My mother had telephoned me, asking me to help her to clear out her attic. She had made the decision that the time had come for her to rid herself of all the things that felt was no longer of any use or importance. 

I made my excuses, saying that I had so many things that I needed to complete for work (which was a lie) that I wouldn’t be able to get over to see her that day. I would, however, come around first thing in the morning (which I fully intended to do) to help her, and that she shouldn’t worry and she should put her feet up for the rest of the day. 

Of course, my mother, being who she was, and, indeed, how she was these days, didn’t listen. It was her neighbour who found her, lying in a crumpled heap at the foot of the stairs. It took her three days to die. 

‘If I’d have gone to see her, to clear out the attic for her, would that have prevented her from dying?’ I asked. 

‘Yes.’ 

Which was probably the answer that I had expected but its delivery was not quite in the manner that I might have hoped for. 

‘Yes, had you not lied and visited your mother she wouldn’t have fallen, cracked her skull and lain in a coma for three days before eventually dying. No, she would have lived, her condition gradually getting worse until she wasn’t even aware that she was alive, whilst every day you would have felt the pain of losing a little bit more of her. Swings and roundabouts, as they say.’ 

I wasn’t sure whether he said that merely to placate me, but his flat, matter of fact tone, led me to believe that he was doing no more than to state the facts. 

We left my departed mother dying slowly in her bed by the riverside and, with a mighty heave of the oar, pushed on. 

On either side of the river I could see the shapes of distant figures, but they were too far from me to recognise. I guessed, but with no real certainty, that they were probably those who had been bit players in my life. 

At last I saw someone who stood closer to the bank, someone who I recognised almost immediately. 

The ferryman steered the boat towards her and dug his oar into the silt. The shuddering of the boat as we came to a standstill masked my own. He uttered just one word in my direction: ‘Thoughts?’ 

Once more I felt as if I had lost the power of speech; the words were there but seemed to lay in a jumbled mess somewhere between my brain and my mouth. I looked up and into the eyes of the one person – the only person – who I had ever truly loved, but, like all the others, her eyes stared out, oblivious to my existence. If I had stood up I could have waded out through the shallows, climbed the muddy bank and taken her hands. I could have spoken all the words that I had never had the courage to say to her whilst I had known her – whilst I had still been able to draw in breath. I could have changed every wrong decision that I had made and transformed a solitary life into a life for the two of us. Happiness and fulfilment had always been within my reach but, for some unfathomable reason, I had torn them to shreds to embark on a road which had no rapturous ending. And now, when I had reached a point from which there was no return, I could finally see past the veils that I had hung in front of me so long ago. What I wouldn’t give now to be back and standing next to her by the banks of the river. 

‘Yes, not your finest hour,’ my companion said, as if he were reading my thoughts. ‘But, sadly for you, you are nothing more than an observer now. A moment of reflection, a moment of regret and then…’ 

‘What about…’ 

‘Oh, she moved on with her life; found new partners, eventually one with whom she seems to have a strong, loving, connection and, well, you know how life unfolds. I’m not saying that she didn’t mourn over the loss of what you had, or that you don’t cross her mind on occasions, but you are a buried part of her past now. I’m not sure whether she even knows you’ve gone yet. 

And, yes, you would have enjoyed a wonderful life together, before you ask.’ 

‘How do you know all this?’ I asked from behind swollen eyes. 

‘Because I do.’ 

A long period of silence followed as we moved further up the river and further back in my timeline. 

I saw images of drunken stupidity during my days at university; casual relationships and the hurt that they had caused. I watched my school days disappear before I had realised how easy they were; the friendships that I had made, and those which I had broken. And those faces of which I had no recollection that gazed fondly upon the images which hovered before their eyes – images that I could see were of me. 

I saw my father lying dead on my parents’ bed, his face contorted in agony yet somehow strangely calm. I wondered if there had been anything that I might have been able to do to save him. Without a word my escort slowly shook his head. 

And then I was aware of my family gathered around me; over me. I was new, unaware of anything that might come to pass in a life that would last for as long as it needed to; even that was a mystery, a maze of wrong turns before the goal was finally reached. 

‘Time for you to go, now,’ the ferryman said, as he smiled gently to himself.