Peace and Quiet

Trevor knocked again, knuckles loud, annoyed with the heavy rain already soaking through his shirt and continually pattering on his head like miniature fingers on a hairy drum.

He searched the edges of the door for a doorbell in case he’d missed it, but no button to press.

Florida was not living up to his expectations. How many others had been lured here by the promises of eternal sunshine and balmy breezes? Sharks ruining the idea of swimming in the ocean, bulbous frogs jumping out from bushes, their ugly corpses littering the roads and especially the heavy rain that always seemed to catch him outside though the days were mostly hot and humid.

A huge sneeze took hold of him. He extricated a handkerchief out of his shirt pocket. The square of cloth was already damp by the time he blew his nose. He resisted the impulse to swear in case the door opened. Whoever invented umbrellas had been onto a good thing, but his was sitting forgotten in his studio apartment.

Knocking a third time, Trevor wished that door knockers were mandatory and doorbells for that matter. He checked his analogue watch, noticed droplets of rain on the smooth surface and wound it absently. A rivulet of rain oozed down the back of his neck.

He glanced over his shoulder, contemplating a retreat to the rental car. Maybe this wasn’t the right place, after all. In the retirement community, every bungalow, every narrow street looked identical. 

Then the door opened, revealing a large man wearing a red and black wrestling robe that gaped wide to reveal a tattoo. Fierce-eyes glared at him. “If you don’t get an answer to your first knock, don’t try again. We like our peace and quiet here, understand?”

Trevor nodded numbly, disappointed this his intuition had led him astray. On the verge of apologising, he noticed how smudged the tattoo was and that focusing on it gave him a slight headache. He opened his hands in a gesture of appeasement, then concentrated as he brought them close together, summoning a sparkling flame to dance from one palm to the other before winking out.

“Come in,” the big man grumbled, backing away from the doorway.

With a grin, Trevor entered the house, his skin prickling as he passed through an invisible barrier into a much more welcoming atmosphere. The familiar ambience reminded him of his childhood before a blast of hot air dried him from top to toe.

“Thank you,” he said, bowing slightly. “Nice disguise.”

The wrestler winked at him before dwindling to the form of a small white-haired woman wearing glasses ornamented with pale blue rhinestones that matched her pant-suit. “Can’t be too careful,” she said.

“Indeed,” Trevor agreed, feeling tension drain from his shoulders. Despite all the odds and obstacles, he had found her.

“And the answer is no,” she continued, though he had not even started to share his carefully prepared proposition.

Speechless, he could only stare at her.

“This is a retirement community,” she told him, with some of the wrestler’s edge to her voice. “The key word being retirement, as in: I am retired. So whatever urgent situation has motivated you to track me down—and well done for finding me, I must say—I am not going to agree to participate in any way, shape or form. Saves us both time and effort if I tell you that straight away.”

Trevor found himself wishing that he was still standing outside in the rain because despite the weather, hope had warmed his bruised heart. 

“However,” she added, “you can have some of my award-winning mango sorbet.”

He followed her into the sun-dazzled kitchen.

“The rain has stopped at least,” she commented as she got a pink ceramic dessert bowl down from the cupboard. 

Trevor couldn’t think of anything to say as he watched her spoon the frozen golden sorbet from a plastic container. His mind was too numb to even start thinking of what to do next.

When she set a bowl down in front of him and handed him another spoon, he managed to ask, “Award-winning?”

“Famous in this part of Florida,” she said, “so consider yourself lucky to have a taste.”

“Thank you,” Trevor said, thinking of the distance travelled, the resources expended. He dug the spoon into the sorbet without much enthusiasm. When the taste rolled itself around his tongue, though, the delicate spice wafted into his brain and seemed to light up every neuron, making his eyes widen with wonder as he gazed at her.

Her mouth twitched into a smile. “That’s much better.”

Trevor savoured every spoonful, feeling the aromatic flavour spread glorious tendrils out into the physical chemistry of his body which, since it was mostly water, absorbed every nuance easily.

She laughed, watching him lick the bowl clean.

He smiled at her, feeling very much like a child again though he had never known his mother.

Then a thought struck him, so he asked, “You don’t give this to mortals, do you?”

“Not this particular recipe,” she admitted, “but they do like the other version very much.”

“Bit of sparkle?” he ventured.

She smiled and nodded. “Poor things have made such a mess of what they insist on calling civilisation that they need a bit of sparkle.”

Trevor saw through the veneer in that moment, felt the pure magic underneath, and bowed his head in respect. He could, of course, trace his own lineage back to her, but the bloodline was diluted over the centuries.

“So will you sing now you had your supper?” she asked.

He glanced up at her, wanting to deflect the request, then took his empty bowl to the sink and ran cold water from the tap to fill the bowl before drinking. He swallowed the last residue of spice as well as refreshing his mouth.

Trevor stood near the window where he could feel the sunlight pouring in around him. Though he felt awkward wearing mundane clothes, he ignored that. Instead, he brought all of his attention to his heart, remembering and augmenting that childlike feeling before raising it whole to his throat and opening his mouth to sing in the old language.

He lost sight of her, the newborn song carrying him to dappled sunlight on water, a tree reflected in the river, the sound of laughter and dancing.

When the last word of the song faded to silence, he returned to the kitchen in Florida and raised his fingers to brush the tears from his face. He saw that she had wept also, but she smiled at him. 

His journey had not been wasted. 

They had exchanged gifts—sustenance for song. It was enough.

A sadness welled up in him at the thought of leaving her, but he would cherish the memory.

“Sit down,” she told him with an elegant gesture.

He sat at the kitchen table.

She sat down across from him, placed both her arms on the table and leaned forward. “Now,” she said, “it’s time to get down to brass tacks as the mortals say.”

Trevor frowned, not recognising the idiom.

“Down to brass tacks,” the voice of the wrestler repeated, then she laughed and returned to her own voice. “Down to business. Why have you sought me out?”

“But you said,” he protested.

She waved his words away. “I’m only semi-retired,” she said, the pale blue rhinestones on her glasses glinting. “I get bored if I have too much peace and quiet. The next hurricane isn’t due for a while.”