MTG Salvation

Chapter 1: Gone Away

It was a beautiful day in the suburbs. The sun was shining, birds chirped merrily in the trees and one could all but feel the pleasant atmosphere of summer descending on the neighbourhood. School had finished a day earlier, and for Simon Denison, life had just begun anew.
At least, so he had thought when he had got out of bed this morning.
“What do you mean, I can’t drive up to the cottage with Jared and Michael?” He demanded of his father, the older and wiser Percival James Denison. His father reiterated what he had said a moment earlier.
“You can’t go anywhere, Simon. Plans have already been made for you.”
“Plans have been made for me.” Simon said, flatly. It was a statement.
“Yes.” His father responded, patiently.
“Without me?” Asked Simon, showing mild degrees of hurt and irritation.
“Yes.” His father repeated, remaining placid and immovable.
“Would you care to elaborate?” Simon cried, now a combination of angry and panicked. This was not good news. In fact, he reflected as he looked into his father’s eerie blue irises, this was exceptionally bad news. His father never made plans for anything, and Simon was loath to be the test subject for his father’s first foray into the realm of organization. Yet it seemed to be heading that way.
“No, not particularly.” His father said, feigning disinterest in the conversation.
“So basically you’ve made plans on my behalf, without even telling me?” Simon bordered on livid.
“Exactly! You’re such a bright boy. I don’t know why you don’t do better in school.”
Simon sighed. That, at least, was an argument he had absolutely no intention of getting himself into at this particular moment. It was a frequent source of conflict, and nothing was ever resolved with the dual exceptions of a promise on Simon’s part to try harder which was never fulfilled and his father’s word that there would be no further discussion, which of course there invariably was.
“What precisely are you planning?” Simon asked nervously, hoping fervently that whatever the idea was it wouldn’t consume too much of his time.
“I’m sending you to live with your Great Uncle Archie at Denison Manor.”
“Denison Manor,” Simon asked “Where’s that?
“Oh, out in the middle of nowhere. But don’t worry... there are lots of interesting things to do there. Which is good, because you’ll be spending nine weeks there.”
“Nine weeks?!” exploded Simon, shock and dismay intense in his voice, with a strong undercurrent of anger warning his father that this had better be some kind of practical joke, or else limbs would shortly be separated from torsos.
“Uh-huh.” His father returned, cheerfully. “You leave tomorrow.”
Simon couldn’t believe it. Here were all his hopes and dreams shot to hell. He had so many plans for the summer... they were going to get sauced at the cottage, maybe take a road trip out east, definitely get himself a girlfriend. Now it was all just so much dust, pretty thoughts that his father had ground into a fine powder and tossed into the wind. It was beyond unfair, thought Simon, it was as though his father knew that he was destroying all of Simon’s plans. It was almost as if...
“You’re trying to get rid of me, aren’t you?” Simon attacked, suddenly.
Now it was his father’s turn to be nervous. “Well.... Simon, it’s hard to explain.”
“What did I do to deserve this?” Simon asked, pressing his advantage.
Pressing it too far, as it happened. Almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth, Simon regretted having spoken them. His father pounced on the opening, subtle yet deadly.
“Simon, do you even remember last summer?” Asked his father, sternly.
“Uh.... parts of it?” Simon sighed. He had definitely lost this one, and things were about to get worse.
“Is that because you were out drinking so much and so often that I had to come and get you from the hospital twenty seven times in two months? Or because you spent so little time in places you recognized that you can’t possibly remember?” Simon stared shamefully at his shoes. On the bright side, he thought, his father wasn’t playing hardball.
Or maybe he was. “Or was it maybe because you’re still desperately hoping to blot the turnip incident out of your mind?” Simon rolled his eyes. Here it was again, same as always.
“I don’t see why you insist on calling it that.” He said, keeping his tone level in order to hide his shame.
“What would you prefer I called it? The night of unbelievably damning shame? The night my insurance rates quadrupled? Or maybe we should call it ‘The night you crashed our car into a parked dump truck full of turnips, then stuffed the car full of all the turnips and pushed it off a bridge and into the river’?”
“We were trying to make it look like the turnips were stolen.” Simon mumbled.
“What was that?” His father asked sharply, playing his winning hand to the last.
“I told you before. The reason we stuffed the car full of turnips was because we wanted to make it look like the turnips had been stolen, so that at least we wouldn’t get caught for hitting the truck.”
“And it didn’t occur to you that when the car turned up in the river, full to the brim with turnips, the police and the insurance company would put two and two together and realize what you’d done?”
“Look, it wasn’t a good plan.”
“It was a stupid, stupid plan.” Chided his father, the very model of responsibility.
“... I’ll go on your stupid trip.” Simon conceded, desperate to end the argument.
“That’s more like it!” His father declared with a smile, leaving Simon to wonder if maybe he wasn’t being played by the ineffectual old killjoy.

*** *** ***

Half an hour later found Simon up in his room, packing his bags for the trip. He had got together all of the things he expected to need: sun screen, a bathing suit, a collection of clothes both for lounging about in the open and hiking through forests, his ultra-modern sunglasses, an appropriate assortment of toiletries, a half dozen books, a wallet with enough cash in it to score him a weekend or two of freedom and a chokingly adolescent stack of erotic magazines. The lot of them were spread out on his bed, and he was preparing to pack them into his tremendous knapsack when his father marched in and began to examine all the items.
Still residually peeved with his father, Simon said nothing. Percy Denison, a quiet man by most standards, did not speak to his son but simply began to examine the gear. He opened the sun screen bottle, nodded thoughtfully, and put it down again. He turned the bathing suit inside out for no apparent reason, poked absently at it, and returned it to its place. He made a show of rifling through the clothes to see if Simon had everything he needed, which of course the teen did. He ignored the sunglasses, nodded approvingly at the toiletries, looked at the titles of the books thoughtfully and stroked his chin, and stopped on the erotic magazines.
“You aren’t going to need these.” He told Simon, authoritatively.
“Dad, I don’t have time for your puritan lectures on morality.”
“No, no, it’s quite normal for a boy your age to be interested in naked girls. I’m just telling you that its in your own best interest not to bring these on the trip.” His father said, making a show of not seemingly personally involved, which Simon himself did not buy into for a second.
“Just drop it, dad. We have different standards.” His old man shrugged, then responded.
“Alright, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” With that, Percy Denison picked up Simon’s wallet, helped himself to one of the twelve crisp twenties inside, and strolled out of the room.
Simon simply stood there, too shocked to express himself.

*** *** ***

Simon spent the rest of the day cloistered in his room. He worked halfheartedly on his script, but he was too distracted by possibilities of the nine weeks to come. Sure, he was leaving Jared and Michael, as well as the cottage, but that didn’t mean there weren’t things to look forward to.
He mulled over the probables in his head. It was a Manor, which meant that it was way out in the country, so there was no way he would meet any girls, unless they were working there, which was a downer. Girls working at a place like that would probably be plain and boring. So that meant that his was yet another summer with no hope of finding romance.
On the other hand, there were lots of potential upsides to staying at a Manor. He would be well secluded, so work on his manuscript would be a good deal easier than when his two oafish if lovable friends came knocking at his window every thirty minutes, hoping to hit downtown and buy some useless trinkets at the market. His manuscript was important to him, and having time to work on it was a definite upside.
Also, the Manor would no doubt have ten or twenty rooms to explore, and all sorts of old furniture, china and assorted antiquities the likes of which he had never seen before and was not liable to see again in his miserable suburban existence. If he was lucky, perhaps his Great Uncle Archie, who he only dimly recalled having heard stories of, would tell him all about the history of the Manor and its inhabitants. Maybe, hoped Simon against hope itself, there would be secret passages for him to discover and chart.
On top of that, there was always the distinctive prospect of free booze. After all, at a place with a name like Denison Manor, what would a meal be unless it featured beer with the entrées, a glass or six of wine with the main course and a healthy snifter of brandy with dessert. If there was one pleasure that Simon did not like doing without, it was liquor, and he prayed that it would be present at Denison Manor.

It was around eleven o’clock when Simon finally fell asleep, so it was no surprise that he wasn’t up until nine thirty the next morning. Absently, he showered, pulled some clothes on, styled his hair and wandered downstairs for breakfast.
As he was pouring milk into his cereal bowl, Simon was suddenly startled by the piercingly loud sound of a car horn honking. HIS car horn, honking a single extended blast that sounded like exploding elephant dominoes. It so startled the bleary-eyed teen that he dropped the milk and spilt it.
Scrambling to wipe it up, Simon waited for the noise to stop. When it didn’t, he abandoned his task and ran out the front door, pausing only briefly to cram his feet into his worn out hiking shoes on his way into the car.
“Good morning!” Said his father, cheerfully, as the honking suddenly stopped. His father gunned the beat- up old sedan out of the driveway and barreled down their street.
“Train leaves in an hour.” His father announced, casually.
Suddenly, Simon woke up, and was aware that there was a whole lot of chaos on in his life.
“What about my bag?” He asked, thinking now of the heavy backpack left laying on his floor the night before. His father pointed backwards, and complemented the gesture by adding
“It’s in the trunk. I packed it right after I woke up.”
“Where’s my ticket?” Simon asked, still sorting things out.
His father popped the glove compartment, and pulled out a folder with the ticket inside.
“Here you are, Simon. It’s a compartment, so you don’t have to ride with everyone. Wasn’t that nice of me?” Simon rolled his eyes and retorted.
“Yeah, sure. Almost as nice as sending me into involuntary exile.”
That particular snide remark ended their conversation, but Simon continued to contemplate the strange and undefinable creature who was Percy Denison, his father.

Simon didn’t know a whole lot about his father. He knew that when his mom had died, Percy had taken the loss of his wife as though it were simply a rainy day: unfortunate, but irreversible. On the whole, this seemed somewhat consistent with Percy’s philosophy. A normal man might have been shattered by the loss of his wife, for a normal man is firmly grounded in reality, but allows himself the fantastic illusion that his marriage is a permanent thing. Not so for Percy Denison, by any stretch of even the most agile mind. Percy had never even experimented with grounding in reality, and the loss of his wife was so surreal that it might has well have never happened.
Simon realized, as he stared out the window at the cookie-cutter houses zooming by, just how much of an enigma his father was to him. The man never spoke about his childhood, never mentioned his emotions outside of how he felt about Simon, and seldom made any reference to belief or favour. Had they not lived together, Simon would not even have known what sort of things his father enjoyed.
He wondered, briefly, what sort of life Percy had lived in order to be now who he was. Simon mused, idly, that Percy must have had some sort of surreal experience as a child which robbed him of his grounding in reality and made him the dreamer who saw nothing he didn’t want to but could cut to the heart of any issue with a few words. It was a madness, but it was both methodical and precise.
These thoughts and others of similar drifts occupied Simon’s mind all the way to the station. At that moment, he and his father silently exited the car, and the son followed as Percy led him to the appropriate terminal, carrying the backpack over him and hunching slightly.

Once they were through the bland but essential processing stages, Percy passed the backpack to Simon and said with a smile
“Do your old man proud this summer, Sai. You’ve got a real chance here, even if you don’t know it.”
“Whatever, dad.” Responded Simon, nonchalant as always. “I love you, old man.”
“I love you too, you little bastard.” Chuckled Percy with a grin, and the two shared the manliest hug they could manage, which was somewhat difficult as they were both more than a bit feminine in build and features.
With that last embrace, Percy left, and Simon got onto the train. Holding his ticket, he was admitted to a coach by the conductor, who checked his ticket.
He walked down from car to car, staring at the seat number on his ticket and checking it against dozens of numbers on the train. After seven cars he found the booth in question, but he was uncertain as to whether or not it was the right booth.
It was not, as one might think, that the number on the ticket was smudged. It was quite clear, and matched nicely with the little brass plaque that was bolted in place over the entrance to the booth in front of him. It was in the right part of the train, it was shaped as his father said it would be, but it just didn’t seem right. This was because through the big windows, Simon could see a willowy girl with long, light brown hair, sitting there reading what Simon could almost swear was Scripture.
Obviously this was a dilemma that required a resolution in the near future. With that take on the situation in mind, he opened the door, stepped into the room and sat down across from the girl. So absorbed was she in her book, which upon closer examination was revealed to be a work of fiction and not holy writ (though Simon thought the two much the same), that she was completely oblivious to his presence. Feeling more than a bit insulted, Simon made a show of sneezing loudly. This served its purpose, and she looked up and noticed him.
“Why, hello.” She spoke, softly but firmly. Her voice sounded like a swift wind moving through high grass late on a chilly night.
“Hey.” Simon replied, simply, unsure what he should say next.
“Are you lost?” She asked, genuine concern in her voice instead of what Simon nearly perceived as sarcasm, for he thought it a more probable response to his presence in her situation. Yet sincere she was, and he responded to her sincerity with open honesty.
“Well you see, that’s the thing. I’ve a ticket that tells me I’m to go to booth A55, and here it is, yet it’s got a stunningly pretty young lady in it when I was under the impression that I’d be alone.”
“That is odd,” she said, blushing slightly at the compliment but giving no other sign that she’d even caught it. “I thought I was going to be alone, too.”
“It’s quite the conundrum.” Simon said, quite delighted that he had finally been given a chance to use the word ‘conundrum’, which by no means is a noun which one can slip casually into everyday speech.
Evidently the girl thought so, too. She giggled, clapped her hands, and announced “I quite like that word. Conundrum, I mean. But to your concern... are you going to Durham?” Simon nodded.
“West Station. What about you?” He asked, wondering if maybe she were in the wrong place.
“Same as you, actually. That’s neat. It’s not really that popular a destination.”
“It’s an odd world.” Simon remarked offhandedly. He wondered why he was being so guarded with this girl. She seemed friendly enough, and was exceptionally pretty in a unique, sylvan way.
His line of thought was interrupted by a chime sounding and the clickety-clack of the train commencing its four hour long journey to their destination, and a much longer voyage beyond that.
“Well, we’re off.” She said, sounding not too happy at the prospect.
“So we are.” He returned, remaining distant and cursing himself for his inability to endear himself to her. “You know,” he said, attempting to start a more involved conversation “I’m really glad you’re in this booth with me.”
“Oh,” asked the girl, tilting her head quizzically “Why’s that?”
“Well,” he explained “Had I been on my own, I would have slept or daydreamed or read the whole time, and while those things are alright, I’d have liked to have been getting to know someone. You’ve presented me with an opportunity to acquaint myself with another human being, which tends to be a good thing.”
“I like that reason.” She announced, as though this fact had some importance. “By the way, I’m Eva. Eva Thatcher, if the last name means anything to you.” Simon shrugged.
“It doesn’t, but I bet it will before too long. I’m Simon Denison.” Eva cocked an eyebrow.
“Denison?” She repeated, rolling the name over on her tongue.
“Yeah,” he said “Denison. Do you know any Denisons?” She gestured, noncommittal.
“Not that I can think of... the name just strikes a chord, for some reason. Sounds very familiar.”
“It gets around,” Simon told her “Which is more than I can say for myself. My trip is a boon, at least from the angle that I can visit somewhere new.... damn it, it’s freezing in here.” He complained suddenly, feeling an inexplicable chill on his legs and arms.
“I’ve got a blanket in my bag.” Eva said, and pulled out a huge, slightly ratty old blanket with arboreal patterns covering it. Simon eyed it jealously.
“Which is lovely for you, you know, but at the same time it doesn’t do so much about the slow transition of my body temperature from warm to glacial.” Eva giggled.
“That’s what you think.” She informed him, somewhat girlishly.
“It is what I think. Can you prove me wrong?” Eva’s eyes flickered, and an idea blossomed in her head.
“You can prove yourself wrong, if you’re willing to get over here and share this blanket with me.”
“If you’ll have me.” He responded, wary of insincerity.
“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t mean it.” She reassured him. Cheerfully, Simon made his way over to her seat and put himself down right next to her. She snuggled up to him, a bit, and pulled the blanket over both of them.
“Ah-ha,” she said “Nothing like shared body heat and closeness to make a trip a little bit friendlier.”
“Yeah,” he said “I’m glad you’re cool with this.” She half-shrugged.
“You seem like a nice boy, and it’s safe enough. But, if you don’t mind, I plan on taking your shoulder and using it on a pillow with which to catch a quick forty winks.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Replied Simon, and she let her head rest against his shoulder. He placed his head on hers, closed his eyes, and dreamed secretly of a future shared with pretty willowy girls with light brown hair.

*** *** ***

The hours passed in blissful slumber, and before too long a bell rang as the train reached the last station before Durham. Simon awoke groggily and looked down to see Eva, still resting happily on his shoulder. He nudged her gently, and she slowly regained consciousness.
“Wha.... who are you?” She asked, barely aware of her surroundings.
“I’m Simon,” he said “Funnily enough, exactly the same as I was the last time. Shocking, isn’t it?”
“You can’t be real.” She murmured, staring up at him through bleary eyes.
“Why not?” He asked, looking warmly down on her in the familiar manner of a man who knew that he was currently the object of some new and rare affection.
“Because you’re too beautiful.” She whispered, barely audible, and then returned to her sleep.
Simon smiled to himself, every inch of a smug bastard. Maybe he wouldn’t see her for nine weeks, but at least he’d charmed a pretty young lady who he could make contact with when his ordeal was over. She seemed nice, and certainly fancied him, though Simon could not decide if a semi-conscious judgment could be enough indication on its own of things to come.
Before too long Eva woke again, truly and properly this time, and pulled the blanket off the both of them. She packed the ratty old thing away, and said thoughtfully
“Luggage is always so interesting.”
It was far and away one of the oddest things that Simon had ever heard a person say. He supposed it to be true enough, but the precise wording combined with the timing made for an impact akin to that of a paper airplane poking a sleeping teacher right in the ear. That is to say, it roused in Simon the contemplative fellow who considered himself so authoritative on such fanciful parts of existence.
“I know just what you mean. Well, I’d like to think that I do. I find my own luggage agonizingly dull. After all, I packed it and it’s hardly going to jump out and surprise me. I like looking through other people’s belongings well enough, though. I find that it can so often reveal such interesting things about them.”
“In your case,” added Eva, who had been rifling through his backpack as he spoke, teasing him “A particular fondness for erotic magazines.” Simon groaned inside of himself, and struggled desperately to make up some excuse, some small lie to justify the presence of such incriminating material.
“Ach, my father must have put them in there. He’s always pulling stunts like that. I think he suspects me of being a little bit queer.” Simon was surprised at the rapid efficiency of the cover up, and cursed fate, God and any other supernatural agencies he could think of as he realized that his father had been right about not bringing the magazines with him on the trip. There weren’t no justice in the world, Simon’s inner monologue muttered to itself.
“Are you?” Asked Eva, tilting her head peculiarly “A little bit queer, I mean.”
“Well, yes.” He said, plainly, then kept talking when he saw Eva’s bemusement “Well, not like that. I’m a weird sort of guy, is all.” The last of this must have sounded slightly apologetic, for Eva responded
“That’s alright. I’m a weird sort of girl, really.” Simon smiled, slightly, and as Eva giggled a bit the train whistle blew as they pulled in Durham West Station.
This part of the trip, Simon mused silently to himself, hadn’t been so bad after all.