The History Marker

By K M John

Jonah’s task is to guide those whose actions will influence the future. His new ‘mark’ is a woman and from their first encounter it’s obvious that Jonah has taken on much more than he bargained for.
Eliza Claire is annoying, frustrating and above all totally beguiling. The professional becomes personal as he faces his most difficult challenge yet - love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: K M John
• Release date: Feb 16, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301204472

Book preview

Prologue

The particles of dirt and debris hung in the air like stars on a clear night. Their gentle animation was almost undetected as each layer fell like fine snow, softly and silently, back towards the crater in the ground where seconds earlier a stone outbuilding had been.

Jonah closed his eyes against the dust. His body was shaking and his mind raced to resolve an impossible situation. The clock in his head hammered the final seconds.

‘Make the choice Jonah,’ said the voice.

He shook his head. This was a no win situation - death or an eternity of servitude. He wasn’t afraid of dying. If it had been his own life he would have welcomed it, but it wasn’t his sacrifice.

He opened his eyes and looked down at the small motionless figure in his arms. The smooth flawless skin was white beneath the layer of dust, like a marble statue recumbent in a deathly sleep. Beneath his grasp he could feel the warmth slipping away.

‘Don’t be a fool Jonah.’

He almost smiled. Being a fool had brought him here. He knew the risks so he should have known the consequences.

The four figures on the periphery stood motionless, watching and waiting. Only the charged particles from the aftershock moved, as they collided in the air and spiralled outwards in other trajectory.

Jonah looked down at the figure once more. The final whispers of breath parted her mouth and he bent his head and brushed his lips along their soft silent line.

‘I am so sorry,’ he whispered. ‘Forgive me.’

He glanced once more at the group and then he jumped.

Chapter 1

Jonah dipped his chin into the collar of his jacket and peered out once again from the doorway of the sepulchre. In the distance beyond the small weathered headstones he could see the funeral was over. The mourners departed quickly, holding onto their hats and umbrellas as the late November wind blew the rain around the graveyard.

He watched the cellophane wrapper from a discarded bunch of dahlias lift into the air. The pink plastic kite darted left then right, up and around. But eventually it was snagged, caught like a pitiful decoration on the broken wings of the archangel that adorned the roof above his head.

Jonah pulled his face back into the doorway and closed his eyes. Just like the angel he was grounded - stranded until he was given the next task and the waiting was insufferable. Forty years was a long time to follow any one Mark and Jonah’s patience was gone.

The light suddenly changed within the small alcove and he opened his eyes. James was leaning against the opposite wall reading a broadsheet newspaper.

‘An interesting year,’ he sniggered. ‘Wonder Woman and Space Invaders, I’m almost sorry I missed it.’

He flicked the newspaper folding it slowly with deliberation, and Jonah bit down hard on his back teeth and forced a smile. James was an elder. In physical terms there was little between them, but he’d been around for centuries and that ranked him substantially higher in the order of Markers.

‘I take it your coat has some practical value,’ James smirked.

Jonah looked at the expensive tailoring of his brother’s suit then felt the damp fake fur trim of the Parka against his cheek. He’d had it a while and amongst other things it smelled of chlorine and sulphur. ‘It’s warmer than your suit,’ he said flatly.

‘Yes, but not quite as clean or aesthetically pleasing,’ said James. He brushed the droplets of rain from the collar of his jacket and glanced out across the graveyard at the last of the funeral mourners hurrying towards their cars. ‘Still I suppose it’s more practical than a kilt,’ he said, nodding towards the piper in full dress uniform. ‘You ought to be glad it was the twentieth century Jonah. Things could have been distinctly cooler.’

‘But a lot more short lived,’ added Jonah dryly.

James laughed. ‘Bitter?’ he said. ‘Over a mere forty years. I would have thought a scientist was just your thing Jonah. Besides think of all the other wonderful things you’d have missed – the delightful sound of the bagpipes for one.’ He raised an eyebrow and grinned. ‘Surely it had its cultural appeal if nothing else.’

Jonah wasn’t interested in a discussion on the aesthetic merits of Scotland. He was wet and cold and bored, and wanted more than anything else to be away from here.

‘Oh, come now brother,’ continued James, ‘there must have been something you enjoyed.’

Jonah kept his face blank. The last forty years were without doubt the most tedious experience he’d had in a long time, and there were many to choose from. Doctor Woodruff had been a typical dour Scotsman and fairly predictable and straightforward to mark. As a scientist he was characteristically obsessive in his occupation and with limited social interactions he suited Jonah perfectly.

The problem was always the waiting. For a polymath, forty years of watching the man fumbling around when the answer was staring him in the face, went beyond frustration, it was mental torture.

James sensed that his brother was not going to rise to the bait so he pulled the small manila envelope from his pocket. ‘Here, maybe this will inspire you,’ he said. ‘Though don’t get too excited. I’d definitely consider a waterproof coat and a good pair of Hunters wouldn’t go amiss.’

Jonah frowned and took the envelope. He ran his finger under the lip and along the seam and retrieved the small slither of paper. The text was short and to the point and within seconds he had crumpled it up angrily.

‘Is this a joke?’ he asked tersely.

‘Why?’

‘You know damn well why James – Brimley.’

James chose to ignore the vitriol and instead he grinned. ‘So?’

‘So I’ve already done Brimley – 1918. Half the village will still remember me.’

James shook his head. ‘That was sixty years ago, and no offence brother, but I don’t think you’d made that big an impression. Besides this one is 2010.’

The date made Jonah hesitate briefly, but then he remembered something from the past and the look of anger on his face suddenly turned to anguish. ‘James speak to Ezra. Let them send someone else.’

‘You know I can’t do that.’

‘You can, he’ll listen to you - please.’

‘You flatter me brother,’ said James trying his best not to smile. He was enjoying the obvious anxiety he’d caused. ‘I’m just the messenger Jonah. I don’t make the rules. Besides this could be fun – not a Bunsen burner or a haggis in sight. It’s a woman for God’s sake!’

The statement hung in the air like a dark, oppressive storm cloud and it did little to alleviate Jonah’s miserable anticipation.

‘Oh, come on,’ James chided. ‘I’m sure it’s going to be a whole lot more interesting than basic biochemistry. Besides the technology in Brimley is quite impressive in the twenty-first century - they even have hot water on tap!’ He laughed, but Jonah scowled. ‘Trust me,’ his eyes sparkled playfully, ‘you won’t recognise the place.’

Jonah glanced angrily at the soggy crumpled piece of paper in his hand. He knew it was futile to argue. The ink was starting to bleed and the details were fading, but it didn’t matter as they were etched in his conscience and seconds later, whether he wanted to or not, he would be catapulted into twenty-first century Brimley.

St. Joseph’s Chapel was cold, damp and dark, and every bit has dreary as he remembered it. It was only midmorning, but the dirty stained glass windows struggled to absorb light from the overcast sky. Only the faintest slivers streamed in illuminating the particles of dust that filled the space beneath the oak beams of the vaulted ceiling and the cold slabs of stone on the floor. Jonah closed his eyes. He was trying to suppress the oppressive feeling of disdain as his nostrils pricked at the bitter essence of old tallow.

It was ninety years since he was here last, but the roof still leaked in the same place. The pews had the same tatty hand embroidered cushions, and the same initials carved by bored, restless children scribed into them. Little had changed, except that the names of the children now adorned the eastern wall in memorials to the dead of past wars. He recognised many and after a moment’s deliberation he reached up and traced his fingertips lightly across the cold brass lettering. Coming back here was definitely a mistake. There were too many memories, too many annoying loose ends.

Jonah moved out from the pew and wandered across to the base step of the lectern. He closed his eyes letting his mind drift back and forth between the present empty solitude of the church and the future visions of the congregation. In a little over an hour St. Josephs would be packed. Another funeral. This time it wasn’t the end of a Mark, but the beginning.

He forced himself to concentrate, trying to home in on the object of his task. Jonah had no interest in Jed Claire’s funeral. What he wanted was one clear image of Eliza Claire. A truthful likeness, that would let him tune into visions of her without having to filter through millions of random future glimmers.

Instantly, he had a variety of vantage points from around the chapel. He flitted from one view to another till he saw her sitting at the front flanked on either side by a contingent of elderly neighbours. Jonah couldn’t see her face, but he knew it was her. She was wearing a black coat that emphasised the warm, rich tones of her long auburn hair.

Jonah’s visions were gleaned from the eyes of others and he watched her for a while, hoping she would turn or at least look at her companions, but everyone seemed intent on staring at the huge oak casket or the back of the wooden pews. Even the minister - a devout old Anglican called Reverend Michael, who from the pulpit could provide an excellent perspective, kept his eyes focused on the stained glass windows at the back of the church. He was clearly undaunted by the stifled yawns and shifting in seats that echoed throughout the vaulted chapel. Eliza Claire was in his peripheral vision - a small blurred pale face in a sea of black suits and coats.

Impatiently Jonah shook the image from his mind and phased forward to the end of the funeral and a place on the opposite side of the road from the church. The street looked vaguely familiar, save for the long line of parked four wheeled drives that seemed to stretch on for miles through the tiny village. The last car he’d seen was a new ‘78 red Ford Cortina. It was substantially wider but flatter than today’s contemporary vehicles and Jonah marveled at the sheer height of the modern car. He was a tall man, but he didn’t need to dip down to keep an inconspicuous eye on the old chapel gates.

The vestibule doors were suddenly opened and along with the first mourners a rather flat rendition of Faure’s Requiem drifted out into the October rain. One thing that hadn’t changed in ninety years was the tuning of the organ, which was still a third of an octave out and gave everything a flat, somber, religious overtone.

The surge of people diminished quickly. Jonah wondered if he’d missed her. If she’d been swept away by the black dragon of hats and umbrellas winding their way back along the narrow pavement towards the Nag’s Head Inn. He scrutinised the road, but then he heard her name being spoken from the doorway of the church.

Eliza Claire was standing in the rain talking with the Minster. She was smaller than he’d anticipated and slightly built, so from the back it was difficult to imagine this nineteen year old woman was more than a child.

Jonah craned his neck to see beyond the jeep. The smoky glass windows obscured his view and after a moment he moved along the cars till he reached an old battered Ford Pick-Up. The truck was sitting low on its axel from years of bouncing around on rough farm tracks, and the rubber tread of the tyres was worn smooth. Invariably it smelled of sheep and old silage, but it gave him a better view and as he leaned forward on the side rails Eliza turned.

Jonah had not considered what she would look like. It was irrelevant. Eliza Claire was merely a task, a job to perform. But as she stood facing him on the opposite side of the road he found himself fascinated, transfixed by her young pale face, glistening wet, and surrounded by long waves of damp auburn hair. His Marks had always been men, older and quite often already established in their profession. Eliza Claire looked like a child in comparison and there was something intriguing and yet strangely unsettling about it. She was far too young to be left alone on an isolated farm. Jonah bit his lip and frowned, this complicated things.

Eliza dipped her head against the rain and ran towards the old Ford Pick-Up he was leaning against, and without hesitation Jonah turned and walked swiftly away from the chapel towards the darkening prospect of Brimley Fell.

At the crest of the first rise Jonah knew the rush was about to begin. He quickened his pace. He ran until the pavement came to an end and the road became a series of twists and turns surrounded on either side by stone walls. He needed to find somewhere quiet and secluded. As he scanned the wall for a good place to jump over, it began.

Suddenly millions of future glimmers of Eliza Claire came crashing and colliding in his head. Like tuning into a cerebral satellite her life bounced back in flickering images, creating a magnitude of energy that shot through him. The sensation was overwhelming and as the pain intensified, he stumbled through a break in the stone wall, falling onto his knees in the wet sodden ground of the field.

Jonah clutched his head trying to contain the growing pressure that made his whole body rigid with pain. He couldn’t breathe. He jerked convulsively with the electric pulses as his lungs were forced into a catatonic state. He desperately needed to concentrate. He needed to slow down the deluge of images and the rising crescendo of noise that screamed into his consciousness. With enormous effort Jonah lifted his face to the rain and dragged his fingers into the muddy ground trying to draw his mind and his senses back to the present reality.

He could barely feel the hard splatter of cold rain that hit his face and stung his eyes as he stared unblinking into the vast grey void of the country sky. He knew it would eventually pass, but the panic of suffocation made him claw frantically at the earth. Gradually, he began to sense the soggy clods between his fingers and the cold wet patches where his knees had sunk into the boggy marsh. One last tremor forced its way through his body and with it a wave of nausea. He retched violently. He coughed up the bitter bile and traces of blood where he had bitten his lip hard. Jonah gasped for breath and rolled onto his back, ignoring the pool of water that had gathered in the sloping field.

For a long while he lay still, staring at the dark grey sky overhead and listening to his heart struggle with the sudden rush of oxygen in his lungs. At the far end of the field he could hear the distraught nervous bleating of sheep. He heard the raging of the river surging with floodwater. He closed his eyes and smiled. With a rush comes a sudden enlightenment. He felt like he was waking from a dream and only then realising that reality involved so many other senses. Everything was in high definition enhanced by the multitude of sensations gleaned from others. Sight, smell, sound, taste, touch, were all borrowed from whoever or whatever was close to Eliza Claire. She was the focus of this heightened awareness and he was now party to every interaction she made.

Jonah leaned forward and twisted to prop himself up on one elbow. He glanced down at his attire that was partially submerged beneath the water. The clothes would have to go. Apart from the soaking, the mud and the manure, they were thirty years out of date. Even in a small parochial village like Brimley the fir trimmed Parka and the flared black suit trousers were out of place.

Chapter 2

Tilly Wilson sat in her easy chair looking out across the front garden towards the gates of St. Josephs. She was disappointed not to be attending the funeral. She hadn’t missed one in almost ninety years, but at ninety eight years old, her absence was pardonable. Instead she sat by the window waiting to catch a glimpse of the departing mourners.

Tilly’s garden overlooked the graveyard. In spring, she gazed upon the snowdrops and the daffodils. In the summer, it was the jasmine and the virginia creeper, and in the autumn, when the trees shed their leaves, the whole graveyard was carpeted in glorious reds, yellows, oranges and browns.

Today the wind whipped those leaves into frenzy, and as the doors of St. Josephs opened she watched amused as Brenda Simpson wrestled with her umbrella. She was soaked by the rain, and the wet remnants of the oak and sycamores that lined the far wall of the graveyard stuck to her coat. The wind was pulling her umbrella in the wrong direction and any moment now it was going to flip inside out and carry her off down the street. Just as the umbrella gained momentum, a tall figure stood between the parked cars and obscured her view.

Brimley was a very small community and Tilly flattered herself on being able to recognise every member of the village from their posture. From the size and shape she assumed it was a man - a young man. He was exceptionally tall, with broad shoulders, and an upright stance not broken by years hunched over a tractor. He was definitely a stranger in Brimley.

Tilly was concerned as to why he was loitering around the parked cars and as the mourners spilled out onto the pavement she watched him leaning against the tail end of Eliza’s truck. He moved again and for a fleeting moment she saw his face.

It was less than four seconds, but it was long enough. Tilly’s heart jumped. Her pulse quickened and she gasped. There was no mistaking that face. She had seen it many times in the past and despite the decades in-between, it always remained unaltered in its flawless, timeless, splendor.

‘Jonah,’ she whispered.

In an instant he was gone, and for a while she simply stared out across the garden, lost in memories of other times.

Jonah looked down at his new mountain boots and shuffled his feet. He was stiff from standing still for so long and as the darkness crept across the fell he could feel the chill night air saturating his jacket. He’d been here for almost an hour, watching the smoke rising from her chimney, and deliberating whether or not he had an alternative choice. He didn’t like having to rely on her because it compromised his situation, and even at the best of times she was hard work. His meetings with Tilly Wilson were increasingly difficult.

Jonah had many talents, most of which were beyond the imagination of ordinary humans, but a natural propensity to be social wasn’t one of them. Conversation didn’t come easy and with each new encounter she made him work for what he wanted. Tonight she would be taciturn. She always was. And despite his feigned ignorance he could understand it. After all, theirs was a very one-sided friendship.

Jonah first met Tilly Wilson when she was eight years old. He was marking a young man called Adam Langley and had arrived at her father’s farm on the pretext of looking for work. The year was 1918 and there was a serious shortage of young men in the Dales. Jonah was given a job without question, but the farm had suffered its own losses in the First World War, and from the beginning Vincent Wilson took a dislike to him. He was too similar in age to his sons Charles and Edward, who would never return from France. Jonah’s presence was regarded with suspicion and resentment, and Vincent’s views were echoed by many in the village. It was a difficult time to be a stranger in Brimley and the young Tilly Wilson became a useful ally in an otherwise hostile environment.

Jonah looked at the faint glow of light emitting from her living room window. He hadn’t seen her in over thirty years. Maybe she was too old to remember him. With that thought in mind he phased into her small kitchen leading directly off the living room. The lights momentarily dimmed and buzzed from the static charge and he grimaced.

Tilly leaned out from the wings of the easy chair and stared at him over the top of her spectacles. Her eyes were cloudy like molten glass and for a moment Jonah wasn’t sure whether she could see him from such a distance, but her expression flitted instantly from speculation to resentment.

‘Jonah Tudor,’ she hissed. Her voice was unsteady with age, but the bitter disappointment was still evident in her inflection. Jonah smiled awkwardly as he stood with his hands shoved deep into his pockets trying to earth the electricity.

‘Hello Tilly,’ he said.

She pulled a face. Jonah watched as the deep accentuated folds of age squeezed together like an accordion. He hadn’t anticipated how much time would have altered her. She looked very old. In fact she looked like her grandmother Evelyn Wilson, who had constantly referred to him as Edward her grandson.

‘You’re looking well,’ he lied, trying to extinguish the thought from his mind and hoping that unlike her grandmother she hadn’t succumbed to the senility of old age.

‘Don’t waste your breath,’ she said sourly. ‘I’m not interested.’

Despite her years she hadn’t lost her venomous tongue. She was going to make him work hard for this one.

‘And you can stop with that an all,’ she said.

‘With what?’ he asked, giving her a dazzling smile.

Tilly shook her head. Despite the years, he was so utterly beguiling and she had to remind herself that beneath the glossy surface he was cold and emotionless.

‘That – that whole innocent charm,’ she scoffed. ‘It doesn’t wash with me. I’ve seen it too many times to know it’s a load of rubbish.’

‘Will it make you feel better if I scowl?’ he asked playfully.

She almost smiled. ‘It would be more honest.’

Jonah pretended to scowl and with polarised syncricity the corners of her mouth turned up in a slight smile that made her look more like the Tilly he remembered.

‘Still lovely,’ he said, and her smile instantly crumpled into a grimace.

‘Well it doesn’t change anything Jonah, whatever it is you want I’m not interested. I told you that thirty years back. It’ll take a hell of a lot more than a cute smile and a bit of flattery to change my mind. ’

‘What makes you think I want something?’ he asked, trying his best to keep his voice light and cheerful.

‘Because you wouldn’t be here otherwise.’ Tilly knew him too well. With Jonah it was always a job, a task. There was never room for anything else and no matter how many times over the last century she’d convinced herself that he valued her friendship, in the end she was simply convenient.

Jonah hid a smile and wandered further into the tiny room. There was so much furniture it resembled an antiques shop. The odd assortment of mismatched fixtures and fittings spanned at least eight decades and to an untrained eye it was a mess. To Tilly the clutter was orchestrated in a way that allowed her to get from one side of the room to the other. She refused to have a Zimmer frame or even sticks, they were unnecessary clutter.

Jonah crowded the tiny room and he skirted the edge running his hand lightly along the dresser that occupied the full length of the side wall. He remembered it from her father’s house. It was always kept like a shrine, cluttered with photographs of her brothers. Today, there was a vase of dried poppy heads, a couple of crocheted doilies and a framed school photograph of Eliza Claire. He hesitated and stared at the young girl in her school uniform.

‘Who’s the child?’ he asked casually.

‘None of your business,’ she snapped.

Jonah ignored her retort and took the photograph off the dresser. Eliza was possibly fourteen or fifteen. She was wearing a blazer that seemed a little too big, and the picture was obviously taken in the summer months, because her skin was tanned from spending time out on the fell, and the warm auburn tones of her hair were streaked with golden highlights.

‘Is she a relative?’

‘You know damn well she’s not,’ she said impatiently.

‘An only child?’ he said, as he gently placed the frame back on the dresser.

Tilly went to speak, but then she hesitated. There was something uncharacteristic and personal about the way he asked. Jonah had never shown an interest in the village or its community. In fact, he had little time for people in general.

‘Why?’ she said, suddenly pensive.

‘No particular reason.’ He turned away from the dresser and watched her. ‘It’s just – well she’s very young to be left on her own.’

Tilly’s eyes narrowed into tiny puckered slits. She reached for the remote with shaky hands and switched off the television that had been a low noise in the background. The silence seemed to magnify his presence.‘Why are you here Jonah?’ she asked.

He smiled wryly and shrugged.

Tilly frowned, then with a slow dawning realisation she opened her mouth and shook her head. She should have guessed when she saw him outside the church. ‘Oh no – no you’ve got to be kidding,’ she said. ‘Eliza Claire. Why in God’s name Eliza Claire?’

‘Why do you assume it’s Eliza Claire?’ he asked.

‘Because I saw you two weeks back. You were outside the church at her father’s funeral. Now you turn up here like a bad penny, asking questions.’

‘Ouch,’ he mocked.

‘I’m serious Jonah, why Eliza?’

He hesitated for a moment and then decided it made no difference whether she knew or not. He’d long since gotten over the fact that Tilly knew what he was and what he did, and for the last ninety years he’d used it to his advantage.‘I don’t know,’ he said honestly. ‘I can’t see that far ahead yet.’

Tilly scoffed. ‘I thought you saw everything?’

‘Not everything,’ he shrugged. ‘It’s too soon.’

Tilly thought about it briefly and then dismissed his answer as probable lies. She knew from experience that Jonah was never completely open about what he did. ‘Well I’ve told you already,’ she said sourly, ‘I am definitely not helping.’

Jonah smiled. It was the response he expected, but he would persevere.‘Come on Tilly,’ he grinned playfully. ‘It’s just a small favour – hardly anything really.’

‘No – I warned you thirty years ago it was the last time. Whatever it is you’re planning you can do this on your own.’ She sighed deeply and took off her glasses pinching the soft pliable skin that stretched across the bridge of her nose.

Jonah watched her. He wondered whether or not this was it, the end of a ninety year association. He knew it was long overdue.

‘I’m too old for this Jonah,’ she sighed. ‘Some of us were blessed with the ability to grow old gracefully.’

Jonah watched her in the mirror that hung above the fire place. It was brown and speckled in places, but beneath the tarnished surface he could see the problem. He hadn’t altered in over five hundred years, but it was difficult to see any resemblance to the child she once was. She looked like a very old woman, and he could quite easily pass for her great grandson.

He moved forward to gently touch the soft translucent skin on the back of her hand, but Tilly pulled it away and clenched her fist.

She stared into the fire, avoiding his mesmerising green eyes like weathered copper that could so easily manipulate the situation. ‘Don’t Jonah, I’m serious!’ she said. ‘I’m looking forward to the fact than in a short while I can close my eyes on all this forever. I want to be left in peace.’

He knew she meant it, but he forced a smile. ‘All I need is a reference,’ he said quickly.

Tilly was silent for a second. He was dispassionate, but she knew not to expect anything else of him. ‘How about cold, heartless, selfish, and socially inept?’ she said, raising an eyebrow.

Jonah continued to look at her through the mirror, a blank expression on his face. She wasn’t wrong. He was all of these things and more. Had he been an ordinary human man these would have been grave shortcomings, but since his existence was not to win friends, he felt no chagrin at her less than pleasant assessment.

Tilly sighed, it was impossible not to relent a little when he looked the way he did. ‘Why do you need a reference for Eliza?’

This was promising and Jonah smiled. ‘I’m going to work at the farm.’

Tilly shook her head. ‘I don’t think she’ll want a reference for farm work.’

‘No, but I’m going to lodge at the farm.’

‘You think you’re going to lodge with Eliza at Broadly?’

He nodded and she suddenly laughed. It was a strange guttural laugh, an unpleasant spiteful sound and he got the distinct impression he was the butt of some joke.

Tilly pursed her lips. For a man who could see the future he was blind to the ways of this girl. ‘Do you know anything about Eliza Claire?’ she asked.

‘I know enough,’ he lied.

‘Hmm,’ the smile left her lips but not her eyes. He raised an eyebrow and she chuckled. ‘I think you’d be best meeting Eliza Claire before you start making assumptions.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It means if you’re not careful she’ll have the measure of you.’

Her less than subtle enthusiasm at his possible failure was irritating and he scowled. ‘She’s just a child.’

‘She’s a woman,’ she said sharply, ‘and with more spirit and gumption than you’ll know what to do with.’ She hadn’t meant to say it so forcefully, to be so honest. For a second she worried he would read something personal into it, but he simply stared at the fire coals and she reminded herself that nothing was personal with Jonah. Nothing came close.

Tilly glanced at the photograph on the sideboard. ‘It won’t do you any good giving you a reference. Besides, this is one situation that I’d like to see happen as it really is.’ She paused meaningfully. ‘You know – how it’s supposed to be.’

Jonah hadn’t anticipated this. He’d been fairly confident since he entered her living room that no matter what, he’d walk away assured of her help. He was prepared to play her little game as long as he got what he came for. Subconsciously, he bit his lip.

Tilly noticed and smiled slyly.‘Ah Jonah – maybe this is the excitement you’ve craved, the reality without providence.’

She laughed but it wasn’t funny. His life was a series of certainties and although he was more often bored by the formality at least he knew what to expect. He quickly considered his options.

He could beg. He wasn’t averse to a little grovelling if it got what he wanted, but Tilly didn’t look in the mood for compassion. He could fawn. A little adulation could go a long way, but she was too wise to his indifference and besides flattery wasn’t a game he was comfortable with. His only other option was deceit, a trait he’d enhanced considerably over the centuries and one he was rather good at.

‘Fine.’

Tilly eyed him suspiciously.

‘I guess I’ll just have to do it the honest way,’ he said.

She snorted and reached for the television remote making a show of ignoring him.

Jonah smiled, he knew his complacency had irritated her. ‘Well I guess I’d better be going then,’ he said, over the noise of the television. He skirted between the coffee table and another easy chair and headed towards the kitchen, but before he reached the doorway she called out.

‘Jonah.’

Jonah stopped and kept his face towards the door so she wouldn’t see him smile.

‘Eliza Claire is quite an astute young woman. Don’t be complacent, believe me, you will have your work cut out, and take my advice, start using the door.’

Out of habit and possibly just to annoy her, he phased there and then. After all, she’d seen it before.

Chapter 3

Jonah stood sheltering from the rain beneath an isolated old lime tree that looked down onto Broadly Farm. He was wondering what he had done in the last five hundred years that warranted a second stint here.

The wind had blown the leaves from the tree and it offered little shelter against the diagonal onslaught of the rain. Even his new mountain jacket was no match. The rain merely ran down the surface of the waterproof fabric and drenched the top of his jeans. It was cold rain and Jonah pulled at the toggle on his hood to stop the water from saturating the front of his shirt.

He looked out across the fell to the village and the thin slither of grey tarmac that weaved its way between the fields and houses. At the far end, just in front of the chapel, he saw smoke drifting upwards from Tilly’s chimney and he closed his eyes briefly to watch a glimmer of her dozing in the armchair. Their reunion had been disappointing. He should have expected the outcome. Her old age had finally changed the balance of their relationship.

Growing old was an unfathomable thing for a Marker. Jonah was twenty-four and he’d been twenty-four for more centuries than he could remember. Time was simply a corridor, a track in which he moved forwards and backwards. But for Tilly it was an interaction that with each second moved her closer towards an inevitable end.

He’d never considered it before, but now he wandered if she resented growing old, if her harsh demeanor was merely a manifestation of anger at her demise.

Did she blame him? Was she was envious of his eternal youth?

If she was, it was misguided. Jonah would never grow physically weary, but his conscience was not a physical thing and it aged with time. Over the centuries he had grown tired of the mundane trivialities of lives that were not his, but which he had to nudge and guide towards a necessary end. It was a thankless task. More often than not, the tedium was overwhelming. He couldn’t be sympathetic to Tilly’s demise, when she only had to live life once.

Jonah pulled a face and looked at the tiny figure in the lower pastures. Despite the relentless downpour Eliza Claire was walking her dog. She was a good four hundred metres away, but he could clearly hear her chatting to the wolfhound as if it was possible to gauge its opinion. She was talking about the state of the fence that divided her land from the river and every now and again, she interpreted his scratch or yawn as in agreement or disagreement with her remarks. They moved through the gate onto the bridge, Eliza conducting the conversation with a tree branch that she waved in the air like a baton.

Her behavior was definitely odd, but nevertheless entertaining, and for a while Jonah was diverted from his vexation. On the bridge Eliza climbed the first rung and leaned over the top to watch the branch being swallowed by the Sharn. The unrelenting rain had caused the river to swell and it was well above the weir, crashing over the top of the stone blocks and twisting and churning on the other side. Even from high up on the fell the sound it made as it charged down the Dale was quite hypnotic.

Jonah phased to the lower field and the track that ran between the river and the fencing. He stood beneath the trees watching her as she threw sycamore keys that had landed on the bridge into the water.

After five hundred years of impassive experiences the intense desire to know what made this particular girl so special was quite compelling. He knew he could simply look forward. He could find her flickering image in the multitude of future glimmers that filled his head. But right now, he wanted to see the bona fide object of his mark. He wanted to hear her voice and to observe the reality of her interactions. On a sudden impulse he decided he would cross the bridge.

He moved