A Natural Pause

By Peter Skeels

Michael learns he is dreadfully unhappy but he is in the middle of his life. He has a wife, children, a job and responsibilities galore. People count on him! How can he just stop? How can he correct the situation? He is not prepared to be tied to this situation, so he decides to face his fear. His methodology is unusual to say the least. He must relive some of his past, navigate a new relationship and convince people he is not insane. Does Michael succeed? Does he achieve his goal?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Nov 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9781528972543

Peter Skeels

The author has been a draft dodger, a traveller, a stone mason, a single parent, a teacher, a businessman, a life coach and a storyteller. He has lived and travelled extensively throughout America and Europe. He sought to find his way in life despite not having a handy how-to guide. His two constant guiding principles are his belief in God and to always try to do the next right thing. All the while he has been, more than anything else, a naturally happy survivor.

Book preview

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About the Author

The author has been a draft dodger, a traveller, a stone mason, a single parent, a teacher, a businessman, a life coach and a story teller. He has lived and travelled extensively throughout America and Europe. He sought to find his way in life despite not having a handy how-to guide. His two constant guiding principles are his belief in God and to always try to do the next right thing. All the while he has been, more than anything else, a naturally happy survivor.

Dedication

I want to dedicate this novel to God for giving me my life. My relationship with God has not always been fun nor has it always been pleasant, but it has always been right. From the hardest lessons to the purest moments of happiness, from being able to live and thrive on this beautiful planet, and to have been enabled to live such a long and varied life.

I asked God for what I wanted, I believed that God would give me what I asked for, and then I received what I asked God for.

I believe the reverse is true also – that God asks of us, that God believes in us, and that God receives from us that which God has asked of us. It’s a relationship.

I believe God asked me to do this. God believed I would do this. God has received my public dedication.

I continue to follow God and I continue to be led by God. No one knows the way through the maze of my life better than we do.

Copyright Information ©

Peter Skeels (2019)

The right of Peter Skeels to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528950091 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528972543 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2019)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

Chapter 1

Hi, my name is Michael. I decided to go work at one of the farthest outposts of civilisation. I was going to rebuild an old stone crofter’s cottage a friend of mine had bought, so while others drove there with the building supplies, etc., I travelled from my smallholding in England, forty miles south of the border with Scotland, by first hitchhiking to Glasgow and then taking a train to the town of Ullapool, located in northern Scotland. From there, I travelled via ferryboat to Stornoway, on the island of Harris and Lewis, all the while being amazed at the sheer beauty and fierceness of the ocean. From Stornoway, I hitchhiked across Harris to Lewis and to the old fishing village of Tarbert, located on the side of Loch Seaforth. I then walked two more miles to the trail head that would, after hiking on a foot path for four more miles, take me to my destination of Reinigeadal, a tiny fishing village so old, no one knew its age. Homes built of island stone for walls, some of the walls two feet thick, with dirt floors swept for so many years, they appeared solid now. The roofs were thatch, Tilley lamps for light, and peat and coal fires for heat and cooking. It was the twentieth century but I felt thrust back in time to the eighteenth century, and maybe even before that. I stopped walking and stood, rock-still, overlooking the bay in Reinigeadal, to feel and taste the salty, enraged, ocean-born gale blowing straight off the North Sea. The force of the wind and sea buffeted my body. I smiled as the wind-driven, salt-laden air dripped down my face on to my lips. Behind me lived people eighty-seven and more years old who were born in this ancient fishing village. They had never left. Oh, they had known villagers who had emigrated, but they all said nothing good had ever come from leaving. The villagers told me of those who had left, and then had got cancer and died which was something that had never occurred in their village. There was a post office, a small school and a small church. I was captured, trancelike, by the crash of surf onto the massive island rocks. I was captured even more by the barrenness, the total beauty and wildness. It was at once one of the best experiences of my life. It absolutely felt like I’d returned to a very familiar place but, of course, I’d never been here before. The experience hooked my attention even deeper as I came to recognise that living on this northern most island of Scotland was a life totally unlike any I had ever known or even knew existed. There was no road into this village, only a footpath to and from the nearest town six miles away. The path was sea level to sea level with a 1000-foot mountain in between. Local fishing boats could, when the weather was amenable, deliver coal and other supplies but the weather wasn’t amenable all the time or even most of time but rather only some of the time. Then, near the end of my year-long stay, I experienced the profoundly useless death of a dear friend. I was plucked from being an innocent, then plunged forever guilty back into life over the course of one night. I was obligated to accept the guilt within my heart because I had left him alone on the cliffs, expecting that he would simply follow the path to the village. When he wasn’t behind me, I went back for him but couldn’t find him so I told the villagers, and after helping me look for a while, they called for search and rescue, both land and sea. All night we looked and hiked. A rescue boat was deployed and at some point, I was taken aboard and questioned by the police. Finally, at first light, we found him. He had fallen from a cliff onto the massive rocks below, still wearing the yellow raincoat I had loaned him. Raymond had trusted me and I had abandoned him, and he died because of my decision. I had thought that everyone was a survivor until that day.

I returned to the life I had known and, of course, that had now changed also. Where was I? My surroundings were familiar yet not familiar at all. Why did my heart tighten past the point of breaking, then actually break, yet remain whole?

I became the actor and portrayed my many selves, performing to the various spectators around me. I drank alcohol to soothe the pain. I made love unwelcome to shield myself from any further pain, like a burn victim shying away from open flames. Slowly, communication solely on my terms became important because I didn’t want to hear anyone’s opinion. I wanted sex but not love or caring because love and caring meant responsibility and I had already proved I was not capable of being responsible. However, people want action and not mere words, so I masked my presentations to the people surrounding me, my audience. How else can I see you? I don’t know you and you don’t me so I can be anyone I want right? You don’t know me so I can be anybody I want to be.

My life has been extremes. I have always thought and felt that experience was the key to knowledge, knowledge was the key to understanding, understanding was the key to wisdom, and wisdom was, of course, the key to God. Not God personified, just the plain old he-created-it and still-rules-over-it kind of God. God the spirit, inside, outside and all around us. A supreme being, and in among all that is a universal will that I am a part of.

I learned that the meaning of experience is in knowing where you are and not where you’ve been. It’s brought me to here, writing this, on a hot, bright summer’s day.

Knowing God, I felt, was to be without fear – yet I feared death. The same spirit that has guided me through life now encourages me towards my foreboding. I want to experience the line between life and death, the action and words combined. Perhaps this is why we are together. Come with me. Let me describe the voyage to the furthest point of life’s existence. I want to know God and to be with God, yet I do not want to fear God, therefore, I need this experience.

I tell you this in secret, and, as the story continues, only you and I will know my goal. Those who enter from this moment on will know nothing about why or where I am going. You are my audience. Let’s go.

Michael stopped typing, and pushed back his chair. He was a tall man though quite thin. Six months earlier when he was working as a carpenter, he could labour hard all day. His arms were massive, and his entire body conveyed solid, physical strength. He stood six feet tall, and weighed one hundred and eighty-five pounds. But then one day he hurt his back quite badly, and since then he had lost about thirty pounds, most of which seemed to be muscle. Now his arms were thin as was the rest of him. His appearance ranged from well-groomed, with neatly cut hair and trimmed beard, to that of a wilderness man, with long, shaggy hair and a full, un-kempt beard. It was simply a matter of him not making time for hair cutting, yet he was always clean and comfortably dressed. He wore shorts, T-shirts and hiking shoes in the summer, and blue jeans, cotton shirts and comfortable leather shoes at night and during the winter. His blonde, sun-bleached hair highlighted his long hours working in the sun, and he wore sunglasses constantly when outside. His skin was still a light, copper-brown from his days working countless hours, shirtless in the blazing, summer sun.

He possessed a presence that made him larger than his physical size, and whether it was his straight-forward, aggressive attitude or his loudness and constant gesturing with his hands, it was difficult to say. Probably it was all these attributes. He couldn’t be in a room and go unnoticed, such was the energy he expended.

Standing, his heels caught the chair, tipping it over backwards. Shaking his head while reaching for the shot glass caused him to lurch forward, but he caught himself easily.

My writing is crap. I don’t know why I bother, he groaned.

He weaved towards the door but light from the aquarium grabbed his thoughts, and he stopped. The fish tank was perched on an oval, antique table, and inside were two large, flat rocks, and a twisted, sun-bleached mesquite branch. Cactus grew from a deep, sand base and a medium size, shallow clay bowl, half-full of water, lay tilted at an angle. The red and black head of a snake could just be seen between two stalks of cacti. It was only a harmless king snake he had found in his front yard one day, but it had become a good friend.

Eaten all your fish again, hey, pal, he laughed loudly, staggering slightly towards the kitchen.

Compared to his office, this room dazzled from the late-evening sun flooding in. He kept the screened windows open during summer days, loving the heat and smells from this time of year. The house was huge for a single man with one master bedroom with its own bathroom, two small bedrooms separated by a second bathroom and then his office. Next came a large, country-type kitchen with dining area, and finally, a long, rectangular living room that adjoined all the rooms. The kitchen, dining room and living room were separated by a wide, open passageway that bestowed a feeling of space to the home. The sensation created within his home was of country rather than city, and of older rather than modern. The kitchen table and chairs were made from solid pine, and oiled for countless years so they acquired a mellow, tan colour, while the grain became much darker. The linoleum-covered kitchen floor gave way to light brown, wall-to-wall carpets throughout the rest of the house. A blue, over-stuffed, floral-patterned couch and two, pale blue rocking chairs sat empty in the living room, facing the silent television and stereo. A long, mahogany cocktail table seemed be squatting in the middle of the floor. The main attraction was an immense brick fireplace, consuming one entire wall, that rose all the way to the ceiling. Its enormous grate, with paper, kindling and logs, sat waiting for a flame. Doors which led to bedrooms and the bathroom were closed to banish the day’s heat. Michael’s home appeared content and peaceful. There were no dirty dishes or clothes lying around on the floors or tables – it was as if the place was in waiting, waiting for the family that once occupied it.

His office was the only room that was lived in. Papers were lying in random piles around the room. A dictionary and other reference books were strewn about. Pencils, pens and crumpled sheets of paper dotted the floor. Coffee cups, a whiskey bottle and full ashtray finished portraying his life. Family pictures and watercolour paintings hung on walls, and a cork noticeboard surrounded the unseen telephone which was hidden beneath myriad notes, business cards and news clippings.

Michael leaned against the door frame, chin flat against his chest and shoulders caving in. His face showed, through its lack of expression, the emptiness of caring in his heart, and he stood drooping, with his eyes shut. The glass he held tilted to an angle; trickling scotch onto the floor.

Suddenly, he shook his head, as if clearing it of some dreamy thought, and deliberately but not too steadily, he strode to the table. He placed his drink down, pulled a chair from the table and slid it, with a single shove, across the floor. He followed, and set it against the refrigerator door. With his reflexes dulled by liquor, attempting to stand on the chair was nearly impossible yet his second attempt brought success. With legs wobbling, he planted both elbows on top of the fridge, and gazed hazily at the goldfish swimming in their bowl. He grinned and stood upright, semi-balanced, trying to roll one sleeve of his shirt up, but failing, simply forced it up past his elbow. Reaching into the bowl, he tried to grab the fish. They misdirected his attempts – and he was stupid from drink – yet he laughed, enjoying the game. Pulling his arm from the bowl with a defeated smile, he watched them for a few seconds.

Ah, what the hell, snaky can wait till tomorrow.

Grabbing the fish food box, he shook some into the bowl. Twisting his body to get down, one shoe slipped in the little puddle of water left by the dripping from his wet hand. Quicker than he could react, his foot slipped from under him, the chair shot from under him and, as he hurtled through the air, his head crashed into the electric stove next to the refrigerator. He didn’t move or make any noises. He just lay there. Sunlight reflected off his blond hair while his beard absorbed the rays, making him seem dignified and handsome. The fish stopped darting and gradually, only the soft tick of his kitchen clock could be heard.

Chapter 2

The day’s glare has been replaced with night’s cheerlessness. Michael hasn’t moved. Frozen silence is startled and wrenched by the loud ringing of his telephone – an incessant jangling, crashing into the quiet. Imperceptibly at first, he begins to move – his instincts forcing. He crawls towards the commotion. Crusted blood mats his hair and beard where they had lain on the now cold linoleum floor. Pulling the extension cord that stretches to the floor, he tugs the receiver from its base and it crashes to the floor. His hand gropes in the murky gloom and finally locates the hand-piece.

Help me, he pleads into the phone. Help me please. He attempts to shout but his voice won’t respond. Help, he begs and again passes out on the cold linoleum.

The caller is Paul. He and Michael met when Michael’s house needed re-decorating. Paul could do that as he was a jack-of-all-trades. He was from Kentucky; a thin yet extremely strong guy, well over six feet tall, and a man who was always cleanly dressed and well-barbered. His beard was clipped short and shaved to follow its natural growth, producing curves and points, which made it interesting to look at. Paul wore colourful scarves around his neck, and could put on an entertaining southern drawl, guaranteed to produce hilarity.

He graduated high school, followed by the school of life. Paul liked to say, in his simple country way, that the best teacher in life is life. Michael liked him because of his natural simplicity. Paul wasn’t a great intellectual, but when he chose to think about an idea or feeling, he was extremely thorough.

Paul’s upbringing entailed values that were never questioned, in a town where coal mines and miners governed life. The community had a strong