Pilgrimage (30 page)

Roland sniffed the air. “I guess that smell is me, huh?”

“Yeah, that's you.”

The shower washed away the last of the vomit and alcohol smell. Roland stepped out of the cubicle feeling not just clean but renewed. He also felt tired and after dressing himself in his spare clothes he looked for Mal to thank him for the hospitality and excuse himself for the night. Mal gave him a nod and a smile and wished him pleasant dreams.

Roland spent the next hour awake in his bed trying to decide where to go. He could go back to Armidale, just as he'd planned. But why? There was nothing for him there. He realised that he could go anywhere from that house. Mal could drive him as far as the nearest airport or train station and he could find a new life and a new home far away in a place full of new pubs and new hard liquor to pass the time. But he didn't want to go anywhere. None of those places offered him anything that he couldn't get in Armidale or Glenn Innes or any of the middle-of-nowhere towns he'd seen. The same cheap motel beds, bad whiskey and worse memories waited for him in every town and city on the planet.

Maybe he could just go wherever Mal was going? No. That was the stupidest idea, yet. Roland went through a list of every town and city and country he knew of and not one of them sounded worth going to. Eventually he fell asleep, undecided. His sleep was light and sporadic. He woke up every hour, almost like clockwork; even the luxury comfort of the guest bed couldn't calm him completely.

When morning came and he woke up for the last time that night, he stayed in bed until he heard movement in the house. Sounds from the kitchen spurred him out of bed and into the waking world where Mal was already dressed and drinking coffee at the bar.

“Have you remembered where home is yet?” Mal asked.

“I tried but I couldn't think of anywhere worth going.” Roland said.

“You don't want to go back to Armidale?”

“No point.” Roland shook his head. “I don't even know why I stopped there in the first place. I think it just sounded like a nice place to live for a while and I never left. Now it's just another place with bad memories.”

“Sydney?”

“No. That's not even funny.”

“Well, you suggest something.”

“Aren't you listening? I just said I don't know where I want to go.”

“Okay. Have some breakfast and then we'll think of something.”

“Whatever.” Roland searched the kitchen pantry and cupboards, helping himself to whatever food looked good. By the end of it his breakfast plate was carrying toast, two different cereals in one bowl, a chocolate bar and left-over sausages. He sat opposite Mal and started eating.

“Hungry?” Mal raised his eye-brows at the assortment of food.

“Very. You told me to help myself.”

“And you took it to lengths I never imagined. Well done.”

Mal started eating again in silence. The silence didn't last long before Mal asked:

“Where were you going?”

“When?”

“When you took your nap on the side of the road.”

“Oh. A town called Salem.” Roland said.

“Why not go there?”

“There's nothing in Salem, either.” Roland tried to dismiss it but the idea stuck. He had nowhere else to go, so why not? Then he remembered Mal's question:
What would you say to them?
He wondered what he'd say to Griffith. He owed Griffith an apology, too. He was a stupid kid but he'd only ever tried to be his friend. It was hard to fault somebody for having principles and sticking to them.

“Then why were you going?”

“I was helping somebody. I had nothing else to do and it was a good excuse to get away from everything for a while. It's not often I get to be useful.”

“So how did you end up alone on the side of the road?”

“We had a disagreement and parted ways.”

“Ah. I think I understand, now.” Mal sipped his coffee, never taking his eyes off Roland.

“Good for you.”

“I think I've been asking you the wrong question.” Mal drank the last of his coffee and pushed the mug aside. “I've tried to get to know you since I picked you up and it seems to me that you're the kind of guy who knows what's right and what's wrong.”

“I don't think you've been listening.”

“Hold on, let me finish.” Mal said. “You
know
the difference but you're just afraid to follow through. You've got all those painful memories weighing you down. It's not about right or wrong; it's just about what's easy.”

“Is there a point to this or do you just like listing my personal faults?”

“I'm getting there. I've been asking you where you want to go. Now I think that's what they call a question wrongly asked. So instead, where do you think you
should
go?”

Roland had no interest in thinking about anything before he finished his breakfast. Mal was giving him too much credit, anyway. He had abandoned his wife, his friends, his job – everything. His whole life had become one drunken brawl after another; he couldn't count the number of people he'd hurt for no other reason than it made him feel good. He felt alive every time his fist struck another man. But what good was that against magic? Griffith asked him to help make sensible decisions but Roland hadn't made a sensible decision in years. He had nothing to offer – not to Griffith's pilgrimage and not to the world. He might as well just go and... go and...

Go where? There was nowhere to go. He was back at the same problem. He looked over his half-eaten breakfast. He tried to focus on the food and not his life for just a while. He forced a whole slice of bread into his mouth and chewed.

But maybe Mal's answer was the simplest solution. Salem wasn't far away and, if he was going to start apologising to people, Griffith was a good place to start. He could practice on Griffith and then move on to other people. Griffith was stupid enough to forgive somebody like him – so he really was the perfect place to start.

But, then again, why bother? There are people who do right by others and then there was him. He made no pretence – he was a terrible human being. He was a terrible person who did terrible things and then he went and drank and smoked and got in fights because that's what you get in life if you're a terrible person. But did he have to be a terrible person? Was pain all there was? Maybe he could be a good person from time to time, too. It seemed like life had left him with no other choices. No choice but to be...

Roland gagged on the bread and coughed it back onto his plate. Spit and soggy bread crumbs followed in a coughing fit. Roland hammered on his chest with a fist, trying to clear his air ways. Between painful wheezes, he saw that the food he'd hacked up was stained blood red.

“You alright?” Mal stood up and stepped behind Roland.

Roland shook his head, still coughing.

“Just keep breathing.” Mal told him. Roland felt Mal's fingers press into his back. Mal walked his fingers across his shoulders, and down his spine occasionally pressing a finger hard against Roland's flesh. The other hand gripped Roland's shoulder, pulling him into the pressure. Roland's coughing slowed and then stopped altogether. Mal gave him a friendly pat on the back and sat down.

“Thanks.” Roland said through deep breaths.

“Just a trick I picked up a few years ago.” Mal took his seat again.

“That's the second time that's happened.”

“You should see a doctor.”

“Nah. It'll probably go away on its own.”

“And if it doesn't?”

Roland shrugged and returned to his cereal.

“Well, I'll be waiting for you outside when you've made up your mind.” Mal stood up and left Roland alone to think.

Roland cast a glance at the soggy, bloody bread by his plate. Was he finally dying? Were the cigarettes doing what they'd always promised? The thought made Roland's blood chill. Death had carried a certain charm for a long time but since he'd faced his own mortality only two nights ago, it scared the shit out of him. He decided he should see a doctor. He'd need to find a doctor first. And suddenly his thoughts returned to where he wanted to go. Or, as Mal put it, where he should go.

He didn't know where to find a doctor. But he did know something better. Griffith's magic could probably help him. Or his legendary master in Salem might. That meant asking for help. That meant saying sorry. That meant no more running. It sounded frightening. It sounded hard. But what choice did he have? He could swallow his pride or he could go find a bottle to crawl into and die.

The more Roland tried to ignore or fight it, the more the choice felt obvious. It wasn't really even a choice. It really did feel good to be useful, and fighting had never been as exhilarating as when he was fighting for his and Griffith's life. Maybe there was more than punishment. Maybe there was redemption. Maybe he could enjoy life again. Maybe he could have some kind of purpose. He owed Griffith a thank-you and a sorry if nothing else. If he couldn't come to terms with that, he was a dead man.

Then, following Griffith all the way to Salem didn't just feel like what he should do, it was what Roland wanted to do. But doing that meant more than just admitting he was wrong, it meant owning his mistakes, making amends and facing the consequences. It made him nervous but it couldn't be any worse than lying on the floor in a strange house, soaked in your own vomit. Asking for forgiveness – asking for a second chance – was better than dying.

Roland picked up his bowl of cereal and drank it down as fast as he could. Then he leapt out of his chair and made his way outside.

Mal was sitting in a lawn-chair reading by his car. Jazz music played on the car's radio and Mal tapped his foot to the music, completely out of time. He looked up when the door was opened and met Roland's eyes.

“Have you decided?”

“Salem.”

“Then get your stuff and let's go.”

Roland ran back into the house and grabbed his backpack. On his way out he spotted the magic-detecting ring on the floor. He picked it up and slid it back onto his finger. The jewel was warm to the touch.

Mal had already packed away his chair and started the engine. Within a few moments they were on the highway again, the morning sun lighting the way forward.

Three hours later, after passing through Warialda, Moree and a handful of other small towns and villages, Mal and Roland turned off the highway and followed the little travelled road to Salem. Once they were off the highway, they didn't see any other cars or people until they'd reached their destination. Mal pulled off the road outside a grocery store and held out his hand to Roland.

“I'm glad we got you where you're going.”

“Thank you, Mal. I know it was only a few hours driving but a few hours quickly become a week when you're walking.”

“A short detour but I'm going north, anyway.”

“One more thing,” Roland said. “You told me that people have died because of your mistakes. Were you bullshitting me?”

“I wish I was. Everyone carries guilt with them, Roland, right to their grave. It's unavoidable. Some people just have it worse.”

“Just what exactly do you do, Mal?”

“You wouldn't believe me if I told you.” Mal smiled.

“Okay, have it your way. But you'd be surprised what I'm willing to believe, these days.” He shook Mal's hand. Before they parted, Mal glanced down and, for a moment, stared intensely at Roland's blue-jewelled ring.

“Another time, perhaps.” Mal smiled up at Roland. “Now go find your friend.”

“Thanks again, Mal.” Roland got out of the car. As soon as the door was closed, Mal was back on the road and driving away, the car quickly becoming a purple dot on the horizon before disappearing completely. Roland took a look up each side of Salem's main road. A river bisected the town, crossed by a wooden bridge that looked ready to collapse under anything heavier than a bicycle. The majority of the town was built up on his side of the river but that wasn't saying much. A sign by the road read:

Salem, New South Wales

Population: 800

The little collection of stores, houses and empty plots of land looked more suitable to a population of about twelve. Where were the other seven-hundred and eighty-eight people living? Roland shrugged and let the issue out of his mind. The long drive had left him feeling thirsty. He looked around for the pub and spotted it by the river. He took a step towards it, then hesitated. If he went in, would he ever come out?

“Coffee,” he said. Turning the thought into a word seemed to make it more real. It was no longer a consideration; it was a promise to whoever might be listening. “I'm going to get some coffee.”

Chapter 18

Griffith reached Salem in the dead of night and breathed a relaxed sigh. He'd made it. Though time was short and he had much to do, his body had been tense for so long that he was exhausted and sore. He'd driven as fast as he could go safely, laws be damned. Now he had reached Salem and all he had to do was navigate its unfamiliar streets in the dark. There would be time to be exhausted later.

Griffith turned off the highway and away from Salem's main road and into the maze of houses. His bag sat next to him on the passenger seat. Griffith reached over to it and fished around in the pockets, trying to stay focused on the road. He found what he was looking for in the front pocket of his bag. Griffith took the envelope out and held it up in front of him. The envelope had been crumpled but the hand-written address was still legible. But an address was only so good when he didn't know his way around.