The Inner Traveller

By David Woodward

The Inner Traveller deals with racism, fear, ignorance and denial when a stranger, Ragmar, happens into town. The townspeople, surrounded by a monumental mountain range, enclosed in their desert valley town, feel there is something not quite right with Ragmar – especially when a young girl, Heather, meets a tragic end shortly after his arrival. The undisputed leader in the town, Father Young, takes an immediate shine to Ragmar and takes him in, protecting him from the townsfolk, who are only too eager to avenge Heather’s death. Ragmar’s existence and the troubles that follow him from town to town are questioned throughout the novel. Effeminate as well as seemingly mute, he instils fear, hatred and desire in those he encounters. Tragic events occur in his presence but no signs of foul play are ever discovered. Are these the results of divine intervention; the actions of a demigod or demon; or the outcome of a powerful imagination?

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Woodward
• Release date: Jun 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301204663

David Woodward

David Woodward is an ex-wildlife biologist who lives in the Montreal area. Some of his online work can be found in Menda City Review, Hamilton Stone Review and Wilderness House Review.

Book preview

Prologue

Like unexpected raindrops suddenly hitting your tent at night — dark storm clouds sneaking across the sky, undetected by sleeping campers — he came from out of nowhere. Nowhere in particular. No pinpointed place or time. No known moment of conception. No mother claimed him; no man would admit to his seed playing a part in his arrival. One day he materialized like the butterfly emerging midsummer without warning, the previous stages unseen, a mystery. A cocoon like pod might have explained his appearance, but none was found. He remained what they saw.

Part I: Ragmar arrives into the world

Chapter 1

Ragmar drove into the desert valley town on a hot July afternoon, storm clouds faithfully following. The sign at the outskirts read Elysium. It could have been anywhere in the world at any time. He didn’t know what state he was in. There had been so many. As he drove up to the first gas station he came across, the locals noticed he had brought a dark sky with him. It lingered over him as he pumped his car full of gas and began to drop minute beads of dense drizzle, almost like hail. The air around the station, however, remained the same — as warm and dry and clear of any cloud disturbance as the rest of the town. As the locals looked closer at this stranger, they noticed he was dry as well — as was his car, a surprisingly dust-free, shiny-red Mustang convertible. Distrustful glares soon followed. While the other patrons frantically ran about filling their cars, he went about his business unaffected by the atmosphere around him. As he walked into the station store to pay for his purchase, the rain seemed to part for him. Moses himself couldn’t have done a better job.

You bring this storm with you, sonny? asked the old attendant.

The regulars who hung around outside the old-fashioned station began to file inside. Thoroughly drenched, they glared at Ragmar in disbelief. Ragmar looked past the attendant at the cash register and out the window into the sky. It was blue. He reached carefully inside his jean jacket. The regulars behind him shuffled nervously, backing away from the stranger. One hand was on the door. They appeared ready to flee.

We get some sudden storms here in the valley, but this ain’t like usual — this here is freaky, said the old man at the cash, his eyes fixed on the newcomer. Haven’t seen a decent rain here for a while, though. Been mighty dry.

In fact, the town hadn’t seen anything more than the odd drop of rain for years. The river that flowed through it was almost entirely used up, as it was syphoned off to every desert county in the area. Even bordering states received their share. But no one could agree on a fair share. Irrigation wars were common. Water was as precious as a child. Some called this parched phenomenon global warming. But others laughed at such nonsense and said it was just a dry spell. This dry spell was now eight years old.

The regulars began their retreat out the front door as Ragmar slowly pulled out a twenty-dollar bill for the gas. The old man released a breath of stale air he’d been holding on to. The regulars stood outside the stained glass door in the pouring rain, looking in through the filthy pane as Ragmar paid the man.

Ragmar’s eyes were still locked onto the blue sky behind the old man, and he nodded to no one in particular. He turned to head out.

The old man asked, You just passing through, or you plan on staying?

Ragmar kept moving, not looking back.

You staying for long, sonny?

Ragmar retreated toward the back of the tiny station store. He found the door he was looking for; he went out the back way.

No one saw Ragmar get into his car and drive off. Instead they watched, transfixed, as the dark cloud travelled from the station down the street. The storm moved directly along the main road into the heart of town. Even though the sun was now warming their soaked bodies, they were left with a sudden chill. This was not the real rain they had been waiting for, praying for. It was not the storm that was going to relieve them.

As Ragmar drove farther into town, still untouched by the dark cloud following him, he continued to draw looks of bewilderment from the locals and noticed a difference within himself. A nerve in his body struck a nerve, which struck another nerve, until his whole body began shaking with such a force that he trembled like an epileptic. He began to drive erratically. He was out of control. With his last bit of will, he managed to pull over to the side of the road, where he convulsed violently, falling down onto the passenger seat with a thud. A crowd of people, thinking he’d been struck by lightning, ran to his aid as the cold, dark sky moved away from him and down the street. As the townspeople hovered above Ragmar, his large eyes wide open, vacant, beautiful, unblinking, they gasped. They sensed a watchful eye from an alien force that they did not recognize. When Ragmar’s left eyelid quivered ever so lightly, the moment passed. Someone called for a doctor. Standing over him, the others encouraged him to hang in there. When the doctor arrived some time later, the crowd was gone and Ragmar was sitting up, staring straight ahead, down the road, where a little girl had been fatally hit by a school bus only moments after Ragmar’s attack.

The dark sky hovered over the entire town. The soil let out a musty smell. Plants wilted in the lifeless ground. People talked, which turned to gossip, which turned to Ragmar, which turned to fear, which turned to hate. Like lichen that gradually transforms rock into life-giving soil, Ragmar had the ability to alter things in his immediate environment, but unlike the lichen, it occurred at a much more rapid pace. The transformation had just begun. Again.

Chapter 2

Heather was just like her mum. Everything had to be done in a frantic manner. Overthinking things meant not living, which meant boredom and inactivity. Both she and her mum would try to get Heather’s father to participate in their fervent activities, but he was usually an old stick-in-the-mud, as her mum would call him, and Heather would eventually call him as well. The father, might well have had reason to be upset, but he was a good-natured stick-in-the-mud, possibly too stuck in his mire to protest. So, mother and daughter played together. They baked muffins and pies, which Heather’s father happily ate. Wondrous odours wafted through the household air early on Saturday mornings. He’d probably sleep in otherwise, since his evening shifts as a guard at one of the local banks brought him home late Friday nights. He was always rather fatigued. Doris liked to tease Frank about being tired from such a restful job.

His heightened sense of smell woke him early this particular Saturday morning. His nose leading the way, he entered the kitchen. He saw his beloved women at the counter, and he gasped as his daughter turned to him covered white with flour from head to toe. This ghostly sight vanished when she opened her mouth, the redness of her tongue and inner cheeks contrasting vividly with the bleached powder. She was laughing. Giggling with all her might. She was a miniature version of her mum. It doubled the effect of love he felt for his wife. It didn’t seem possible that his love could grow stronger over the years, but it had. An older father, as well as an older husband, he’d waited a long time to find love. He sat gazing at the television on weekends, not really watching anything in particular but going over his great fortune in his mind. He wondered how such an average man could have attracted such a woman, only to be given a second, wondrous creature who loved him with an equal force. He didn’t feel worthy of such love, of such good fortune. Fate or whatever it was, was certainly a weird thing. It helped alleviate any harm that he might be hanging on to from an imperfect past. It helped reduce the bad dreams. Whatever it was, it was good.

His wife, though elegant, was far from beautiful. Their child, though well assembled, was far from ideal. Her emotions tended to range from complete gentleness to fitful tantrums. She had a temper which scared her father. She was a difficult child to discipline. When her tantrums subsided, alone in her locked room, she would play with her dolls  poking the eyes, then pulling them out. When Frank and Doris would finally let her out, after the wild screaming had ceased, she would refuse to come out, choosing instead to stare blankly at the white wall in front of her as she sat in a corner of her room. Or, she would glare defiantly into her eyeless dolls. She could look as expressionless as they did. She could go days without eating. They couldn’t understand her extreme mood swings. The littlest things could set her off. She could suddenly fly off at the most inappropriate times. There were no real reasons behind her explosive nature. However, if there was one trigger, it was somewhere within Frank. One look, one extended gaze at her father, almost penetrating into him, and Heather would begin to tremble. A look of fear and anxiety would overtake her. Both parents assumed his sympathetic nature might have brought out her sensitive side. Frank would try to look away from her. It was hard not to make eye contact with his beautiful daughter.

It was the trances after the tantrums which scared them the most. It was usually Frank who would succumb. He feared Heather’s hunger strikes might go on indefinitely. "She has to eat, Doris. If she doesn’t eat soon, she might remain in that state forever." Frank seemed to understand her catatonic state more than her excited behaviour. There was a certain look, a blankness in Heather’s eyes which he could see. It was an emptiness which also lay somewhere in him.

Despite Heather’s troubling behaviour, the father saw perfection bordering on the sublime in his little family. Day after gruelling day, he came home cheerful. His family was his lifeline. He was intoxicated by that moment with his wife and child giggling at him, all covered in flour. It was so natural and complete. Time ceased to exist. Snap! It was registered in his mind like a photograph. This moment would never completely leave. It would keep him happy the rest of his natural life. I don’t deserve to be so happy, he thought.

Daddy, don’t just stand there looking at us. Eat some of the muffins. Tell us if they’re any good, Heather said, squealing with delight.

Daddy didn’t move.

Come on Daddy, don’t be a ol’ stick-in-the-mud. Try one, she chided him playfully.

He looked at her with her hands on her hips, her head tilted to one side, just like her mum. Heather made the first move. She handed him a muffin, her little arm outstretched, trying to meet one of his hands which lay slack at his sides. Frank gazed down at the muffin in the opened palm. It was attached to something he wanted. It prompted him into action. He leaned forward and down. They were face to face. But he didn’t make eye contact. He concentrated on the other parts of her face: her white little upturned nose; her soft white cheeks; her small, pointed white chin; her high white forehead, just like his. The sight of his pancake-faced daughter made him laugh. Both were now chuckling, shaking with joy. The muffin fell to the ground. Oops. Sorry, Daddy. I’ll get you another one.

It’s okay, sweetheart, accidents happen. This one is fine. As he bent to pick up the fallen muffin, a sudden inexplicable sadness overcame him. He felt cold. Heather turned her back to him and moved towards her mum. Mother and daughter continued with their baking as if he wasn’t even there.

Frank took his muffin to the livingroom, where he placed it on the coffee table. He watched it, guarding it as though it were a piece of him. He didn’t much feel like eating that morning. That muffin was much too precious.

Later that morning, Frank was awakened from a chesterfield nap by his spirited daughter, who was now devoid of flour and all dressed up to go out. She was wearing her favourite play pants and lucky shirt. He sat up groggily.

Daddy, can I go over to Janey’s house to play?

Sure, if it’s okay with your mum, he said, his eyes still closed. He found it very hard to emerge after a morning nap and thought he might still be in REM mode.

She says I can, but she can’t drive me because she has laundry to do, bills to pay, people to call, a yard that hasn’t been mowed in weeks —

Okay, okay, I get it, he said before she mentioned every task that his wife had listed.

So, can I?

What’s that again?

Can I go to Janey’s?

Sure, sure. Don’t be late though. Make it home in time for supper. Maybe you can help your mum out with the dessert, he said, then sunk back down heavily.

Come on, Daddy, open your eyes — get up, she demanded as she pulled on his right arm in the hope of raising her slothful father. You’ve got to drive me. It’s too far for me to walk.

Mmm, nonsense. When I was your age, I walked to school in blizzards, tornados, hurricanes, floods . . . he said in his typical, exaggerated manner. And my school was more than three miles away. I used to come home for lunch as well. Don’t worry so much about . . . like your mother that way . . .

Heather put her hands on her hips and let a soft, exasperated sigh escape from her lips. She didn’t believe a word he was saying. Although, the thought of going alone was intriguing. It meant freedom and a chance to go by Matthew’s house, the boy she had had a crush on ever since kindergarten, where he’d let her play with him and the other boys. Maybe he would be outside. Maybe he would invite her in. Maybe they’d play together, get married, then have oodles of children with names like Dorothy, Camellia, Constance, Angel — all girls of course.

Are you sure it’s okay, Daddy? she whispered one more time for reassurance, secretly hoping he wouldn’t change his mind.

Frank, fast asleep, didn’t hear. She ran gleefully to the door. Today, she was a big person. Life awaited Heather no more; Heather had found it.

Frank stirred a little when Heather had enthusiastically slammed the door, but he did not awaken. His eyes never even opened throughout their entire conversation.

Skipping down the quiet avenue, Heather turned the corner before the street where Tommy, the boy who always bullied her, lived. He called her names she didn’t understand and described things to her that she didn’t want to know. Doing this meant she had to take the long way to Janey’s, but it was worth it to avoid Tommy. The long way also meant going by Matthew’s house. It was a win-win situation, as Daddy would say.

When she got to the end of Pine Avenue, she turned left onto Sycamore and continued on to Main Street — the same street where the old-fashioned gas station stood just outside the heart of the town. A continuation of the highway, the outsiders always raced along this street much too fast. Mummy hated that busy street and that ratty little garage; the old, rotted pumps; and the bums who just hung around there doing nothing but gossiping and wasting away their lives. Heather also hated it; it gave her the creeps. Today, she noticed that the station was even more gloomy: a dark cloud was hovering over it. Extra-creepy, she thought, and a chill ran down her spine. She wouldn’t let it ruin her good day, though. She thought of nice things — like Matthew. His house was right around the corner, on a tranquil road parallel to Sycamore Avenue. Her heart leapt at the thought; her legs moved a little faster; her skip a little higher. Janey would understand if I didn’t make it to her house, she reasoned to herself. Heather moved away from the ominous cloud to the refuge of Matthew’s house which lay closer to the heart of town.

As luck would have it, Matthew was outside his house digging a hole in the front lawn with a small knife. Heather was overjoyed and terrified at the same time. Boys were starting to make her nervous in a way they hadn’t before. Apprehensively, she moved in closer for an inspection of the future, Mr. Heather Caulding.

What ya doin’, Matthew?

Matthew, knowing full well that she was approaching but giving no sign of recognition, continued his arduous digging — his hole to nowhere. He was hard at work. Work that could not be easily interrupted by the likes of girls. He dug harder, faster, working the little pocket knife that his father gave him on his eighth birthday with the ease and skill of any lawn digger of any age, at any time. His intentions were obvious only to him; Heather’s eight-year-old presence only increased the fervour of his digging.

Heather dodged a flying clump of grass and soil and moved in for an even closer inspection, lowering her head to within inches of the flying blade. Cool earth dusted her face and hair. She squealed as it got into her eyes. Ow!

Matthew looked up, annoyed. Well, that’s what you get when you get too close. You have to be more careful when I’m busy doing work. What are you doing here anyway?

I just wanted to see . . . I was on my way to Janey’s.

Matthew shook his head. You’re going the wrong way. She lives that way. He pointed with the blade of his knife. You’re going the long way.

"I like this way better."

Hmm. Doesn’t make sense to go all the way around. Distance seemed to be of great concern to Matthew.

But Heather wasn’t deterred. She bent down on the grass with Matthew. Can I help? She reached into the hole, trying to dig out some earth. How far down do you think we can go — China?

Matthew ignored her useless questions. He tolerated two of her handfuls of earth. On her third attempt to help him dig out the soil, her hand got too close to the knife. Ow!

"I told you not to get too close!"

Heather gazed at Matthew with confusion. She sucked at her finger, a drop of blood entering her mouth, the taste salty on her tongue. Why you being so mean? she asked, her index finger still in her mouth.

I have stuff to do. Matthew suddenly turned away from Heather and began to dig another hole.

Heather’s lower lip began to quiver.

I don’t have time for stupid girls today. Matthew turned towards Heather, his usually warm brown eyes filled with a cold terror. Go . . . away.

She looked into the terrifying coldness of his eyes. He appeared abject. It was a sudden transformation. She had never seen this side of Matthew. Her body began to tremble. She could feel an attack coming on. How could the love of her life have said something so cruel to her? She took to the streets. She ran away as fast as she could.

Heather continued on, running down Matthew’s street onto Main Street, where she crossed the street, blinded by her tears. The school bus driver never saw her coming. What was a school bus doing out on a Saturday anyway? In July? It didn’t matter. Everyone in the town, including the bus driver, seemed too transfixed by a cold, dark cloud that loomed over the town. No one knew where it had come from.

When Matthew finally looked up after Heather had gone, he sensed such a cloud moving his way. Unable to make sense of it, he shrugged it off. He continued digging.

When such news hits, it hits hard.

Frank’s mental photograph returned. It wouldn’t go away. It lingered, reminding him of a time that was full of bliss.

He should have seen it coming. He should have sensed the dangers. There must had been a sign. How could he be so blind? Now, he must erase the past — to move forward.

All the past came into view. The past that wouldn’t let go — including his own frightening childhood. The past and present were catching up. Linked together, they were too much. Disgusting pictures alongside beautiful pictures flashed in his mind. Somehow, he felt responsible for it all. There now only seemed to be one way out.

Chapter 3

A crowd gathered around the little girl. Everyone felt helpless. Then the murmurs started. How did it happen? Whose fault was it? Could it have been avoided? Tears flowed. Heads shook. Fingers pointed. Knuckles clenched. God was called upon, but suspicion reigned.

Different people saw different things when the child was struck. One woman, looking down at the fallen child, was reminded of a lost puppy. A grief-stricken moment at the age of three. Her first experience of loss — the experience itself lost all those years, either suppressed or forgotten due to her young age. She ran home suddenly hoping to find her husband and two sons safe and sound. Another woman, Mrs. Thorpe, was practical. She ushered people away from the scene with her wooden cane, telling them the girl needed space. She knew the child was gone but she saw the body as a distinct being — space and respect must be given to all, even the departed. She consoled the crying. She found reasons for the despairing. She found a way to transform her pragmatism into a gift to the less fortunate around her — the over-emotional. One elderly gentleman, feeling a hand reach out to him from behind, whipped around to see Mrs. Thorpe pawing him as though he was in need of rescuing, like a helpless child. I am not in need of your assistance, Mrs. — . Mrs. Thorpe, witnessing the anger in his eyes, retreated back and out of the crowd. As she was hastily retreating, she bumped into a large grey man in a grey business suit. Her head bumped into his chest, broad and proud. She could smell his maleness mixed in with other aromas she did not recognize. He seemed so strong, so rigid, so fierce. When she looked up, he was smiling — his expression one of complete joy and serenity. She thought she knew him, but he appeared different to her now. Fear and excitement entered her. She wanted to stay. She ran away.

Mrs. Thorpe headed home, alone and scared. She locked all her doors. She hugged all her cats. She rearranged the photograph of her and her deceased husband on the mantelpiece. It was their wedding day photo. The curtains tightly drawn, she pulled back just enough at one end so she could peer out into the lonely street. She shivered. It no longer looked like the same street she had once known.

The grey suited business man, sitting in the window of a restaurant across the street when the young child was struck, was a witness to the whole scene. He arose from his chair without a sound, following the surreal, muffled sounds of the accident. Transfixed by the simultaneous image of beauty and horror, he was lured out into the streets by something equally beautiful and hideous within himself. Oddly, he felt alive. A part of him knew what he was supposed to feel but a wayward curiosity drew him to the scene. Morbidness ran through him in an almost tingling, exultant manner. Suppressed feelings were being awakened. He wanted to know more.

The mad woman who had run into him was now gone. He could move in for a closer inspection. He wanted to touch the dead girl; her allure overpowered him. With all the excitement in the air, the little girl was free. Mrs. Thorpe had done a good job at securing her space. As the grey businessman inched his way into the crowd before the authorities could claim her, he spotted a peculiar-looking man, almost feminine, kneeling before the girl. He stopped. His joy turned to anger. He watched as this strange man’s tears fell upon the young child. Then, before his very eyes, he saw the child rise. He thought he saw her come right out of herself, out of her clothes, out of her skin. It appeared as if she were made of liquid, pure water. The apparition waded through the crowd, her movements slow and fluid. Her long blonde hair dripped downward; it weighed her down. But no liquid fell from her. Was she merely a mirage? The businessman looked at the others in the crowd. They continued to move frantically about. They walked past the liquid girl; she, in turn, passed right through them. He could see right through her. He studied her fluid motion. His focus was extremely intense. It looked as if she were seeking something, someone in particular. She moved gracefully but heavily, as though moving through a rushing stream. Perhaps it was she who was the stream. Surrounded by the furious flow, the large businessman couldn’t move. No words came out of his mouth. He concentrated on the mysterious child. He was caught in unfamiliar ground. He was travelling down the stream too fast. Suddenly, he was in an ocean. The undertow was pulling him down. He felt desperate, out of control, weak. He was drowning. He looked down at the ground. He hadn’t moved. The little girl found him. She was no longer transparent. She was fully formed. She put her little, powder-white hands in his big, beefy paw and whispered very softly, It’s all right. The large man — terrified — fainted. The little girl smiled above him as he lay on the ground below her. She then turned around and waded back through the crowd and into her body before she was missed. Before crawling all the way back into her rigid frame, she paused halfway. Her ghostly image sitting upright, she saw the man in the faded jean jacket kneeling before her, his tears flowing down onto her face. She kissed him on his large beak of a nose. His tears stopped. He rose, gliding effortlessly through the crowd, oblivious to the murmurs that followed him as the vision that had led him there faded into the others.

Standing in the hot sun, they all watched the stranger as the street dried quickly around them in the wake of that fluke storm. Too sporadic, too fast, too sudden, it alleviated nothing. The town felt drier than ever.

Chapter 4

Ragmar was one of those babies you hear about that was left on a doorstep. The kind of story no one believes. A tale used to prove a point, a symbol of other things going on within the story. Wasn’t that how Pharaoh’s daughter, Nefure, found Moses? In this case, instead of being wrapped in a blanket and sent down the Nile in a basket, Ragmar was placed, naked, in a recycling box and left between the curb and the doorway along a walkway to a middle-class house in the middle of suburbia on garbage day. The depositor’s intention was rather unclear. He couldn’t have been more than a day or two old. Though no note was found with little Ragmar, across his tiny chest was marked in red (was it blood?) a faint symbol of some sorts . Across his belly was , and on his back the word ragmar had been written by an unsteady hand. Ragmar he would be.

His parents never told him how he came into their lives exactly. How could they tell their only begotten son that his biological mother (or father) put him out to be recycled on garbage day, on a stranger’s walkway? Do you tell your child that his parent almost made it to the doorstep? That perhaps they thought the