Thresholds II

“No one looks comfortable in an airport, not really. Its too transitory” said the old man as he turned in his seat to me. His breath smelt of cigarettes. The same cigarettes that had stained his fingers the colour of sour butter. “They may look confident, familiar with the artificial lights and vinyl seats, but never relaxed or content.”

He gestured, shaking slightly, and his fingers now took in the whole of the departure lounge.

“The customers are only here on the way somewhere else, and the staff eyes blurring as people speed past to their destinations? ” He laughed, a hawking, death rattle cough. “Well they never intend to stay here. It's not a career, a plan. It's a step somewhere else. A move up the ladder. Never the destination. Remember boy, if you don't touch someone how do you know they aren't a ghost.”

I looked around. Trying to spot a free place in the other rows of wire and plastic seats. Seeing one I dragged myself over. Why do I always attract the weirdos who want to tell me their theory on the world?

The heat in the airport stifled the air, The humidity and carrying a full rucksack (Hand luggage only, avoids too much hurry up and stand still) probably explains the lightheadedness.

The change in scent hit me first. Have you noticed how departure lounges are neutral, in the way that can only be achieved by the 24 hour application of detergent? But now, wet slate? Moss? Pungent and primitive. The air in front of me started to cascade and prance; the bench squirmed under my hand, twisting and organic.

If my vision had faded I would have put it down to a migraine, a fit, a misspent youth, but everything gained clarity. The mingling passengers didn't fade, didn't disappear. They were part of the place's flow and form, they shaped the threshold. In between them moved others, passing; fleeting; spinning. Figures, twisted from ideas of soil, stone and root passed in touching distance of Dolce and Gobbanna and Calvin Klein. At first they seemed gossamer, unformed, half dead or part born. They slipped between, jarring, catching in the spine like a bone carved hook. They ignored me, not walking but flowing through the oblivious crowds, now seemed pale and washed out. In comparison to what? They were hard for the eye to pin down. Some looked like bundles of sticks held together by dirt, silt and matted grass. I could hear their limbs flex and spring back as they moved. The others? Well, the others were hardly there. A light dew hanging in the air would have been more substantial. They had no order when they moved, no destination. But intent hung in the air, something shared and raw; a collective conciousness? A hive mind? Something old and not human burned like the dying embers of a forest fire.

They parted and a figure moved forward. She towered over them, her skin clay and her eyes granite, all carved with spirals, rings, labyrinths. She stared regal and heartless. A living green dress part garment, part skin, clothed her, creeping and shifting as she walked. The queen of Elfland opened her mouth to speak and her retinue turned to face her. Her voice shifted in my head, a raven's beak tearing at my self, my history.

“True Thomas we have waited long for you to return to us.”

Behind me a death rattle laugh, cold like coffin nails, faded on the air.