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THE TOUCH STONE

into the vessel of water, the water appeared benign, there was no indication it would burn, but burn it did, he grimaced and called for strength but kept his hand down deep inside the burning heat, he could feel his skin and flesh dissolve in what was now a frothing mass. He had garnered faith, for why had the man conducted this procedure if not for his own benefit? He searched his demeanour for reassurance or answers but he displayed no emotion; after what seemed an eternity the man gently pulled at his arm, only then did he remove his hand; he refused to look, not wanting to see the remnants of flesh and bone. He felt him turn his hand over, he finally took courage and followed his gaze and looked at his palm - without blemishes! without any marks! how could this be? He had expected to be confronted by a withered stick-like residue but his hand was untouched, he looked closer and saw a small shape appear, a whirlpool spinning and moving around the life-lines in his palm, stopping occasionally and in its place a dark slate-like image in silhouette appeared, as if a small French puppet show was playing out in his hand. It transformed again and spun, then stopped suddenly and yet another image, many scenes appeared in the same way, scenes that confused him, the final scene he recognised was himself, but an old man now, he had grown a beard and was seated on a horse, a young couple stood outside a small cottage and bid him farewell, as if he was going on yet another journey. 

He made a fist as if the memory of this would recede, this had occurred many years since but still the recollections would return as an echo on quieter moments such as these.

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He looked across, she was still sleeping, her arm on the sheet, her hand upturned, she had beautiful long manicured fingers, he recalled the numerous times she has sat opposite, her elbows on the table slowly massaging her fingers and hands, peering over them as she spoke, as she laughed; he knew she was happy in his company and also happy to be in his bed - but he also knew he was distant and she was waiting, desiring to know more. He had many things he needed to say, so many stories that he himself did not fully understand which he needed to share. He would occasionally unveil a story, she would listen intently, but he knew she was not yet ready, for he himself was uncertain of the whole trajectory of the situation he had found himself in.

He placed the thumb of his left hand into his palm and pushed, recalling that one moment when he was afraid. A shape had appeared, as the others, in silhouette; a black angular shape, at first he assumed it to be a plough, but he knew more than most no-one worked the land no more, no-one toiled and fed the earth and yet here it was, as if preparing to furrow the skin deep from his palm. It had appeared at other times,

     'there it is again!...' his colleague pointed to the wall and by the tone of his voice he was also afraid. He did not understand, how had he witnessed the same shape that he assumed was only  personal to him? The shape was on the wall in the form of a shadow, as it began to fade he saw the shape was not a plough but a weather vane in the form of a plough.

He had seen the vane for a third time, as he glanced upon it the arrow moved, stopping at a point in time, he looked in its direction - was this a place he should venture to? There was a vast expanse ahead of him, inviting, but he knew the fear was an indication beyond all that he could

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