Pneumaion, Part 4

“A late night my friend?”
The words were soft spoken and Jonas tripped mid-stride over the near whisper.
“Steven?”
The young man stepped slightly forward in the shadows that clung round him and held out his hand.
“Hello Jonas. I’ve been waiting for you. I wanted to ask…”
Steven’s hesitant greeting was interrupted by the quick, breezy grip of Jonas’ gigantic hand as it covered his own and pulled him out into the vacant stare of the streetlight. To be gripped by Jonas was to feel one’s self more vibrantly alive via the sheer energy of the man and Steven let the laughter that clamored in his throat run free. How different this was from the hunched tension of the reluctant Thomas. Steven glanced up at the large man in front of him and grinned.
“It’s a grand relief to find you. I don’t mean to trouble you, but I wanted to ask again about that lecture you gave yesterday, I was…”
But again he was interrupted by a swift grip of his shoulder and the rumble of Jonas’ voice.
“I shall be happy to chat as long as you please my intelligent friend. However, I think the both of us need something on our stomachs to feed such strenuous thoughts as shall soon fill our brains. Come home, meet my wife and we’ll talk there.”
It took but a glad nod on Steven’s part for Jonas to stride fast ahead into the gathering shadows. Steven trotted slightly behind, studying the almost fantastic shape of the body and soul of the man who walked before him.
Jonas was a large man whose eccentric shape reflected the originality of his soul. He was solid as his old fashioned ideas, thickly built up every inch of his tall frame. But the whimsy of his spirit played in the curl of his grizzled hair and red of his apple cheeks and curious stumble of his gait. He had a roundish face with prominent eyes that fixed their friendly blueness on whoever caught his attention. Jonas was a comfortable man, the sort whose delight in the various aspects of his life was an invitation to others to share it. He had not always been comfortable, the getting of a wife had done much to ease him into his present, usually glad self. He had been a restive soul but Lily had found him early and gentled him with her sweetness.
They came by many small, winding lanes and approached Jonas’ brave little cottage from the back, catching Lily as she stepped out to fetch a sprig of basil from the spunky little pot that grew under the shadow of the back step. It was an edges and corners dwelling, crushed up under the eaves of its bad-tempered older brothers. The roof came a good two stories shorter than those of the blockies to either side but the bright house did not seem cowed by their shadows, thrusting the light of its windows and the red merriment of its door into the slum-like gloom.
Ornament of almost any kind was regulated, but Lily had managed to curtain the windows and place candles in such a way that there was a shy loveliness to her home. That was from the outside, for on the inside, the shyness gave way to a laughing beauty that abounded in brightly colored walls and tumbled shelves of books and treasures. But Steven could not see this yet, and so was hard pressed to match the eager strides of his host.
Jonas stopped at sight of Lily. She was unaware of them and they watched as she glanced back into the kitchen, stealthily pulling the door not quite shut behind her. Then she too ate her daily bread of wind and sky, looking out upon the evening as if vast vistas of mountains were heaped before her instead of the sharp edged quiet of the city.
“Lily,” Jonas laughed his wife’s name as he strode quickly toward her, grinning to see the jump of her shoulders at being surprised in her solitude. “I think we’ve caught you unawares.”
“Why how impertinent of you my love,” she laughed back, “I ought to know by now that there is no escape for such as me. But you are a most welcome finder.”
And she reached up her strong, gentle arms to pull him close.
“Welcome home Jonas,” she whispered, her hands soft but tight round him. When she pulled away he caught a glimpse of the hushed relief pooling in the blue of her eyes and heard the unspoken thanks for another night to be glad in his homecoming. It was a dark thing in his eyes, a heavy thing to him that the anger of his colleagues should fall on her as worry for him. But it was a bright thing to watch the bravery with which she bore it. Once again he watched her push away the shadows, shake her blond head so the wisps of her twined hair flew back from her face as she lifted it. She stood back, straight and smiling, and turned the quiet of her eyes on Steven.
“And who is it that you have brought me Jonas?”

Pneumaion, Part 3

It took but the breath of a moment for Steven to gather his scattered surprise. With a single fluid motion that seemed the sleight of a magician, he had gathered coat and books, leapt out of his chair and reached the door, leaving the bells to clang their mystification at the ways of men.
The heady damp of the the storm torn wind rushed down to greet him with a broken cry, coming up behind him and pushing him down the street. Steven gasped with the sudden chill, but ducked into his coat and leapt away down the dark road.
“Thomas, Thomas what has possessed you?”
Steven managed to just grab his friend’s shoulder. Thomas whirled round with uplifted eyebrows, his hat pulled down tight on his head, his coat pulled close round his crossed arms. He stopped, but did not speak, merely backing under the eaves of a nearby house to escape a drenching as the rain came suddenly back in a mad dash of storm.
Not a word did he speak in answer to Steven’s question, only stared, with shoulders and eyebrows and very mouth hunched tight.
“Forgive the foolishness of an old friend Thomas,” Steven held out his arms in a gesture of helplessness, “you know my crazy ways when it comes to ideas. I’m no different than I was when I was half my current height. You know that… Thomas, what is wrong with you?”
Thomas glanced up and abruptly sighed.
“I’m sorry Steven. You’re my old friend.” And Thomas’ shoulders settled themselves into their usual places. But his eyebrows did not, and his voice continued tense as he went on.
“But that’s just it. You are my old friend, but we’ve, I guess it’s that we’ve parted ways,” Thomas’ words stumbled out of his mouth, but Steven was quick to catch them.
“But what do you mean? We’re pretty much the same as we ever were; same families and personalities, both students, I know we have divergent interests, but we always have,”
“Yes, but you are changed Steven.” Thomas voice carried a sudden finality of opinion that told of long thought on the subject. “It’s Jonah. You are ridiculously fascinated by Jonah, you actually listen to him as if what he said was true,”
“Oh, so that’s it.”
And now Steven was as quiet as Thomas. They both looked down, Steven finally remembering to button his flapping coat as he stepped out of the rain and into the doorstep. It was a shallow, narrow bit of space that forced them to stand side-by-side so that neither could see the other’s face. The rain slanted by them over the streamlined road and splattered the edges of their boots. And then it died and a hush as sudden as the storm startled the both of them. But Thomas, for once spoke first.
“Steven, I mean no disrespect to you, because I know how enviously agile your brain is. But you are a fool to listen to Jonah, doctor of literature though he be. He’s preaching about things that not only we as people, but entire societies put behind them long ago. You shouldn’t quest after the past like that. Beauty and freedom and the soul, and all that jibberish about reclaiming them. Face up to it Steven; we live in a new age, a world of technology and productivity, it’s incredible.. You can’t go back to all those things now, or at least, you can’t in the real world. You are squandering your brain. And I hate to see you left behind dreaming and writing reams about who knows what while the rest of us learn how to work this. I hate it.”
It was the most Thomas had spoken all day and the effort seemed to exhaust him for he heaved a great sigh that broke the ramrod straightness of his stance. When he turned to Steven, shuffling awkwardly round with the cold stones scraping his shoulder, his face wore a look of near appeal that altered his features by its need. Steven saw it was a hint of astonishment, but he could not muster the words to comfort the pleading.
“Thomas, I understand. And that is all I will say right now.”
“But Steven, surely you see…”
“No, please Thomas. We won’t discuss this at present. I have just begun to think truely about what Johah. has said and I can’t represent it well yet in words. But it wakes a hunger in me.”
Thomas face wore such puzzlement that Steven almost laughed. And yet ached for his friend at the same time.
“Do you feel nothing when he speaks of the old ways and the old songs?”
“Yes,” said Thomas, and his shoulders almost imperceptibly straightened. “I feel irritation. As should you.”
The pleading and the quiet were gone now, in their place a buzzing, uncomfortable silence that hummed between them. There was no ending their time with agreement so Steven gave a nod, and for old time’s sake, a quick clap on Thomas shoulder and walked away.
Thomas almost turned, almost called after him, but when he did his friend was gone and no sight of him could be seen though Thomas craned his neck to glimpse the farthest shadows of the curving road. He straightened his coat, opened his umbrella and marched away, with the click, click, click of his shoes echoing behind him…

Jonas B. loved irregularity. Not the maverick kind that jutted out into the decencies of life and put the world at elbows, but the decent kind. The winsome grace of a changeful world that convinced one of the personality of the earth. The irregularity of weather, for example. No matter how hard they tried, no one had yet mastered the march of clouds and dance of wind. And when Jonas ambled home in the twilights of hot days spent in debate with his fellow thinkers, that sky was a comfort. It was an especial comfort on this evening, for he was tempted at times to think that what they said of him was true; that he was a dreamer whose ideals had ceased even to deserve the respect of rational minds. He knew of course, that he had been born into the wrong age. he supposed God had done that on purpose just to keep someone around to remind the modern world from whence it came.
Not that he remembered much of the world before mechanization. When the earth had stood on the cusp of all its change, he had been a child watching movies about a future with robot servants and flying machines. Back then the coming years had seemed a splendid blur of ease and pleasure, enabled by a perfected knowledge of science and technology. The reality was a simple regimentation. A sameness; of houses and clothes and ideas. The streets he walked were perfect in their precision, the houses exact in their modern lines. Not a bit of rubbish in the streets, even the fallen leaves had been instantly disposed of by the system built to sweep the cobbles every hour or so.
He had never thought that a clean world would bother him, but this one did. He wanted dust and the heady scent of fallen leaves and the jutting beauty of an untamed tree; the few, vivid images that haunted his memories of childhood. Such beauties were hard to come by in his world. And though he fought for them, and begged the men around him to consider what the loss of wild spaces and unfettered fields would be, he was unheeded. He was scorned.
And so he walked this evening with his eyes on the river of sky that ran between the tallest buildings. A storm and thunder sea of gold met his eyes and he felt the freshness of last rain on his face as he walked. Ah, the wind. And the scent of fallen sky and the hush of shattered clouds. So used was he to this journey home in the deserted hour of the evening that he did not look where he was going and so nearly walked straight through the young man who slunk out to greet him from the corner shadows…

Pneumaion, Part 2

Thomas shifted in his chair at this enigmatical remark; the only outward sign of his intense irritation with his uncanny friend. A dull silence fell as Steven turned his eyes back to his book and Thomas stared very straight ahead. There was an elasticity of thought lately in Steven that positively confounded the pattern exactness of Thomas’ ideas. Whether Thomas had been born with a regimented mind, or made the choice of it as a man, very few could tell. But he had a march of well-chosen thoughts and self-willed belief that could not bear to withstand even the whisper of a strike against their validity. Steven was presumptuous to think himself even qualified to contemplate such ideas.
But beyond that, the questions, those needless musings regarding mortality and the soul, asked by the unpredictable man across from him, sent a strange and sudden quiver of anger through Thomas that shook him like an unknown fear.
He sat for a moment as the odd sensation vibrated through his thought, sat and let it suffuse the waiting rows of his words with the vim they needed.
A sudden flame lashed out from the aging fire, whipping its light across Thomas’ face so that Steven looked up. Thomas sat straighter.
“Steven,” he began, leaning forward now in his turn, “why, I mean truly, why are you like this so often lately, do you do it as a joke? Do you ask these questions to provoke me to animation?”
Thomas drew a breath, his face so taut that Steven could not doubt his determination to conceal all animation whatsoever. Steven, however, cocked a highly animated eyebrow and put his book down.
“What?” he half laughed, throwing his hands dramatically for good measure, “do you never ask such questions? I’ll admit, the day has me in a rather giddy mood, I don’t know why, must be the storm. But I don’t ask the questions idly. Truly,” and Steven leaned forward to meet the banked fire of Thomas’ eyes with an equal dance of shadow and flame in his own, “I do ask them seriously. I’ve been thinking of them, well, quite a lot lately. I suppose it’s rather a dangerous thing to read the old classics, they are…”
But he was interrupted by the industrious tap of the waitress’ shoes on the weathered wood floor. In an instant more, the hearthstones that served as their table were laden with two fat, steaming mugs and a miniature jug of cream. Steven reached for his cup instantly, burning his fingers, and not minding in the least as he inhaled the fragrance of the fresh brew.
“The elixir of thought, I am quite sure,” he smiled, sending a thank you glance up to the girl. Thomas waited to seize his waiting mug until the girl was almost gone, but nearly dropped it again when Steven suddenly reached a restraining hand out to the her as she hurried away.
“Wait, just a moment, Would you answer a silly question for me, I mean the question isn’t silly, I am for asking, but all the same?”
She gave Steven a quizzical smile and glanced questioningly at Thomas, but turned back impatiently, waiting with lifted eyebrows for the unguessed question.
“Do you think a person could lose their soul? Or, I suppose, do you think about the soul at all, it’s rather an issue of debate between my friend here and myself.”
She laughed, suddenly and freely, casting away her practiced busyness and crossing her arms.
“Are you serious? The soul? What are you, a priest in training?”
“No indeed,” and Steven laughed heartily at that, “no by all that’s good, I’m not. I just want to know as a matter of debate, do you ever consider your soul?”
“Only on very misty mornings and very foggy nights. When else is there time?”
And with that, she gave a laughing nod to each of them, rolling her eyes as she resumed her fallen hurry and tapped quickly away.
“Ah well, I guess I am the only one, at least in here,” began Steven, burrowing back into his chair, but was stopped as Thomas stood abruptly.
“Why must you do that?.”
The words were tersely spoken and Thomas’ movements were equally crisp as he pulled his coat into unwrinkled attention over his shoulders.
“Why must you drag normal people into your stupid discussions? You are so rude, pulling her into a ridiculous debate… ah, I simply can’t sit here with you and discuss impossible things any more. All day I’ve noticed it and I won’t stand it anymore. You have grown strange, and I know why. You are listening to people and reading things you never should, and I will not encourage it with my presence. Goodbye.”
He thumped a coin down on the table to pay for his untouched mug of coffee and strode out the door…..

Pneumaion, Part One

They stepped into the dusky shop as the bell trilled their hurried arrival out of the torrential rain. For an instant they stood still, adjusting to the shadowlight of the firelit room, drawing deep, rather steamy breaths and shaking off their coats. Steven was quickest, wriggling out of his patched jacket and lunging for the farthest corner in the dim room where his chair, battered, beaten, and quite beloved, was awaiting him. Tall and careless, he slung his coat onto the bricks of the hearth, pushing the glasses up higher on his nose, shaking the rain out the dark tangle he called his hair. Within seconds he was quite at his ease, feet propped easily on the bricks, shoulders sunk deep in the battered red velvet as he watched his much slower friend claim the seat opposite him.
While Steven had been settling himself, Thomas had been straightening the wind and storm out of his well-kept person. His black coat was draped over the quiet dignity of his arm, and as he took the plumped armchair opposite Steven, he smoothed his collar and ran a hand through the short of crop of his dark hair.
Neither said a word for several minutes. The fire had reached the middle age of its loveliness and burned steadily in a mellow dance of gold and crimson. The crackle of its quiet flames was the only noise to disturb the ease of their silence. Steven stared off into a far corner, Thomas cocked an eyebrow and seemed to stare absently at Steven, but neither spoke until the waitress appeared to take their orders. They broke their silence with, “coffee please, very hot, with cream,”. When she was gone, Steven suddenly set his feet on the floor with a firm thump, planted his hands on his knees and leaned full forward.
“So Thomas, my friend, could a man really lose his soul?”
Thomas stared just for an instant and felt as if he had somehow stumbled into a strange story where a wild-haired man accosted him with impossible questions. Steven was a sight, an eery, elfin sight with the shadows twined round his face and the light glinting off his glasses, obscuring his eyes. He was leaning forward almost far enough to touch Thomas with an intensity that belied the seeming carelessness of his question.
“Well,” Thomas almost sniffed, crossing his long legs and adjusting himself so that he was entirely out of Steven’s reach, “how could anyone know? It’s one of those grandfather type questions that no one can answer and so no one ought ask. You will harp on about the impossible topics, won’t you? But if you must, then I would recommend the classics, Faust for example?”
And so saying, he tapped the cover of one of the worn books at his elbow.
“Try this,” he said, holding the book out to Steven as if he would drop a pet a bone to placate it. Steven’s eyes, however, grew instantly bright, and he snatched the book from his friend.
“Have you read it?” he queried.
“Of course not, I’m no interested in such mental gymnastics as involve the imagining of losing one’s soul. Mine is quite safe. I do sometimes wonder about yours though. You know Steven, you are beginning to get rather impossibly strange,” and Thomas cocked his eyebrow very purposefully.
Steven merely grinned.
“Oh really?”…