The Cloak of Dreams

PART 1: THE QUEST

C h a p t e r 1

Jonathan moved his head instinctively, with the ease of long practice. The back of his father’s hand rarely made contact any more, but this was one occasion when his reflexes let him down. The blow caught him squarely on the right ear, forcing him off balance. He sprawled on the floor, stunned. In the past few months he had been struck many times, but the blows had only been token gestures. This was the first time his father had lashed out with full intent to hurt. It had been obvious by the fierce expression on his face. Pain seared Jonathan’s head as he fought back the tears that had begun to fill his eyes, but it was nothing compared to the hurt and despair that he felt inside.

His mother had been dead almost a year now, and in the beginning he had cried himself to sleep, night after night. At first his father had clung to him, comforting and consoling, but that had only lasted a few weeks. Then he had begun to change. As the weeks passed, Jonathan watched him retreat more and more within himself. The few drinks he had taken to help ease the pain of his loss, soon became a support that he could not live without. The more dependent he became on alcohol, the more he had distanced himself from his son. And Jonathan could do nothing but watch, as he saw the swift deterioration taking place in a man who had always been kind, gentle, and loving.

With the resilience of a twelve year old, Jonathan had eventually reached a stage of acceptance. His mother would never be forgotten, and her loss mourned for a long time still, but he had, at least, come to terms with the loss. That had not been the case with his father. He had gradually sunk into a deep pit of despair that only his drinking seemed able to ease.

He looked at Jonathan, eyes unfocused, like someone peering through a thick haze. The head swiveled loosely, as though his neck was having difficulty supporting its weight. He was unshaven and his clothes were disheveled. More and more he had taken to sleeping on his favorite chair. And now, having lost his job, he was sliding even faster down the slope to oblivion. For an instant there was the glimmer of regret in his eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it had come, washed away by the thick alcoholic fog in his head.

‘Why’d you do that?’ Jonathan said. There was no anger in his voice, just a deep tone of injustice and hurt. ‘I didn’t do anything.’

‘Well, then…’ the words came out thick and slurred. ‘It’ll do…for the next time. Won’t it?’ He fell back onto the easy chair at his back, his legs unable to support him any longer. For a few moments he stared at his son, though it was doubtful if he could see him. Then his head lolled back at an awkward angle and he was instantly asleep, his mouth wide open. The empty whiskey bottle he had been nursing in his left hand slowly slipped to the floor.

In spite of himself, Jonathan could only feel a deep sadness and love for his father. He knew the hurt he was going through. But why did he have to take it out on him? He cupped his ear with his right hand. It throbbed and felt hot to the touch, but there was no sign of blood when he withdrew it. Gradually the pain began to ease.

He rose and performed the ritual he had become so adept at in the past month or so. He removed his father’s shoes, unbuckled his belt and loosened the tie. The thick alcoholic breath was unpleasant in his nostrils. It hung like a cloud around his father’s head. From the bedroom he brought a spare blanket and covered him, tucking it into the chair at the sides. The senseless body did not move.

Jonathan stood for a moment, watching him, remembering. What had happened to the good times they used to share? His parents had always taken him on holiday, ever since he could remember. There had been carnivals, picture shows, and donkey rides. And all the fun they used to have on the beach, playing with bat and ball, or just splashing in the water. Had those times gone for ever? He stretched across and moved his father’s head to a more comfortable position.

A grunt and an unintelligible mutter was his only reward.

Where were all the magic illusions his father used to bring home for him? The marked playing cards; disappearing coins; and the spring-loaded flowers that would appear from nowhere. Those were the times he had loved best. That was when he and his father would spend a lot of time together, practicing the tricks he brought home. How they would laugh when they went wrong, as they often did. His mother, hearing the laughter, would stop what she was doing in the kitchen and come in to see what all the noise was about. She always finished up joining in the fun, and dinner would be late. But nobody cared. They were happy.

What would happen now he wondered? Of the relations his father had, few of them lived anywhere near at hand. They used to come round occasionally after the death, but as his father’s condition grew worse and his disposition became more cantankerous, their visits became less frequent. Till eventually they stopped coming altogether. Jonathan found it hard to understand why it was that when they were needed most, that was when they were least ready to help. Grown-ups, with the exception of his father and mother, had always been difficult to understand. And now even his father had become like all the rest, distant, unapproachable.

In spite of that, he would do the best he could for him. He was too young to be of any real help, though the experiences of the past few months had given him a maturity beyond his years. Somehow he would find a way to help his father; bring him back from the brink of self-destruction.

It was not a self-assured vow of determination, but a prayer, deep and pleading.

C h a p t e r 2

Jonathan reluctantly made his way back from school. For a while he had forgotten his troubles at home, laughing and mingling with others his own age. He was learning to push all thoughts of home and the past to the back of his mind, at least during school hours. It had now become his only form of escape from the unhappiness he felt at home. He had not seen his father since eight o’clock that morning, where he had lain, still sound asleep on the chair. After washing himself, he had dressed, eaten a meager breakfast and had then prepared his lunch, a crude affair of peanut butter and jam sandwiches.

Gone were the days when his lunch-box would be ready and waiting for him, filled with the things he loved. His mother had always prepared sandwiches with egg mayonnaise, or cheese slices, or any of the things he was fond of. And always there would be an item of fruit, an apple or a banana. Tucked away in the box he would occasionally find a little surprise. Sometimes it would be a chocolate bar, or a packet of fruit gums. And once a week there would be a few extra coins wrapped in a piece of paper, to add to the weekly allowance his father gave him.

There were still some lucid moments in his father’s life; moments when he would realize that life was still going on all around him, and that some things just had to be taken care of. In those sparse spells of sanity he would do a little haphazard shopping, which generally included enough alcohol to see him through the week. Jonathan wondered if he would have bothered to go out at all, if it had not been for the necessity to visit the local liquor shop. But at least it took him out and kept them supplied with the basics they needed. It was a far cry from what he had been used to, and he realized with a wisdom in excess of his years, that those days would never come again.

He opened the door with the key that had been his mother’s. Since he was never sure what condition his father would be in when he got home, he had taken to carrying it around with him. Instantly he was aware that something had changed. It was not immediately apparent, but then he realized that he was breathing cleaner air than he had for weeks. The stale smell of alcohol and badly prepared food had all but gone, and the hallway looked tidier than it had for a long time. For a moment, a little ray of hope entered his mind, but he dare not dwell on it. That there was a sudden change of heart in his father’s attitude seemed just too good to be true.

He closed the door, making his way to the kitchen to put his lunch-box away, and was surprised to find it cleaner than it had been that morning. It was far from perfect. Not the neat and spotless area his mother had taken pride in, but at least some effort had been made to spruce it up. There were some provisions lying beside the sink, bread, butter, potatoes, and a few other necessary items. The refrigerator had also been partially re-stocked, aimlessly and without much thought, but it was a distinct improvement on the past few days.

‘Dad?’ he called out as he moved towards the living room. The little gleam of hope he had been harboring was quickly dispelled as he entered. The room did look a little better than it had done, and the air was more breathable, but his hope that there had been a major change in his father’s attitude was short lived. He was in his usual lifeless position on the chair. Tired from his exertions, Jonathan wondered cynically? Or in his usual drunken stupor? There was a bottle beside him, though only a quarter of it had been consumed. Encouraged by the amount of alcohol still left in the bottle, he shook him gently.

‘Dad, I’m home.’

‘Jona?’ He struggled to open his eyes. ‘What’s the time?’ he asked automatically, pulling himself up on the chair.

Jonathan knew that his father had no interest whatsoever in the time. He had long since stopped caring what time it was, or for that matter, what day