Oliver - A Short Story

They just wandered at first, tracing the contours of his flesh and sliding through any open cavities they could find. Then every one of them inched its way down and climbed off his foot. He was completely alone in total blackness, naked now, cold and shivering. Traces of residual grime still tainted his bare skin.

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He knelt down and clutched his body to fight off the chill running through his spine. He was no bigger than a toddler. He stared at him with his featureless face, blank and motionless. A thick drop of the black sludge slipped to the tip of his nose. It hung there for a moment, shaking and glistening, until it snapped. Then it came crashing down and splattered on the floor. He brought Jen in through a torn screen door hanging off of its last screw around the back. Nick fumbled roughly with the wrong key for a minute, lobbing motivational curse words at the lock without success, before he stumbled on the right one by chance.

And he remembered two tall, dark figures dragging him in there and locking the door.

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In the morning he had a horrible ache in the pit of his spine and on the balls of his knees. For a long time just laid in bed not thinking of much of anything at all. Then the alarm on his cell phone went off and he forced himself out of bed. The Locked Door is a five-part work-in-progress that I intend to upload bit by bit over the next few weeks.

This is not a final draft. Down the decayed wooden steps, in the deep dark of the basement there was an old wooden door. It was carved out of thick oak planks withered into rotted tatters through years of deterioration and decay. A faded coat of fire brick red paint had slipped and left colourless streaks and scratches in its place. He struggled through the door and to the stairs. This time the trip took much longer than before. He had to stop every few steps to rest. She knows what she's doing, all right.

Every so often, he sat down and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. He wondered how he had ended up doing this? He remembered the old strolls, the ancient, solemn museums, the theatres and hotels in Berlin-Mitte, and Unter den Linden, so beautiful before they were bombed and taken over after the war. The same East German who had declared all that Prussian treasure - anything Prussian - to be imperialist, were the same people who inherited those buildings.

He had always found that amusing. And Potsdammer Platz, how wonderful it had been, now a wasteland. It made him feel he was inside a vacuum to think of it. How could it all vanish? How would it have looked if the war never happened? Would it look like Prenzlauerberg, derelict and crumbling, and the wall not split the square, his Platz?

Roland & Oliver, King Charlemagne ~ Legend Stories for Kids

I'm too old to carry this. I could hurt my back. I've always been too much of a gentleman. Without even realizing that he had lost his grip on the box, it hit the stairs with a heart-stopping, sickeningly final crunch, and tumbled down the stairs to the floor. Now what have I done?

The box was still heavy, but a little easier to lift now that the weight was all at the bottom. He seemed to find his strength again, from the nervous energy. It was difficult to think. What would he say? How could he have been so careless? It was also in part her fault, he thought. She had asked him, at his age, to carry such a heavy box.

It was inevitable that he would have dropped it. He stood outside Mai's door for a few moments, holding the box before him, before lightly tapping at the door with his foot. When she opened the door, she was smiling, but looked alarmed at his expression. He stood, sheepishly, in the foyer. The elevator was not working, someone could have slipped and it was I who did it. There was too much melted snow on the stairs. I slipped and fell.

I think I hurt my hip, and my back. And I think I've broken what is in here. Demian set the box down. Mai tore off the strip of masking tape along the seam and opened the top. She picked out pieces.

It seemed every dish had been broken or cracked. They were pretty, too, Demian thought. Bright white, deep red, elegant. The light green rice bowls were so thin that he could see the shadow of her fingers through them. Her eyes seemed larger to him than earlier. Perhaps she knows that he lied, Demian thought. She had just been on the stairs a few minutes ago. She must have seen there was nothing to slip on. He tried not to think about that, and looked around for something to distract him, something he could talk about.

Mai's apartment was still strewn with full cardboard boxes. Two well-traveled, dented, black steamer trunks and several suitcases stood like sentries in her living room. All of her furniture was already in place: There was a large television in its own jet-black cabinet; a VCR perched on top.

Against the wall stood two tall wooden bookcases filled with rows of equal-sized paperbacks of old Chinese folk stories, or so it seemed from their covers, the spines and faces detailed with drawings of elaborately fighting characters. An old rocking chair was covered with a yellowed, gold velvet cloth. Next to that was a short, fat wooden chest, with a scene on its glossy black surface like an ancient landscape painting: The corners of the chest were turned up like pagoda tops. It had ornate brass hinges and handles.

There was no answer. He saw that she was still sorting out the broken dishes. Perhaps she hadn't heard. Then she looked at him. I have lived in Canada almost twenty years. I still miss my old city. I was born in Canton province, lived in Hong Kong for many years. All of my family is here now. They live in Canada. It's a good country. The government, the life in China was very bad.

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For a long time, my family had many - a lot of land. My husband died in the war. I don't miss anything. I live here now. I will call the super immediately. I'll tell him what happened and demand that he buys you new dishes. I'll do that right now. He made his exit as quickly as his back allowed, and entered his apartment, further along the hall.

Count Gerard selected his grandson, the formidable Oliver, to represent his interests.

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The signal was given. The two knights put spurs to their steeds and dashed toward each other with the fury of tigers and the speed of the wind. The lances of both were shivered in pieces against the opposing shields, but neither was moved from his place in his saddle. Quickly they dismounted and drew their swords. For more than two hours the two knights thrusted and parried, warding and striking, but neither gained an advantage over the other.

At last, however, Oliver's sword broke after striking Roland's helmet with a too-hearty blow; his shield, too, was split from top to bottom. Left with no weapon to defend himself, Oliver made up his mind to die fighting, and he stood ready to fight with his fists. Roland was pleased to see such pluck. I may be the nephew to the king of France and his champion today, but great shame would be upon me were I to slay an unarmed man. Choose for yourself another sword and a more trusty shield, and meet me again as my equal. So Oliver bade his squires to bring him another sword from the castle, and Roland sat down upon the grass and rested.

Three swords were sent over to Oliver, and the knight chose one. Roland rose from the grass and the fierce fight began again. Never were weapons wielded with greater skill. The sun rose high in the heavens, and still each knight stood firmly in his place, thrusting and parrying, striking and warding, and gaining no advantage over his foe. After a time, however, Roland struck his sword with such a force into Oliver's shield that he could not withdraw it.

Now it was Oliver's turn to face an unarmed enemy. Let us decide this matter hand to hand. Moved by the same thought, each snatched the other's helmet and lifted it from his head. At that moment they stood there, bareheaded and face to face. Perhaps it was something they recognized in one another's eyes, perhaps a ray of light settled down between them, but at once they rushed into one another's arms.

Great was the wonder of King Charlemagne and his advisors, and equally great was the astonishment of Oliver's kinsmen, the Vianese of Count Gerard's castle. Knights and warriors from both sides of the river hastened to cross to the island. They were eager to know the meaning of conduct seemingly so unknightly. But when they came nearer they saw the men, who had fought each other so long and so valiantly, now standing hand in hand and pledging their faith as brothers-in-arms. And with one voice all joined in declaring that both were equally deserving of the victory. Charlemagne's heart was touched by the spectacle.

If you have harmed me, I freely forgive you. No penny of taxes shall you pay for land or castle. I ask only that your pledge of loyalty be restored.