Travels of the Mind Pt. 01

Travels of the Mind. This is a sequel to 'Seasons of the Mind.' It would be best to read that first as things might be a little bit clearer.

1 Stone

The woman had whirled her daughter around in her arms and handed her across to Benjamin. The laughter from the little girl real enough, but she knew the child was just about done for the day. The slightest thing and there would be tears. The little thing was too worked up, far too excited and certainly too tired. The afternoon at the fair had been such fun. The sheer joy on the face of the little girl had been a delight as she had seen a carousel turning. The merry-go-round had taken her round and round and up and down on the gaily painted wooden pony whilst the music had played. The ever journey for the old wooden fairground horse, never ending or beginning; just round and round, the girl clinging to the bridle and waving to her parents as she went by again and again.

The little girl had so liked the colourful carnival balloon floating above her, filled with helium. A new mystery. It had bobbed and waved; and, wonder of wonders, because there would have been tears, it had not been allowed to leave a little hand and go soaring into the air and escape into the blue of the sky. Indeed, it was still in the woman's hand. She handed that too to Benjamin.

"I'll see you back home then. I shan't be long."

She watched the two of them moving through the crowd. Little Maisie's face looking back at her under her rings of chestnut hair, back from over his shoulder as Benjamin carried her, the balloon bobbing this way and that above them, held in Benjamin's other hand. The woman smiled and turned. It was not too much she had to do at the office, but the report just had to go. The afternoon had been promised, promised to Maisie otherwise the report would all have been done; done and despatched. She would miss bathtime and bed but that happened not a little these days.

All afternoon at the fair she had found there had been half remembered names and faces in the crowd, people she knew or thought she knew, those who reminded her of other people and those she knew she had met, even if the names eluded her. So many people jostling and excited, a bustling busy gathering. It had surprised her how many people she thought she knew had been there.

Turning she saw him. His was not one of those faces she had earlier to ask of Benjamin, "but to whom do they belong? Do you know?" His was a much-remembered face, a face from a dream but not a half-forgotten dream: no, far from it. She had looked for that face, for him half in fear: half in longing year after year. It must be four years since... and there, after all this time, was the man, the man who might very well be the father of her child - though that could not be. Surely not really, but Maisie had not yet a little brother or sister from Jonathan.

Harris, for it was indeed he, was standing in the crowd leaning a little on a walking stick. Unsurprisingly, he was smartly dressed. The freshly pressed brown corduroy suit giving him a bookish air - perhaps those moving around him thought him a librarian or a lecturer at the university. On his feet tan coloured, well-polished, brogues. The contrast with the casual leisure wear clad people around him striking. Their modern apparel did not fare well in comparison.

Of course, he had seen the woman. Had admired her chestnut hair, been pleased to see how it curled out from under a green woollen hat. Not a new hat: but one clearly well used. A sensible hat for an outing to a fair. A brown jumper over a cream blouse, blue jeans covering her legs and around her waist a brown leather belt. Trainers to her feet. All practical clothes for an outing, for a trip to the fair, on an autumnal day when there had been rain.

Decision time. Made in a moment. Should she approach and speak or instead flee?

She chose the latter. It had been too long. Too long to risk asking, risk perhaps going somewhere she might not want to go - and she had a report to write. She fled.

An opening into one of the rides, a dim tunnel in the canvas; a look behind her, but she was not being followed; a hurried walk, not quite running, as she followed the canvas tunnel to another, a tunnel of its own; unexpectedly a rock hewn tunnel that just could not be there. The woman turned but the bleached canvas had gone.

"Oh," she said, "oh." The sound came back as an echo. Phosphorescence on the walls, a gentle breeze coming to her, blowing towards her down the tunnel. Not pitch black, not really frightening - if the translocation was ignored - but she was no longer where she had been.

The woman walked. There was not much else she could do. Her steps taking her down the passage, down the tunnel towards the breeze, and towards the light. The air moving faster towards her, warm, with a hint of ozone and a salty tang and then there was the sound, the sound of waves crashing on the shore and, before she knew it, she was out, out in the open with the heat of the sun beating down upon her and the light so bright she had to shut her eyes. She paused and stood stock still, not knowing where she was - only she was on the coast.

"Horrible steep.

Hark, do you hear the sea?"

She knew the voice. A voice right beside her. The voice of the man she had tried to evade - fruitlessly, pointlessly, even impossibly - perhaps; and she also, as her eyes became used to the glare, saw much clearer where she was. She was startled.

"Yes. Oh, crumbs! That's a long way down!"

She was standing on a little rocky ledge high up on a cliff. Another step and she could have plummeted down to her doom.

"Come on, sir; here's the place: stand still. How fearful

And dizzy 'tis, to cast one's eyes so low!

The crows and choughs that wing the midway air

Show scarce so gross as beetles: half way down

Hangs one that gathers samphire, dreadful trade!

Methinks he seems no bigger than his head:

The fishermen, that walk upon the beach,

Appear like mice; and yond tall anchoring bark,

Diminish'd to her cock; her cock, a buoy

Almost too small for sight: the murmuring surge,

That on the unnumber'd idle pebbles chafes,

Cannot be heard so high. I'll look no more;

Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight

Topple down headlong."

"I could have, could have very well toppled down headlong and..."

"No, I was here."

"Where, where is here?"

"By the sea."

Was 'unhelpfulness' his middle name and, if so, what were his first and last?

"Lear again - I suppose?" A distant memory.

"Edgar to be precise: not the king, but yes."

"Four years and now... why now?

The man settled himself down, back to the rock, stick between his knees looking out to sea, his socks showing beneath his trouser cuffs, a mustard yellow. His face hidden in the shade of the rock.

"I heard you calling."

"I... how could you? What call? And what is Samphire?"

"A vegetable growing by the sea. Two types. Marsh and Rock Samphire. Shakespeare dramatising the collection of the latter. Very pleasant, steamed and with melted butter. I could...."

"What call?"

Harris smiled, but did not answer. "A pretty little girl, I thought."

"Maisie? Margaret, my daughter?"

"Yes, indeed. You are lucky, a fine little lass. Just the one?"

She knew he knew the answer. She was sure of it; sure, too, she knew the implication of the question but was she prepared to go through with it? If she had any choice really? Of course she knew how babies were made. She had done it often enough - well the act anyway - the joining together of man and woman. Had been doing 'it' an awful lot recently with Benjamin but to no avail. Had coaxed him into the act even when he was tired; had used all her feminine wiles to get him to bed her - to make him rise and perform -- and in the right place. Not without or elsewhere. But it had all been to no avail and now, once more when she was feeling desperate, here was the man - the man who had seemingly been present when she had conceived Maisie. Had he really made her pregnant or had it been Benjamin after all? She knew the implication of his question - it most assuredly was whether she wished to be pregnant again, and, perhaps more importantly, did she wish for his help?

She had been loyal to Benjamin. There had been no one else not since... But did she, did she - was she prepared to?

"Yes, just Maisie."

She settled herself next to Harris, sitting with her back to the rock. The loss of the hot sun on her face, as she leant back into the shade, noticeable. It was much cooler. She left her hat on.

"Only the one - so far. I'd like..."

She looked at Harris. She had just been going to write a report and now here she was high above a sea in summer sunshine thinking of copulating with a virtual stranger. Could she do it? Did she want to?

"You would like... perhaps a boy?"

"Yes, I suppose... either really."

"Or both - twins!"

"Oh, crumbs NO! One is hard enough work but two..."

She was smiling. Relaxed already, as she had come to be before with this strange man. She looked at him closely in profile. He was staring out to sea.

"Have you any children?" It was the sort of question you asked. Almost a formulaic response to talking about your own children.

In return she received a side long glance from his hazel brown eyes but no actual answer. Did it mean, did it imply she already knew the answer?

"The quiet before the storm."

She looked out to sea. It was the most tranquil, perfect summer's day. No sign of threatening clouds on the horizon, no feeling that something was not quite right with the weather: quite the contrary, as the barometer might show -- it was 'set fair.' Nothing really could have been finer than to sit there looking out to sea, feeling warm and content - certainly better than finishing that report!

"Last time..."

He looked sideways at her again. "I did not mean that."

"It was, I don't know, I did not understand - do not understand - it was sort of like a door that keeps revolving, you know similar to a department store or hotel, and every time I come... I mean, came out of it I was somewhere different. It made no sense. Any more than this does - lovely view or not." She gazed out over the azure blue.

"Always good to look at the sea. Whatever the season. Winter, spring, autumn, summer. The sea forever changing and forever the same. We could swim."

"With a storm coming?"

"Not today, not today!"

"But you said... you said a storm was coming."

"Not today, not today!"

Swimming had implications. She had swum with him before.

"Can we get down?"

From the rocky ledge a path did indeed lead downwards, winding its way down the cliff face to the beach and sea below. She had not noticed it. Had it been there all the time? A long path down. A beach of pebbles rather than sand when they reached the bottom of the path. Pebbles rounded by the sea. It was deserted but for the two figures incongruously dressed for the beach. They walked. The sun was hot.

It had been years, yet now she was back, back with Harris, back wherever it was he took her. Was it in her mind or more real? She had no idea. The beach with its white pebbles and blue, blue sea was perfect. Last time she had been on a beach with him she had swum and then fellated him. Had he made her? She had been very thirsty. She was not now; would she be?

The sun was hot, and she reached and pulled her brown jumper off and over her head, it pulled her green hat and hair with it so both rose up and then fell, the hat to the pebbles and her hair untidily around her shoulders.

"Do we paddle?"

"You may; of course you may."

"Maisie and I like to paddle."

Harris lent upon his stick and looked at her as if he was waiting for something. She shrugged her shoulders and reached for the brass button at the top of her jeans. Underneath she had cotton panties, little different from bikini bottoms. How many young people had swum in underclothes in the absence of swimming things. How often, though, had that led to sex? A group of friends at the seaside or by a river and all wanting to be cool in the water.

She could hardly paddle in her jeans. It was not as if Harris had not seen her naked before, albeit several years before. Had that been real or a dream? Was this in any way real?

Trainers kicked off, jeans lowered, trainer socks discarded, she stepped gingerly across the pebbles towards the sea. What a perfect place. The sea lapped her feet as she walked along leaving Harris behind. Perfect to be walking with her ankles in the salt water, drifting along the shoreline of wherever she was. On one side the sea, on the other the tall cliffs; ahead nothing but pebble strewn beach and blue sky. The pebbles so white, the sky so blue and the sea reflecting the blue. The cliffs white. A two-colour palette.

She turned and walked back towards the brown clad Harris, a different colour altogether.

"Where are we? Dover?"

"Does it matter?"

She shook her head, "No, I suppose not. It is lovely." She sat with him looking out across the water. "I feel overdressed for the beach. I feel I should be lying on a towel. Do you know, except that one time with you..." she looked at Harris hoping for enlightenment, an explanation. Had it been real? Was this real? He said nothing; there was just his enigmatic smile as he looked towards the horizon. She went on,"... I've never been naked on a beach."

"Be my guest."

"We are alone?"

"Totally alone."

It was not that much more trouble to take off her cream blouse, to undo the buttons and shrug it back from her shoulders. Her two remaining items of clothing were little different from normal beach attire, but she did not leave them on. It was lovely to stretch out naked on the warm pebbles and feel the sun's rays upon her skin -- everywhere. It was not at all what she had been expecting on an autumnal day; she had been expecting to go and finish a report; indeed, still had to finish that report; but so good to lie and feel the heat of a summer's day. It was like an unexpected holiday. Summer had already seemed too far in the past. It had been really happy with Maisie so enjoying Benjamin and her little holiday by the sea. How Maisie had squealed as she had run along the shore. She sighed. Why did summer go so quickly? It had been all too short and next summer so far away. But for now, eyes closed she could more than dream of lying on a beach.

Upon her naked body she felt a touch. It was not Harris' hand, it was not his fingertips but the touch of a pebble -- and then another. She did not open her eyes but let the man, the man who was not Benjamin, place the pebbles. First upon her breasts, around her areolae. It made them tingle and she knew her nips were getting longer and harder, perhaps poking between the pebbles. It was a sensual experience making her so conscious of her skin for the touch was very gentle, just a light brushing and pressure. The placing moved on down her stomach and then she felt the placing beginning upon her curls. She shifted a little, not to disturb the pebbles but to ease her thighs a little apart and feel the sun there.

The pattern was intricate, the size of the white pebble clearly carefully selected. Whorls and spirals; to her left breast, a circle in a spiral, the spiral leading out to another intricate pattern upon her stomach, like a wheel within a wheel. There were larger, flatter pebbles upon her curls like the bottom of a bikini made of the flat pebbles looking like scales. An unusual bikini because Harris had not covered her slit. He was now in the process of inserting small flat pebbles, end on into her divide so they stood and began to form a little wall going down a little between her legs. He did not stop placing them when her eyes opened. She watched his serious face as he set about his work. An artist in the act of creating, but a work that was ephemeral - if she was to move or stand up, the masterwork would be gone. A camera would retain the image but what would Benjamin say!

Harris selected and placed another stone, pushing it in between her labia, touching her clitoris with its smooth warm edge. She could feel it pushing in. Harris seemed to tap the stone absentmindedly as if thinking what to do, which pebble to place next. The drumming was having more than a little effect upon her. The tapping of his finger was so communicating through the stone to her clitoris. Such a feeling. She moistened her lips. There the man sat on the pebbles, absurdly over dressed, with his corduroy suit and brogues; his trouser cuffs had risen up and she could see pristine mustard yellow socks around his ankles, not wrinkled or at half-mast but taut and straight. Such an enigma, such a infuriating enigma, he told her nothing and spoke in riddles. Harris caught her eye and smiled his thin half smile. Such a good-looking man, but infuriating. She closed her eyes again and felt, so clearly another pebble been placed; and then another until she knew she had a whole row of thin white pebbles carefully inserted between her labia, a little wall of white stones. He thighs and knees lolled a little wider, not too far, she did not want to dislodge them. Their presence was erotic and arousing.

If Benjamin was there, naked and surprised, would he erect to the sight? Would he wish to remove a few pebbles and insert himself. And after he had come, would Harris be able to replace the pebbles? Would the sticky semen hold the pebbles the better; would Harris perhaps close her with a larger flat stone or even insert a stone, a bung, to hold the semen within until it did what it should do -- but just was not doing. Try as they had, and Benjamin and she had tried and tried; she had even lain with a pillow under her hips trying to help the semen run into her womb the easier. She so wanted another child.

And with the thought of Benjamin removing a few of the pebbles came fingertips doing just that. One my one, two or three were being removed. Was perhaps Harris thinking of inserting himself? She would not fight that; had not fought it before. It was a dream after all -- wasn't it?

Her eyes squeezed together as she felt it. The pushing of a penis against her sexual lips, parting them and entering her body. "Oh, oh, oh!" she gasped. The feeling, of course sexual, but so good. Harris doing what she thought he would do. She wanted it, wanted to be taken, wanted a man inside her -- wanted a baby.

It was certainly hard, like a penis should be, like Benjamin's, only... only his did not seem to fertilise. And, when she opened her eyes, she found neither would the penis within her -- or mock penis, for it was not Harris at all, but a rounded and very long pure white stone from the beach, a phallic stone, no doubt carefully selected by him. It was there betwixt her thighs and being moved in a lovely repetitive sliding motion by Harris. He pushed a little deeper.

"I want..."

And Harris nodded in agreement. "Not today," he said.

He knew. She was sure he knew what she wanted.

"One day, one day soon?"

"After the storm."

She looked out across the sea as the white stone moved so comfortably within her. There was not a cloud in the sky. She closed her eyes and let herself be taken, relaxed and basking in the sun, she allowed and encouraged herself to orgasm. The smooth phallic stone, cool yet so good, steadily sliding in and out, borne on her own wetness. The orgasm when it came was strong and long, beautiful in its intensity, beautiful in its setting upon the pebble strewn beach of white and blue, making her body shake so, dislodging pebbles from her, spoiling the picture.

She sat up scattering the pebbles before she could see the damage she had already wrought. "That was, that was so very good. Your hands are very gentle."