Jonathan Hargreaves

It was not expected. Mid summer days and humid nights there. But still the rain fell.

He parked his Merc on the highway and started walking, an occasional vehicle passed in vain attempt to bless his solitude. He wore his suit. It was only after he had crossed Penkets' Inn that he left the highway and headed towards the valley. The Valley of the Dead.

It had always been called the Valley of the Dead but no one knew why. In fact it was not a valley, it was a dense Aspen grove, and as with all aspens the trees were young but the root systems were thousands of years old. The local folklore said the aspen had grown with a purpose, a sentinel to uphold those who lay buried underneath it. People avoided the Valley.

He loosened his tie and let it limp around his neck. The rain had drenched him to his bones, the Armani suit only a soggy vestige of its dry elegant glory. The trousers stuck to his skin. He treaded slowly, dragging his feet on the sloshed grounds. The distant glare of headlights on the highway behind now comfortably escaped his ken. He fished around in his pockets and took out a grey metallic device. 12 missed calls. He looked up in the contacts and called. As it rang he smiled and tossed the device in the air with an air of nonchalance which would humble even the most pampered Persian cat. It fell behind without a thud, the earth was wet. Next, the wallet came out and landed in a bush. A silver card was dislodged from its pocket due to the impact. It read “Jonathan Hargreaves”. He plugged the earphones, flipped through the play list in his Ipod and played “A Tout le Monde”. The leitmotif was perfect, next came out the bunch of keys. The Merc, the front door, the locker… all bunched together in solidarity towards their owner. The bunch was not tossed, nor flipped, nor thrown.. just slipped away from his fingers effortlessly. He was now in the Valley.

The moon peeped behind the nimbus clouds, in a vain attempt to throw some light on that lonesome wretch below. It couldn’t. The rain continued. He was now barefoot. It didn’t matter. 4:31 mins of “A Tout le Monde” were over and the pod was soon discarded from body. Next the Armani, then the tie, and finally the shirt. He now searched around for it. He looked in front, to his right, to his left, bent his frame but still couldn’t see it anywhere. The Aspens left no space for such a thing. Still he searched. The rain made the search difficult.

Soon he found it. A dried bush with thistles dearly holding on that pearl of rain. The scratching of the thistles against his well sculpted torso was pleasant. Pain and Rain to cleanse his soul. And finally he lay snug in this small uncomfortable place called home for the rest of the night, weeping.

It was only morning when the last of his possessions was towed away. The Merc.