The Broken Path - Short Story by Ursula O'Reilly

 

 

THE BROKEN PATH

By Ursula O’Reilly.

 

“I never walk on paths,” said the old man. “Not anymore, and especially not at night!” He sat on the same park bench every day. I noticed him there when I took my dog, Charlie, for his walk. I had often thought how sad and lonely he looked. Now he was looking at me in a strange way, and I wondered how I could politely slip away without offending him.

“Come here, Charlie!” I called to my dog, who was racing madly around.

“Charlie!” said the man. “That’s what I used to call him.”

“Who?” I asked kindly, thinking perhaps he was remembering a pet he once owned.

“The creature,” he answered. He went on to tell me the strangest tale I have ever heard.

“I wasn’t always as you see me now,” the old man said. “Once I was young and strong. I had a good life with everything in front of me. That all changed when I met Charlie.” 

“Who was Charlie?” I asked.

“He was a goblin!” The man’s eyes filled with terror. “He was cute, clever, and only six inches tall.”

Oh dear! I thought. He’s one of those nutcases! It was obvious he lived in a world of his own, and he seemed intent on telling me his story. I decided to humour him. I smiled and nodded.

“He popped out of a hole in the Broken Path,” he continued. “That was an old pathway in a wood near my home. I used to go there often to spend some time alone.”

“Why was it called The Broken Path?” I asked.

“Because it had a large crack on it,” the man replied. “A hole with deep dark depths. I had heard stories that it was a Fairy Crack and had a spell on it; but that just made it more interesting to me.

One day I got down on my hands and knees and peered into the hole. I couldn’t see the bottom and wondered how deep it was. It was then the little man popped out. I jolted backwards in shock, unable to believe my eyes.

The creature glared at me and began to speak. He called me wicked names and said that I had taken him from his world beneath the path. He told me I had become the owner of his soul, that he could never go back.”

The old man pulled his coat around him against the wind. He looked off into the distance, and the look in his eyes moved me to pity him. “What did you do?” I asked. 

“I went home,” he said. “And Charlie came too. I thought he was amusing at first. He walked beside me but would dart out of sight if anyone passed by. No-one ever saw him, he moved so fast!

I soon found out what a horrid, devious creature he was. He moved into my bedroom and lived under my bed, only coming out to create one havoc or another.

“What did he look like?” I asked, fascinated by the old man’s imagination.

“He was dressed in a little suit of grey and brown, the colours of the path. He wore a peaked hat with a feather in it, and he had a nasty devious expression. My life was never the same after his arrival,” the man continued.

“He would hoard food under my bed until it went bad. Eventually it would smell. My mother found it one day and asked me to change my habits or move out. Of course, I couldn’t tell her it was Charlie!

He began to steal things from around the house, which would turn up in my bedroom.  He played tricks on my friends when they visited me. Pinching them from behind, then disappearing before he was seen. Before long, no one would come to the house. They were convinced it was haunted.”

The old man sighed. “He pestered me too when I was alone,” he continued. “Turning lights on and off, banging things, and snatching away my pillow when I was asleep. I begged him to go. Pleaded with him. Threatened him. But nothing worked. ‘I am your little friend for life!’ he would exclaim sarcastically. Wherever I went, he was there. Watching and listening or making smart comments. It was unbearable.

Before long I had lost all my friends. Whenever I met them outside the house, Charlie followed unseen. After a while they all thought I had gone mad and wouldn’t come near me. I even lost my girlfriend, Lucy, when Charlie caused her to spill a hot cup of coffee over herself.

I begged him daily to go back to his world, but he always answered that he could never do that. By now I had lost my job, and my family thought I was crazy. Then one day I noticed a change in Charlie. He became less mischievous, and wouldn’t be seen for hours, sometimes days.

For the first time in the six months, he had been with me I began to relax. I wondered why his games had stopped. Was it another trick? It occurred to me he might be getting bored living in my bedroom, playing tricks. His face had taken on a vacant expression, and he certainly looked fed up. Much as I loathed him, I decided to question him about it.

‘Don’t you miss your own world?’ I asked him one day.

‘Of course, I do, stupid!’ he answered, rude as ever. Then he disappeared under my bed. I didn’t see him again for a whole day. When he reappeared, he looked even more fed up? I tried again.

‘Isn’t there any way you can go back?’

‘The only way to send me back is to mend the Broken Path,’ said the little man. 

‘Mend the Broken Path?’ I said. ‘Well, that shouldn’t be too difficult!’

I went at once to my father, who was a builder, and got some cement. I brought it in a wheelbarrow through the wood to the Broken Path and began to fill the crack. My hands shook, but I did a good job. Before long the path was smooth and level, and the hole was gone. For the first time in months my step was light as I walked home.

I didn’t see Charlie at all that night. The next morning, I was sure he was gone. I sang happily as I cleaned up my room. It was finally over. Then, to my horror, he appeared. Sitting on top of my wardrobe, with a nasty sneer on his face.

‘No!’ I shouted. ‘I’ve mended your stupid path! Now get out of here!’

‘Hee hee!’ he laughed, leaping from the top of the wardrobe onto the floor. ‘It’s not so easy to mend a Fairy Crack! Go and see for yourself!’ I left the house and ran all the way to the path. Sure enough, the crack had reappeared. I held my head in my hands and cried tears of frustration. Would I ever be rid of him?

That week I tried everything I knew to mend the path. I filled it in with mud, then with tar. Each time, the crack reappeared the next day. I was ready to give up. Finally, I went into my bedroom, and called for Charlie. He appeared with the same vacant expression on his face.

‘I know you want to go back to your world as much as I want you to,’ I said. ‘I don’t like to see you unhappy!’ The familiar sneer appeared on his face at this. ‘Please, tell me how to mend the path!’

‘I can tell you how,’ he answered slyly. ‘But be warned. To mend the crack, you must break a heart.’

I was too desperate now to be put off.

‘Tell me!’ I pleaded.

The creature gazed at me for several moments, as if deciding. Finally, he spoke. ‘We must stand side by side on the path, while you say these words: ‘I GIVE MY HEART TO MEND THE PATH, TO SEND THE FOULEST GOBLIN BACK!’

I stared at him and shook my head. This sounded ridiculous, but I was prepared to try anything.

The following night, the goblin and I walked to the Broken Path. There was a full moon, and I was feeling optimistic. The creature came meekly, offering no resistance. I was already thinking of how I would get my life back to normal once he was gone.

We stood beside the crack on the path and stared at each other. He with twisted amusement, I with loathing. I slowly repeated the magic words he had given me. For several moments nothing happened, then there was a flash of white light. Suddenly I was aware of a commotion. I was surrounded by fairies and goblins. They were dancing and laughing, all of them dressed in the most colourful clothes.

I took a deep breath and gazed at the scene before me. The fairies appeared to be dancing around a throne. A loud clear voice pierced the air. 

‘Who seeks to mend what is done?’ Immediately silence fell, and hundreds of mischievous eyes were upon me. The fairies separated and began to urge me towards the throne. I was filled with dread.

I reached the throne and found myself gazing at a young woman, as beautiful as she was melancholy. Dressed in a gown of shining white silk, her hair resembled spun gold.  I stared into her eyes, and was struck by the deep sadness there, and the compelling force which drew me into their depths.

‘Who seeks to mend what is done?’ she asked again.

I heard my own voice reply ‘I do!’ I raised my hand to touch her face. It was cool and smooth as marble. At that moment I felt a pain deep in my chest. Terrible, yet sweet, as my heart reached out to her in a way I had never experienced.

My hand seemed moulded to her skin, as everything before me began to spin. Faster and faster it went, until all became a haze of colour. From somewhere in the background I heard Charlie’s hated voice say: ‘I warned you! You have touched the fatal maid of dreams. All the years of your life will not make you whole!’

The colours were moving faster now. The pain was unbearable. ‘No!’ I cried. The last thing I saw was the maiden smiling. Then laughing, high and shrill. Laughing at me! At last the spinning stopped and everything became black and silent.

When I opened my eyes again, I was lying on the path. It was early morning. I wondered if I had been dreaming. Then I noticed the crack in the path was gone, and there was no sign of Charlie. It was finally over.

As I stood up, I became aware of a strange feeling in my chest. It was a dull ache. An overwhelming feeling of emptiness. It has remained with me until this day.”

The old man stopped speaking as abruptly as he had started. He looked my way, his eyes puzzled and sad. Then, without another word, he arose and began to walk across the grass.

I watched until he disappeared out of sight. I found myself wondering if the story could be true. A sudden chill clutched my spine. I laughed.

“Fairies! Goblins!’ I said. “Charlie, let’s go home!”

Ursula O’Reilly lives in County Cavan, Ireland, and enjoys writing poetry and fiction. Other interests include painting and reading.  Ursula has had her work published online and in numerous magazines including ‘Poetry Plus magazine’, ‘Otherwise Engaged Literature and Arts Journal’, ‘Woman’s Way magazine’, ‘Vita Brevis Press’, and by ‘Earlyworks Press’.