Counting in Fives
by Shelly

Five ones are five. That year, he found out that nothing is loved as much as it deserves.

Standing outside the shabby farmhouse, the star struck darkness cupped him round and he felt the rhythm of the night...the question and the reply. A tapestry of moonlight wove around him; a tiny figure in clothes too big, pale, Botticelli face and tumble-down black curls.

The voices spilled from the farmhouse behind him and snaked into the night.

"So what the hell do you think you're gonna do, Naomi? Take the brat, and run again? Well screw you!!! You think you're getting the car? Think again, bitch!!"

He heard his mother's hard, bitter laughter, cracked and thin. And he knew that they were going. And he wondered where this time.

The screen door creaked in protest as it was flung open. His mother stood upon the porch. She had her backpack on and she was holding out Bink to him. He was right. They were leaving.

Bink was a thing of brown felt. It looked as though it had started out to be a giraffe, changed itself to a cat and then called off the deal at the last moment with a decision to become a camel. It had been the keeper of many secrets and the friend of many dark nights; the one constant in his life. He took the toy in his arms and rubbed his cheek against the animal's hide , gazing up at his mother with infinitely blue eyes.

"Blair, come on honey. We're going for a little walk." She licked her lips nervously.

"It's dark," he said, protesting mildly. " And look, you're all bleedy." He pointed to the cut on his mother's lip.

"Come on, honey. I bumped myself. It's okay. We are off on an adventure. You *like* adventures." He sensed the urgency in her voice, moved towards her and together they started off down the road leading away from the farmhouse.

Looking over his shoulder he waved one small hand, "Bye bye, farm."

He reached up and tucked his hand inside his mother's. She clasped it gently, though unresponsively, letting him bear the responsibility of keeping it there. And in silence they moved on.

The road was anything but smooth walking. It was caked hard, and lumpy, making their feet feel uneven as though they were walking on stubble. The child stumbled often and his mother pulled his arm upward to keep him from falling, but made no comment.

"Frank's just a mean ol' bitch, isn't he Mom?" he murmured, wanting desperately to comfort her, to let her know that he was there.

"That's a bad word, Blair. I don't want you saying it, you hear?" her voice was flat and detached.

"Why?"

"It's - just don't say it, that's all."

"Frank says it. You say it, too."

"Yes, but I'm big."

"Can only big people say it?"

"Little boys don't say it," explained his mother, sorry she had mentioned the subject. "It's not a nice word."

"Why?"

"I don't know. It just isn't."

"Can I say it when I'm big?"

"Mmm? Maybe. Now shush. Listen to the night."

Naomi walked a little faster, letting the truth twist and canker inside her. This lukewarm darkness was the reality and the other the nightmare; yet a little while ago that other had been the reality and this the nightmare. The throbbing was still in her chest, and she could still feel the fading pound of blood in her temples. She walked faster still.

The tugging weight of the child grew heavier and heavier. She stopped just short of his exhaustion. When Blair was swaying, leaning back from the mooring of her hand, legs wobbling, his voice dreeing mournfully, while tears flowed unattended down the crumpled face...only then did she pick him up.

In less than a minute, he was asleep, his head bobbing on her shoulder as she walked on through the night.

*******************

Five twos are ten. That was the year he learned to look only one step ahead.

How many places had they lived in? He'd lost count now. And it didn't matter any more. He fought to find a pattern sprung from nothing, to put some order in his world. But always there was the fear. Something looming ahead. Something waiting for him around a corner that he could not turn.

He worked hard at being nearly invisible. He was polite, bright and respectful. He left no mess. He gave Naomi no reason to think that he was a burden. It was all a matter of control.

Walking home from another new school, he made up stories in his head.

"Yes, Mom. I made lots of friends. Yes. I will ask them to the house...but a bit later. Oh, it's a real nice school."

The rain came with a few big drops, a hesitant rehearsal; then he saw it rolling, a wall of grey between sky and earth. He began to run. He arrived home soaked, shivering and angry with himself.

Within fifteen minutes he had showered and changed into warm clothes. The washing machine was shooshing gently with his wet school clothes as well as Naomi and David's clothes. He'd mopped the kitchen floor to clear away his muddy footprints and began to prepare the evening meal.

Car doors slammed and Naomi and her current man slouched through the door laughing inanely at nothing.

"Hey, Baby. How was your day?" Naomi's pupils were dilated and she was smiling a little more than she should have been, given the question.

Blair sighed inwardly and ran through his little rehearsed speech putting in just the right amount of enthusiasm to ensure that the story would ring true.

"Ahh...that's great, hon. Oh, is that for us? Dave and I already ate... you have something though." Naomi waved vaguely at the food and turned towards her bedroom, leaning heavily on the surly looking David.

Blair sat still in the harshly lit kitchen, listening to the giggling coming from his mother's room. He stood wearily and began to put the food away in the freezer.

In the darkness of his room he lay curled on his side, his heart hiding like a sad bird. Through the uncurtained window he saw the storm rearing in the sky. Counting the heartbeats from flash to crash of thunder, he felt very, very small. And he cried as quietly as he could until sleep came.

Voices sliced into his dreams and he sat up, hot, heavy and mussy haired. They were fighting again. He could hear Naomi's voice scratching the air with bitterness and David yelling in counterpoint. The front door slammed with a ferocity that shook the house.

Blair waited. "Mom?"

Nothing.

Oh God. Jesus, God. She's gone.

He untangled himself from the blankets and ran outside, the short grass hushing under his feet. The rain had cleared and the sky was clean and crisp. The pin sharp stars dragged their thin bright trails across the contours of the night. But Blair saw nothing...felt nothing. He ran. Ran until his breath came in a savage panting. Ran until he felt the tension in him would snap his bones. And ran still.

Naomi heard him calling her. She fancied she could see a spectral figure, darkness shaped of darkness, moving towards her. She heard him crying a sort of rhythmic mommy, mommy. She stopped and sighed in exasperation.

"Blair, I'm only going for a walk."

"Don't!" he shrieked. He raised one hand with the fist bunched. His eyes were brittle with anger. Then he fell against her in an outburst of sobbing incoherencies, drowning her wheedling words in a babble of small sorrows. She held her son lightly...then walked slowly back to the house with him.

In his darkened bedroom, he lay stupefied with fatigue. He coughed, a cough that seemed to be catching chokingly at his breath. It ended with a querulous whimpering that faded away. At last he quietened.

She opened the door and a triangle of light spilled across the room. He was asleep, his face streaked with dirty tears. For the longest time she looked at the tangled curls, the lay of eyelashes on his cheek and the way his arm was curved over his chest, folding his sadness in to hold it. There was a great sense of his loyalty and defencelessness. She closed the door with infinite care.

When morning rippled into his room, he was already awake. He had made his bed and tidied his room. Stepping quietly through the house, he stopped outside his mother's bedroom. His ear against the door, he listened with churning stomach until he heard her steady breathing. She was still here. He closed his eyes as the answer settled inside him.

And at ten years old, he came to realise that he would not be able to look at the horizon. He would have to do this a little at a time, and focus upon the day, and get through the hours. And that is what he did.

*******************

Five threes are fifteen. In that year, he set his language on the map of the future and learned to hold his own hand.

He was small for fifteen. The blue eyes were guarded behind his glasses; the hair still fell in tumbling disarray. And now there was a stillness in him, a pool of strength born of need. There was something shining in his quiet, which drew people to him.

Unlocking the door to the house, he moved cat-like through the rooms. No one was home. Good. There had been a few times now that his mother and Whatshisname had left in the morning and had not returned for several days. It didn't bother him at all. Life for him went on as usual. School, chores, bed. He ate, or didn't eat, depending on what was in the house and whether she had left money or not.

On a dusty floor, he sat among piled, rocking towers....block forts of prose, philosophy, history, criticism, politics and science. He became lost in word cities, meandering through ideas and thoughts. And always the pull of the study of people...anthropology. He'd been an observer of people all of his life, it was as natural to him as breathing.

When sleep came in the thick of darkness, he would feel the tongued images of his future licking at his lonely wounds. In the morning he would wake with renewed strength as the after-images burned behind his eyes.

But this day was different. This day could change all his days. He pulled the envelope from his pocket and smoothed it out with shaking hands. Pulling his finger across one side, he tore the envelope open, and unfolded the letter.

*We are pleased to offer you a full scholarship to assist in your advanced enrolment. Please contact us as soon as possible to confirm your acceptance of this offer. We....*

He had done it!

There had been some questions from the interview panel about his age. Did he think he would be mature enough at 16 to cope with the demands of College life? He had almost laughed. He'd lived a lifetime already. He felt old.

He drew his knees up to his chest, clasped his hands around them and dropped his head onto his knees. The afternoon's last lilt of light fell upon him like a benediction.

***********************

Five fours are twenty. In that year, he learned to fly with a broken wing.

Naomi Sandburg slipped unnoticed into the darkened auditorium and took a seat at the back. The audience erupted into laughter, hanging on every word of the young man standing behind the podium.

"And trust me, you haven't lived until you have eaten witchetty grubs!"

Blair Sandburg was in full flight. A kaleidoscope of expressions played across his face as his hands swooped and danced their own version of the story being told. His voice had them entranced, as with each dizzy catchbreath he led them to greater heights. Blue eyes flashing with silent laughter, curls bobbing with enthusiasm, there was only a far off echo of the child of 5 and the young man of 15.

Naomi shook her head in amazement. Where was the boy who had stepped carefully through their life like a phantom? Who was this vibrant young man in front of her? This Blair was sailing his own sea. This Blair was spinning his senses, the sounds and silences, shapes and colours. All were thread for the weaver that he was becoming.

As the lecture finished, students clustered around Blair like moths to a flame. He was joking with a young woman when he spotted his mother, and the smile that lit his face, dropped away and then re-established itself in a heartbeat. Naomi saw.

He moved down to kiss her and exclaimed, "Hey, Mom. Another flying visit? Didn't know you were in this neck of the woods!" Naomi returned his kiss and looked deep into his eyes, long enough to see the shutters come down.

They had done a little shopping. Blair was to make a meal for both of them. And now, as they drove to his place, they small talked about the weather and the year that had been.

Walking into the apartment, Naomi again felt herself looking into a stranger's life. Piles of books were everywhere. Papers spilled down off tables like crackling snow. Clothes were draped carelessly over the back of the couch. When Blair was with her, he had been almost obsessive about neatness.

Starting to prepare the vegetables, Blair watched his mother as she wandered around the apartment picking up books and artefacts. He knew what she was thinking. In his mind he responded bitterly...there's no tightrope to tread here. I don't have to be tidy.

The evening passed pleasantly enough. Blair performed brilliantly. He enthused about his life. He loved his job. It wasn't everyone who could work at something that they were passionate about. He had loads of friends. He had his own place. Life was good. And Naomi listened and knew that she had no claim to anything deeper.

Blair dropped Naomi at the train station and walked slowly back to the car. The cold wind cut into his bones. It seemed to come off the ice of the stars, glinting frostily in the sky. He sat wearily in the car, shivering slightly. He was so tired. He felt like a cicada shell...he had sung himself utterly away that evening. And he felt again the hollow around himself and the space that kept him safe.

Life was good, he repeated to himself. But if he let his mind run restless, the truth would rise up like a dark conspiracy and leap the barriers he had built. Life was good.....but there was something missing. Maybe there was a word for it. Call it trust.

**************************

Five fives are twenty five. That was the year that he learned that love was a verb.

Blair looked up as Jim burst through the door to the loft and slammed it shut, wincing at the noise.

"What a day! I never want to see another piece of paperwork as long as I live." Jim cast his eye over the paper waterfalling over the table, the couch and onto the floor. He raised one eyebrow.

"Oh, shit. Sorry, man. I lost track of the time. I'll have this packed up in no time." Blair jumped up guiltily and started shovelling huge armfuls of work into his backpack.

He swung the pack onto his back and reached for another pile of books, and in doing so swept a pot of coffee from the table. It fell in a graceful arc to the floor, splattering dark stains over the carpet and over his jeans

Fear leapt into Blair's eyes and his expression of horror was almost comical.

"Jim. Shit, man. It was an accident. I'll get it cleaned. I can clean it." The words streamed out, falling away to nothing.

Silence drew air like breath, then Jim spoke, his voice cold with anger.

"That's it!!! Enough is enough! Get yourself into some dry clothes, I'll clean this up, and then we talk. This stops here." The wrath in the older man was swinging on a thread, and the thread was unskeining itself with the strain.

Blair looked up, hurt, opened his mouth to say something and then closed it again. At the door, he looked back, a mute appeal in his eyes.

"Go," said Jim. "I'll be on the balcony."

Blair pulled on dry clothes and looked at himself in the mirror. So this is how it ends. His eyes were huge in his drawn face, and he knew that he was going to have to work very hard to keep it together. But he could do it. He'd done it for years.

He walked slowly out to the balcony. Jim was already there, a beer in hand, leaning on the railing, looking out at into the climbing dark. Blair stood beside him and waited.

The moon, drained white by day, lifted from the horizon and the two men watched in silence.

"Jim?"

"No...I speak...my turn..." and Jim's voice was gentler, calmer.

"How long have we been working together now? Almost a year?"

The younger man nodded, staring out into the night.

"And in that time, you have been there for me, helped me though the Sentinel thing?" Jim's voice was even softer.

A green-voiced bird called into the darkness and the last notes faded away before Blair answered.

"Yes." And the ache was evident.

Jim put his hands on Blair's shoulders and turned him, "Chief, you are my best friend. I trust you with everything in my life. It makes me angry when I see you jumping over things like spilt coffee or a mess of papers. I need you to trust me too! I don't get it! What do you think I'm gonna do, kiddo? Throw you out or something?" he laughed gently.

Blair pulled away and looked out at the mood-dark city.

"Yes," and the answer was a whisper so soft that only a Sentinel could hear.

Blair felt himself break open in a deep, undiscovered place, one of the dark spaces he had created for himself as a boy. He had wept enough in his life, but the pain had been fierce and private. Now he pushed at the tears with the back of his hands, trying to get control, angry with himself.

A hand came to rest on his shoulder, and the kindest voice he ever heard said, "Tell me."

And reaching deep past his sorrow, to his own surprise, Blair did. Late into the night, he talked of his life, his childhood, his hurts, and at last Jim could be the interpreter of grief that had bound and chained his friend. They spoke of the things that they both had to learn and unlearn. They spoke of friendship and they spoke of trust.

And when morning came, blue as the sea's mirror, Blair had found a resting-place..and it was friendship.

"I think we've come quite a way, kiddo," said Jim, watching as his young guide struggled to put into words what he was feeling.

And the reply was so simple, so right. "I think I've come home."

Neither of them said anything - but the words stayed on the air between them - a gift.

***********************

Five fives are twenty five....and one. That was the year that he fulfilled destiny.

Blair lay sprawled upon the couch, deeply asleep. Papers, pens and books lay round him, his own graffiti.

The only sound that Jim could hear as he unlocked the door to the loft was the steady heartbeat and breathing of his guide. He rolled his eyes when he saw the disorder spilling across the room.

Blair stirred and turned onto his side muttering softly under his breath. A book that he was holding slipped onto the floor and Jim stepped across a myriad of papers to pick it up. Reaching out to put it on the table, something caught his eye. Blair had circled something heavily, several times, with a red pen.

Jim held the book open, and read:

A CREED by Edwin Markham

There is a destiny that makes us brothers; None goes his way alone: All that we send into the lives of others Comes back into our own.

And as the broad gold wake of late afternoon flooded into the loft, Jim sat by his sleeping friend, book in hand...smiling.

He reached across and shook Blair's shoulder, "Hey little brother, what's all this destruction?"

Blair rolled over onto his back and rubbed his eyes. Covering a yawn, he stretched like a cat and then sat up, eyes smiling, still sleepy.

"Hi Jim. When did you get home?"

"Just now. Well...I thought it was home, but I saw the mess and thought nahhh...couldn't be."

"You know me, man. Bombsite Blair."

And they both grinned at each other.

"Leave it, Chief. We'll do it later. Wanna eat out tonight, my treat?"

"Your treat? Like you gotta ask!!!" Blair jumped up, dancing with enthusiasm. Glancing down at his sleep-wrinkled clothes, he grimaced good naturedly.

"Ugh..I'll need to change...give me five?"

**********************************

finis