Westpoint Tales
by Kiwi
Entangled Tales - 98 - Somewhere over the Rainbow
Somewhere over the rainbow. Way up high,There's a land that I heard of. Once, in a lullabySomewhere over the rainbow. Skies are blueAnd the dreams that you dare to dream, really do come true.Someday I'll wish upon a star, and wake up where the clouds are far, behind me.Where troubles melt like lemon drops, away above the chimney pots,That's where you'll find meSomewhere over the rainbow. Blue birds flyBirds fly over the rainbow, why then oh why can't I?Somewhere over the rainbow. Blue birds fly.Birds fly over the rainbow. Why, then why, oh why, can't I?If happy little bluebirds fly beyond the rainbow, why, oh why can't I?
He had a great time of discovery and started throwing stuff outside to spread out and dry on the beach stones. When he found a great tangled mass of a plastic tarpaulin, he pushed that outside and then climbed down to go and find somewhere to set it up as a tent.
By the time the sun went down, he had a pile of, mostly dry, bedding, warm clothes, bandages and a plastic roof over his head. He'd even managed to get a fire going, using a broken bottle as a magnifying glass.
While the sun set he cooked up some food, there was a lot of canned food and even jars of coffee and sugar. He set up his bed by the fire and slept the night in luxury and comfort.
Next morning, he had coffee once the fire recovered, and then spent the day recovering treasures and spreading them out in the sun. Robinson Crusoe never had it so good.
Days passed and every day got better. The food wouldn't last forever, but - whatever. He was feeling good physically but maybe a little empty - purposeless. Who was he anyway? He didn't know.
He found fishing gear, (well it WAS a fishing boat), and he managed to catch some fish in the lagoon and cooked them. They were foul! No more of that then.
Then it rained. It rained and rained while he huddled, miserably, under his tarpaulin and waited for it to stop. It took a couple of days and his fire went out. When it finally broke, the clouds parted, the sun shone and away out over the sea, there was a rainbow.
A beautiful, bright, shining rainbow was silhouetted against the dark sky. The stranger stood and looked at it, sat down and stared at it. Things were stirring in his fuzzy brain. Memories were trying to surface like stew bubbling in a pot. What did the rainbow mean to him?
"Red and yellow, blue and green. I can sing a rainbow, sing a rainbow . . ."
No. Nothing. He felt like crying in frustration. There was something, something about the rainbow. Something - somewhere. Somewhere!
Yes! Somewhere the rainbow. He sang quietly, wondering as the words surfaced in his brain.
"Somewhere over the rainbow, skies are blue. And the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true."
Then he stopped. He could sing no more because he was crying now. Crying and crying, aching and yearning - for what? He didn't know. A rainbow?
Sitting watching the rainbow fade away, he thought, 'There's gold at the end of a rainbow. Bright, shining gold. A boy!! There's a beautiful, bright shining boy!'
In his mind's eye he could see a face, a bright, sunny face - a golden boy's face. But a face without a name. Who was he? Where was he? He was at the end of the rainbow, of course. But, what did that mean? Where was that?
It was. . .south. South! Yes, of course it was. The end of the rainbow and the golden boy were south of here, somewhere. Somewhere over the rainbow.
"The sun sets in the sea there, so that's west, that's east and that way must be south. I'm going to go south. I have to; I have to find the golden boy. He will know who I am. The golden boy will help me.
This is not living. The living is where the golden boy is. I have to go. I have to go back to him."
The stranger packed up what he thought he'd need. He didn't know how far he had to go, so he packed all the food that he could carry; food that he could eat cold if he had to. He dressed in some better clothes - ill fitting but not torn. There were no boots to fit him, (?), so he'd walk barefoot. His feet seemed to be tough enough.
As soon as it was getting dark, he slept. Next morning, when the tide was low, he started around the cliffs at the end of the bay. It took hours, but finally he struggled out into another small bay. It was much the same as the one he'd left except that there was no lagoon here.
Along the stony beach to the cliffs at the far end, and he could go no further. The tide was too high now.
He dropped his gear back on the beach, found his piece of glass and started another fire. He cooked, ate and lay down to sleep. He'd come maybe three kilometers today, probably less. This could take forever.
When he woke in the morning, the tide was low and the sandy beach exposed, so he gathered up his gear and started walking, going along below the long unbroken line of cliffs, scrambling over rockfalls in places and walking on and on.
The tide came up and he was stuck. When he could no longer run/stumble between the breaking waves he climbed up high on a rockfall and waited an eternity for the tide to go down again. When it did, at last, he walked on. And on. And on. It was dark before he came to the end of the cliffs and collapsed on a long sandy beach.
He unrolled his blankets to sleep under a tree. How far was that today? How far left to go? He didn't know. He slept and dreamed of the golden boy, and a song played. "I don't know much, but I know I love you. That may be all I need to know."
In the morning, he lay there trying to recall the dream. He'd dreamed about the golden boy; he'd dreamed that he loved him. Did he? Did the golden boy love him back? Who was he?
He sat up, got up, and - ouch! He was going nowhere today, he was too sore. His head, his leg, his feet - everything ached. He needed a rest. He did walk a little, later, just enough to find some fresh water. Couldn't light a fire today, the sun was not shining. He sat and ate a can of beans - green beans, but, whatever. Then rolled in his blankets and slept.
The body felt better in the morning, so he walked. And walked and walked. He opened and ate a can of cold spaghetti, and then walked some more. At the end of the bay, the hills came closer to the sea, but the narrow beach continued around the headland and into yet another bay. He came to the small river there and sat to rest for the night. Then he changed his mind and picked up and crossed the river, wading waist-deep.
He settled down on the other side. Now he wouldn't have to start the day by getting wet.
In the morning, he ate cold, canned fruit and then walked. It was almost two weeks since he'd first woke up on the beach - two long weeks. His battered body was recovering, wounds were healing, but he'd been pushing it to the limits. Every night he lay down exhausted and then, in the morning he started again. He had to.
Maybe he should slow down, take it easy and get better? No. What else was there to do? He had to go. He had to find the rainbow and the golden boy. South. He plodded on.
He didn't know who he was. He didn't even know what his own face looked like, but he knew what the golden boy looked like - sun-kissed golden hair, sparkling eyes and a sunny smile. He had to find him, he had to go back. He walked on.
It rained, he got wet. The sun shone, he dried out. He slept, he walked. That was his life.
Around yet another headland and there was the biggest bay and the longest beach yet - miles and miles, fading into the distance. It was easy walking now, on and on. There was a full moon that night, the beach was shadowed but as bright as day; so he kept walking for as long as he could.
Finally, he'd had enough. He couldn't go another step - not even as far as whatever that thing sticking out into the sea was. He stumbled to the back of the beach, found a hole in the shrubs and flopped down on the warm sand.
He'd lost his bundle of blankets today, and all of his food - what was left. He'd slipped and fallen when crossing a river, the biggest river yet. He was hungry, he was thirsty, but he was SO tired. He slept.
He woke up, late, on a bright sunny day, and then slept again after peeing. He woke again and looked around at a long, gray beach. A stranger in a strange land. But, was it strange? The beach looked familiar somehow.
There was music in his head. No, not in his head, it was coming from over there, away from the beach, somewhere. Somewhere?
With aching, weary bones, he got to his feet. The shrubs - the lupins, gorse, broom and bracken, were all around him and higher than his head. He didn't go out to the beach, the music was coming from the other way; he pushed back into the foliage.
It was easy going at first as the highest shrubs kept the ground clear of undergrowth. He fought his way out through a solid wall at the end and stumbled out on to a wide graveled road - long, straight and empty and running parallel to the beach.
He stood on the road, panting from the effort and bleeding again from several small cuts and scratches. There were houses down the road to his right. They were brightly coloured in the sunshine, but empty looking, somehow.
Directly ahead of him, across the road, there were small, rough, green paddocks with horses standing looking back at him. Beyond them was a line, a hedge of dark and twisted old pine trees, stunted and shaped by the salt-spray from the beach.
The music was coming from behind the trees, so he crossed the paddock and pushed his way through the hedge. He stumbled out into a wide-open space. Flat, green - a park. No, a racecourse. The racetrack was before him, two oval roadways, one graveled and one grassed. They were ringed by white, board and wire fences.
Directly across, on the far side, a big open-fronted grandstand faced towards him and it was full of people. Hundreds of people and more were milling about in front of it and to either side.
The music had stopped and someone was talking. The speakers carried a girl's voice, but he couldn't make out the words from that distance.
The stranger stood looking around. Everything was strange to him, and yet, familiar somehow. He felt that he had come home, but he still didn't know where he was. Or, who he was.
Then the music started again and the stranger wept. They were playing the song - his song. He was home! Home at last - over the rainbow.
He crossed the racetracks, falling and rolling over the fences on the way. He stumbled on, walking out across the central grassed field. He was going home.
Familiar images, memories, came flooding back as he walked. The bland, anonymous mass of the crowd began to resolve into individual faces - familiar faces. The music played, "Over the Rainbow", and suddenly the crowd began to break apart. People were peeling off, coming out of the crowd and running out towards him.
The stranger stopped walking and watched them come. In the lead, far ahead of the rest, it was him! The face he knew so well - the golden boy who he had come so far to find - to come home to.
The laughing, yelling, crying boy slid to a stop in front of him.
The stranger wiped his own leaking eyes, smiled, sighed and said, "Hey, Toddy."
"Hi, Jinks!"
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