For Dave.

It was daytime, he was on a train and Jake had no idea how he had got there.

He couldn’t speak the local language but he had the name of a station written on a piece of paper.

The piece of paper had a lot of other stuff written on, and this made it difficult when he sought help by showing it to people. 

Somehow he knew that there were three stops to go, so he spent his time looking out of the window at the strangeness flashing past.

And then he was there; he stepped off the train, watched it leave and then approached the first stranger and showed him the piece of paper.

The stranger read Jake’s shopping list, written in a language the stranger didn’t recognise, shrugged his shoulders and walked on past.

Puzzled, Jake looked at his piece of paper and realising that he needed to turn it over he approached a second stranger.

Something on the paper chimed with the second stranger and he pointed Jake on his way; indicating, or so Jake thought, that he needed to reach the main road and turn left.

At the foot of the stairs that took him from the platform to street level, Jake found the main road, found the left turn and marvelled at the way the flower seller had transformed the space between the pillars that held the rail line above, into a florist’s.

It was a florist’s with no walls that could impede the passage of travellers heading for the station, and as the displays were hung like vines around the pillars no authority could accuse the florist of obstruction. 

Jake passed under the blossoms and crossed the road in front of the parade of shops that were older than Jake had ever seen and from this point it was clear that he was in the past.

He walked along the road that he must once have walked before, though he had no memory of having done so, and it became apparent that he was heading where he was meant to go.

On his left, half hidden behind broken walls and fences, he saw his destination – the shell of a once imperial train terminus that had been bombed into disuse and ruin.

From the rubble and dust something was rising, vibrant and full of life.

The palace of arts.

Or, it would be one day. For now, it was a labyrinth of twisted ways between broken arches and half columns.

People were moving through the tunnels and passageways that remained as if with a single purpose, so Jake followed them assuming that theirs was the same as his.

The suitcase he dragged along left tracks in the dust should he need to retrace his steps ever; though this was unlikely for he felt at home.

Eventually he arrived at the centre of the labyrinth and Jake waited his turn to be greeted by the man who was standing there.

They shook hands and before he could introduce himself the man guessed who he was.

‘Welcome, make yourself at home. The others are already here’.

The man’s grip was strong, his tone warm and Jake felt valued.

The man stepped to one side and Jake saw that the passageway continued, so he followed it to a wide open area where the ceiling still remained, held by ceremonial arches that created chambers on every side.

In one he saw his partner, already practicing.

They smiled at each other, acknowledged the journey and the arrival.

No hug, no embrace.

Quiet understanding.

‘Five?’ 

Jake, as always, was impressed.

And a little envious.