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ollieofthebeholder · 27 days

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to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfiction

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Chapter 107: January 1993

It’s cold and gloomy and it’s been raining off and on most of the day—most of the week really—so for a bit, Martin wasn’t sure this would actually happen. But Papa’s home and he promised they would do this when he got home, and Papa never, ever, ever breaks his promises, so they got up very early and went to the train station and bought their tickets and got on the train, and Papa even let Martin give their tickets to the conductor, and now here they are.

Martin has never been so far away from home before. Granddad takes him on trips sometimes—last year they went all the way to Norfolk to see the Queen, and Martin honestly doesn’t think he’ll ever see anything better than that—but this is a long, long way away. He didn’t actually press his hands and face against the glass of the train window because that sort of thing makes Mummy upset, and when she gets upset she gets one of her “bad spells”, and when she has a bad spell Martin has to be very, very quiet and take care of her, but he gripped the edge of the window sill excitedly and stared out the window at the ever-shifting scenery for the whole way down here. Papa sat beside him and pointed out all kinds of things to him, and Mummy napped, so maybe it would have been okay if he put his face against the window, but he didn’t. It’s the first time he’s ever seen London, too, even if they didn’t get out of the train there, and Papa says they’ll take a trip there the next time he’s home for Martin’s birthday, so that will be fun. He even answered all of Martin’s questions about why they didn’t have a steam train, and what the difference between steam and diesel is, and what parts of the books he likes so much are based in truth and what parts were just made up to tell a good story.

Papa never minds when Martin asks questions. And he never tells Martin to stop asking questions just because he doesn’t know the answers. He always says something like I don’t know, son, but we’ll find out together, eh? Granddad is like that, too, sort of, but sometimes when Martin asks questions Granddad says things like that’s a question for when you’re older, you young rip, and Martin doesn’t understand why, because if he’s old enough to know to ask a question, isn’t he old enough to know the answer? At least part of it? Still, inside his own mind at least, he can admit that they’re both better than Mummy, who either tells him to be quiet or pretends she doesn’t hear him. He’s learned not to ask more than once.

Mummy and Papa are fighting right now, going back and forth about the room—Mummy wants to know why they didn’t get a suite, why it isn’t on the bottom floor, why it’s facing the direction it’s facing, and why there’s only one bed, and Papa is snapping about space and money and convenience and something called a rollaway cot—but Martin is doing his level best not to listen too hard or ask what they’re talking about. Mummy gets mad when he interferes in adult conversations. Martin’s not entirely sure what interfere means, but he thinks it’s when he tries to say he’s sorry or fix the problem when Mummy and Papa are fighting, or when Mummy and Granddad are fighting, or when Mummy and Mrs. Jones are being very polite to one another. So Martin sits on the big, wide windowsill, looking out at the grey sky and the grey street and the grey grass that ends very suddenly just on the other side of the street.

He realizes he’s humming under his breath and tries to stop himself, pressing his hand over his mouth to make him swallow the sound like Mummy always does. Humming or singing to himself while he’s walking around the house or doing his chores is another thing Mummy is always telling him to stop doing, along with biting his lip, sucking his thumb, pulling his hair, and picking the skin around his nails. She’s a little nicer about it when Papa is home, but still, he doesn’t want to make her more upset than she already is. He doesn’t want her to have one of her bad spells while they’re on their vacation.

He’s being very, very good and very, very patient, because he’s supposed to be, but inside he is practically bursting with excitement and anticipation. It’s not like he’s never seen the water before, but this is a different water and a different kind of beach, and he wants to see what might be there after all the rain. Okay, it is kind of raining right now, so maybe not just this second, but still, he wants to go out and look.

It doesn’t sound like he’s going to get to any time soon, though. Mummy’s voice is getting sharp and Papa’s voice is doing that thing it does when he’s trying not to start shouting, and they’re not just talking about the room anymore. Usually that means Papa goes out and won’t take Martin and won’t be back until late, and Mummy goes up to her room and doesn’t come out. But it’s all one room, so she can’t do that, so Martin wonders what’s going to happen if things get louder.

“I’m going to go find out about renting a car for the week,” Papa says finally, his voice tight with anger but still not at the shouty point. “Shouldn’t be too long. Get some rest.” He stomps out the door. Martin braces himself for the door to slam—that’s another thing Mummy hates—but lucky for both of them, Papa shuts it quietly.

Mummy makes a hmmphing noise that usually means she’s about to tell Martin to go make her a cup of tea, and he presses his lips together and tries not to panic. There’s no stove in here, and no kettle, and he doesn’t know if Mummy and Papa packed the tea—Martin always thinks of it as the Bad Tea, not because it tastes bad but because Mummy only tells him to make it when he’s been bad, but it’s actually called oolong—and if he asks her about it, she’s going to be even madder, and aren’t they supposed to have fun?

How old are you? a voice whispers in the back of his mind, a voice he doesn’t recognize but that sounds an awful lot like a grown-up, and Martin clenches his fists and mentally berates himself. He’s four years old—four and a half—he’s not a baby anymore, and he’s too big to whine about being asked to help out, especially when Mummy has one of her spells.

No, that’s not what I—Jesus, the voice hisses, and Martin beats himself up a little more because he isn’t supposed to say things like that, so he probably shouldn’t think them either. The voice whispers it’s okay, you’re okay, then falls silent, so he reckons he’s calmed himself down like he’s supposed to.

He gives a longing look towards the beach again. The rain looks like it’s letting up a little bit, and this would be the perfect time to head out and walk along the shore, but he knows better than to ask Mummy. If she’s having one of her bad spells, she can’t walk except on hard ground, and not very far even then, and she doesn’t like the beach much anyway. He’s going to have to wait for Papa to come back, but it’s going to be hard.

Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door, making Martin jump. Surprisingly, Mummy doesn’t ignore it or order Martin to get it. Instead, she stands up, crosses over to the door, and opens it herself. Martin can’t see who’s there, but Mummy says in her the sign on the door says “No Soliciting” voice, “May I help you?”

“I hope you don’t think me forward,” the person—a lady from the sound of it, with a low, cultured voice—says politely. “We saw you and your family checking in a while ago, and I heard the clerk tell your husband which room you were in, so we came up. I wonder if you’d let your son come down to the beach with us? We’ve been here three days, you see, and there are no other children staying here—my daughter would so like someone to play with.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Mummy says. Martin expects the next thing she says to be but no, thank you, I need him here, but instead she turns around without letting go of the door. “Martin.”

“Y-yes, ma’am?” Martin jumps to his feet quickly.

Mummy steps to one side. In the corridor just outside the door is a very pretty lady wearing a spotless frilled apron over a long dark skirt and a tight-fitted blouse, her hair piled up on her head kind of like Mummy does, but unlike Mummy’s fine ash blonde hair, hers is a dull, mousy brown. She looks like the illustration in the book he tried to read at the library last month, except some of the words were a little too hard for him to puzzle out and when he asked Mummy about them she said it was a book for girls and not for boys. Holding her hand is a girl who looks like she might be a little older than Martin himself is, with curly black hair and blue, blue eyes, wearing a dark wool coat that comes down to just above her smart black boots. She isn’t smiling, but she’s watching Martin with interest.

“Now, behave yourself,” Mummy scolds. “I don’t want to hear that you’ve been giving any trouble to this nice lady or her daughter who have been so kind as to let you come out with them.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Martin says, because it’s what he’s supposed to say, but he’s a little worried. Mummy hasn’t even asked the lady’s name, or her daughter’s, and he’s not usually supposed to go off with strangers. If Papa comes back soon and asks, Mummy won’t be able to tell him who Martin is with…but, he reasons, the beach is right there after all. It won’t be hard to know where to go and get him really.

So Martin puts his jacket back on—it’s a little too big for him, actually a lot too big for him, but Mummy says he’s growing too fast and she can’t be buying him a new coat every single winter—and obediently follows the lady and the girl out of the hotel.

There’s a brief lull in the rain, but Martin still wishes he had a hat of some kind as he scurries after the lady and her daughter. They’re not running or hurrying, but they move quickly, and the lady almost seems to be gliding across the ground; he nearly trips twice before they make it across the street, but he doesn’t, and then they’re there.

He wondered, from the hotel, why he couldn’t see the water, but now he realizes it’s because this is kind of a cliff and the actual beach is down below, far too big of a drop to just jump, but Martin can’t see how he’s going to get down. He almost doesn’t care, though. He can hear the waves soughing and crashing against the beach, which looks like it might be more pebbles than actual sand, and the smell is both familiar and unusual; the big smell, the salt and the wind, is the same, but the smaller, underneath smells are different and give it a whole new flavor, and it’s very exciting. There’s nobody else out there, either, which isn’t surprising for it being cold and wet and January, and it means they’ll have the beach to themselves for a bit, he guesses. It’s probably too cold to go swimming, but maybe he can take his shoes and socks off and go wading? He might have to wait for Papa, though.

There’s a soft pop noise, and when Martin looks, he sees that the lady has unfolded a dark canvas beach chair and set it right on the edge of the cliff. She settles herself in it primly and nods at her daughter. “Go ahead. I’ll watch you from here.”

The girl nods back, then beckons to Martin. He thinks, for just a moment, they really are going to just jump off the edge of the cliff, but then the girl slips between two clumps of grass and he realizes there’s a zig-zag path that leads all the way down to the beach. Happy again, he follows her as quick as he can without falling and rolling all the way to the bottom.

It’s colder on the beach than up top, and a little windier, and the persistent drizzle is pretending to start up again, but Martin ignores it. Instead, he beams up at the older girl, who’s not really that much taller than him. “I’m Martin,” he says cheerfully. “What’s your name?”

The girl looks surprised that he asked. She stares at him for a minute without blinking, then finally says, “Ann.”

“With an E?” Martin asks, because that’s what the girl said in the book Mummy wouldn’t let him read.

Ann shakes her head, but doesn’t say anything else. Still, Martin decides that until she says her last name, he’s going to call her mother Miss Cuthbert. They stand on the beach just looking at each other for a few minutes. Martin can feel the rain, but he can’t see it, not yet, so it’s not so bad that they need to worry about going back up already.

Finally, he asks, “What kind of games do you like to play?”

He expects Ann to say she wants to build a sandcastle, or hunt for rocks, or maybe race each other down the beach. Instead, she surprises him by saying, “Hide and seek.”

“Hide and seek?” Martin repeats, puzzled.

“Yes. I’m It,” Ann adds. “I’ll count to fifty, and you go find somewhere to hide, and then I go looking. And then I can hide and you can try to find me.”

“O-oh, okay.” Martin looks around uncertainly. There aren’t…exactly a lot of places to hide on an open beach, unless he ducks under the water, but it might be a bit cold for that. And won’t his footprints show up and make it easy?

He waits for Ann to give him some more rules, like that he has to stay within so many feet or that he’s not allowed to climb the cliffs again, but instead she just covers her eyes and begins counting slowly and deliberately. Martin blinks at her hard, then turns and dashes away as fast as he can.

It turns out there are a few places to hide—clumps of scrub grass clustered around the base of the cliff, a few trash cans, even the remains of an old pier. Martin studies all of them and rejects them impatiently. Mostly he’s too big to fit behind them. He doesn’t know how much time he has left, either, because he can’t hear Ann’s counting.

Then he spies it—the perfect place. A random chunk of rock, easily as big as he is—maybe bigger—all by itself in the middle of the sand. He can stand behind it, or maybe sit with his back pressed to it, and be perfectly hidden, and maybe it won’t be the first place Ann thinks to look because it’s so far away from anything else. He rushes over as fast as he can and is surprised, but pleased, to discover a kind of hollow on the back side of the rock that looks like he’ll fit under it—just. Which is good, because it means he can keep the rain off while he waits for Ann to find him.

Martin drops to his knees and crawls under the rock. The cold of the sand seems to seep into his knees, and he really hopes he isn’t getting his trousers wet and dirty, Mummy will be furious. He curls himself into a ball, hugs his legs to his chest, and waits.

And waits.

And waits some more.

He strains his ears to listen. Surely he should be able to hear footsteps crunching on the sand, even over the gentle soughing of the waves. But he can barely hear the ocean from here, and he definitely can’t hear the sounds of anyone poking around the beach looking for him. It’s possible Ann is just walking carefully so as not to startle him, or that she’s too far away to hear yet, but…but how long has he been hiding now? Isn’t there a rule about calling for someone if you can’t find them? Martin doesn’t play hide and seek very often. Actually, he doesn’t play a lot of games very often, not with other children. He doesn’t go to school yet, and there aren’t a lot of other children in his neighborhood, so he only really sees them when he goes to the local parks. And Mummy isn’t usually up for taking him. He spends a lot of time with Granddad, really, and that’s…fine, it’s fine, but it means he spends more time playing backgammon and checkers and learning to read in three languages than he does running around. He can climb trees like a monkey, so Granddad says—and Papa too, he says Martin would make a fine deckhand—and he runs and swims well enough, but most of the time if he’s not doing grown-up things, he’s playing by himself.

There’s something you’re supposed to say when you can’t find people, Martin remembers, but he can’t remember what it is, just that it’s the phrase that means the game is over, come out, but it’s also the phrase that means I give up, which is probably why Ann hasn’t yelled it yet. She must be very determined. Martin can’t blame her. He’s usually so easy to find, anyway, on the rare occasions he plays, he’s usually the first one found, so it can’t be hard for Ann, especially when it’s just him. He just has to be patient for a little while longer.

He hopes she finds him soon, though. It’s getting cold. It looks like the rain is getting heavier, too. It doesn’t sound like it’s raining very hard, but the damp is getting into his hiding space and when he looks at the entrance, he can’t see very far. The salt smell is stronger, and it almost sounds like the waves are getting…quieter? Maybe the tide is going out. That means the ocean is getting farther away…right?

He waits some more, and listens hard again, but there’s no footsteps and no voices and almost no wave. And now he’s getting worried about the rock. When water gets into sand, it shifts its position, he knows that from a nature documentary, and if the rain makes the sand too wet and the rock shifts its weight, it might fall over on top of him, and even if he doesn’t get killed by the rock hitting his head or breaking his neck or something like that, he’ll be trapped and won’t be able to get out and maybe he’ll not be able to breathe and…he’s starting to panic a little bit.

Suddenly, he decides he doesn’t care if he loses the game. It’s not fun anymore, and he’s scared. He’ll come out and find—and find—he’ll come out and announce he’s giving up and ask if they can go back up to the top of the cliff and, and he doesn’t want to play anymore. He uncurls himself and half crawls, half falls out onto the sand, scrambles out, and pulls himself to his feet using the rock. The rock doesn’t budge. That’s good. Maybe.

It’s hard to see, though. The rain—is it rain? It’s not a hard rain if it is—makes everything hard to make out. He’s vaguely aware that the sea is off to one side and the cliffs are off to another, but all he can see are shadows. He can’t really see anything clearly but the rock right in front of him.

He can’t see any shapes that look like people.

“Hello?” he calls. His voice sounds small and quiet. He clears his throat and calls again, trying to sound louder, but it doesn’t really come out any louder.

Maybe it’s his ears? He can’t hear the waves anymore really either. When he takes an experimental step, there’s no crunch of sand or stone beneath his feet. And it’s getting even colder. He shivers and tugs at his jacket. It doesn’t do a lot of good. He can still feel the rain—no, not rain, he thinks. It’s fog, and it’s seeping into his bones. It feels like it’s seeping into his brain, too. It’s not just hard to see, it’s hard to think. He shakes his head to clear it.

Where’s—where’s—wasn’t there someone he was playing with? He bites his lip and tries to think. He wasn’t playing by himself, was he? Well, he usually does, so maybe…but no, he’s, there was…a girl? She’s, she’s looking for him, she must be…she said she would look for him. He presses his hands to the sides of his head and tries hard, so very hard, to just…think.

I go looking. And then I can hide and you can try to find me. He remembers now. She never said she would find him, but she said he had to find her and…and he doesn’t know where to start looking. Everything looks the same, and…he can’t even see the rock anymore, he—was there a rock there? Which way is the ocean? He stands in one spot, terrified to move, afraid that if he runs the wrong way he’ll fall in the water and drown, and why is there so much fog?

“Hello?” he cries out. “I—I’m lost! Help!” He starts to call out to the girl, but—what was her name? She told him her name, what’s her name, why can’t he remember her name—

“I don’t want to play anymore!” he cries, but the words get lost in the fog. “Hello? H-hello? I—” Tears spring to his eyes, and he dashes at them angrily. “I w-want—”

He wants—what does he want? Who does he want? There’s, there’s someone, someone waiting for him, someone who—or, or is he just making that up? Is it just a pretend friend, someone to make him feel better when he’s all alone? Isn’t he always alone really?

Is there even anybody else on the beach?

Is there anybody else in the whole world?

Is there anything out there at all other than him, and the fog, the fog that won’t go away, the fog that—

Olly-olly-oxen-free. The words slam into his head and he remembers, he remembers that’s what you say to make the people who are hiding come out, but—but he’s the one hiding, isn’t he? No. No, he’s doing the looking, which means he can say the words and then, and then he’ll lose, but the game will be over and he can go.

“Ol—olly-olly-oxen-free?” He cups his hands around his mouth and tries to shout, but the words don’t go very far from him. Maybe because he’s the only person to hear them.

No! No, that’s not—that isn’t right, it can’t be right, there was—there’s somebody, he knows somebody is there, Mummy sent him to the beach with—Mummy. He has a mummy, she sent him to the beach with a lady because—because Papa went to get a car.

Papa.

He has a mummy, he has a papa, he has—he has a name, what’s his name? They call him something, don’t they? He tries to remember, tries to hear their voices, but…b-but he can’t think, it’s too foggy, it’s too cold, it’s too lonely, and he wants, he wants, he wants, he wants to go home.

“Hello? Hello!” he cries again, and he’s really crying now, because he’s scared and he’s lonely and he doesn’t know where he is or anyone else is and he just wants to be found. He starts running, no longer caring if there’s, if there’s something he might, something bad that might happen, because anything is better than here and nothing and—

There’s a sound, a new sound he can’t quite make out, and he stops and spins all around him, breathing hard and fast and trying so hard to listen, but it’s so hard to hear and…and it sounds so familiar, it’s, it’s deep and resonant and it’s safe, it’s a sound that doesn’t belong in the fog and…

“…see o’er the foaming billows fair haven’s land…”

He knows that song, he knows it, and—he turns around, and there’s a shape in the fog, it’s moving, it’s making the sound, it’s, it’s—he starts humming along. He’s, he’s, something tells him he’s not supposed to hum, not supposed to sing, but the song makes him feel better and he remembers it, so he hums it very loudly as he runs towards the shape, and then he starts singing, his voice trembling and cracking as he tries to match the volume, but he’s not sure if the sound is making it through the fog or not.

“…leave that poor old stranded wreck and pull for the shore…”

The shape is fading in and out, and he can’t find it, he can’t see it anymore, and he’s scared, he’s so scared, he tries to find the voice, but it’s not singing now, and he stretches out his arms and cries out desperately and—

—and something is grabbing him, something is holding him, and it’s a shock because he was alone just a second ago and now he’s not and something is holding him and he can’t, he can’t, he needs to get away, he has to fight back, he—

“Martin! Martin, it’s me. It’s me.” The voice is familiar, so familiar, and it’s right in front of him, and there’s a shape, and—and now there are two hands on his shoulders, holding him still. “Look at me, Martin. Tell me what you see.”

“I see…” Martin. His name is Martin. That’s who he is, he’s Martin, he…he looks up and the fog clears, and he sees a face, round and white and with a scratchy stubble and curly copper-colored hair and worried apple green eyes, and he knows it, and he takes his first full, deep breath in what feels like forever. “I see you, Papa. I see you.”

Papa pulls Martin into a tight hug, and Martin clings to his shirt and cries, not sure how he has any tears left, and Mummy’s going to be upset with him because you’re too big to cry, Martin, you know better, but he has to, because…

“I’m sorry, Martin,” Papa says, his voice choked like maybe he’s crying too. “I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t have let you go if I’d known.”

“I, I couldn’t find her,” Martin wails. “There was a girl and—and w-we were playing hide and seek and—and I c-couldn’t find her, I was looking and—and there wasn’t anybody at all…”

“I know. I know.” Papa rubs Martin’s back. “They were part of something called the Lonely. I’ll tell you more about it when you’re older, but for now, just know they were just making you think like that. It wasn’t real, son.”

“I-it felt real.” Martin looks up at Papa, but he’s got tears in his eyes and he can’t see well. “I, I was all alone.”

“Not anymore.” Papa kisses him on the forehead and stands up, hefting Martin up in his arms and settling him on his hip even though he’s really too big for that, and Martin clings to his neck and rests his head on his shoulder. “Come on, let’s go get ice cream.”

He carries Martin up the zig-zag path and doesn’t complain once about Martin being too heavy to carry, or too big to be carried, and he doesn’t put him down when they get to the street either, just walks with him towards the shops. He keeps talking as they walk, soft but steady, telling him about the things they’re going to do and places they’ll see and telling him, again and again, that he won’t ever have to be alone again.

Martin almost believes him.

When they get to the ice cream shop, Papa finally lets Martin down, but he doesn’t let go of Martin’s hand as they walk into the shop. It’s very, very tiny, but it smells good, and Papa takes him up to the counter and asks for two dishes of strawberry ice cream from the man behind the counter. Martin is glad there’s another person really there.

He looks around the shop without letting go of Papa’s hand and sees another boy, too, who looks about his age. He’s small and skinny and resting his chin on his arm, which is resting on the table, and he’s poking at a dish of ice cream listlessly. He looks about as upset as Martin feels, and there’s a little bit of Martin that’s glad he’s not the only one having a bad day.

“Jonathan, stop playing with your food,” the old woman, probably his grandmother, sitting across from him says in a weary kind of voice, and Jonathan—Martin guesses that’s the boy’s name—puts down his spoon and pushes the dish away from him. The old woman sighs, but doesn’t say anything else.

Martin almost wants to go say something to the boy, but he’s afraid to talk to anyone else right now in case they disappear too, so he cuts his eyes away and clings to Papa’s hand as they make their way over to a table in the corner and sit across from each other with their ice cream. Papa picks up his spoon and takes a bite, but Martin just stares at his, wondering if he’ll even be able to taste it. Everything just feels so…so far away.

“Martin,” Papa says quietly, and he reaches over and takes Martin’s hand. Martin looks up at Papa to see him looking at him with a very, very kind look on his face. “You won’t ever have to feel that alone again. I promise. I won’t ever let you be alone like that again.”

Martin bites his lips hard. “What about when you go out to sea with Uncle Kay again?”

“You still won’t be alone.” Papa takes off his cap, flicks it once to get the dust and hair off, and then leans across the table and puts it on Martin’s head. It slips down over his eyes for a moment, but Martin pushes it up and looks up at Papa, who smiles, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. “I’ll always be with you, one way or another, as long as I’m able to draw breath. I promise on my very soul. I love you and I won’t ever let the Lonely have you. Ever.”

Martin looks at Papa for a long moment, then smiles back. Something warm settles in his chest, and he knows Papa is right. He won’t ever have to go through something like that again, and he’ll never be alone again, because Papa promised he wouldn’t.

And Papa never, ever, ever breaks his promises.

#ollie writes fanfic #tma fanfic #the magnus archives #to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest)#martin blackwood #verbal/mental/emotional abuse of a child #arguments #anxiety #panic #isolation #abandonment #memory loss #extremely unfair use of canon lines #thank you guys for putting up with my brief hiatus #it's been An Week™#check the notes on AO3 for details but yeah #ETA: FUCK I forgot the readmore #sorry about that y'all #fixed now

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