Wayfarer

They ate right there in the kitchen, which made Timothy feel a little more at ease: It meant Paul and Peri were treating him as family, instead of making an awkward fuss on his account. But even so, he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were putting an effort into appearing relaxed and friendly with him, instead of just being that way.

“So,” said Paul as he passed Timothy the salad, “how’s your family?”

“Fine, I guess,” said Timothy.

“Uncle Neil still running that clinic for the poor, or whatever?”

“Yeah.” Kampala itself had good medical facilities, but his father often traveled to the nearby village of Luweero to offer his services. He also preached at the chapel and led Bible studies in their home, but Paul probably wasn’t interested in that. “He keeps pretty busy.”

“And your mum? What’s she up to these days?”

This was torture. Paul and Peri had never tried to make small talk with him before: They’d always talked about interesting things, like nature and art and music. He forced himself to answer politely and was dreading the next question when Peri broke in:

“Tell me about Uganda. What’s it like?”

Timothy was surprised: She’d never asked him about his home country before, and he’d assumed she wasn’t interested. “It’s…different,” he said. “Warmer mostly, and there’s more sunshine and not nearly as much rain. But it’s not all dried up or anything,” he added quickly. “It’s got plenty of green plants and trees and flowers. Kampala’s the capital, so there are lots of big banks and hotels and crazy traffic….”

His memory conjured up the image of Entebbe Road at rush hour, crammed end to end with the blue-striped white vans that served as regular taxis, while the motorcycle boda-bodas darted in and out of the chaos. His mother had begged Timothy not to ride the bodas when he went into the city with his friends, since they were dangerous, but they were so much cheaper and faster than a taxi that he’d usually done it anyway.

“The buildings are mostly light-colored plaster,” he went on slowly, trying to put the images into words, “and the roofs are red. Instead of crows and pigeons, we have these big, ugly storks. And the streets are full of people, but it’s not like here, where everyone rushes around with their heads down and won’t even look at one another. Ugandans are friendly-they like to talk and laugh, and when you meet someone, they ask how you’re doing and if your family is well and if you have any news….”

Paul nodded politely, but Timothy could tell he wasn’t that interested. Peri, on the other hand, had a faraway look on her face, as though she were imagining herself in Uganda at that very moment. “It sounds fascinating,” she said. “Like nothing I’ve ever seen. I wish…”

Her words trailed off as Paul reached over and gently put his hand on hers. She looked down at their overlapping fingers, and her face closed up again. “Yes. Well, never mind that. Did you get enough to eat?”

“The computer’s in my studio,” said Paul, leading Timothy down the corridor to a pair of French doors. “The connection’s slow, though, and sometimes it doesn’t work at all. I can’t make any promises.”

Though the curtains were drawn and the room dimly lit, it only took Timothy an instant to recognize his aunt’s old parlor. But now the built-in shelves that had once held porcelain figurines were littered with paintbrushes and tubes of oils, while an easel stood where the piano used to be. And instead of family photographs the walls were hung with canvases, all rendered in the bold strokes and vibrant hues that were Paul McCormick’s trademark.

“Here you go,” said Paul. He flicked a switch and the track lighting at the back of the room came on, revealing a computer desk in the corner. “Help yourself. Any problems, give a shout.” And with that he wheeled back out into the hallway.

Timothy dragged over a chair and sat down in front of the computer. Despite Paul’s warning the internet connection seemed to be working fine, and within a few minutes he had logged in to his school account.

You have one new message, his mailbox informed him.

Timothy’s heart plummeted as he saw the return address. It was from his mother. Swallowing against the sudden dryness in his throat, he forced himself to click the email open.

Hello, dear one! Hope this finds you well and happy, as we all are here…

He relaxed. Just her usual weekly letter. She hadn’t found out about his suspension after all: wouldn’t, either, until Timothy was ready to tell her. Though when he explained the reason for what he’d done, the news that he’d picked a fight with the biggest boy in the school would be the least of his mother’s worries, probably.

He skimmed the first few paragraphs of her note-which included a report of how his little sister, Lydia, was doing at school, as well as a funny story involving one of the neighborhood children and a list of requests for prayer-then slowed abruptly at the sight of a familiar name:

Miriam has been helping me with the children’s club, and a wonderful help she is too! So good to have her lovely voice to lead the singing, instead of my feeble croak. She asks to be remembered to you, and says she will write soon. In the meantime I am sending you a picture I took of her and Lydia last Sunday….

Quickly Timothy scrolled down to the photograph. There she stood in front of the familiar white bungalow on Luthuli Avenue, one long arm draped over his sister’s shoulders. Her hair was a mass of tight braids, with a colorful scarf tied around it, and her smile seemed to blaze out of the screen. Miriam Sewanaku, his neighbor and best friend.

He missed her, now more than ever. She’d introduced him to the music of Bernard Kabanda, who’d become one of his musical heroes; and when he bought his first guitar she hadn’t laughed at the muzungu boy wanting to play Ugandan music, the way Timothy’s schoolmates did. Instead she’d gone to a family friend, one of the finest guitarists in Kampala, and persuaded him to teach Timothy how to play.

Without Miriam’s encouragement, he might have given up. But now the guitar had become his passion, and he couldn’t imagine a life without it. He would always be grateful to her for that-and lately, he’d come to realize that he might be a little more than just grateful. But she was a year older than he was, and he was a muzungu, and besides they were both too young to do anything about it. So he hadn’t worked up the courage to say anything…at least, not yet.

Reluctantly Timothy closed his mother’s letter and started a new message of his own. A few lines to his old email account in Uganda (which his parents never checked), a copy to Greenhill to make sure the dean was satisfied…done. He shut down the computer and…

There it was again, that feeling of being watched. As though there were some presence in the room with him, invisible but uncomfortably real. Timothy sat very still a moment, then abruptly spun around-

No one was there. But on the opposite wall hung a painting he’d never seen before. It was a portrait of Peri, her narrowed eyes staring directly out of the canvas. Her feet were bare, and she gripped a long knife in her hand.

Timothy got up from his chair and walked to examine the picture more closely. It was beautifully done, but something about it bothered him. It wasn’t that Peri looked murderous, not exactly: If her expression was fierce it was only in a protective way, like the face of a guardian angel. In fact, the way the light filtered through the leaves behind her looked almost like a pair of translucent wings….

No, that was stupid; he was reading too much into it. But something about the portrait still made him feel uneasy, like it was sending him a message-or a warning-he didn’t understand.

Timothy glanced around at the rest of the art displayed-mostly Paul’s, interspersed with a few pen-and-ink sketches in a different style that had to be Peri’s-then turned off the lights and left. But as he climbed the stairs, the image of that strange portrait still haunted him, like a voice whispering at the back of his mind:

Beware.

The guest bedroom had a four-poster and a window overlooking the front garden, and it was as big as the room he’d shared with three other boys at Greenhill. Timothy kicked off his running shoes and jeans, flopped back onto the mattress, and put his hands behind his head, thinking.

Maybe there wasn’t anything wrong at Oakhaven. Maybe it was just him. He’d been confused and unhappy for so long, he just needed time to relax and get his head clear-that was why he’d come here in the first place, wasn’t it? Maybe all he needed was a good night’s sleep, and this feeling of constant tension, of being spied on wherever he went, would go away.