The Inn at the End of the Road

"And since he was colour blind, it was possible that this happened, wasn't it?" she asked with a small smile. 
"Did it occur that way?" Prescott asked hopefully. 
"She is just an old, foolish, white woman," Kahtia sneered. "What does she know?" 
Prescott threw the negro a baleful look but said nothing to her. He asked Jessie, "Did it happen that way?" 
"The only ones who would truly know that are dead," Jessie said in a voice devoid of expression. 
Kahtia sniffed in disdain. "I told you; she is just an old, stupid, white woman." She went back to the counter and sat down. Her food was cold when she took a bite. "Replace this," she ordered. Jessie did so without comment. 

Prescott stepped briskly toward the old woman. "Jessie?" he begged. Icy fingers played with his spine. He didn't know why he believed because it made no sense, but he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that this woman was the key to Evert's recovery. Jessie gazed thoughtfully at each of the inhabitants of the room. "Is seeing the truth with your own two eyes the only thing that will help?" 
"Evert needs it," Prescott whispered. "Please." 
Jessie left the counter again, went slowly toward the door. She touched the doorknob but did not turn it. She then took the three steps toward the huge, picture window. Jessie inhaled deeply and blew on the glassite surface. There, on the other side, in place of the rain that still appeared through the other windows, was the inside of the Vanguard School. 

"Those are my sons!" the Frenchman exclaimed in joy and ran to the window. His hands caressed the glass for a second and then came to rest on the cold finish. 
"And that's Kyrino!" Kahtia shrieked. She hurried to the door and tried to open it but it wouldn't budge. "Open this!" she commanded Jessie. 
"No," Jessie replied calmly. 
"I said open it, you foolish, old woman," Kahtia shouted in rage. "Open it or I'll break that ugly neck of your!" 
Prescott stepped between the two women. He didn't say anything verbally but his face and eyes, his stance, did. 
"It is not our right to interfere in what has happened," Jessie told the young girl. 
"Damn you, you stupid woman!" Kahtia snarled. "I can save my brother! Open the freshing door!" 
"No." 

The negro would have tried to push by Prescott to attack the old lady, but the sound of voices from the other side of the picture window made Kahtia whirl. "I am going to disconnect the bomb," the young Russian on the other side of the picture window told his colleagues. "What the agent said made a lot of sense." 
"But if we do that," the fat, little Frenchman argued, "How will they know that we mean business?" 
"We planned to die to show our dissatisfaction with the way the world is being run," the tall, husky Irishman added quickly. 
"But the children didn't," the Russian suggested. "It is like the agent said, why must they die as well?" 
"To show those outside we mean business," the Irishman snapped. 
"This whole thing was your idea," the Frenchman reminded the Russian. 

"Yes, but the agent said ... Jean, do we want our deaths connected with the murder of innocent children? Or do we want the universe to think of us as rational creatures?" 
"Offer to exchange the children for the agent," the Irishman said slyly. 
"Yeah," the Frenchman agreed. 
"We will, but first I am going to disconnect the bomb. When we have the agent in here, I will reconnect it. Jean, don't look like that. I haven't gone insane. This bomb is detonated by vibrations. It's safer to have it disconnected while the children are walking out." 
"Are you going to exchange them for the agent?" the Frenchman demanded. 
"Yes. Now, be quiet." Tol opened the lid to the box. The inside was a mess, confusion to anyone unfamiliar with the type of bomb being used. 
Inside the cafe, Evert stood up, walked as if in a dream toward the picture window. Prescott watched him in worry but he stood back silent, showing his concern by the chewing of his bottom lip. "They listened to me," the agent said as he watched the Russian terrorist remove a screw driver from his back pocket. 
"Yes," Jessie said with a nod. "You got through to them." 

Evert's mind sang, "They listened to me!" once more. 
"Do you know the type of bomb, Evert?" Prescott asked when he realized the agent was following the Russian's every move. 
"Yeah. I studied up on bombs after that scare in the bowling alley. I know it, all right." Evert was silent for a few moments until the Russian touched the wrong section. "No, not that one." The picture froze. The people in the school became statues. Evert turned to his his lover. "The correct procedure should be left red, right yellow, right blue, right green, left green. He's touching left red instead of left green." 
"The bomb will explode," Jessie remarked without emotion, "Killing everyone inside that school." 
Evert's glance went toward her. He studied her intently before answering, "Yes." 

"A color blind person could have made that mistake," Jessie continued. 
"Yes!" The Russian peasant cried out as he rushed toward the window. "My son did not kill those children on purpose! He did not do it!" 
"But if he made the bomb," Prescott argued, puzzled. "Wouldn't he know how to dismantle it?" 
"If he made the bomb," Jessie agreed. "Evert, do you remember what they found when they investigated the ruins?" 
"The bomb was South African, the type made by the Black Imperialists," the agent informed her. 
"He lies! He's trying to protect himself!" Kahtia snarled. "He lies!" 
"Evert," Prescott whispered. "You were in shock. Could you have heard wrong?" 

"I play the entire set of events over and over in my mind," Evert murmured. "I have a perfect memory. It served me well on this one." 
Prescott's hand went out to touch the agent, to ease the hint of bitterness away, but he allowed his arm to drop, respecting the other man's need not to be touched. 
"We would not have given the bomb to them!" Kahtia yelled and stomped her foot. The lights flickered ... twice ... Kahtia's face was an odd mixture of expressions. "We would not have given a bomb to them; we had children in that school." Her voice was pleading. 
Jessie took pity on her. "If your people had been aware of where the bomb was going to be used, it would not have been sold to the terrorists." She studied the agent who stood quietly contemplating her. "Are you feeling better?" she asked Evert in a gentle voice. 
"Yes." He did sound more like his old self. Prescott grinned foolishly, in relief. 
The lights flickered once more. 

"Let me pull my brother from that school," Kahtia begged. "Let me save his life." 
"No." Jessie's voice was firm. 
The negro cursed her in violent rage, swung around and sprang for the door. The people on the other side of the window vanished. Rain reappeared. The door opened to Kahtia's touch. The negro girl ran out into the rain and the door closed. The lights flickered yet again. 
"Our turn?" Prescott enquired calmly as if the recent events happened every day. 
"Your turn," Jessie agreed. 
"I'd like to pay you for the food, for the kindness you gave us," Prescott told her truthfully.
"It's not necessary," she told him kindly. 
"You won't be here tomorrow, will you?" he asked. 
Jessie shrugged. "Who can say? I've been here off and on for over a hundred years." 

"When someone needs you," Prescott said in satisfaction. 
"When someone needs me," the old woman agreed. "It's time to leave." 
"I'll bring the credits tomorrow, leave them in the field for you," Prescott insisted. 
"Which field?" she teased. "If you want to repay the kindness I've shown, help someone else in trouble." 
"I will." Prescott turned to his friend and lover. "Are we ready to leave?" 
"Yes, Prescott," Evert agreed. 
They stepped out into the rain. It was a cold torrent. Darkness surrounded them, a wet curtain of rain. And then it disappeared. The sun was shining brightly. Birds sang in the trees ... and the cafe had vanished. That didn't surprise Prescott at all. 
"Prescott, our clothes," Evert said in shock. 

The blue eyed agent looked down. They were back in their original pants and shirts, wearing their own boots ... and ... they were dry. He made a strangled sound but recovered quickly. "Let's go back to the cottage." An icy tingle ran up and down his spine. 
"Yeah, the tall, slim agent agreed. The cottage was right over the hill. It stared back at them cool and aloof. 
"No one will ever believe this," Prescott remarked in an odd voice. "I don't believe it." He shook his head. "Would you like to spend some time in there?" Prescott asked half-heartedly, motioning toward Bridges's cottage with his chin. 
"I want to go back to London," Evert informed the other man. 
"Then let's go home," Prescott said in relief. 
"Gladly." 

There's a cafe at the end of the road. It's a nice, little place, run by a generous, friendly, old woman. It is always surrounded by a dark curtain of rain. Its lights are always beacons of relief to those seeking refuge. Any traveler in need, anyone lost in the rain, is welcomed within. She gives him food, shelter, dry clothing, and when it's time, she sends him on his way again. Sometimes the cafe is around the corner. Sometimes it's located in the middle of a desert outpost ... and sometimes, it's located right over the hill. 

(Author's note: This was written in the late 80's for a star trek k/s zine (kirk and spock are lovers) – It didn't appear and it didn't appear and then the tv show popped up about a special café that was never in the same place twice. Did I see similarities? Yes, I did. Could I prove they stole the idea from me? Nope. Was I angry? Yes, big time! Did the zine editors admit anything to me. Ha! Of course not. I made them send my story back but of course, by then, it was too late. I never wrote for them again. I altered the k/s premise to this one. Spock became Evert and Kirk became Prescott. The blood thirsty Klingon became the girl from South Africa (Well, I had to have the Klingon become someone, didn't I?), etc, etc, etc. Hope you like it.)