A fantasy short story that is loosely based on the premise of my novel, Otherworld. 

The newcomer is a little younger than the rest of the group, early sixties perhaps, and he’s come alone. The seats on either side of him remain empty, despite how packed the room is. I can’t help but watch him as Abi gives her usual introduction about how drawing can draw out memories; he already has pen to paper.

When the introduction is over, I head towards him. One of my duties as a volunteer is to greet new people, but I’m drawn to him anyway.

“Hi John.”

He glances up at me, then, with a small smile, to his name badge. “Hello. Aren’t you a little young for this group?”

I pull back the chair beside him and sit down. “I’m a volunteer here.”

”Ah.” He smiles at me again, but quickly turns his attention back to his drawing. “I was dragged here by my daughter. She seems to think getting out of my bubble may be good for me.”

”Your daughter may be onto something.”

I look at his drawing. Everyone draws something different, and every drawing has a meaning unique to the individual. Newcomer’s are often uncertain on how to start, and want to talk to their carers or us. Not John. He draws confidently and competently.

“A sword?”

He nods, not looking up.

“Why a sword?”

My half-baked study of psychology throws ideas around. He sees his illness as attacking; perhaps he is defending. But he smiles. “No reason. Just a memory.”

“Would you tell me about it?”

“Oh,” he waves his free hand, “You don’t want to hear about that old stuff.”

“Actually, that’s one of the reasons I’m here. To hear your stories.”

He smiles. “My daughter liked my stories when she was your age. But it was a long time ago; I may not remember everything.”

“That’s okay. Maybe I can hear what you do remember.”

He’s adding some shadow to the blade now. For a moment I think perhaps he won’t share. He wouldn’t be the first. Even though I know he has that right, I want to push him, to hear the memory that sparked this drawing which is so lifelike and so unexpected. He sighs, ever so softly, and says, “Ah, but it is a good story.

“I was eighteen when I met her. The most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. She was in the woods behind my house, and she was running away from home. I wanted to help. I asked her why she was running, and she told me her brother was trying to kill her.”

“With the sword?” I ask.

“No, no. The sword was mine. Or, at least, it would be. You see, she wasn’t from around here. She was a princess, of sorts, and her brother was a king. He wanted to rule over our world, as well as his. I had saved her and convinced her to go home rather than run, and when she went back she took me with her.”

I stare. The sword has a detailed hilt now, so lovingly and convincingly drawn I could pick it off the page. Conversations continue around us. I don’t think anyone else heard.

“You’re talking about another world, aren’t you?”

I’ve heard many incredible stories since I started volunteering here, but this is another level.

“Our twin world,” he says. “And it was magical. Sorcerers and gods, a dragon and a princess. And she was the most magical thing about it. I had never met someone so incredibly brave, and clever. Cutting too – her tongue was sharper than the sword!” He smiles down at the picture. “The day I married her — well, that’s another story. The sword.”

“Was it hers?”

“Once. But she gifted it to me. You see, the king was threatening earth, and so it was up to someone from here to defend it.” His voice lowers, grows soft and thoughtful so I have to strain to hear it. “I saved the world. I forget a lot of things these days, but I’ll never forget that.”

He talks for the rest of the session, his voice low but steady and confident. He tells me about wonderful, impossible things: oceans of crystal lilac, creatures with intelligent thought and magical words, battles where only the mind fights. And all the time he draws, so that the sword leaps off the page, as real as the wrinkles on his hands.

When he falls silent and lowers his pencil, I feel like I’ve been jolted out of a beautiful dream. Abi is wrapping up. She shoots me a look: I’m supposed to go around the group, I’ve never stayed with one person for the whole session before.

He pushes his chair back and makes to stand up. I reach out instinctively – I want to hear more, to listen to this master storyteller a little longer.

My hand touches his arm.

And I am there, watching a young man with startling green eyes struggle to lift a sword far too large for him, blood dripping down a gash on his forehead, a dark purple bruise on his cheekbone. His hands shake and there are tears in his eyes.

He gently pushes my hand away. I look up into a small, sad smile and green eyes dulled by time. “Being the hero isn’t always easy,” he says.

He reaches for his coat. He’s about to leave. I don’t know what to say, so I gesture to the drawing. “Your picture.”

“Keep it.” He throws his coat over his shoulder, and smiles. “Who knows? We may need it again someday.

I touch the paper and, just for a second, I can feel it. A solid hilt. A firm object under my hand. I look down at the drawing and see the glint of metal.

When I look up, the newcomer has gone.