The Improbable Departure of the Rusty Valiant

The brown paper parcel, roughly tied with twine, had appeared on Benji's doorstep with the quiet insolence of a stray cat. No postmark, no return address, just a scrawled 'A.P.' that felt both intimate and entirely too familiar. Benji, a creature of precise habits and predictable Tuesday afternoons, eyed it with suspicion normally reserved for unsolicited tax forms.

His spectacles, perched precariously on the bridge of his nose, slipped a fraction as he nudged it with a polished loafer. It gave a faint, metallic thud. Not a fruitcake, then. He grunted, a sound like gravel shifting underfoot, and bent stiffly to retrieve it. The twine, coarse against his aged fingers, snagged on a hangnail he hadn't known he possessed. Little irritations, he thought, were the barnacles of a quiet life.

Inside, nestled in a scattering of wood shavings that smelled faintly of cedar and something vaguely herbal – not unpleasant, but certainly unexpected – lay a rolled parchment. It looked ancient, the kind of antique one found gathering dust in the back corner of a cluttered market stall, all faded browns and sepia tones. Alongside it, a heavy, tarnished brass key, intricate and impossibly ornate, rested on a small, velvet pouch. The key felt cool, then warmed under his touch, as if waking.

He unrolled the parchment with a careful, almost reverent hand. It wasn't a historical document, as his initial instinct suggested. It was a map. But not of any place Benji recognised. The lines were hand-drawn, inking faded to a pale ghost on the thick paper, depicting winding paths through impossible topographies. Peaks like gnawed teeth, rivers that flowed in illogical spirals, and markings that resembled forgotten constellations. In the centre, crudely circled in what might have been dried berry juice, were the words: 'Here, Away.'

A ridiculous, whimsical piece of art, he decided, folding it with a sigh that stirred the dust motes. A gift from one of Bernard’s more artistically inclined students, perhaps. He’d catalogue it, then forget it amongst his collection of obscure ornithology texts. His life, after all, was an orderly bookshelf, each volume precisely placed.

Just as he was considering the merits of a Darjeeling over a Ceylon, a raucous clamour erupted from his driveway. The distinct, asthmatic cough of Bernard’s 1970s Valiant, affectionately (and accurately) dubbed the 'Rusty Valiant,' punctuated by a triumphant, off-key honk. Benji sighed, a more pronounced gust this time. His orderly afternoon was officially under siege.

Bernard, all sunshine and chaotic energy even at sixty-seven, burst through the front door without knocking, a whirlwind of linen trousers, a ridiculously floral shirt, and a wide, mischievous grin. His silver hair, usually pulled back in a loose ponytail, had escaped its confines and danced around his head like a halo of benevolent static. He carried a canvas bag that appeared to be leaking something vaguely purple.

“Benji, my dear man! The very picture of staid contentment! Are you ready?” Bernard’s voice, a rich baritone weathered by years of shouting over art installations and student protests, vibrated through the quiet study. He didn't wait for an answer, simply drifted towards Benji's antique globe, tracing a finger over Canada's Arctic Archipelago.

Benji, still holding the map, raised an eyebrow. “Ready for what, Bernard? Ready for my afternoon cuppa, perhaps? Or have you come to tell me the municipal council has finally agreed to fund your abstract sculpture of a sentient garden gnome?”

Bernard chuckled, a sound like dry leaves skittering across pavement. “Better, Benji. Far, far better. I’ve come to spirit you away.” He gestured vaguely towards the front door, then back to the peculiar map clutched in Benji’s hand. “Ah, you found it! Excellent. Our first clue.”

“Our… clue?” Benji’s voice cracked slightly on the possessive pronoun. He waved the map, now suddenly feeling less like a whimsical trinket and more like a potential liability. “This absurd thing? Bernard, what on earth are you talking about?”

Bernard, however, was already rummaging through Benji’s overflowing bookshelf, pulling out a weighty tome on ancient cartography. “Away, Benji. From here. From all of it.” He thumped the book gently. “Don’t you ever feel it? The… static? The hum of the mundane pressing in, day in, day out? The insistent whisper of ‘should’ and ‘must’?”

Benji, a man who found comfort in routine and considered 'must' a perfectly reasonable concept, felt a strange prickle of unease. He looked at Bernard’s sparkling, earnest eyes, then down at his own sensible trousers. “I feel the insistent whisper of my digestion after yesterday’s regrettable mutton pie, Bernard. And perhaps the quiet thrum of a perfectly acceptable, orderly existence.”

Bernard snorted, a laugh rumbling in his chest. “Oh, Benji, you’re a magnificent old fossil, you truly are. But even fossils dream of flight.” He peered closer at the map. “This, my friend, is not just a map. It’s an invitation. A call to the improbable. To the un-mundane. And the key?” He pointed to the brass object. “That, my dear, is for the door.”

“What door?” Benji asked, feeling a migraine beginning to brew behind his left eye. He was too old for cryptic adventures, too fond of sensible shoes and early bedtimes. His hip, a constant barometer of his discontent, gave a subtle throb.

“The one we haven’t found yet, of course!” Bernard declared, as if this was the most logical statement in the universe. He clapped Benji on the shoulder, a surprisingly firm pat that made Benji’s old tweed jacket crinkle. “Now, grab your… well, whatever you grab when you’re going on an adventure. Toothbrush, sensible hat, an emergency biscuit. We leave in twenty minutes. The Rusty Valiant awaits!”

Benji stood there, rooted to the spot, watching Bernard glide out of his study, humming a tuneless ditty about ancient mariners and forgotten seas. The sunbeam had shifted, now illuminating a patch of worn carpet where Benji’s dog, a scruffy terrier named Pip, usually napped. Pip was currently at the groomers, an equally rare and disruptive occurrence. Benji felt a surge of indignation, then a flicker of something else – a tiny, almost imperceptible spark of curiosity, like a damp match finally catching.

Twenty minutes later, Benji, surprisingly, was not sitting in his armchair. He was crammed into the passenger seat of the Rusty Valiant, a vehicle that smelled faintly of turpentine, stale coffee, and optimism. He clutched a small leather satchel containing his spectacles, a well-thumbed copy of 'The Origin of Species,' and, yes, an emergency digestive biscuit. Bernard, at the wheel, wrestled with a gearstick that appeared to have a mind of its own, his face a picture of serene determination.

“Are you quite certain this isn’t some elaborate performance art piece, Bernard?” Benji shouted over the engine’s protesting roar, which sounded remarkably like a disgruntled moose. “Because if it is, I shall demand a programme and a full explanation of the artist’s intent.”

Bernard grinned, his eyes twinkling as he wrestled the car into something vaguely resembling forward motion. “Oh, Benji, everything is performance art, if you look at it correctly. But this? This is life. Raw, unscripted, gloriously impractical life!” He fiddled with the radio, which crackled to life with a blast of static before settling on a surprisingly soulful blues track.

They juddered down Benji’s gravel driveway, a plume of dust rising behind them like a desperate plea for normalcy. Benji peered back at his neat little house, the rose bushes he tended so meticulously, the pristine bird bath. It seemed to shrink with every lurch of the Valiant, receding into a postcard memory.

The Folly of Direction

The journey south-east, Bernard insisted, was merely a suggestion, a whimsical flirtation with conventional navigation before they properly embarked on 'the path less travelled.' This path, it turned out, involved several unpaved logging roads, a detour through a farmer’s field that ended abruptly in a ditch (requiring twenty minutes of Bernard’s surprisingly potent expletives and Benji’s reluctant pushing), and a picnic lunch consisting entirely of artisanal cheese and lukewarm sparkling cider that Bernard had inexplicably produced from beneath the back seat.

The summer heat pressed in, a heavy, humid blanket. Sweat trickled down Benji’s back, plastering his shirt to his skin. The air conditioner, Bernard cheerfully informed him, was ‘more of an abstract concept’ in the Valiant. Flies buzzed lethargically against the windscreen, their small deaths marking the passage of time.

“So, this map,” Benji began, trying to keep his voice steady despite the rattling of the chassis. “It purports to lead us ‘away.’ But away to where, precisely? And why the secrecy? And why, for the love of all that is logical, this particular vehicle?”

Bernard took a sip of cider, a beatific expression on his face. “Ah, questions, questions! The mind’s incessant, delightful clamour. The ‘where’ is the joy of the journey, Benji. The grand reveal. The ‘why the secrecy’ is for dramatic effect, naturally. And the Valiant? She’s a character, my dear. A rusty, temperamental, utterly charming character. No grand adventure is complete without a trusty steed with a questionable carburettor.”

Benji pinched the bridge of his nose. “My hips are beginning to feel like character actors in a poorly funded period drama.”

“Embrace the discomfort, Benji!” Bernard sang, reaching over to pat Benji’s knee, a familiar, affectionate gesture that still made Benji’s stomach do a strange little flutter. “It’s how we know we’re alive! And certainly, how we know we’re not on a guided tour.”

They drove for hours, the landscape gradually shifting from manicured fields to dense, sprawling forests that pressed close to the road. The sunlight, once a brutal white, began to filter through the canopy in dappled patterns, like spilled gold on green velvet. The scent of pine and damp earth replaced the smell of exhaust fumes, and the blues music gave way to the insistent chirping of crickets. Benji found himself, despite his ingrained skepticism, succumbing to a strange, almost childlike wonder. The world outside the Valiant's cracked windows felt enormous, untamed.

He watched Bernard, hands loose on the oversized steering wheel, eyes fixed on the ribbon of asphalt ahead. There was a quiet intensity about him now, a subtle shift from his usual boisterous persona. It was the face of an artist, Benji realized, when deeply immersed in his craft. Or perhaps, the face of a man with a very specific, very peculiar destination in mind.

As dusk began to settle, painting the western sky in bruised purples and fiery oranges, Bernard suddenly swerved off the main road onto a barely visible track. Branches scraped against the Valiant’s peeling paintwork, sounding like skeletal fingers dragging across a blackboard. Benji braced himself, his knuckles white against the dashboard.

“Bernard, what in the blazes are you doing?” he demanded, his poetic sensibilities momentarily abandoned for pure, unadulterated alarm. “This is barely a goat path!”

Bernard merely smiled, a secretive, knowing curve of his lips. “The map, Benji. Remember the map? This is where ‘Here’ ends. And ‘Away’ truly begins.” He brought the Rusty Valiant to a shuddering halt in a small clearing, deep within the woods. The engine coughed once, twice, then fell into an unnerving silence, leaving only the buzzing of unseen insects and the distant hoot of an owl.

The air here was cooler, heavy with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and the damp tang of earth. Above them, the first tentative stars began to prick through the deepening blue, enormous and impossibly bright. Bernard killed the headlights, plunging them into near-total darkness, relieved only by the faint glow of the dashboard clock.

“We walk from here,” Bernard announced, unbuckling his seatbelt with a flourish. He opened his door, and the interior light, a feeble yellow, briefly illuminated his face. His expression, usually so open and cheerful, was now unreadable, shadowed by the impending night. He looked at Benji, a strange, almost expectant glint in his eyes. “Are you ready, Benji? To truly go away from here?”

Benji looked at the impenetrable wall of trees, at the ancient, unreadable map now tucked into his satchel, and then at the dark silhouette of Bernard, who was already stepping out into the unknown. A shiver, not entirely from the cooling night air, ran down his spine. He reached for the door handle, a sudden, terrifying thought crystallising in his mind: what if 'away' wasn't a place, but a state of being? And what if, just what if, he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to find out what that meant, especially with Bernard leading the way into such profound, utter darkness?