Free The Loblolly Boy and the Sorcerer by James Norcliffe Page A

home appliance store with ten or so television sets all tuned to the same scene from a soap opera: a weeping woman with mascara running down her cheeks, her lipsticked lips forming a silent agonised O; a real estate agency with a glass case filled with photographs of the homes people had lived their lives in and now wanted to leave; and a coffee shop with smoked glass windows and shadowy figures within sitting at tables, lifting cups, chatting to friends.
    He stopped and idly looked in.
    One man was sitting alone.
    There was a familiar look to the cast of his shoulders even through the dark glass.
    Feeling a small catch in his throat, and trying to suppress his excitement, the loblolly boy hurried to the entrance and peered through the open door.
    There, sitting alone at a small table, a cup in his hand and an unread newspaper on the table before him, was his father.

CHAPTER FOUR
T HE SORCERER
1
    T he loblolly boy hurried into the café and right up to the table where his father was sitting. He stood there for some moments almost as if to reassure himself, and then he eased into the chair opposite.
    His father was no Sensitive. He gave no indication whatsoever that somebody had just joined him at his table. Instead he stared for the most part into the middle distance, sipping at a cup of black coffee from time to time, glancing around occasionally whenever a movement or a noise attracted his attention. On such occasions he would stare right though the loblolly boy clearly seeing nothing there except empty space.
    The loblolly boy felt a gathering despair at this. Never before had he understood the deepest meaning of so near, yet so far . His father was only the width of a little table away, and yet they might as well have been living on different planets.
    He studied him carefully. Was it his imagination or was his father’s hair greyer, perhaps thinner? With a slightshock, he realised that his father looked a lot older, far older than the few months should have accounted for. He looked sadder too, more lined. What was the word? Melancholy. Was this because he was alone?
    Where was Janice?
    He realised at that point that he wasn’t sure what day it was. Somehow, because of the kids at the park he’d presumed it was a weekend. Probably a Saturday. If so, it was odd for his father to be out alone. Since she’d been on the scene, he and Janice tended to spend most of their available time together.
    Then again, if it wasn’t a weekend then why wasn’t he at work? Back in their home town he’d worked in an office in accounts. Did he not have a job yet? Had he lost it? Was that why he looked so troubled?
    Now that he’d found his father, though, it was going to be all right, thought the loblolly boy. He’d be able to follow him home, wherever home was. Once he knew where they were living he’d be able to confront the usurper and somehow persuade him to Exchange.
    After that?
    It didn’t really matter. Somehow he’d cope.
2
    At length, his father drained his coffee and placed the cup on the table. There was a heaviness in his movements.He gathered the newspaper, and folded it under his arm. Then, with a barely discernible nod to the woman behind the counter, he made his way out of the shop. The loblolly boy followed closely behind. He’d already lost one possible pathway to finding his counterfeit self; he wasn’t going to lose this one.
    He guessed his father would have a car parked somewhere nearby. That didn’t matter. It’s easy to follow a car from a hundred metres above. However, his father walked at a leisurely pace along the footpath apparently in no hurry to get anywhere. He often stopped at a shop window. He waited patiently at pedestrian crossings until the signal and then crossed slowly and deliberately. The loblolly boy realised that he was just killing time. Perhaps he has an appointment or something, he thought. That didn’t matter, either. He had plenty of time as well.
    They came across a busker,