Traveller Manifesto

Istanbul – Today.

McAlister closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath.

Zoe watched, expecting an explosion of anger, but her husband managed to control his rage. She felt quietly impressed, so decided to continue their discussion and placed a placating hand on his arm, which caused him to look at her. He had been so volatile since his return from old Byzantium. She had heard the stories, that Mac had single-handedly killed a Varangian patrol. When Osborne had explained that to her, the Australian had tried all he could to emphasise how hard, how terribly dangerous, those Varangians were. He called Mac a hero and had meant it. Osborne was one of the most impressive soldiers Zoe had ever met, but for Mac, and he wasn’t one to talk sugar-coated shite. She had wanted to see the footage, of course, but Osborne bluntly refused.

She guessed why. As Mac had often told her, soldiers did some pretty brutal shit. That was their job. But she guessed that Mac had been compelled to do something more brutal than normal. Two of his fellow Travellers had been murdered right before his eyes and his own life and the life of his squad mate and friend, Erol, were under threat. Add to that his actions in the rescue of Professor Taylor and Captain McFee from the Royal Palace in ancient Constantinople and how Mac had been wounded. She still didn’t know the full story there either.

Despite the training and their awesome physical condition, they were men. Only men. Even the hardest of men, including Mac, had their breaking point.

She knew him better than anyone. Yes, her Mac was broken and the cracks were beginning to show. He struggled with his wound, angry that he was not able to complete his duties. He wrestled constantly with his feelings of rage and inadequacy, even though he had been honoured with Turkey’s Medal of Honour, their highest military honour. Enough had been told of his actions to make him a hero, which seemed to make her man even angrier.

“Let me shout you a cuppa,” she smiled.

Mac looked at her a moment, the bags under his eyes evident. The therapist who had been talking to Mac assured her that he was, once again, suffering from the effects of relatively severe PTSD.

No shit! Thought Zoe. They had barely survived once, after that battle in old England. But he had survived. They had survived! She was determined to make their relationship work.

The Turkish vendor hurried about in making the apple tea that she had grown to love. Mac had introduced her to the drink, of course. She loved the little glasses and the large, ornate teapot. The vendor obviously recognised Mac as, beaming, he had refused payment and insisted on shaking Mac’s hand in both of his.

When they were alone, they sipped their tea and watched as shoppers wandered by. The tiny cafe was close to the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul, a place that would soon be swarming with tourists. It was one of her favourite haunts and she had already collected a set of beautifully decorated bowls that would go well in their home.

“I wanted to tell you how much I love being here with you,” she began.

Mac looked up at her and nodded as he reached for her hand, which in itself was an improvement. She knew he was trying, and took comfort in that. As they held hands across the table, she continued. “I learned of something which I think applies to us all.”

“What’s that?” he asked gruffly. He was defensive, so she had to proceed carefully.

“It’s called Kintsukuroi. It’s a Japanese thing,” she added with a smile.

“So, what’s that, my love,” he replied with his own small, reluctant smile.

She took a fortifying breath before she continued, “It means to repair with gold. When an old ceramic vase or pot, probably one that was a family heirloom or something like that, is broken, tradition often had it repaired using gold. Because of the repairs, the pot is often stronger, but is also much more beautiful than it was before it was broken, because there are lines of gold in it.”

“Oh?” he asked with a frown tagged to his smile. He hated any reference to how life was challenging him, so she took some encouragement from his acceptance of her conversation.

“Yes it seems that the whole repair wasn’t just a way of keeping something they found valuable, but it seemed to be a philosophy of sorts, as it treats breakage and repair as part of the history of an object, rather than something to disguise.” She paused and noted that Mac still watched her. He hadn’t turned away, or even looked annoyed. Instead, he took a sip of the sweet, apple tea and looked around at the other people in the café. Shoppers began to throng the ornately decorated stalls.

“So, I’m still alright then?” he asked with a small smile that reached his eyes.

Zoe felt her heart swell. Mac was her man, a good man. A hard, tough man. But he was hers. She gripped his hand tightly and felt tears prick her eyes. “You are always alright, you stupid man,” she smiled. “I think you should take the position that Professor Febvre has been talking about. You don’t mind working with her, do you?”

Mac frowned a moment, but then shook his head. “No love, I liked working with her team. I just have to watch out I don’t get fat again.”

Zoe giggled and gave his hand a squeeze. “Me too,” she replied as she laughed out loud.