Sanctuary - a piece of short fiction

Sanctuary

James slung his schoolbag around in front of him and loosened the drawstring. He pulled out a half-eaten snickers bar and took a bite, glancing back down the road toward the forest that he’d just left. He felt a bit exposed on the side of the narrow road, which was only wide enough for two cars to pass if they pulled over onto the grass verge. Beads of sweat formed and started to trickle down his face, the humidity and lack of breeze creating an oppressive atmosphere. He rummaged around in his bag and found the Coke bottle he’d filled with tap water. It was already half empty, so he only took a small swig and put it away. Even though he was out of the forest, there were still some trees, large poplars guarding one side of the road, marching into the distance. Other than that it was all open fields. On the other side of the trees an ancient barn sat in the far corner of the field. Its wooden planks had been bleached grey by decades of sun and its corrugated iron roof was a patchwork of rust. It had doors that might have been painted red once, but were now a pale pink, where there was any paint remaining. He looked up at the sky. The towering clouds that had been building all afternoon were now so dark in places they were nearly black. As if on cue, a low rumble of thunder resonated through him and the first fat raindrops began to hit the ground, making small craters in the dust. He looked over at the barn again. It was a large two-storey job, with a wider ground floor and a narrowing upper floor. It reminded him of the steeple on the church his parents insisted on dragging him to every Sunday.
James hoisted his bag onto his back and leapt over the fence. At first he tried to jog across the uneven ground, but after several trips and stumbles decided to walk. As he approached the barn he saw the main doors were firmly closed, the small windows set into them cracked and coated with filth. He walked around the side of the barn, seeking the scant cover of the roof overhang as the rain grew heavier and the wind started to pick up. As he pressed himself against the wall, he saw a small side door had been left slightly ajar, its wooden boards barely clinging to their cross braces with rusty nails. He went to pull it open further, and swore as the rough wood dug splinters into his palms. The bottom of the door was jammed in the dirt and wouldn’t budge. He gave another heave, and grunted as the entire plank broke free of the door, sending him sprawling onto his back. He brushed his dripping hair out of his eyes, then picked up the plank and used it to scrape the dirt and clumps of grass away from the bottom of the door. By the time he had finished he was soaked. He dropped his makeshift shovel and pulled on the door again. This time it opened easily. He was in.
The first thing that hit him as his eyes adjusted to the dim light inside the barn was the smell. It was a mixture of dust long undisturbed, overlaid with the ammonia of bird droppings and a hint of decay. As he began to make out his surroundings he could see a scattering of tiny bones on the floor amongst the white droppings, which were mainly concentrated under the barn’s peak. Looking up, he saw a large rafter ran from one side to the other. Then he nearly pissed himself when he saw a ghostly white face staring back at him. The barn owl hooted at him, cocking its head slightly as if to say “Who the hell are you, and why are you in my barn?” He started laughing, and looked around for somewhere to sit down. He found a stack of hay bales, moving one to create an armchair shape, and relaxed back into the scratchy softness, feeling his tension melt away with the laughter. It felt better than the best leather recliner.
After a while he sat up and surveyed his new kingdom. A large shape loomed off to James’ right, and he could just make out an ancient tractor, top whitewashed with droppings. It must have been at least a hundred years old, wheels solid rings of rusty steel with wedges bolted on for tread. He got up and felt his way around the tractor, and saw a tarpaulin covering something leaning against the wall, just visible in the thin beams of light that the old boards allowed to pass through. The tarpaulin was stiff with age, and a cloud of dust billowed up when he pulled it away. After a couple of violent sneezes he wiped his eyes with his sleeve and examined what he’d uncovered. The chrome and black shape gleaming dully in the dim light gave him the first feeling of hope he’d had in some time. He ran his hands over the fat black tires, wire rims and black leather saddle seat. He traced the silver ‘Harley-Davidson’ on the side of the black, teardrop shaped gas tank. The distinctive knucklehead valve covers on the big v-twin engine, with their two big chrome bolts, told him it was a lot older than him. They stopped making those in 1947. Despite being older than his grandfather, it looked pristine. It looked like freedom.