Photo: Donna Rich Mystery TrainBroken windows, a shuttered room, flakes of white paint of multiple sizes dusting the wooden floor, swept by winds, dampened with rain and snow in autumn and winter; dried out and crumbling to dust in summer. This constellation of paint, brushed upon walls and ceilings more than half a century ago, lie as an audience for the old oaken rocking chair shrouded in darkness in the corner of the room, placed in a spot where sunlight shall never greet. It only moves when the storms are at their fiercest, which is rare in this town in the mountains, far from the shore. Hurricanes and tropical storms never reach this part of Tennessee, the last range of the Cumberland Mountains east of Tullahoma, and the last tornado touched down nearly a decade before this house was built. There is no one left alive to remember its passing, though this event is recalled in photographs exhibited at the local historical museum.
The house never endured a major storm; only relatively mundane and normal weather events, such as summer thunderstorms and the annual winter blizzard. It did, however, offer home to several families, the first of which—according to the records kept in the historical museum—arrived in 1947, the year it was built, shortly after the Second World War. The house replaced a Craftsman-style structure built before the Great Depression, which had burnt down the summer after the tornado. The architect disdained modernity, and built this new home in a similar style, adding archaic though charming Victorian touches such as ornate wooden frames and lattice above the front porch, installing stained glass windows in the first floor parlor and dining room. The family which moved in tolerated the windows until they were able to afford to make changes in 1955, to replace the stained glass with more modern frames in order to accommodate an air conditioner in the parlor and more sunlight in the dining room. That year, the eldest daughter discovered Elvis, hearing Milkcow Blues Boogie late one night while spending a sleepless night following a break-up with her boyfriend. The following day, she went into the local Woolworth’s on the corner of Park and Main and flipped through the 45 singles bins. She could not find the record, so she asked the clerk, a bespectacled gentleman, balding, with his hair greased tightly high above his eyes in increasingly failing vanity. He was older than her father, yet not by much. “Do you have any records by Elvis Presley? I’m looking for the song Milkcow Blues Boogie.” He looked at her with a judgmental stare, a gaze that chilled her still when she recalled it as a much older woman. “That’s race music, miss.” However, without blinking, he pointed to a bin in the far corner of the music section. “You will find something of his there, I imagine.” The record she was looking for was not there, but she found his latest offering, “I Forgot to Remember to Forget.” On the flip side was a song titled “Mystery Train.” She listened to the record; smoking a Fatima cigarette she had snuck from her father’s pack. She didn’t like the first song, but as she told her grandchildren before her death, played Mystery Train to death while staring out her window at the moon and stars after dinner and homework, imagining of big doings in the world beyond and true love with hearts intertwined forever. After high school, she packed her things and left for college, taking Mystery Train with her. She came back on school breaks, and sat in her room staring out into the night, her imaginings of big doings evolving. Not necessarily her dreams becoming bigger, as it were, but more realistic, polished, becoming more apparently revealed as she learned more than from books. When she felt sad, she would go to her red paper covered portable record player and play the single she bought at Woolworths, along with more from her growing record collection. She always kept the volume low enough to not disturb the family, so she sat at the window in her rocking chair, the one which had been in the family since her great-grandpa came back from the Shenandoah, with the record player balanced on the window sill, listening to Elvis. As the years passed before graduation, the voice of Elvis Presley became more distorted due to the vinyl wearing out from the heavy stylus with each rotation. But to the girl, now crossing the threshold to womanhood, hearing him remained the first time ever. Diploma in hand, she moved on to Knoxville and her first job. After lateral move to a bank in Asheville, she met a man, got in trouble, and quickly married. He wasn’t such a bad guy, but after years passed, working in the bank, with two daughters, she packed up Elvis and the girls and left him. They stayed briefly one last time in the house, her mother and father distraught, but understanding. The father withdrew a substantial part of his retirement savings from the bank, and handed the money to her, pushing it on her when she refused. The last night, after the girls fell asleep, she took the record player and placed it on the windowsill. She sat in the rocking chair in her old bathrobe, hair pulled back, smoking a Benson and Hedges, blowing cigarette smoke into the cloudless night Mystery Train playing one last time as she conjured fragments of past dreams, sewing the unrelated segments together in a quilt. They made to leave the following morning with Texas as their destination, taking on a job at a much larger bank with a promise from her little sister to put them up until she could settle. When it came to time to leave she found she did not have enough room in the car to bring the rocking chair. Her mother, tears temporarily dried, smiled and put her hand on the back, pushing it back and forth. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. That ole chair is always going to be here for you.” They had one final hug, and the woman left without looking back. She did, however; occasionally return to the rocking chair: Christmas in 1972 and 1974. Also, the girls came to stay a month every summer from 1975 to 1979, taking the Greyhound bus from Texas to stay with Grandma and Grandpa. However, at the end of these visits, the rocking chair remained in the upstairs bedroom. In the winter of 1979, after a trip to Memphis, Grandma and Grandpa were killed in an accident involving a runaway tractor-trailer on Monteagle Mountain. Their daughters were indecisive what to do about the house. After dividing up the property, donating the bulk to the Salvation Army, they chose to keep the house off the market and defer renting it out, and hired a caretaker to maintain the property until they made a final decision. After the last load of furniture was loaded, the eldest sat by the window in the remaining piece, the rocking chair, watching the Salvation Army truck pull away. She placed her hand on the window, sliding her fingers across where she used to place the record player. She had quit smoking several years before, and felt the urge for one, but thought better of it. “That ole chair is always going to be here for you,” she whispered, before rising and closed the bedroom door behind her. The passing seasons added to the dozens. Despite the promised maintenance, the house slowly deteriorated, as did the surrounding neighborhood. By the end of the 1990s, the sisters decided to sell the house, and it was bought by a couple intending to use it as an investment. The new owners were charmed by the remaining Victorian touches, particularly the latticework on the porch. Before they were to begin the necessary restoration work, they lost most of their intended budget when the dot.com bubble burst, and were forced to sell. The purchasers were in the process of buying up the entire block to build an apartment complex and only looked at photographs of the house online at a realty site. They never visited the property and went bankrupt a year after the sale. The notation regarding the current ownership of the house is listed in a description that is repeated across several databases from the bank to the local tax authority. One only has to know the address to find it, but no one has since the elder daughter, curious, checked and called a cousin to stop into town and see what had happened to it. He took a photo of the house with his cell phone, and wrote a long email. The elder daughter decided against visiting Tennessee and instead had flowers sent to her parents’ grave. She regretted not taking the rocking chair. The copper wiring and plumbing was stripped out by meth heads, graffiti scrawled through most of the house, punctuated by multiple holes punched out in the walls. Sometimes the interior reeks of human excrement, one of the consequences from the visits of vagrants and drug addicts. In the undetermined future, once the condemnation proceedings are finalized and permits are issued, the bank will tear the house down, the lot marketed for commercial use. Until then, the house stands, decaying. Upstairs, the shuttered room with the antique rocking chair shrouded in darkness remains. The story one hears in that part of the Cumberland is no one goes into that room with the rocking chair. As time passes, the story is layered with wild details—such as a ghost of a headless woman in the chair, or of hanging corpses in the closet—the kind of crazy stories always told about abandoned houses. Truth be told, if one is daring and patient, if you hang around outside on a midsummer night, particularly at solstice, you’ll hear Elvis, sounding like the record on the turntable was very worn.
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The Parable of Lighthaven |
John Joseph Hamilton is a screenwriter focused on film and television. Before his acceptance into an MFA-Creative Writing program, he rigorously engulfed himself in self-study through online research, to hone his screenwriting talent. He’s written several scripts and plans to have many new scripts available every year. John has highlighted these completed scripts in his online writer portfolio, showcasing his skill in the craft of screenwriting. Scripts are in multiple genres including comedy, thrillers, sci-fi, horror, and more, though his favorite is thrillers and comedies. Plus, there are other media of interest utilizing scripts, like video games, comics, graphic novels, etc. Active profiles in various multimedia platforms and writing groups, both online and off, has its own benefits. His desire to pay it forward with involvement in these groups and websites allows opportunities to write articles and blogs from his unique perspective detailing his journey of being a screenwriter. |
Alice and Maynard
(A short dialogue story)
“No, Uncle. Why?”, questioned Alice.
Maynard blurted joyfully with big eyes, “My birthday is coming up and I’d like to…”
Alice interrupted saying, “I don’t know. Corina is having a slumber party Friday night.”
Maynard smiled displaying his very yellow and dirty teeth, “That’s okay. It’s going to be during the day.”
Alice making a yucky face said, “Mom said this morning she needs to go shopping at the mall that day for a new dress.” She followed up with, “I’m going with her.”
“She told me that, too,” Maynard nodded. “So, I changed the time.”
“Well, what time is it going to be?”
“Eleven-eighteen,” Maynard said.
Alice said annoyed, “Not now. Your birthday?!”
“Oh, three o’clock,” Maynard said sheepishly. “Listen, if you don’t want to go, you don’t have to,” he said disappointed.
“Well,” said Alice. “Now that I know my mom and dad are going.”
Maynard said excited, “So, you’ll be there?”
“Is it going to be a boring adult party?” asked Alice.
“I don’t understand,” quizzed Maynard.
Alice blurted out, “Is it just going to be cake and presents?”
Shaking his head, Maynard replied wildly, “There’s going to be cake, ice cream, presents, and games.”
“What kind of games?” Alice said doubtingly.
“Fun games like pin the tail on the donkey, musical chairs, a piñata, and dress up.”
Alice said cricking her neck sideways, “Dress up!?”
“Yeah, do you like dress up?” asked Maynard.
“I’m playing dress up now,” followed Alice.
“I see that fairy princess," quipped Maynard. “You like being a fairy princess?”
“Oh,” Alice said excited. “I want to be a real fairy princess.”
“You do?” Maynard also said excited, “I always wanted to be a knight in shining armor.”
“You did?” asked Alice.
“Still do,” affirmed Maynard.
“If you be my knight, I’ll be your fairy princess?” asked Alice, lovingly.
Just as lovingly, Maynard said, “If you be my fairy princess, I’ll be your knight in shining armor.”
“I always loved you, Uncle Maynard,” beamed Alice.
“Truth?” Maynard questioned tearfully.
“Truth,” smiled Alice.
“Hugs?” shyly asked Maynard.
“Hugs,” Alice replied joyfully.
Dark Forces Released
However, it had to be done. I knelt in the middle of the cabin and slid my two fingers across the dusty floor drawing a pentagram within a circle and started the chant.
Stephus, my adversary and enemy, is seeking Granger’s amulet of power. He can never possess it, or his power will be become an unstoppable, evil force. His schemes led to the death of my daughter, Alora. Granger couldn’t prove his implicit act to take our daughter’s life, but we both knew.
I tearfully took one last look at Granger’s picture before putting that and the amulet in his wooden chest.
The door to my cabin exploded. Standing in the doorway was Stephus.
I stood and faced him, “You have to answer for Granger.”
He waggled his bony finger at me, “Tory, even though he was my brother, he betrayed me.”
My face turned beet red before I released a bolt of electricity sending him flying across the cabin, smashing him into the fireplace’s stone wall. He telepathically flung a chair my way sending a shock of pain into my hip.
Stephus made his way to Granger’s chest, opened it and raised the amulet, “Yes, at last!”
I telepathically shot the fireplace poker smacking the amulet lose from his grip. As I rushed to pick it up, he stabbed me in the stomach with the poker. I reeled back to the floor in agony. He withdrew the poker and stood over me pointing it at my face.
With outstretched hand I telepathically released a dagger from its sheath. It found its mark, landing in Stephus’s shoulder bone. I blew a breath that jolted him back driving the dagger deeper.
Stephus laughed and retrieved the dagger from his back, “Your daughter is still alive. I’ve raised her as my own, training her well. She looks forward to a family reunion.”
I flew into a rage and thrust him with a supernatural force into the stone wall, then drew back my arms bringing it down upon my foe, crushing him. I picked up the amulet draping it around my neck. Later, I cauterized my wound with a hot metal rod.
Again, I knelt in the middle of the cabin overwriting the circled pentagram chanting the closing ritual when a flash of lightning hit me. My hair became white, a scar lay across my cheek and my right arm withered. I sat sobbing knowing I will never be able to practice white magic again.
Then, I picked up an oil lantern and released it. The fire spread quickly and consumed the cabin with smoke. With my pack, Granger’s picture, and the amulet, I exited the cabin and swore never to return to these cursed woods.
Hint Fiction stories
(The adventures of a rebellious, lost balloon)
Most balloons knew their place in society. Red wanted more and one day got his chance. He soared like the birds; his skin wrinkling, fast.
(A person who feels they’re invisible in the world)
Like a middle-child. Transparent imagery with silent vocalism, like background furniture. However, unique blandness that shone like a found penny, washed ashore. Dazzles, sparkling.
(An encounter with Bigfoot)
Deep in the woods, alone, hiking. Sense of warning issued by his quickened breathing. Dreading turning around from fear, yet compelled. Scared shitless. Bigfoot smiles.
"Senuphis comes clean”
(An alien teenager does his first laundry)
Senuphis had seen his Venusian mother, Alori, doing laundry all the time growing up on Alpha Centauri’s, Proxima Centauri B. However, his pile of shiny, rayon-induced, plasma-cooled, anti-meteor jumpsuits had grown so high that he could no longer sleep on them comfortably. So, Senuphis, our alien teenage hero, would have to now rack his brain and try to remember how his mother tackled this tough mission. Sure, his father, Denuphis Jr., had a tough daily assignment taking on the quintlithium crystal mines in the Southern Galorium caves, but he felt his mother had it tougher, watching over him and his fifteen brothers and sisters. Well, and their pet glumpit, Shenoa. Senuphis named her. And if you knew glumpits, you would know their horrible tableside manners and less than admirable toilet habits bordering on downright obscene and rank.
Anyways, as soon as he entered the “Laundro-Queen”, he knew he was in trouble. He stopped just inside the door and turned around, stopping again, sighing while he turned around again. These “beasts” that single mothers and single men wear shoving their human clothes into with relative ease was nothing like the water-encapsulates and insta-dry machines at home. His eyes started to well up while he moped his way to the first available beast. However, cleanliness is next to Alphaness. So, he steeled himself, plopping down his anti-gravity laundry basket at the “washing machine”. Standing, staring dumbfounded at the illustrative instructions, he scrunched his fast as he read more intently. Then, glancing around the “Laundro-Queen”, he studied those humans around him and quickly assessed his next task. Get money. Coin money. He found the hungry, but static monster that swallowed his slimy green paper in exchange for coinage. After accumulating a handful, he returned to the washing beast.
Senuphis then noticed a single mother adding some chemicals and blue dripery into the washing beast after adding the clothes. He wondered and quickly deduced another beast machine in the corner spat out these chemicals. He wrestled the machinations of this new beast and out popped a few boxes of the required chemicals. Placing the clothes into the washing beast and sliding the perfect amount of coinage into its slot, it started its reaction. He added the chemicals in the proper portions, then sat and watched as it spun. Senuphis then took out his smarter phone and called home only to get voicemail. As he left a message, he began to breakdown, but brightened up his attitude by exclaiming that he just learned how to do his first load of clothes. Then, he slumped in his chair and sighed, realizing his parents wouldn’t receive the voicemail for another light year. He quickly revived his spirits almost jumping out of the chair, lifting his arms in triumph noting that for being only 547 proximations old, he did relatively well in conquering his real first test of, alien hood. He softly punched himself in his bicep, relishing in the victory.
Geraldine McCarthy lives in West Cork, Ireland. She writes short stories, flash fiction and poetry. Her work has been published in The Fable Online, Incubator Journal, Seven Deadly Sins: a YA Anthology, Scarlet Leaf Review, Brilliant Flash Fiction, Every Day Fiction, Fifty Word Stories, Foxglove, Poetry Pulse, Comhar, Café Lit, Five Words - Volume XII, Qutub Minar Review and Books Ireland Magazine. |
Holding On
A long, empty day stretched before him, which would be punctuated by meals, a walk as far as the cross, in case his joints would seize up altogether, and news bulletins on the radio. He preferred the radio to the television. The current affairs coverage was more comprehensive. The radio didn’t take you for a fool the way the telly did, the way some people did. Some people would try to cut the very ground from under you. Didn’t he know it? Didn’t he know it?
A week ago today Denis had been out the back, digging a few spuds, when he heard the banging on the front door. A visitor was a rare thing, but still he took his time answering. Whoever it was could wait, could wait indeed then.
“Well, Denis, how are things?” Sweeney took off his hat. It was like one you’d see in a Western.
“Yerra, pulling away.”
“Good, good.”
Denis hesitated in the doorway, conscious that his housekeeping skills weren’t up to much. His sister used to do all that.
“Tis mighty weather,” Sweeney boomed. “Jaysus, we’ll be all roasted alive if it carries on.”
“Tis boiling alright,” Denis conceded. A fly buzzed in the space between them, and Denis had to stifle the urge to swat it.
“So, Denis, I came on a bit of business.”
Denis had second thoughts about leaving his visitor on the doorstep. People would be passing the road. Their noses might start bothering them.
“You’d better come in so.” He stepped aside, and Sweeney strode through the porch and into the room.
Denis swiped ‘The Southern Star’ from the best armchair and Sweeney plopped down, his bulk filling the space.
“I suppose now, Denis, you find it hard, living so far from the village.”
Denis stayed standing. “Tis only a mile.”
“Yes, but wouldn’t the sheltered housing by the church be just the job for you? You’d be grand and safe and close to all the amenities.”
Denis folded his arms. Why wouldn’t he be safe down this road? Hadn’t he neighbours above and below him? “I’m not at that stage yet. I’ll know when I am.”
“Oh, I know.” Beads of sweat gathered on Sweeney’s forehead, and he took out a handkerchief to mop them. “But we all have to plan for the future, you know. If you were to sell up, you’d make a tidy profit. I’d have plenty of people queuing up for a site like this.”
“Would you now?”
“I would for sure. I’d be able to make you a nice offer. The market is going well at the moment, Denis. We all have to strike while the iron is hot.” And he laughed, as if he’d cracked the greatest joke ever.
Denis felt the colour rising, up his neck and into his cheeks. “I’m doing fine as I am.”
“Oh, you’re doing mighty, of course. But none of us are getting any younger.”
“I’d better get back to my work out the back. Will you see yourself out?”
Sweeney rose with difficulty. “No bother, Denis, boy. Sure, we’ll talk again soon. Good luck.”
“Good luck.” And may the devil sweep you, coming in here, thinking that I’ll be bought.
Denis cleared the breakfast things and rinsed them at the sink in the back kitchen. Sometimes he felt a presence as he washed up, someone standing next to him. His mother or Irene. Not his father anyway; he’d never washed a cup in his life. All his memories were in this house. Himself and his sister doing their schoolwork, under protest, at the kitchen table. His mother poking him with the knitting needle when he got a spelling wrong. His parents playing cards at night with the neighbours, Twenty-Five and Forty-Five, never for money, always for the glory of winning. His mother making jam, pots and pots of gooseberry, to be slathered on her brown bread until the stock ran out and they had to make do with butter.
He would just have time to shave before the eight o’clock news. The coolness of the bathroom was welcome. The size of a horse-box, there was barely standing room, but it did the job. He lathered the soap and plucked a plastic razor from the packet. The public health nurse had suggested an electric one, that there would be fewer nicks and cuts, but old habits died hard. She also suggested home help, but one look shut her up, and she hadn’t dared broach the subject again. How could he have a complete stranger coming into the house? He was doing fine. As long as he could boil spuds and bacon, he wouldn’t go hungry. As long as he could make tea for himself, he wouldn’t go thirsty. As long as he could have a drop of Tullamore Dew at night, he wouldn’t go without sleep. He coaxed the razor over his chin, and down his neck, and then---
When he came ‘round he was lying on the couch in the sitting room. Joe and Maura Brennan loomed over him. Joe had a phone in his hand.
“It’s alright, Denis,” Joe said. “You’ve just had a little turn. We’ve called for the ambulance.”
“What?”
“We’ve called for the ambulance,” Maura repeated. “I came in to see did you want any messages from the shop and found you collapsed.”
Denis tried to sit up, but it failed him. “There was no need- no need for any show. I could go to the doctor locally.”
Joe tapped his foot on the lino. “We rang Dr Elliot first, and he said to get the ambulance. You’ll need tests, he said.”
Denis wanted to object further, but found that words were not readily forming. Instead, he sighed. The Brennans exchanged looks.
Maura pursed her lips. “I’ve put together a few bits of clothes for you. They’re in the bag there.”
She’d been in his bedroom, going through his things. She’d a right to ask permission. He always said she was daring. He closed his eyes and pretended to be sleepy, pretended that this wasn’t happening.
The paramedics arrived. He rolled onto their stretcher, and they strapped him in. Denis wondered was this the last time he’d be carried out of the house.
“You’ll be fine, mate,” one of them said, a burly fellow with an Australian accent.
The Brennans waved to him as the ambulance doors closed. The road to the hospital was windy and bumpy. Even though he was buckled in Denis had the sensation that he was being tossed around the place.
“So, Mr O’Sullivan, we have the results of your tests.” The doctor stood at the foot of the bed and shouted. Denis wondered why he couldn’t move closer. Maybe what he had was contagious.
“Yes, doctor.” It was like being back at school, having failed to recite the seven times tables.
“We suspect that you’ve had a TIA or a mini-stroke. We will be able to discharge you this evening, but we recommend that you always wear your panic button around your neck.” He paused for effect.
Denis had taken off the panic button while shaving. No point in explaining that now.
“And we recommend that you have home help twice a day.”
Denis wanted to say something, to object, to argue his case, but the doctor had turned on his heel.
A nurse came and said the ambulance would collect him later that evening.
Was it only yesterday he’d got back from the hospital? It felt like a lifetime ago. He sat on the garden wall, inhaling the smell of the seaweed, vowing not to answer the landline any more. The public health nurse had rung to say someone from the HSE would be calling to assess him. Brennans had rung to say they’d bring him messages from the village. Sweeney had rung to inquire how Denis was feeling.
He’d put up with the home help, as much of a nuisance as it would be. And he’d put up with the Brennans delivering groceries – that walk to the village had been getting on top of him for a while now. But Sweeney? Sweeney could bloody well go to hell.
As he rested on the wall, Denis sensed others sitting there with him, inhaling the aroma, taking in the view. He would stay with them as long as possible. All he could do now was hold on.
PAUL’S GHOST
“This place’d gag a maggot. When Maryam takes office, I hope to hell she cleans this place up,” said Kevin as he walked next to Paul.
No response.
Kevin jammed his hands into his pockets, stomped his feet on the damp cement floor in a futile attempt for warmth. He usually walked with a vigor that belied his heart condition, but that night Kevin had to stop. He leaned against bars of an empty cell, struggled to take a few shallow breaths, then, despite the chill, wiped sweat from his forehead.
“Should’ve worn a coat,” he said to Paul.
Again, no response.
Back within the warmth of his ninth-floor chambers, Kevin spoke softly. “God, this is a lonely place at night.” Gone were the bailiffs, the clerks, the court reporters. No plaintiffs, defendants, attorneys, jurors, witnesses. No spectators waiting. Only Kevin Grady, Paul Williams, and the consequences.
The phone rang.
“Okay, thanks. See you in a minute.” Kevin struggled to return the phone to its cradle, heard the clatter of receiver against stirrup, and shoved the phone toward the corner of his desk. He rubbed his hands together to lessen his tremor. “Maryann will be a little late. Guess she’s busy since she was elected Sheriff.”
Weeks earlier, after Paul’s funeral with eulogies by the state’s Chief Justice and Attorney-General, Kevin wrote to Maryann. He wanted to pour out his admiration for her father, but mustered only a feeble, “This will not be a good letter, Maryann. I feel too sad. I loved your father and pray for you.”
A couple of weeks later, Maryann called. “Kevin, I know you live a few blocks over, but could we meet in dad’s- your chambers?” She laughed with a slight self-consciousness. “I’ve got some questions.”
Kevin had known Paul’s oldest daughter since she was a chubby-cheeked little girl in the third grade. He attended her high school graduation as she stood on stage - tall, awkward, out of place; her college graduation when she strode across the stage confident with the world in front of her. He sat with the family during her wedding, and, when she filed for divorce, Paul assigned her case to Kevin’s division.
“Judge.” Maryann’s contralto voice was as familiar to Kevin as her red hair. “I see you’ve kept things pretty much the way dad did.”
Framed in the doorway, taller than her father by at least two inches, her swimmers’ shoulders and green eyes echoed her father’s confidence and determination. “He was always glad you were here. He’d be proud you took his place as Chief Judge.” She placed her briefcase next to the desk. “I used to leave my school books here. Dad was always telling me to get ‘em off the floor.”
She pointed to the photo of two smiling young men in tuxedos. “That’s new.”
“It’s of your dad and me when he was best man in my wedding,”
“You mean your first wedding.” She cocked her head, grinned.
“I mean all of ‘em.”
“You still have his robe.” She walked toward a wooden coat rack near the door to the courtroom. She stroked the shoulders, eased her hand down to the cuffs, pressed her face into the fabric. “It still smells like him. You know, he only had this one robe. In twenty-eight years, one robe.” She moved her fingers over the sleeve as if it were a relic on a cathedral’s side altar. “What are you going to do with it?”
“It’s yours.”
Maryann tapped on the courtroom door. “Could we use his- this door? I’d like to see it one more time the way he did.” She picked up her briefcase and walked from the chambers into the courtroom.
Standing behind the judge’s bench, Maryann scanned the courtroom from court reporter’s nook to witness stand across to the jury box and spectator gallery. She touched her dad’s old bench, drew back, then pressed her hands against his leather chair. “I haven’t been up here in years. You know, sometimes I’d wait for him right over there.” She gestured toward the northwest corner of the courtroom, turned slowly toward Kevin. “So, tell me about my dad. And those jailhouse walks you two took. His last piece of advice to me was, ‘When you get elected, walk the jailhouse once a month with someone you trust.’”
The two men had come together four decades earlier on their first day in law school when Kevin was struggling to open an unwilling door.
“Open it from the side where the hinges aren’t.” The voice came from Paul – his panhandle-lean face without a trace of the jowls that came later. Kevin – his thinning hair on its genetic retreat, which, with his deep reservoir of denial, he kept hidden from himself for years.
Paul, orphaned at age six, was raised by his grandmother in a shotgun house on the outskirts of Guymon, Oklahoma. He worked his way through Panhandle A. & M.; married Alice during his senior year. Three years later, Maryann was born. He had served in the 101st Airborne when there were Czechoslovakian soldiers, Russian rifles, former French diplomats, American advisors, and “Dien Bien Phu” was a synonym for failure.
Kevin, eight years younger than Paul, was an only child, raised by a strong mother whose word was not merely the law, but also expected to be obeyed as if one of the commandments, a father who had no intentions of being one, and two grandfathers who rarely told him ‘no’. He would joke about his childhood, “It was a hard life. One Christmas, it didn’t snow.” And, at some point during their three years in law school, Paul became Kevin’s older brother maybe even a father substitute. “When I didn’t know what to do, I acted like you,” he told Paul years later.
After graduation, Paul’s multiple struggles to pass the bar exam limited his job prospects. His only offer was from a Delano lawyer who later lost his license. After that Paul worked for a fundamentalist lawyer who stole money from his client’s deposit accounts.
Kevin began his practice with Mr. Clarence, in Delano since 1913. Over many decades, this ailing, eighty-one-year-old had built a substantial divorce business and a reputation for burning through young lawyers.
Three years later, during a Monday morning docket call, Mr. Clarence’s private investigator walked into the courtroom his arms piled high with files. “Mr. Clarence died last night.” He leaned forward, extended his arms, and deposited the files into Kevin’s open attaché case. “These are yours.”
“You know, we could have done this at the office.”
“Not really. These are for today’s docket. When you’re done here, his widow wants to see you.”
Six hours and two signatures later, Mr. Clarence’s widow, the sole beneficiary of office buildings, substantial insurance proceeds, and multiple houses, said, “Kevin, I don’t know how you put up with that old man, but he seemed to like you. This damn place has been a royal pain my whole married life. It’s all yours. I don’t want anything here.” She slapped her office key on Mr. Clarence’s old ink blotter, pivoted, walked away.
Kevin Grady, an attorney for three years, wearing the same blue blazer and gray slacks he had in law school, was now the owner of one of the state’s largest divorce practices.
Old clients begat multitudes - all willing to pay for the freedom to pursue a life they knew their spouse had long-denied them. Kevin’s professional life became an assembly line of identical melodrama performed daily - mornings reciting the same lines in repetitious default divorces; afternoons and evenings dominated by clients with interchangeable crises of separation anxiety. Close your eyes, change the names, it was the same story.
Within a short time, Kevin’s personal life was transformed. His suits – no longer from J.C. Penny’s, now well-tailored. His car – no longer a well-used Volkswagen, now a white, twelve-cylinder Jaguar. His first wife – no longer tolerant of Kevin’s appetites, now divorced and collecting alimony.
As young lawyers, Kevin and Paul often spent Saturday evenings over Alice’s chili suppers. One evening when Kevin was leaving, Paul asked, “Can you meet at the courthouse for breakfast on Monday?”
As soon as Paul sat down in the cafeteria, he said, “Alice is pregnant. She’ll have to quit her job.” His eyes fixed on his oatmeal, two words followed, “Probably twins.”
Kevin did not hesitate. “How about practicing with me?”
Paul raised his head. “Really? What about your income?”
Kevin placed his right hand under his chin, raised his head as if gasping for air, said in a choked tone, “I’m drowning. If I don’t get some relief, I’ll-”. He interrupted himself, “Plus, I trust you.”
Their partnership was a continuance of their friendship; nevertheless, despite their revenue stream, the demands of their expanding business seemed to freeze their ledgers in the red. The revenue rarely kept pace with expenses that accelerated due to auxiliary staff, office space, and newly-acquired young lawyers always on a learning curve.
Paul, now the father of five daughters, began to echo Alice’s desire to break away from their life of rental houses, no savings, hand-me-downs, and “Have a proper home with good schools and nice clothes for our girls.” Kevin, with his social and ethical snowboarding, always a few months away from one cataclysm or another, skated on the edge of propriety.
One February afternoon, after Kevin’s full morning of default divorces and marital motions, his secretary walked into his office. “Kevin, your friend referred a Mr. Johnson. It’s about his son,” she said with her usual smirk about the friend Kevin met one afternoon when he rolled out of his Jaguar, raised his head, and saw a six-foot, mini-skirted, blond who occupied his time between marriages.
Mr. Johnson’s son, a sixteen-year-old high school junior and varsity high jumper with a B+ average, was T-boned by a Delano city truck. His second surgery was scheduled for the next day.
The case screamed big money; however, the city of Delano was known for retaining defense lawyers who employed numerous delaying tactics: multiple interrogatories, overlapping depositions, motions to resolve differences, continuances, inevitable appeals and retrials – all with the goals of increasing defense attorney fees and inching the case closer to the time Johnson’s son might die and the state’s wrongful death statute would kick-in. Overnight an injury once worth millions would be reduced to a few thousand dollars.
“Good case, but it’s gonna take years,” said Paul after Kevin handed him the file.
“But, it could be a way to get us out of this divorce mill,” said Kevin as he walked back to his office.
As their practice expanded, so did their time away from home. A devolution occurred as shifts and tilts of unvoiced avoidances corroded the well-practiced marital ebb and flow.
Never enough time. “We can talk when I return.”
Always an excuse. “It can wait. Not that important.”
One afternoon, Alice telephoned Kevin. “You have to help me with Paul. He’s never home. And he’s coming home drunk now. He never did that before.” Kevin didn’t need to hear anymore, Alice was right, and without saying it, she was correct about him too.
A few minutes later, he walked into Paul’s office. “I just got off the phone with Alice.”
Paul dropped his pen on a legal pad, exhaled, rubbed his temples. “Did she give you an ultimatum?
“Sure as hell sounded like it.”
“Probably the same one she’s been giving me.” Paul waited a moment, then said, “Let’s take a ride.”
Walking to the car, Kevin asked, “Why did Alice call me?”
“A couple of reasons. A week ago, I drove home at two in the morning.” As he continued his voice a staccato rhythm. “In the middle of the road. On the turnpike. Drunk. And I made the mistake of telling her.”
Once outside the parking garage, Paul said, “At this rate, I’m going to lose my family. My kids are growing up and I’m never there. I’m starting to feel the way I did when my parents died.”
He stopped his car at an intersection, and, as if weighing what to say next, waited a few moments. “You know, Alice is worried about you. She’s known you since law school and sees how you’ve changed. How both of us changed.” After a moment Paul added, “Plus, you’ve blown through two marriages, carrying alimony payments and you and I both know you’re one drink away from being a fall-down drunk.”
“Bull shit.”
“Kevin, I love you, but you’ve already had blackouts. When’s that gonna hit you when you’re with a client or in court?”
Paul rested his head on the steering wheel, raised it. When the light changed, he turned left into an upscale neighborhood. “You know, the defense attorneys will continue to delay the Johnson case until the boy dies and the wrongful death limitation kicks in.” Paul’s voice assumed the resonant tone he used when laying a foundation to proffer trial exhibits. “We’ll never see a real payday from it.” He glanced at Kevin. “And the city council’s feeling the pressure from the publicity about depriving the Johnson kid of his just due.”
Paul slowed the car, veered right, parked in front of a Tudor-style house. “Their offer is still on the table-”
Kevin interrupted, “But, Johnson might be able to collect a hell of a lot more. Anyway, how would that help us?”
“They’ve sweetened their offer. Said we’d be appointed to those two judicial openings in January. The way they did six years ago with Judge Konig.” Paul gestured to the right. “That house would be yours as part of the agreement.” He nodded toward the two-story Tudor. “Mine will be about half a mile over. Both free and clear. Just like they did with Konig.” He added a phrase Kevin hadn’t thought of since law school, “Fee simple absolute.”
“Both houses in foreclosure?”
“Yep.”
“How would they handle the judicial appointments?”
“It wasn’t difficult, since the governor makes the appointments, and we heavily supported the guy each time he ran. Not to mention the favors you did for him during his divorce. He thinks you’re a damn miracle worker,” said Paul.
“We could get in a lot of trouble over this. It’s illegal as hell.”
Paul sat silent as if waiting for Kevin to make an argument against accepting the offer. When Kevin said nothing, Paul continued. “Or, we could kill ourselves on this damn assembly line.” Paul’s eyes were red-veined. “Kevin, I’m losing my family.”
Judicial appointment. Instant status. New house. Built-in equity. No mortgage payments. No more assembly line work. Stability. Kevin was in for at least five of those benefits.
“Would all this be in writing?”
“No, but we’d sign the Johnson agreement after we’re sworn in as judges. They’d backdate it and get Judge Konig to seal the court records. Then, we’d get title and possession of the houses.” Paul grinned.” And, we could still sell our practice.”
“They’ve got this down to a science. But we’d have to convince the Johnson kid’s dad,” said Kevin. “They’d get a lot less money.”
“True, but he’d get a bundle of cash right away. I’ll convince him,” said Paul.
#
Inside her father’s old courtroom, Maryann asked Kevin again, “What’s the real story about those walks you two took?”
She leaned forward, opened her briefcase, pointed to a bottle of Johnny Black, raised her eyebrows, cocked her head. “Let’s talk in my dad’s- I mean your chambers,” she stood and led the way back.
Maryann set the drinks on the desk, pulled up a side chair, took a breath, repeated her question about the jailhouse walks.
Silence.
After a moment she said, “He also said I should ask you about the Johnson case.”
Kevin hesitated. He thought, if ever asked, he would say their walks were to keep them grounded. Instead what came out was, “We walked the jailhouse because of the Johnson case. We both lived in fear of ending up in one of those cages.”
Maryann’s dark green eyes fastened onto Kevin. She took a sip of scotch and did not look away.
Maybe she would ask a child’s one-word question, maybe not. Maybe later. Maybe she already knew.
Within a year Kevin was no longer able to hide his deterioration and carried a cane on their jailhouse walks. He needed to retire, but then what – sit and wait for death. He could do that as a judge. He’d continue until some morning a janitor found him slumped lifeless in his chair.
During one of their jailhouse walks, Kevin said to Paul, “Maryann’s done a good job.”
There was no response.
The effluviant stench was gone. The floors were dry. Light filled the walkways and cells. Their walks were warmer since Maryann assumed office.
“Whatever she’s doing works.”
Again, no response.
Kevin saw a shadow, felt Maryann brush past. She turned her head slightly, then smiled. Kevin watched as Paul left his side and walked next to his daughter.
Kevin watched. After a moment, he knew it was time to return, once again, to his chambers to sit and wait for the morning.
- THE END -
Alan Berger has two films on Netflix etc that he wrote and directed. He has had over 50 short stories and poem published since 2018 in five different publications, Before the writing and directed he was a feature casting director for Ivan Reitman and Howard Zieff. He also acts in commercials and just did two episodes of,:Baskets". |
THE HIGH AND THE MIGHTY
My neighbor Richard was smoking a Marlboro by the side of my house, and when he saw me pull up he came towards me as I got out of the car.
He pulled me by the cuff as he watched the windows while he led me to the side, so, “We wouldn’t be Seen”!
“Got any coke”? He requested.
I gave him some.
“I’m here for your intervention”
“My what”? I said.
“Yeah, don’t tell on me. I don’t want one.”
I started to walk to the front of my home.
“ Hey fuckhead, you coming in”? I inquired.
“Yeah, you go in first. Got any weed”? He didn’t wonder.
I gave him some.
I went into my castle, and on me merry way to my very first intervention.
I was the guest of dishonor.
I looked around my home and saw relatives and friends and associates, that I knew were all as high as Hell.
Thanks Sweetheart, I silently said to my wife.
Richard soon followed, sniffing his ass off.
“My allergies “, Richard announced, and asked if I cut the lawn recently.
I met my wife, one early rainy morning waiting for the doors to open at an A.A. meeting.
It was my first time, and I guess it showed.
It was her millionth time, and I guess it showed.
After the A.A. meeting I kissed my future sponsor wife on the neck in the parking lot and she
looked, and felt, like she was tingling all over, and then I started tingling all over too.
I thought at best we would be just a fleeting fantasy in an after A.A. meeting parking lot.
It happens every day, and night, however, this one stuck to the ribs.
It was love at first blurry vision.
Now, my significant whatever, is now a reformer.
You know.
Ever light up a cigarette in front of an ex smoker? Or have a drink in front of an A.A. member?
Or do a line of coke in front of the guy you’re visiting in rehab?
That’s what she’s like.
A regular crusader, she is.
And I’m heading for the cross d’ jour.
Looks like The Crusader hit the rehab folding chair rental company as they were now
invading my living room.
She probably didn’t want their asses on the good stuff.
She had recently kicked a germ habit, as well as a host of others.
She was also in a solo car accident one night and hit a tree. Since then, she lost her sense
of smell.
Good thing because the house smelled like a weed shop.
A couple of her friends’ husbands were there too.
I saw her earlier in the week.
We all went in on an ounce of blow with a side of some extasy. They probably wanted to re-up and figured they might as well stay for the show.
The Crusader asked for silence, so she could start sermonizing in peace and quiet.
I know.
Why don’t I throw them out?
That would hurt my wife, and I love her.
I cannot be happy unless she is happy too.
So instead of flipping out, I flipped in.
I started to feign looking sad and ashamed.
I could fake that real good, and I did, immediately apologizing for everything and anything.
I noticed one of the attendee neighbors coming out of my bathroom and making a mental
note to myself to check and see how many pills of mine they stole.
I looked over the audience and thought to myself that half were drunk, half were pilled, half were
coked, and half, were all the above and below.
I know that doesn’t add up correctly, but what does?
I also knew I wasn’t as whacked out as most of them but what can you do?
I don’t want to be known as an intervention party pooper.
But then again.
I simply said, “ let’s not say what goes without saying”.
They liked that, as they took it as a sign of redemption, with a side dish of cooperation, rather than five hours of denial,
then tears.
Until I said.
“Why don’t we all empty our pockets and purses and we’ll see what we can see and what is what”?
So here we are, and nobody has made the slightest motion to empty their pockets and purses.
They must have thought I was kidding.
I was not kidding.
The haul was enormous, and I suggested we sell it all and donate it to charity.
I was voted down, so I said, “Why not live and let live”?
That bill was voted and passed.
We all had a wonderful almost intervention after party
I should have had valet parking.
I would have made some money.
Maybe next time?
For there shall be a next time.
Lawrence Rose Is a New Yorker living now in Medellin, Colombia. He is a geologist, novelist and short story writer, but formerly only wrote in science and education journals. His Grammy Award nominated music brought him to Europe many times, living in Berlin, Paris, and Lyon, France. His novels include the romance, the "Nights of Summer", and the thriller, "The Lithium Desert Wars." |
The Quest for the True Fondue at Évian-les-Bains
Luit dans les bois,
De chaque branche
Ô bien-aimée.
L’étang reflète,
Où le vent pleure…
C’est l’heure exquise!’
-Paul Verlaine
‘The white moon
Illuminates the wood,
Each branch,
O my well-beloved.
The pond reflecting
The weeping winds.
It is the exquisite hour.’
From Lyon east to Évian-les-Bains the road crosses the ever-rising foothills, climbs the Alps, summits its high passes and drops into the long valley of Lac Leman. The giant sluice gates at the lake control its level, the overflow giving rise to the Rhône. At the gates we stopped to look. To the left was Calvinist Geneva. To the right was ebullient Évian-les-Bains.
…
My partner, my Marisol Pilar de Froissart of the French Blonde smile, had roots in the foothills and the Alps to the east of Lyon, her now hometown, as well as in Spain. Her childhood school friend and later boyfriend, Auguste Hollande, she told me, is a beloved son of the region, bien-aimé, an artisanal stone worker in Évian-les-Bains, with his home overlooking the lake. She said he was about to propose to his longtime friend and wanted us to meet his Céleste.
“Un voyage aux Montagnes? Oui!!!? Trois jours, ou quatre?” A four-day road trip to Lake Geneva, the Alps. Yes! Of course!
Marisol’s mother sent her to school with the Sisters of St. Roch, an open school of boys and girls above the lake. That’s where she and Auguste met when they were in Third Form. A quality education, French, but also Swiss.
One afternoon at a park on the banks of the Rhône in Lyon, in my second week of living with Marisol, in this dream, she looked at me excited, almost jumping up and down, and promised me the “true” fondue if we could go to Évian-les-Bains because her friend wanted to have us meet his intended. She announced that the true fondue would be made in my honor at the cabin in her ex-boyfriend’s stone quarry. It would be prepared by Auguste! “It will be merveilleuse! You will love him and his fondue, bien sûr!”
…
The autoroute into the Alps from the Rhône Valley rising through long tunnels and skirting monumental granite cliffs bypassed most of the immaculate and colorful Alpine villages on the way. The half-timbered old trading city of Annecy which pressed up against sheer precipices that rose two miles into the air was in front of us. We stopped for lunch at a Relais des Camions, an inn, a worker’s truck stop, which Marisol remembered favorably. It was good plain comfort food and a lot of it. Stews, country ham and cheese sandwiches. Not a Michelin star in sight. The taste was of the mountains.
As we drove into Évian-les-Bains towards Auguste’s home, we turned up the high street. The Paul Bocuse cooking school on the boulevard showed Évian’s ties to Lyon. Évian, a cultural child of Lyon, not of the nearby Geneva, promised some of the best cuisine in the country.
Over the first long ridge were the stone workings, the cabin, and the house of her old friend. Now, as we got close in the early evening, the white moon rose across the lake, the movement of the wind reflected and shone the light through every branch. It was good to be here with my well-beloved. Marisol was rejoicing inside.
Auguste was waiting at the stone table in the yard outside his door in the twilight. Lots of smiles, Bienvenue! Kisses were rained on cheeks. Auguste shook my hand, patted me on my back as if we always knew one another.
There was no anxiety in his welcoming of me. Not a hint of any animosity at all. I was at ease. A great guy, big, bear-like, gentle. He told us of his orchard in the back that he loved like a child. We could breakfast there tomorrow if we liked.
He led us into his house and up to his newly finished apartment upstairs. This would be ours for our stay. Auguste lived in a similar space on the ground level. He planned to rent the upstairs for about 500 Euros per month. A bargain! He didn’t need the income. He designed and built it as a hobby, to show off his craft. It was very tempting considering moving in permanently, dropping it all and just doing it. “What do you think Marisol? Happily, ever after, here?”
Marisol thought of it too. She and I spoke lightly about being together for more than just the summer months in the future. Who could say? Never enough time? The moment was all.
…
The large three-bedroom apartment had a view of the lake and the massif to the southeast and east, a view of Lausanne across the lake. At night the lights of Geneva could be seen to the west. The place was all modern polished gray granite, but with oak beams and exquisite round marbles softening the angles, all his handiwork. Marquetry in the Swiss style graced many of the walls. His work.
We thought about it. The apartment. We discussed it the last thing before falling asleep in each other’s arms after a beautiful day of travel and welcome. The moon continued to rise high above us.
In the quiet of the night, the question came as it often did. Would this last through months of separation? I prayed that it could… yes, calling each day, but how long would that continue? Absence. Writing flourishes and mushy sonnets. I knew it would come to that. The days were counting down to the day when I would have to fly home. I promised myself to make the most of every hour with her. It was an easy promise to keep.
…
The summer mountain air and mountain quiet woke us along with the smell of the coffee. Breakfast was taken under a beech tree by the orchard. The fruit trees were ripe with peaches and cherries, green and fresh, each row accented with a cluster of red roses.
Auguste said he had to do a little shopping before lunch. He suggested that Marisol show me the statuary promenade in front of some of the grandest hotel spas. They lay almost one hundred meters above the lake in the Upper City. She remembered it from her youth, always one of her favorite places. She thought of the time, she said, when she and Auguste would hold hands there.
Open air, tour boats, there were dozens of small green and yellow birds chattering on the whitewashed balustrades. We walked swinging our hands as she had when she and Auguste were kids. We spent a lovely morning, and we treated each other to a chocolate truffle. At one we rode the funicular back down to the house.
Auguste greeted us and announced with bravado, “C’est finis! A Table! S’il vous plaît!” Today would be the Fondue lunch.
We walked the short path speedily in anticipation up from the house up to the cabin. Auguste trained as a chef at the Bocuse school and had friends over for just about every meal. A life being his friend was a life of great dining. For today he invited three of his old buddies, bachelors like himself, over for lunch. It would be the six of us gathered around the fondue, dipping and chatting and quaffing the same wine that was used with the cheeses, a semi-sweet white typical of the region.
The fondue pot had been rubbed down with a bit of salt and a lot of garlic. The lunch started with a fresh salade frisée and a vinaigrette. The gruyere was melting, just starting to bubble.
Marisol’s eyes were shining. It was quite a while, years, since she enjoyed a fondue by Auguste! I could see that their history was long. I dared to think sharing it with me could maybe have been part of her smile.
Our host expertly cut and tore at the baguette seeing that each chunk came with a bit of the crust on it. The fun began. The salad was rushed through in order to get at the fondue. Long forks in hand, it was every person for himself. Marisol, smiling as usual, blue eyes ecstatic, was quite the most adept, moving her fork with swiftness and grace. It was all jovial and delicious fun until my bread chunk fell off my fork into the cheese melt. A feigned look of “horreur” and calls for a “forfaît” followed as Marisol explained the custom. “If you lose your bread you have to buy the beer!” I was required to buy a case of good Alsatian beer to be shared at a future food fest. My penalty was repaid to me by all the kidding and the laughing.
“Oh. L’ Américain!”
We retired totally satisfied and still laughing to the comfortable living room in the house, digesting and waiting for the promised dessert of homemade tarte de fraises, fresh strawberry pie, and coffee. Marisol and Auguste shared photos of their school days and their lives since then. Their shared bond was a beautiful thing to see. Both been married. Both adopted children. Both were wealthy. Both were highly educated, and both were content. And for Auguste there was happiness with the widow Céleste and for my Marisol there was, for now, me.
The friends gave Auguste a hard time with “Wows” and “O-Lalas” when he passed around photos of Céleste and him in Paris and in Greece. She was lovely, big-eyed, dressed very well, latest Paris boy cut, dark hair, high cheek bones, slender. Lots of laughs, ribbings and more “O-LaLas!” But the guys were a bit jealous.
After the tarte and a café, the friends left with hugs, and with kisses on both cheeks. “It was great to meet you! Come back soon! And practice your fork technique!”
…
The three of us decided to drive into Geneva to see a little of the beautiful city and for a late dinner. We passed the jewel box of the Victoria Hall, wondered at the Reformation Monument, and walked by the lake in the cool summer evening.
“We’ll visit Céleste tomorrow. She has invited me. And I need a favor”, Auguste said. “Céleste and I, I believe, are getting close to the time for me to formally propose. Would you come with me tomorrow, give me support? I’m sure it will be fine with Céleste. You have to meet her! ” He showed us the diamond ring, an antique setting with an exquisite pear-shaped stone. “Bien sûr! Are you sure you want us there??”
“Mais Oui! Je vous en prie!””
…
The road to the city for dinner wound down by the lake over the sluice bridge. Every so often we would see a sign that read “Yes, We Have Perche!” “Perche in Season”. “Perche! Oui!”.
“Ah,” said Auguste “Tomorrow night it is Perche at the Grand Casino! The four of us! To celebrate! It holds the best five restaurants in town all inside. My favorite is le Restaurant Savannah; it is decorated to look like Africa, zebra skins and spears, the tables are made to look as if they are jungle tree houses, vines, très drôle, it is to laugh, but the cooking is French! Classique! They will certainly have la Perche! And besides, I am always lucky in the casino there at Faro!”.
The gigantic white Victorian and Edwardian spas, of which the Casino was a remodeled example, architectural piles of opulence, sit at the upper levels of the town like great angels of comfort and mercy. For two hundred years the aristocracy and the wealthy would come to take the waters. And play. It was a glorious walk along the row of spas on a bright morning. At night the lights across the lake and the bright lights of the casinos take over, brilliant but not garish. This is France, but a monied part of France near staid Switzerland just down the road.
…
The restaurant in Geneva was disappointing. Auguste apologized. The profiteroles, again chocolate, saved the meal.
The next day, in the afternoon, we drove to Céleste’s home on the road east from Évian. A revival Swiss Chalet, it was surrounded by sparkling mature flower gardens and shade trees. Céleste, pleasant, smiling, invited us in.
She had warm eyes and greeted us politely, but we could all feel the tension. Something wasn’t right. I could see from her glances, her face lovely but drawn, that things were not going to work out for Auguste. She knew the proposal was coming. She took him aside
Marisol and I saw his dejection and Céleste’s comforting sadness. She was trying to explain, to console him. Auguste needed support. Instead, we were witnesses to his sorrow. We three left in silence.
…
It was, as promised, to the Casino for perch...but without Céleste. Marisol looked at him, at his sad brown eyes.
“Auguste! It’s OK if you want to do something else.” He wouldn’t hear of it. At table Marisol asked, “Mon ami! Mon vieux! What did she say?”
“She said it wasn’t the right time. That we need to stay friends. Really close friends. She said she cares for me, that she would be honored, you know and so on… but she said it’s not right for us, not now. Not the right time… La vie, non?”
We told him we were sorry. He said, “Let’s not spoil our time together Marisol, Étienne.” Over dinner at the casino, Auguste kept a smile, asked about us, about our lives separately and together. He was being a perfect host. He kept things light. Inside, surely, there was deep sadness and regret. Embarrassment crossed his face even while trying to keep the conversation light.
Yes, the perch was special, but difficult to enjoy.
Auguste asked if we would like to go to the Grand Casino across the lobby and try our luck after dinner. Auguste won at Faro. I lost at Vingt-et-un. Adorable Marisol, the center of many of the gamblers’ attentions, won of course at Roulette.
At home that night over a small brandy we tried to console him with stories of love and hope for the future, even perhaps things changing with Céleste. She didn’t say no, just not the right time. Things always work out, mon ami. Just not the right time.
…
Marisol and I fell asleep embracing, holding each other tightly, not wanting to let go, knowing that for this time this was good. The future?
Two days later we took our leave promising as we left to visit Évian-les-Bains again soon. He was wonderful to us. We joked that he shouldn’t rent the apartment too soon. We could be in the market!
…
Relaxing at Casa Marisol overlooking Lyon, Marisol took a telephone call from Céleste.
Auguste was killed in an accident at the quarry. Marisol burst into tears. “Ce n’est pas vrai! Non!” She cried for an hour. I held her. She held on to me.
We left the next morning for Évian-les-Bains. The Alps towering, the clouds lowering. Drawing us in were the great masses of scraped gray granite against a dark sky.
The funeral was somber, well-attended by friends and town dignitaries. After, at the wake just for close friends, we savored the fondue prepared by Marisol as she remembered how Auguste prepared it with such flair.
It was just not the right time.
We were surrounded by his friends, our memories, and the weeping Céleste. Marisol said to me, “We all need to make time come to us. We should never wait for the right time. That’s why I love you Steven. We didn’t wait to kiss. We didn’t wait to make love. We didn’t wait to know that we would be together for life. Did we?”
Okoli Chukwuebuka is a peace activist, a human rights activist, and an environmental activist. His political commentaries and short stories have been published in a number of literary journals and magazines, including Okike Literary Magazine, The LionSpot Magazine (University of Nigeria) and Adelaide Literary Magazine ( New York, USA and Lisbon Portugal). Chukwuebuka has a Bachelor of Laws degree (LL.B) from the University of Nigeria Nsukka, and is presently at the Nigerian Law School, Kano campus. Okoli lives in Enugu State Nigeria, and can be reached through, chukwuebukafestus9@mail.com |
THE ENCHANTED CHAIR
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as
Loving,
And the moon be still as
Bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to
breathe,
And love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for
loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we’ll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.
– Lord Byron, Go no more a roving.
He was a florist and a vegetable grower in suburban Lagos. In his vegetable garden which was situated close to a little spring, he built himself a small hut under whose fine awnings he sought sanctuary when it rained, or when the sun became too unfriendly. But the sky today was so gay that he knew it would not rain, and the sun shone so mildly that he felt there would be no need for his hut. It was in this kind of whether that he did the finest work in his garden, but it never came always, though he anxiously awaited it. And now that it had come so unexpectedly, he was determined to put it to good use. He crouched down immediately over the huge ridges of earth he had made and quietly began to plant the floral seedlings in his basket into their enormous bowels, casting admiring glances at intervals over the many flowers that were already in bloom; and throwing his hand languidly to catch their shimmering petals and ponytails; and to feel their freshness: especially the pink roses which he loved so dearly, the alpine thistles that always tickled his palms, the Amazon lilies, climbing lilies, tapering lilies— all bursting with life and rich with sweet smelling scents. Looking across the lower end of his garden, he cast over the ridges the multitudinous vegetable seeds in his palm which he collected from his basket, so that they all scattered everywhere on top of the ridges and on the broad palms of plant leaves, and he hoped that none of the seeds fell beyond the boundaries of his garden, or into the sparkling spring.
The birds continued to sing their sweet songs mingled with the relentless rustle of the spring, and he felt the humid wind caressing his face, his bristles and his nostrils. A baby was crying a few poles away from where he was, and he could hear the voice of the mother trying to mollify him with lullabies and local hymns, and when he looked up in their direction he wondered whether the crying would ever seize, for it seemed, judging from the shrillness of the baby’s voice, that he was more in need of nourishment, and perhaps, an agreeable playmate and fresh milk, than he was of local lullabies and hymns. After a little while within which time he was deeply absorbed in his work, now ever more determined to go farther in his planting than he had earlier planned, ignoring at that point the plump grasshopper that had just descended from a nearby shrub into his basket and was nibbling away quietly at his vegetable seedlings, ignoring also the yellow butterflies that had settled on his shoulders and were crawling slowly up his neck, fluttering their broad wings as they crawled (and he seemed to be enjoying the tingling sensations produced on his nerves and follicles by the tiny legs and soft wings of the butterflies), so that he wished they would not go away; and, for a while, lost in momentary raptures, he became unaware of himself and of what he was doing; unconscious even of the vegetable seedlings in his palms and the fact it was he that was planting them, so that he did not know when the friendly butterflies flew away and the little baby stopped crying.
He knew that the baby’s mother must have pressed something edible into his mouth after he had cried so inconsolably, maybe a biscuit, he thought, or a ripe banana, or some other nibbles; or better yet something, although not edible in itself, but was nonetheless sufficiently soft and tender by which something edible can be passed into the mouth of a baby, like a feeding bottle by which a baby suckles pap or suckles tea, or her mother’s nipples, by which he suckles milk. And just when he thought the baby had finally stopped crying so he can work with a settled mind, he began to hear his tiny voice echoing across the spring, but his crying, this time, came only in short snatches; and his voice was no longer rasping but soft, and he imagined that the baby must be chewing something sweet indeed, and wondered why he was still crying despite the juicy morsel in his mouth, and despite that he was enjoying the morsel. The baby kept on whimpering in soft watery tones, and at measured intervals— eating whatever it was the mother had given him and crying at the same time. He thought that this baby must have a definite streak of ingratitude to his character, for in his own reckonings, the baby had not shown any considerations at all for the mother’s sufferings, who, at that time, he imagined, was also at her own garden maybe tilling the ground, or watering her vegetables, or mowing the weeds that must have sprouted from the ridges in her garden. He imagined that mothers are quite awesome and perhaps the noblest of all creatures. The resilience of their will and stoutness of their spirit awed him. Their ability to willingly take on immense sufferings and to sacrifice so much for their children, at their own expense, and for the sole purpose of advancing the family’s fortunes made him wonder. He imagined that the whimpering child must be strapped somewhere in the mother’s back, thereby adding to her burden, including the burden of the garden. He shook his head silently, and the incident called up in him old memories of childhood, in those early days when he was still a teenager, their neighbour had given birth to a baby boy on the eve of Nigeria’s Independence and she was ecstatic with joy. In those days their town was not very safe for newborns because it was filled with idle women and elderly men with scary eyes, grey hairs and fiendish toenails; especially their own compound which people said was a coven of witches, and the compound of their neighbours which they thought was a phalanx of wizards, and then the small river in their town which had a profusion of white sand, was their concourse where they had their congresses at night, and sometimes in the early mornings: howling and shrieking ecstatically, feasting on the blood of their victims, especially newborn babies, whose fresh sap of life, according to legends, was their staple diet. The men in their community usually married many women and when they died, their eldest sons inherited their young wives in addition to their own wives, so that every compound was normally filled with people and the atmosphere was always alive with mutual suspicion of witchcraft and evil intent. And because their community was girdled by rivers and streams, and their people were mainly fishermen and women, almost every compound was usually suspected of harbouring one witch or another. Their neighbour, who loved her baby so dearly, and who was also a good Christian, or better still a half-hearted Christian, did all she could to protect her baby from the fangs of these forces. She burned incense day and night and from morning till dawn; she rubbed a certain cream on the baby’s body which was said to have the power to repel witches and to ruin witchcrafts; she prayed as well and normally sprinkled her baby with holy water in the morning hours, and at nightfall she would smear him with olive oil. The baby continued to grow, such a handsome chap he was at that time, and the mother loved and pampered him exceedingly, though he was always crying and sobbing. After some years she spent breeding and nurturing her baby, shielding him from the swords of witches and from the paws of night marauders, watching him with raptures as he learned how to crawl on the ground, admiring the playful way he grasped her utensils with his little fingers— babbling and giggling happily as he crawled up to mummy; and when the baby had grown some years later, she was painfully shocked when she realized the baby was actually an imbecile. But she pampered him still, and showed him even greater affections, and never allowed the fact of his deformity detract from the tender love and fondness she had for him.
A gust of wind came by and gently roused him from his reverie. Then he dipped into his basket and flung the tiny vegetable seeds in it towards the south end of his garden. Looking down the lower end of the spring, his roving gaze caught the nudity of a young girl whom he imagined must have finished working on her own mother’s garden and was now washing her body in readiness to go home. She was fair in complexion, with a slender figure and long curly hair, and her body glistened with natural beauty. “In which hidden garden had she been working since morning that he did not see her up until now?” he thought. He wondered which of the farmers in that vegetable grove could have begotten such a gorgeous girl. Straining his eyes further, far beyond the stretch of his own garden, and beyond the reach of the shrubberies, he fancied that the girl’s young breasts, which were still in bloom, were as plump and beautiful as the blooms of his pink roses and Amazon lilies, and that her slender arms which she threw about the spring in graceful waves, were as elegant as the foliage of his own flowers. A rabbit scurried down the spring, and another one followed immediately: they were now two in number, very fat and plump, and he wished he came with his sling.
He bent down again to resume his planting, but felt at that point a sharp searing cramp somewhere around his waist, and an overwhelming sense of lethargy slowly engulfed him; so that with the soft beam of sunlight falling steadily upon his head, the lulling whirr and drone of the august wind, the sweet song of birds gliding overhead, and the soothing spring— all made him feel intensely weak and drowsy, and he said he must go over to the hut in his garden to have some rest. He shambled out of the garden beaming with such happy smiles, as like a little boy whose mean father, after several hours of boring studies, told he could now go and play; or better still the way an adventurous damsel shambles out of their home into the waiting arms of the society when she finds that her fussy parents are out of the country.
There was this magical chair in his garden made of strong ropes and fine woods, which looked like a chaise longue, with soft cushions on its broad base and a cozy armrest and a headrest; which stood beguilingly in front of the hut, overlooking his fresh vegetables and flowers with its charming countenance, and he imagined that this enchanted chair, as he often called it, which had lain out there for so long in that boring grassland— in loneliness and solitude— must be in need of a happy company, and so he sallied forth to offer him his company forthwith. He cradled his basket with his left arm, and grasping his hoe by his right, strode towards the enchanted chair with a smiling face. He placed his basket under the warm shadow cast by the broad eaves of the hut, away from the reach of the rays, so that his vegetable seedlings and the delicate tendrils of his flowers would not wilt under the sweltering beams. He pulled off his leather boots and gently cast them aside under the shadows. Then he slid onto the enchanted chair and stretched out himself languorously upon it like someone in a beach.
Indeed whenever he sat on or lay upon this grey elongated chair overlooking his lush vegetable garden, festooned with his exotic flowers, and the rustling spring; he often felt as though he were in a real beach, for he did not imagine there was any other beach more soothing and natural than the one in his vegetable garden. He adjusted himself comfortably on the headrest and flung his arms on the cushion. He would only rest for a while, he murmured, after which he would continue with his planting. He craned his neck down the lower end of the spring to see if the young girl was still there washing her body, but she had already gone. He knew that it could not have been very long since she left and wondered which way she followed that he did not see her when she left. But this was a vegetable grove, he reflected, a grassland filled with many trees and pathways; she could have followed any of the narrow pathways nearest to her home. He sighed wearily and then closed his eyes in splendid bliss. He was feeling sleepy, but he did not want to sleep, he only wanted to rest for a while and then continue with his planting. His eyes were still closed but his eyeballs kept on rolling within his eyelids, his nostrils flaring and his lips twitching in raptures as he savoured the serene garden, and the endless rustle of the sparkling spring; the soporific breeze, as well as the trees which kept on caressing his cheeks, so that his face shone with bright smiles as he lay on the enchanted chair. He was still musing with himself and relishing the splendours of the garden when he slept off.
Now everywhere remained calm, but the trees and shrubberies kept on whistling in low tones as the wind droned away. It was then afternoon in his homeland, and many men in their neighbourhood were seated in their various compounds conversing with their wives and children as they were wont to do. The day was sunny and the wind was cold and his own mother was about to start cooking their evening meal. He wanted to surprise her that afternoon. So he gathered his net and copper hooks, and another big rubber bottle filled with warms and fat roaches which were the baits he used to entice fish away from their cocoons and crannies into the claws of his hooks, and into the snares of his net; and with them in his hands, he made straight to the lake in their village where his kinsfolk did their fishing.
It was such a huge shimmering lake, and was so enormous that it stretched beyond the boundaries of his homeland, beyond the vast network of bridges in their town, and it coursed down through the foot of the towering mountains in the outskirts of their town, joining another magnificent river which flowed down south. Sometimes he wondered whether it was actually supposed to be called a lake, or a sea, because when he stood at the shores and threw his eyes far above the lake as he normally did, he could scarcely make out where it ended; though he definitely saw the gigantic heads of mountains huddled up together like a league of fiery deities overlooking the lake and his homeland with a proprietorial glare. When he arrived at the shores of the lake, no one else but he alone was there, and he became vaguely afraid and wanted to go home immediately. But then the lake-view was so magical and was bristling with the beauty of nature; and the translucid sun, which shone ever so softly, had successfully lured the numerous species of fish in the lake away from their ancient hearths, to the bank of the lake, where they now flit about and dance around in the soft beam of the sun, so that he could not resist the urge to remain there. There were numerous canoes in the bank of the lake and each belonged to one of his kinsfolk who used it for fishing and with which they ferried travelers and tourists from one end of the lake to another. He climbed onto one of the canoes, actually the one that belonged to his father, and then began to row with it to the lower edge where the big fish stayed. He was about to throw his baited net when he noticed the strong sultry wind blowing from behind him, pushing trees aside, raising enormous swirls of dust and leaves over the lake. The wind continued to blow so violently that it began to row his canoe toward the middle of the lake, the deeper end; down the bridge in their town, through the foot of the mountains, until he found himself in the middle of the lower river which flowed more rapidly; rowing and pulling his canoe along to a place he did not know. He screamed and yelled for help, but no one heard his voice because the whole place was lonely and wore the terrifying appearance of a desert. The birds were fleeing for their lives, the numerous species of fish that had come out to warm their bodies in the sun had all disappeared, the crickets had crawled back into their burrows, the men of his village must have all dispersed and retired into their various huts with their wives and children, and his mother must have finished cooking, waiting for him to return, — he was the only one out there in the lake, ensnared in the turbulent storm. It did not take long before the rain began to fall. It was such a heavy rain and it descended down the earth in violent torrents. The lake began to swell and soar in the wake of the rain, rippling turbulently with violent waves, stretching deeper and deeper into the recesses of the forests, overrunning the grasses and shrubs in the fringes; and the dark green algae that coated the surface of the water like a polythene sack—the lakeside mushrooms, the dulses and scum, had all been sundered in the howling wind. The rain fell in torrential sheets and the storm rocked the canoe with relentless malice— it was as though the world was on the brink of the apocalypse. He covered himself and his canoe with a tarpaulin so that it would not become filled up with water and thereby sink into the lake. He was gravely terrified, and his heart kept on racing violently as his canoe wobbled from one end to end, flowing down the dale with alarming speed to a place he did not know. After several hours of deadly downpour, the rain slowly began to relent, and by the time it finally came to a halt, it was already midnight. But the water continued to flow down the broad runnel with amazing speed, rowing his canoe along with it.
He did not exactly know where he was, but he fancied that he was in a valley, a wooded valley; and the river continued to flow down the valley. He used his tarpaulin to cover his body and closed his eyes as the canoe sailed smoothly. The birds were chirping on the trees and he could hear the whistling of insects in the grasses. It was a lovely night, he sobbed, spent in the middle of a river flowing with grace. He saw a silver-coloured briefcase sailing along his side and was amazed at the strange object. He rowed his canoe a little closer and grabbed the briefcase with his hands. It was a sleek and exotic case, and he imagined it must belong to one of those foreign sailors who brought goods into the country from Whiteman’s land; and that perhaps the owner of the case might have died, or that his ship might have been drowned in the storm. He was gazing intently at the briefcase, admiring its glossiness and silvery sheen, and wondering most anxiously what it was that was inside it. It may be shipping documents, he reflected, and the receipts of the goods they were carrying, and other sale of goods papers that sailors routinely carried along with them as they cruised from country to country. He held the briefcase aloft, shook it frantically, trying to divine the contents and to know what it was that lay hidden in it, but he did not hear any noise, though he imagined that the briefcase was portly and quite heavy. He tried to open the case but did not know how to go about it. In his curiosity he began to batter at the case using the oars with which he paddled his canoe, and when, after feverish attempts, he successfully opened it, he was pleasantly startled by what he saw: wads and wads of British pound sterling— crisp, sleek, sizzling with the fresh smells of newly printed currency— all tied together and neatly arranged in orderly rows within the capacious bowel of the briefcase, and with the elegant seal of the Bank of England boldly emblazoned on them. He was breathless, and his tongue became watery with excitement, and he could not believe this was really happening, anymore than he could persuade himself that he was not merely dreaming. He glanced around furtively, just to ensure that no one was within reach of his canoe, or his eyes or ears; and when he was satisfied that no one was in the vicinity of the river, he let out a loud excited scream.
After some time he spent admiring and caressing the crisp currency, he began to think about what he would do with the money, about how prudently he would spend this rare fortune; and now that he was considering it, he said he would first of all build a house for his mother, an excellent house that could properly be called a home, with all the good things of life fitted in it; and then he would open a grocery store for her in their town which would be the biggest store in their own district; and of himself, he reflected he would in the mean time travel abroad to the Whiteman’s land to study in his country, and learn his language, which according to his father was power; and to eat his food and drink his wine. But when he reflected further on the possibility of making the acquaintance of white ladies; those lovely and cheerful creatures he had once or twice seen on the television screen, with their smooth willowy bodies and neatly chiseled nostrils, their pink lips and scarlet dimples and cheery eyes; he closed his own eyes in ecstasy to savour the delightful thoughts, and then opened his mouth wide, imagining that he was already in the Whiteman’s place, eating his food, which no doubt must be delicious, and would invariably be leavened with some cheese and apples; and drinking his wine with some transparent tumbler, and a pipe, and with a sliced lemon placed on the rim of his tumbler, dripping it’s succulent juice into his wine for flavour; and he would be seated in a seafront or in the front of some waterfall, with the charming wind and icy mountains, in the gay and happy company of white ladies.
He was still sleeping in his canoe, his lips slightly parted in raptures, when he heard a grating sound at the base of the hollowed wood and he realized when he uncovered himself, that the little craft had anchored itself at the foot of a rock near an unknown island.
The sky had not yet cleared completely from the darkness of the previous night, and the birds on the trees, along with other creatures of the forests, were still having their early morning benediction when he alighted from the canoe, with his sleepy eyes and full lips still glowing with faint streaks of saliva from the night. He recalled with gratitude how he nearly died the other day when his canoe got stuck in a turbulent storm and how he had quietly resigned to faith when the storm became too unbearable, tossing and hurling his craft violently from one side to another, and he quietly covered himself inside his canoe; and in the midnight, when the storm finally dropped, he had fallen asleep, only to be awakened this morning in an island he did not know. He pulled his canoe out of the river which now flowed into a sea on the threshold of the island and firmly secured it in a rock. He sat down on the rock, and was looking over the sea, which had a faint blue colour on its crystal surface and also deep down, just like the crystal colour of the sky in the wake of the rainy season; and he was amazed at the interminable stretch of sparkling water, the sheer boundlessness of the sea, and he could see the waves rising and falling as though falling from the sky or from a fountain in some tropical mountain, and rising from a spring in a wooded lowland bordering some lush green meadow; and he felt the cold wind of the sea settling on his face, and smelt its frosty freshness with his nostrils. As the day was getting brighter and brighter and the grey hues of the morning being cleared by the rising sun, he began to hear the soft touch of someone’s feet upon the fine sands of the island descending down to where he was. He did not know whom it was, was not even sure it was a human being; but the soft gentle feet kept on strolling down the sandy island with such pleasing grace and grandeur, and he became afraid and could not turn around, for fear it might be some dangerous animal or a spectre from the sea world. When he lifted his eyes he saw the graceful shadow of a young maiden cast upon the surface of the sea waters, with her long curly hair nestling on her shoulders and her hands clasped across her belly, her head inclined down behind him as though she had seen a god.
“Good morning, my noble King,” the young maiden greeted, still gazing at the fine sand of the island. “I am happy you have finally arrived.”
He was struck by her soft voice which rolled down his ears like music, and when he turned round to see the young maiden whose voice he’d just heard and whose splendid features he’d seen on the sea, he was pleasantly charmed by her appearance and for a while he did not utter a word in response, but only kept on wondering whether she was really a human. And, looking now at her light skin, her height and her graceful bearing; he fancied she must be the queen of some unknown kingdom, or an empress, but he finally arrived with the decision that she must be the goddess of the sea.
“But I am not a king,” he replied with alarm. “My name is Benjamin, I am from Bonny; a riveraine kingdom in the south of Nigeria.”
“I know who you are, my King,” said the young maiden, “and I know where you come from. But now that you are here, on the shores of this great sea, marooned in this island, you have hence become my king; keeper of the sea, owner of the island and the Greenwood Castle, and my noble lord and husband.”
Benjamin was overwhelmed by her charming words; she had said so many sweet things in a short while and he would have been blushing heavily if he didn’t have a chocolate complexion.
“Greenwood Castle?” he said, “What is that?”
“It is my father’s kingdom, on the pinnacle of the island, bequeathed to me when he died.”
“You own a castle?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And you live there by yourself?”
“No,” replied the princess, now lifting up her eyes; she settled her gaze slowly on Benjamin’s face and for the first time he saw her eyes starring directly into his. “I have many servants and wards, and the citizens of my kingdom work in the castle.”
Benjamin was greatly amazed. He stole a curious glance at the top of the island which was adorned with white sand, and he could not believe there was a kingdom on the pinnacle of that island anymore than he could believe there was a castle in that kingdom.
“It must be a very busy kingdom then,” Benjamin observed.
“Yes it is, and the citizens are friendly, too.”
“So what is the name of your kingdom?”
“Numidia,” she said. “The kingdom of Numidia.”
“That sounds like a great kingdom. I’ve never heard of it before, though I’ve never heard of many kingdoms in my life, apart from Bonny, the one in my country.”
The princess laughed. “It’s a great kingdom,” she said casually, “I know you will like it.”
“Why are you out here alone, in this lonely island, without any maids or servants?”
“My orderlies are up there,” she replied, “waiting for me to arrive with their king and master.”
Benjamin did not understand what she meant by king and master, more so when she addressed him as her noble lord and husband. He was curious, curious to know many things—her name, to see her kingdom and what it looked like, and especially to see her castle; and to understand what she meant by her king and husband and noble lord as well. But Benjamin did not want to push her with too many questions. He imagined that that may be the way young maidens of their land welcomed male strangers in their kingdom, by calling them their husband and noble lord. There are as many cultures in the face of the earth as there are kingdoms, said his father, long time ago; and as many languages as there are tribes. One should always adjust when he finds himself in unfamiliar climes.
“When my father the King died seven years ago,” the Princess said, “he had no son of his own, no heir to succeed him to the throne; and my mother, the Queen, had died the previous year when I was eleven years old. I was then too small, and could not be crowned the ruler of the kingdom in my father’s stead. Bassey, who was the king’s adviser, became the Regent of the kingdom and has been holding that position on my behalf for seven years now. He will relinquish the throne, according to tradition, when I become of age. In three days time, the entire kingdom will be commemorating the seventh anniversary of the King’s death, and the nineteenth anniversary of my birth, in which day, and by which time I shall have become nineteen years of age. And it is at this age that a prince or princess of Numidia is deemed fit and mature to assume the throne of the kingdom….”
“Are you saying in the next three days you will become the Queen and Ruler of Numidia?” Benjamin said impatiently, with a curious and excited face.
“Yes, that is how it ought to be,” the Princess replied, “but Bassey, the Regent, will not hear of it. He said he would not in all conscience hand the rule of the entire kingdom over to a teenage girl, that it would place the throne in great peril, and the entire kingdom in jeopardy. He is very good with words, perhaps the finest orator in Numidia, and council members agreed with him.” The Princess looked down to hide the melancholy on her face. He was a stranger, whom she did not know before now, but in spite of that she had already lost her heart to him, and she wished he would hold her by her waist, pull her close to his breast and give her a warm and comforting hug.
“So he has stolen your father’s kingdom from you,” Benjamin said, and felt sorry for the Princess.
“No,” she replied, coming closer to where he was. She quietly sat by his side, upon the rock on the foot of the island, and Benjamin caught the fragrant whiff of her perfume and the rich delicious smell of the cream she rubbed on her skin. “He did not steal my father’s throne from me. Bassey is a wise man and was very loyal to my father when he was still alive. He is only doing it in the interest of the entire kingdom, to protect it from attacks by the neighbouring kingdoms and buccaneers who constantly assail our fortresses, trying to plunder our gold reserves, and to conquer the kingdom of Numidia so they can take control of our oil fields and diamond mines.”
Benjamin’s head swelled up and shrank again in raptures at the mere mention of these vast treasures. He stole another curious glance at the top of the island and wondered whether the Princess was not merely sharing a joke with him, or telling him one of their local fables or fairy tales by which they entertained strangers, and introduced them into the vast riches of their oral tradition. For he can hardly believe that up there on the top of that island existed all these treasures she had enumerated. But the Princess was a gentle soul, and her candour was almost palpable; he could feel the truth of her words with his fingers and could literally taste it with his tongue and lips. He imagined it must be a rich kingdom, the kingdom of Numidia, in the sandy island, bordered by the great sea, in which part of the world he did not know. He glanced at the Princess’ hands and saw the golden rings on her fingers, and the bangles on her wrists, and the rich necklace that was strung around her neck, with a diamond pendant which dangled above her chest.
The princess wiped off the small patch of sand on her gown, straightened it out and then continued: “But Ebenezer the High Priest has decreed that Bassey must relinquish the throne to me once I find a husband of my own choosing who shall become the King of Numidia, and I, the Queen; and who, according to the customs of our land, shall be the keeper of the sea, the owner of the island and the Greenwood Castle with all the vast treasures and riches in it.”
Benjamin was looking at her intently, struggling to hold himself from swooning and falling into the sea.
“He also said,” pursued the Princess, “that the man who shall be my husband, and the next King of Numidia, will be a stranger sailing from the west of the continent, from a faraway land; and that one day, I shall find him at dawn, seated on a rock at the foot of the island overlooking the great sea. And since then, for the past seven months, I have been coming here alone, every morning, in search of my husband and lord. And today, may heaven bless this day, for in finding you, my love, Numidia has found its new king and the ancient throne of our kingdom will finally be restored to where it rightfully belongs.” She encircled Benjamin with her arms and nestled her head upon his shoulders. For the first time in his life Benjamin was genuinely stunned and short of words. He simply shut his eyes, and with the dim glow of smiles on his face, quietly embraced the princess.
As they climbed up the sandy island, the cold sea-breeze wafted across their faces, leaving them with its refreshing dews, pulling at the Princess’ pink coloured gown, with the grey lace on her collar, and the one around her waist, and by which her short sleeves were beautifully adorned. He was holding the Princess by the hand as they climbed, and within that short while, he wondered what a small and lovely world they lived in, a world full of exciting treasures, sweet-looking damsels and beautiful creatures; a place, where people, wholly unknown to each other, completely unfamiliar and from different climes, meet one another in some memorable place that providence alone divines, and after a short while in which they made acquaintance, they were now holding one another by the hand like old friends, climbing some steep island which looked like a sandy mountain; and looking into the bright sky, they could both see the cheery prospect of a happy union. As he amused himself with these thoughts whilst holding the dainty hand of the Princess, it occurred to him just then that up till that moment, the Princess had not told him her name, and that he had not even bothered to ask her about it. He swallowed the little puddle of saliva that had collected in his mouth, moistening his dry throat, and then he said: “You haven’t told me your name, my friend.”
“Awwn!” the princess gasped delicately as they rolled over the sand, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before now. My name is Lillian,” she said, “the daughter of King Zacky James, king of Numidia.”
“Oh!” Benjamin exclaimed, “How sweet your name sounds—Lillian, the Princess of Numidia.”
They laughed.
“You are funny,” Lillian observed excitedly.
“Am I?” said Benjamin.
“Yes, you are.”
When they got to the peak of the elevation, Benjamin was awed when he beheld the enormous plains of the island, its sheer vastness and limitless landscape, now undulating here, now straightening out there, with beautiful houses and trees lined on the fringes, built in orderly rows; and hundreds of people going about their daily affairs, and he could not believe that such a place ever existed on earth.
“Waoooh!” he exclaimed again and again, “This place is beautiful.”
“I told you!”
“It’s lovely— look at those lowlands, look at those trees… look at those grasslands….”
He moved forward to admire a small brilliant tree that was standing nearby, with its branches bursting with sweet-looking red fruits.
“Are these peppers?” Benjamin said, feeling the fresh fruits with his fingers.
“No,” replied the Princess, smiling brightly, “they are cherries… sweet cherries.” She said, reaching out her hands and plucking some of the plump fruits. She threw one into her mouth and it dissolved quickly on top of her tongue. And then she pressed another one gently between Benjamin’s lips and it filled his mouth with its honeyed juice. And just then, still licking this delicious fruit, he recalled one memorable phrase he had heard in the past, some years back, about a land flowing with milk and honey and he had wondered where that land actually was; and now that he was here, in this wonderful place, founded on the pinnacle of an island, surrounded by a blue shimmering sea, with its vast undulating landscapes and lush grasslands, he could not think of any other land flowing with more milk and honey than the kingdom of Numidia.
Part of the things that struck him was the well paved alleys and smooth lanes of the kingdom, coated with tar and with different types of houses on either side. As he was busy admiring the luscious scenery and licking the sweet cherries the Princess gave him, there arrived at that moment a four-wheeled royal carriage drawn by two well groomed horses, with another three fine ones behind on which the princess’ maiden attendants and orderlies rode.
“My people are here,” the Princess said. “It’s time to go.” When they entered the carriage, the horses trotted at a sedate pace along the solid plains of the island bordered by tall trees, and as they rode through the alleys, the citizens of the kingdom began to wave at the princess’ wagon, singing songs of praise and throwing fresh flowers on the road.
“You must be very popular with your people,” Benjamin observed leaning towards the Princess.
“Yes,” she said waving at the admiring citizens.
“They are very much in love with you.”
“So were they with my father.”
Benjamin leaned backwards on the carriage and was evidently enjoying the ride, was enjoying himself, looking at the network of brick houses, the swaying palm trees, the great many alleys and boulevards, and the lively and rollicking citizens all filled him with bliss, and he wondered again as the wagon glided by, what hidden treasures there are on earth, the many places of adventures; and the provincial man, with his narrowness of mind and vision, confines himself in his own country, thinking it the best, quite ignorant of the immense fortunes and adventures that abound in other places. Who in his homeland would ever believe, and not regard him with suspicion, or reckon him totally mad, if he told him that he chanced upon a kingdom founded on the plains of an island, with beautiful houses and maidens and fruits? He noticed that the citizens of the kingdom rode mainly with horses and cabriolets, and the more wealthy ones pursued their occupations on carriages. There were no cars, there were no fumes and smoke and noise. It was a perfect kingdom, he thought, filled with peace and serenity.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“The castle,” replied the Princess. “We are almost there.”
As they rode, he thought about what the Chiefs of Numidia would do when they saw him with their Princess, and whether the people of Numidia would welcome him in their midst, or regard him as an intruder or enemy of the kingdom. He felt a sudden rush of fear sear through his spine, but he held himself together, and pretended to be in high spirits: he did not want the Princess to notice his unease.
They were still a little far off from the heartland of the kingdom when he began to see the solid outlines of the Greenwood Castle. When he beheld its vague forms for the first time through the cold misty air, he immediately thought it was a huge mountain; but as the wagon drew nearer, and the hazy air became clearer, he imagined, with great wonder hanging all over his face, that it was a cathedral, where Numidians worshipped their god; but of the latter, as much as of the former, he was still not totally sure; and being thus uncertain and unwilling to inquire, just as the carriage drew nearer and nearer, he thought yet again that it might be a mosque, for he had not seen any cathedral of that height, with all those golden domes and powerful vaults and towering pillars.
“This,” the Princess said, “is the castle I told you about. It is called the Greenwood Castle, the seat of the kingdom of Numidia.”
There were many guards at the entrance of the castle, and they all bowed to the Princess as the wagon rode in. There were also a number of wealthy-looking men fitted in noble robes, conversing in low tones, and he knew at once, from their lordly appearance, that they were court officials or politicians holding one office in the kingdom or the other, and he became afraid when he caught one or two of them glaring suspiciously at him.
“Welcome to your kingdom, my lord,” the Princess announced happily when the wagon came to a halt.
“I don’t understand what you mean,” Benjamin protested nervously, looking at the court officials who were still glaring at him. “I am afraid, I feel dreadfully frightened. I don’t know what I’m doing here, in this strange country. Please take me back to where you found me—I beg of you,” Benjamin said and was about to cry.
“You must be strong my lord if you ever wish to be the king, and if you ever wish to command the obedience and loyalty of your subjects,” the Princess admonished. “The beginning of the downfall of any kingdom is when its throne manifests its weaknesses in public. The beginning of the fall of any king is when he demonstrates his weaknesses before his subjects.”
“I am not a king, Lillian, don’t you understand? I am a fish farmer, the son of a peasant—I want to go back to my mother.”
This was the first time he had called her by her name, the Princess reflected, and she imagined he must be frightened indeed. She went close to him and held him by the hand and implored him not to be afraid, but only to remain calm, cheerful and dignified, that he would understand her later, and would be grateful to her for it eventually.
When Benjamin had calmed down, the Princess led him gently to her own chambers, and ordered her maidservants to take him to the pool-side and give him a good bath. It was a memorable experience. The only woman that had bathed him in his life was his mother when he was still a baby; and today, he was being bathed by two young maidens who were almost naked, and in a royal pool, carved in ancient stones, though he felt shy and always flinched instinctively when the soft hands of the maidens dangled towards his genitals.
Everything moved swiftly and in excellent order in the castle. Maids walked up and down carrying baskets full of vegetables and fruits from the garden to the store. Guards were stationed at various corners heavily armed with swords and shields, wearing their steel armour and their bodies were covered with heavy garments made of copper and silver. There was a roar of voices echoing from the gallery. It seemed the nobles of the land and council members were having their meeting in the Great Chamber. The Princess wondered why she had not been informed, but was immediately told that her presence had been required by the council, but only that she was not around when they began.
Benjamin had changed his outfit by this time and was now wearing a flowing robe that was given to him by the Princess, which made him look quite stately, distinguished; and with his new hair style and pair of sandals reaching up to his knees, the citizens of Numidia who saw him thought he was a Prince visiting from a friendly kingdom, and they bowed to him in reverence and treated him like royalty. Was it not as his father once said, that when a man carries himself like a king, he will be treated as a king, and one day, he may end up becoming a king. Benjamin had not yet understood what was happening to him, but he was enjoying himself all the same. The Princess marveled at how handsome he appeared wearing the robe; although she knew he was good-looking the first time she saw him, but she never imagined he would look so princely. He ate his food quickly. The Princess’ eyes fell admiringly on him. He wasn’t looking at her, his mind and eyes were fixed on the young lamb and stew he was eating. When he was done, he drank wine from a silver goblet— the wine was quite rich and sweet, just like the sweet cherries; and he smiled looking now at the Princess, who was also smiling looking all the while at him.
The following morning the entire kingdom wore a festive air as the citizens and the nobles prepared to celebrate the seventh anniversary of the death of their king and the nineteenth anniversary of the birth of the Princess. People went up and down carrying several bouquets of fresh flowers and baskets filled with grapes and vines harvested from the royal garden; and others worked in the basements where the grapes were distilled into gins and the vines into fresh wines—so that the castle was once again a beehive.
The Princess did her utmost to hide Benjamin from the eyes of the nobles, from the ears of the great council, and especially from the sight of Bassey, who was the Regent, and who himself wanted to marry the Princess, to perpetuate his hold on the throne. But presently someone entered into her chambers, and lo and behold, it was Bassey.
“How is the Princess doing this morning?” he said with a good-natured smile.
“I am doing great,” she replied. “How about you, Your Majesty?”
“I am fine,” he returned curtly, coming closer to where she stood; and instantly the smiles on his face vanished. “Who is this—visitor or whatever—I hear you’re hiding in your chambers?”
“A visitor?”
“Answer me!” he growled, and his eyes roamed round the room in fury.
“He…he… is a Prince….yes, a Prince!”
“A Prince?” said Bassey incredulously, “May I ask from which kingdom?”
“I can’t tell you now Your Majesty,” she returned softly, beaming her alluring eyes on Bassey. “Come on, Your Worthiness, don’t ruin the surprise. I’ll bring him to you at noon so you’ll meet him.”
That same hour the Princess took Benjamin and they rode to the White Monument, west of the island, to see Ebenezer, the High Priest of Numidia; and to present Benjamin before the great oracle. He was an old man and was praying when they arrived, so they waited for him to finish, but unknown to them he had already seen them. He was facing the White Monument of their deity Osiris, who was the goddess of the sea, and he did not turn back afterwards, but only inclined his head in supplication. He did not look at the Princess, he did not see Benjamin; he was merely facing the monument and from there he addressed them with the following words:
“At cockcrow tomorrow there will be a solemn jubilee and great ceremony in our land, one in memoriam of the King, and one in honour of the Princess. At sunrise the purification will begin, and by nightfall Numidia will push the reaches of history when a man from a foreign country is made king in our land. It is the wish of our deity. It is what Osiris-- the goddess of the sea -- has decreed, and no mortal can decree otherwise. It is not always that a king is borne abroad. A queen may rise from an alien land, but a king must always come from the kingdom itself. You are a lucky man Benjamin, for you have found great favour in the eyes of our goddess. And by this time tomorrow, you will be crowned the new King of Numidia, keeper of the sea, owner of the Greenwood Castle. May her name be exulted.”
Bassey and other council members were greatly outraged when they heard the proclamation of the goddess. But there was nothing they could do about it. The words of Osiris were final, and her powers were as boundless as the sea itself. Ebenezer explained that the goddess was all out to exact her vengeance on the lords of the kingdom and upon the peasants themselves, because of their indolence and debauchery, and their irreverence as well; for the goddess would sooner hand the throne of her kingdom to an alien, than to place it under the care and control of a decadent tribe.
The next morning a solemn ritual was made in honour of the king and for the repose of his departed soul, and thereafter was followed by a series of gaieties and merriments in commemoration of the princess’ birth. At noon, the purification was done by the seaside and when the sun had gone down, Benjamin was crowned the nineteenth King of Numidia in a colourful ceremony in which the Princess was given to him as bride. Before now the Princess had told him about how Numidians were very much in love with good words, and about how just easily their brains were turned by well-crafted speeches and their souls swiftly stirred and steered towards the part of submission and obedience by flowery words than by mere threats. So when Ebenezer pronounced him the new king in the banquet chamber before the lords and nobles and the citizens of the kingdom, Benjamin rose with his golden crown and royal robes flowing with opulence, and with this new grandeur, he calmly approached the lectern. He was there alone. The Princess sat on her throne behind him, and Ebenezer was seated next to her. The queer eyes of the lords, the nobles, and the anxious gaze of a million citizens fell upon him. His spirit soared blissfully but his heart suddenly began to sink in fear. Benjamin did not give—what in the learned circles of this kingdom—would be regarded a powerful speech, but his rendition nevertheless was effectual, and although it rankled all through with the lords of Numidia who still questioned the wisdom of the goddess in choosing a stranger over their eminent selves; and whose gloomy faces still wore the sceptical tint of great malcontent; it however rang true to the ordinary citizens and inspired hope in the hoi polloi, and that, the Princess said, was what mattered most. When he had finished his speech which was acknowledged by universal cheers, the Princess scrambled to her feet, and upon reaching the lectern, planted an iconic kiss upon Benjamin’s lips, caressing and cuddling him warmly, much to the admiration of the young maidens of Numidia, much to the jealousy of the men of the kingdom, and definitely to the irritation and annoyance of the disenchanted nobles and lords. Ebenezer the High Priest who, apparently was in high spirits after listening to the speech, now rose to his feet and began to wave coaxingly at the crowd: “long live the king!” he cried, “long live the king!” but there was no response, everyone kept mute; an awed silence reigned in the hall. But like a demented High Priest, he continued yelling alone: “Long live the king! Long live the king!! Long live the king!!!” and then, just like a dying ember in the forest that was awakened by a draught of wind, the citizens began to roar along with their High Priest, starting with those in the furthest end, to the ones in the middle row, and soon, the banquet chamber began to heave and tremble with cheers as all the citizens joined their Priest in hailing their new king. It was not until they all began to rise to their feet that the lords and nobles who were seated in the front row slowly and shamefacedly joined the citizens, the High Priest and Princess Lillian in their triumphal song; and everywhere in the kingdom, the castle, and the surrounding hills and valleys all throbbed with one ecstatic chant: “Long live the king! Long live the king!! Long live the king!!!” And this chant, this universal chorus of triumph echoed down the dales and comingled with the waves and ripples of the sea.
It was already evening and by this time the soft beam of the sun was no longer bright but only cast a dim yellow glow upon the sparkling spring. Little birds flit about his vegetable garden twittering with thrills, ruffling their plumage and washing their bodies in the spring, sucking the sweetened sap in the blooms of his flowers, dressing their nests and nettles which were lodged between branches of trees—getting ready for the approaching night. It was one of these little birds that roused Benjamin from slumber that late evening when it flit upon his bare chest and benignly dropped a generous blob of warm excreta upon his breast, which wakened him from his heroic adventures in wonderland, and ultimately wrenched him back to the real world. And even now that he had woken Benjamin could still hear the receding echoes of that triumphant chant pulsing rhythmically somewhere in his mind—all hail the king!— and it continued to ring and ring in the recesses of his mind, until he finally became sober and collected, then the triumphant chant slowly died away.
Benjamin was dismayed when he realized he was no king, that there was no kingdom anymore than there was castle; and more painfully, that there was no princess. And that he was merely napping upon some strange chair under the rustic hut in his vegetable garden. When he stood up the little bird had gone, and he quietly flicked away the excreta. He considered whether he should resume his planting, but he no longer had the spirit to work, and moreover the sun had already gone down and the night would soon arrive. He would continue his work tomorrow morning. He must go home and rest now; it had been such a tiring day.
As he gathered his tools and turned his eyes homeward Benjamin thought about his delicious dream. He thought about Numidia, the kingdom of wonder, of which he had not too long ago been made king; and he thought about the magnificent castle whose name he could no longer remember. Everything about his dream was now slightly vague, now slightly hazy; but the only person that remained green in his memory was his friend and lover, Princess Lillian. He could still see in vivid details the crimson gown she wore on her birthday and the seraphic smiles that glowed on her lips and on her dimples when she tossed that delicate fruit into his mouth.
His father once told him that the man that never dreamt any dreams never went far in life and that the beginning of all greatness lay in dreaming about it. He believed he would one day be a king and would have a princess as his queen and they would both live in a magnificent castle. He believed ultimately that it was not impossible for an alien to be made king in a foreign country. But then he remembered soon thereon that he had had similar dreams in the past while sleeping on that same chair. In the past, he dreamt that all the stones in his vegetable garden turned to diamonds, and people came down to the grove with bags of money to buy his diamond stones. Today, he dreamt about a princess, about a castle, and about a kingdom. Indeed he had had several more of such dreams, and all the times he had them, it had always been while he was sleeping on the enchanted chair. He was now a few poles away from his home, and as he plodded along carrying his tools, the golden rays of the evening sun glistened on the spring, and he realized looking into the golden sky that if the sun could warm the day, and the moon could lighten the night, then there was nothing impossible for the man with a strong will. He walked on wearily and soon disappeared into the little opening that was the entrance to the place he lived.
Awosusi Oluwabukunmi is a student of the University of Ibadan, Department of History. A poet, essayist and short-story writer. He was shortlisted for the Nigeria Students' poetry prize 2019, his works have been featured on the Kalahari review, Merak magazine and other places. He writes about Humanities. |
The world was silent when we died
The Moon-
Has come limping on the clouds.
Dried roofs and patches
Showing pellet holes
Mother earth was once beautiful
Now she’s a desiccated fool.
—For Kainene
Harkeem laid on his bed, with the only sound ticking from the wall-clock, 2:30 am. He was listening to the cricket chirping faraway, the crescent yellowish lantern ignited the room. For some seconds he thought he heard some sounds outside his house. His breathing was irregular, he flash backed to the previous day, luckily Alhaji Danjuma has assured him more stems of cassava. His mind race to and fro thinking of how much hands he will employ to make the ridges. He gesticulates in the air writing some unseen figures. At some seconds, he felt Aliyha, his wife breathing warm around his earlobe. He turned to see her moving her lips closer to him, and her hand drawing him near under the sheet. “Not now Aliyha” he said cautiously.
She looked at him, even the dying yellowish lantern she could feel the warmness of his muscle she thought how she ended up with him for few minutes— “then when?” she asked rhetorically. Harkeem turned to her and kiss her forehead “very soon” he said. “Very soon! It’s been three years! I know you don’t have it outside but can….” she was interrupted “I know.” Harkeem tried to sound without showing his discomfort with the conversation. “Aliyha, I’m sorry if am being cruel to you. But I suggest we wait till when Surajudeen is twelve and by the time we would have settled ourselves properly. Find a better house, perhaps build one.” He was silent for some seconds and continued “we just lost everything to the insurgents. My work in the civil service, your shop and here we are struggling to make a great deal, thanks to Alhaji Danjuma who responded to our aid in time if not…” Aliyha began “I know that you’re trying but Usman should have got a baby brother or sister.” She said trying to cajole him. “We already have Surajudeen and Usman and may Allah protect them.” “I believe in you, may Allah crown your efforts with great success. What are yours plans to see Alhaji Danjuma in the morning.”
He explained everything and by the time he was done, Aliyha was already fast asleep. He listened to the ticking wall-clock then it chimed four times—4:00 am, outside his room he heard the cook crowed.
“Bar̃kâ da asuba—Good morning” Surajudeen and Usman said as they both came out of their room. The sky was already clear. Harkeem was dressing his cutlass and farm implements. Aliyha bent down poking the fire to the pot of beans “Sannu” she greeted them. They both look healthy except Usman who seems lassitude. He had sustained an injury from the field which made Harkeem gave him three strokes of Koboko-a whip made of cattle skin. Usman limped forward. Inâ kwânâ?—How was your night? Harkeem asked Usman has he limped to grab his cloths. “Fine.” They were silent—The rule has always been “keep shut whenever Daddy is listening to radio.” Surajudeen, the eight-year-old, first born, sat with his mother. Usman limped back to meet his brother. “Kanem FM, 97.7 University of Maiduguri radio.” A male voice resonated from the radio besides Harkeem. “A suicide bomber which claims to be among the Boko-Haram insurgents was apprehended yesterday around the University of Maiduguri. Thanks to the forces who were vigilant to have noticed his peculiar movements and idiosyncrasies gesture. He was apprehended around 6 pm by the….” “Aliyha! Aliyha!” Harkeem called. “Our government is trying to curb this people.” He said proudly “may Allah bless them.” Aliyha responded going back to poking the fire.
A neighbour, Ali walked pass “Sannu” he said waving at Harkeem, he stopped greeting Aliyha. Harkeem gaze fixed on his cutlass maybe he would have heard Aliyha talking. He was trying to set a new frequency on his radio to listen to the 9:00 am news when Aliyha walked up to him “Harkeem, there is something I want to discuss with you.” Harkeem barely raised his head up from the radio “we will talk when I am back from the farm.” Aliyha walked off and turned back— “But—” Harkeem raised his hand to silence her. She walked back desolately Surajudeen and Usman looked at their father, perhaps it was the loss of everything that made him changed attitude perhaps.
They all ate their meal in silence only disturbed by the stubborn radio who has failed to get a clear frequency. Harkeem clasped one hand round it and placed it near his ear as if it’s not audible enough to be heard from across the room. Surajudeen keeps his gaze fixed on his Tuwo, trying not to show his lack of appetite. A female singer voice blares at last from the radio, Harkeem finished his meal and set for his farm. Surajudeen helped me carry his bag while they walk to the farm. Aliyha went inside, Usman was outside playing with a wooden toy when the radio blares again— “Another attack was made this morning. We implore—” the frequency got lost again. Frustrated at the crazy noise coming out from the radio, Aliyha came out and turned it off. She sat on a wooden bench and thought about Ali.
She had been working when he came around, he asked for her husband which was in his farm at the time. Then began to tell her some amorous words. Her heart was thumping as he grabbed her by her waist—just a thought, she flicked it off her mind.
Both Surajudeen and Harkeem sat tirelessly beside a ridge. Harkeem brought out his Motorola phone and decided to call Alhaji Danjuma--first ring…second ring… “Not available” responded a voice. He began to unpack his bag, Surajudeen rested his head on a ridge and begin to doze off. His father checked his phone clock, 10:50 am. He wondered why his labourers were late today as he began to prepare.
He had just cleared a portion when thought about the government scheme for the provision of fertilizer for the farmers. He thought about his work before the Boko-Haram insurgency. Then faraway he thought heard gunshots, he stood up to breath in some air. Surajudeen lay on a ridge perhaps he was sleeping.
He bent down to continue his work when he began to feel the rush of stampedes, he looked up this time to see cows running towards his farm. Surajudeen jumped up immediately hiding behind his father. Harkeem walked in anger towards the running cattle. By the time he came towards them one-third of is cassava plant has been destroyed. He looked angrily at the herdsmen— “You rascals!” he barked. But they stayed without even moving a reflex. They felt relax like no one was talking. He walked to the boy who was leading the cattle, he seems to be between his fourteenth and seventeenth years of age. “You ignoramus, do you bring cattle to graze in another man’s farm. You are a fool!” He barked at the teen boy commanding the cows who was not bothered by Harkeem’s rant. He became so infuriated at the boy which made him landed two slaps on his face.
The boy stepped two paces backward then brought out a steel-referee-whistle and began to blow. In a moment, gunshots began to fire around the farm. A bullet kissed the ridge that was before Surajudeen right foot. Instantaneously, Surajudeen picked race alongside his father. They began to run taking the longer root which passes through the forest. For some minutes, the gunshot seems to have stopped. Harkeem and Surajudeen decided to rest on an Iroko tree when suddenly another gunshot reverberated and before they could launched in another race two bullets hit Surajudeen, one at his forehead and the other in his bowel. Harkeem watched as the eight-year-old began to jerk rapidly, he supported him and began to launch forward in a frog-like manner. The more he launched, the nearer the gunshots. He was almost out of the forest when a bullet hits him on his shoulder.
Aliyha turned on the radio, this time clearer— “Some herdsmen were said to have attacked a number of farmers this morning up to ten farmers have been recorded casualties of this pandemonium. Troops are been deployed to affected areas. That is all we have for the lunch hour News. Stayed Turn.” For a second she lost her mind staring blankly at the radio. Immediately, she ran inside slipped in her slippers and began her way outside.
Harkeem struggled to get up, blood began to gush out of his shoulder. He looked at his lifeless son and muttered some prayers. Few steps away he heard the herdsmen whispering, he calculated his steps and began to run. The bullets now were splashing dust to his boot, on his way his boot flew out of his feet he cared less of getting it back. In any minutes he will be at his place he began to muttered prayers under breath.
Aliyha was on her heels when she saw him running. For a seconds it was Harkeem running grabbing his shoulder then she saw them. Four perhaps five of them shooting in every direction, she began to ran towards him. Usman came running from the house— “Go inside!” Aliyha shouted at him. Harkeem was almost near his home when another shot hit his leg. “Arrrhhhh” he cried has he fell. He began to crawl on his belly when one of the herdsmen pinned him down pointing his AK-47 rifle to his head. He was dragged to his house, Aliyha stayed in front of the door guiding the doorpost with her hands by stretching both hands in different direction. The killer cocked his gun when someone shouted.
The boy whom Harkeem slapped his face walked forward to him, he bent and gave Harkeem a blow causing his nose to bleed. He ordered other men to bring any body from the house. Minutes later Usman was dragged out and Aliyha was pinned on the ground by another man with a bayonet. One of them brought Surajudeen’s body carrying him on his shoulder and dropped him in front of his parent. The lifeless boy stared at his parent as if he could see them.
The boy said some words aloud staring deadly at Harkeem, others chorused. He made Harkeem looked up “Die! Die!” the boy said showing his bruised mouth. Harkeem stared with mixed emotion of pity and fear at his wife and child. He began to muttered some words but before he was done the boy ordered loudly and sporadic shots were fired at Aliyha and Usman.
Harkeem stared at his wife and Usman has they both fell on one another, tears began to roll down his cheek. The boy looked at him and began to chuckled alongside the other men. He stayed in front of Harkeem and said something he could not understand. Harkeem stared petrified at his death has the boy unsheathed his dagger. For some seconds the boy caressed the dagger, he looked at Harkeem with fearlessness shot across his eyes— “Death! Death!” he said and swing the dagger horizontally. Harkeem last images were blur he grab his neck as blood began to gush from his neck. For some seconds his screamed in his mind and could not utter a word. He fell beside Surajudeen. His gaze focused on his wife’s body, Aliyha and his son, Usman. “Ya Allah” he prayed in his mind and then, Darkness. “It’s six o’clock” a voice said in the radio.
She is a nature lover a cat lover, a skywatcher and loves metal music. She spends most of her time drinking coffee and inventing stories in her mind.
You can find her on Instagram as @withlovemasi and her personal blog in www.withlovemasi.wordpress.com
The forgotten children.
People began to distrust each other. Everyone knew their neighbors but the situation became so despairing, that they didn’t know who to trust anymore. The responsible for the horrible crimes could’ve been anyone among us.
In the center of our town was the church. A big antique building with such old façade it could had been taken by one of those gothic structures with intrinsic rooms and hidden torture chambers from Spanish inquisition. On Sundays, everybody in town went to the church to accomplish their good Christians deeds or rituals as I like to call it. It should have been an occasion of joy and relaxation, but it turned to be a time of suspicious looks and hypocrite greetings.
I despised Sunday mornings because I did not like to go to the church. At that young age, I was full of questions concerning the faith of my parents and I was puzzled for the strange events taking place in such a religious town. I thought about all the many “sacrifices” they do to please God, but maybe god just doesn’t pay attention to their actions. Maybe he just got tired of us. Anyway, praying and repeating the same things day after day wasn’t helping too much. The mass passed from being an occasion of reflection, to be a space of worries and anxieties.
One of those Sundays, I was distracted looking to the high roof while the priest was talking. Then I changed my attention to him. I looked at him while he was reading a passage from the bible. A chill ran through my spine while I was looking at him. Some sort of discomfort. I don’t know how to explain, but I could say there was something scary on his gestures. I focused my attention on the background. There was a big image of Christ in the cross. His face depicting unimaginable suffering. Behind it, was a curtain and for a moment I remembered Alice in wonderland’s small door behind it. In a place like that, there should have been many corners to explore. Although, I thought it was quite boring to spend time exploring a church.
After the mass ended, the priest was at the gates greeting people as they got out. Everyone was in a rush grabbing their kids by their hands and running towards the door to leave as soon as possible. The wrongdoer, after all, could’ve been among us.
My mother grabbed me by my hand so strong I felt she almost broke it. With a quick head node, my parents greeted the priest and we went straight to the house. I hated what was happening so much. Not because I could be the next kid, but because I couldn’t be free anymore. I couldn’t play on the treehouse my dad and I built together, or spend the afternoons playing with my friends, or even go to school. We lost the custom of eating outside after church and eating ice cream near to the lake. My parents became angrier and silent with each other. I was alienated in my own house. I didn’t even dare to speak to them. I’m sure I wasn’t the only kid under those conditions.
Later that Sunday, I remember I was reading by the window when my dad arrived from the groceries store saying a new kid was kidnapped. It was a girl of 5 years old living at four houses from ours. He said her mother was so desperate, knocking on every door in the neighborhood, asking if the little girl has been seen and crying. It was a matter of time until she reached our door. My mother sent me to my room and locked the door from outside. I was scared thinking about that girl. Before everything started to happen, I’ve seen her riding her bike through the neighborhood. She was a happy child, always smiling. Her beautiful blue eyes observing everything around her with curiosity. When I knew she was gone, a feeling of uneasiness stroked me. Something strong inside my chest. A kind of pressure. I think her disappearance was what it took to see the reality of the events happening in the town. Before, I was naïve, a stupid kid who felt imprisoned by his parents, not wanting to see the truth. For the first time, I was scared. Scared of the kidnappings, scared for the little girl. Scared because I could be the next. It was a matter of time.
The next days I didn’t want to leave my room. I grew more silent. My parents thought I was preoccupied for everything that was happening. They assured me nothing bad would happen to me, that they would take care of me with their own lives. But, was that promise reassuring? Could they really avoid me from suffering a terrible fate? Wasn’t that the same promise other parents have made to their worried children? I put myself in the shoes of those kids, as afraid as I was. I realized the emptiness and lack of meaning of those words. It made me feel even more afraid because after all, my parents couldn’t prevent anything bad from happening to me.
The feeling of pressure inside my chest grew so strong that it was almost difficult to breathe. I felt as if the air was gone, my heart beating so fast I felt it on my mouth. I grew scared of the simplest things as taking a shower because the same feeling of pressure would come while I was in the bathroom. It was an agony, but at the moment I wasn’t aware I was having panic attacks, and I never told my parents how I felt. For them, I was just worried and they would do anything on their hands to protect me, as they had promised.
When Sundays arrived, I invented an excuse to not go to the church. Of course, my parents wouldn’t let me alone at home. Those were the days when I felt at the edge of collapsing. I was scared of the priest, of the congregation, of the big Christ on the background. I suffered in silence, feeling a storm of symptoms inside my body, always imagining the worst of scenarios. That day, the priest said we should move on and leave behind the painful past. But how can that comfort the families of the victims?
Sometimes, I had nightmares in which the priest was preaching his nonsense and suddenly he turned into a big infernal monster with horns and big teeth. A door opened behind the curtains on the church and the remains of the kidnapped children came out in avalanche filling the entire terrain. I’d woke up sweaty and scared, everything hurting inside my body.
Two months passed by without another disappearance. Nobody seemed to remember the mourning parents longing for their lost children. Even the police were forgetting all the events. And the Sundays at the church weren’t as depressive as before. The people wanted to forget as the priest said once, leaving every trace of painful events behind. I couldn’t conceive why we should forget and give up looking for them. I wonder if my parents would accept that advice if I had been one of the victims. After all, they believed in God, who was “speaking” through the priest, who was a “man of God”. It was god’s advice.
People resumed their normal activities as if everything that happened was part of a distant past forgotten by time. In the blink of an eye, the months turned into years. I turned 13 and the weight of puberty was around the corner. I was taciturn and became more rebel. I questioned every rule my parents set for me but I couldn’t get free of the responsibility of going to the church every Sunday.
One day, when the mass was over, my curiosity impelled me to walk around the church while everybody was greeting or saying farewell. The priest was outside at the door. Everyone was distracted, so it gave me time to wander freely. I went to the podium, checked the Christ and the curtain. The curtain that always gave me curiosity. I hesitated a little bit. Looked around to see if somebody was looking to me and hid behind it very quickly. I heard the murmurs of casual conversations from the families who still were there. I turned around and my surprise was big when I discovered there was a small white door behind the curtains as I imagined once. I walked slowly to reach it, but when I was about to grab the doorknob the priest appeared at the other side.
“What are you doing there, son?”, his words sounding calmed but with a hint of surprise in his tone. I couldn’t articulate the words to answer his question. I just stood there, crouched in front of the small door.
My parents couldn’t see me behind the curtain, so I was hoping he wouldn’t pronounce my name aloud. I didn’t want them to know that I was lurking in the church. What explanation would I give them anyway?
“Kids shouldn’t be here, now, go to your parents and stay out of trouble”, he continued with an affable tone but for me, it sounded like an implicit warning like “If you don’t want any trouble, stay out of my sight”.
My parents were waiting for me outside. The priest escorted me to the exit and told them I asked him some doctrinal questions concerning heaven and hell. He praised me in front of them saying I was a smart kid and they should exploit that intelligence.
My parents felt proud, said farewell and we started our way home. I managed to look behind, and the man was still looking at us, following every step with his eyes. I couldn’t understand why he lied. I thought he would scold me and tell my parents I was an insolent kid that should be disciplined. Instead of that, he lied. To protect me? I doubt it. He had an ulterior motive to do so and I needed to find out, but I had to be careful. Now that he found me, he would be watching me closely in case it occurred to me to sniff around again.
I connected the small door with all the disappearances that took place in the past years. A strong feeling that some kind of clue was behind it stroked me and hunt me for some time. There were days that I just thought about it. I wanted to know what was inside it, and why had the priest lied about what I was doing.
I was so curious to know the contents of that door, that I had a dream with it. I dreamed I was in front of the door one more time. The church was dark, although it wasn’t nighttime. There were no pictures or images, just an empty space with a curtain at the end. When I reached for the doorknob and opened the door, all I could see was pitch darkness inside it. I crouched inside a few inches, but a horrible stench shot me, preventing me to go forward. I heard a buzz and thought of flies. But then a tiny voice, almost imperceptible spoke in my ears: “It was him”.
I awoke at three in the morning at the sound of thunder. My heart pounding so fast as if it was about to get out of my chest. The windows were opened and I hurried to close them. I sat down on my bed trying to process the dream. “It was him”, the voice said. Who? I couldn’t go back to sleep. Maybe the priest was hiding something inside that small door. I needed to find out. I couldn’t forget all the kidnappings in the blink of an eye, without any explanation like other people in town had done.
There wasn’t a day I wouldn’t think about those children. What had become of them? Those weren’t just mere incidents in the past of a small town. There was someone behind it. someone had done terrible things to innocent children. I couldn’t forget it. I could’ve been one of them.
The next Sunday, I was decided to check the small door when the ceremony finished. I should be careful and wait for everyone to leave. I had a surprise when I knew our former priest was replaced. Everyone was puzzled to see another man standing in the podium in front of them. He announced there was a terrible accident during Friday night. In the morning of Saturday, the priest was found terribly injured on his bed. He was transported to a hospital in the city and they were waiting for his recovery. Everybody was stunned to hear that. After all, in such small-town news like that travel as fast as the light. But nobody seemed to know about Friday night.
When the mass ended, I was still decided to see what was behind the small door. I waited until nobody was around. My parents went to meet the new priest and ask for the health of the former. I pulled the curtain, but the small door was sealed.
A million questions reverberating in my mind at the same time. I felt the pressure in my chest, but I managed to stay quiet. I went outside carefully, trying to not get undesirable attention like last time. When I reached my parents, they were looking for me. The way home was silent, as always. None of us mentioned the “accident” of the priest.
All I could think was the sealed small door, the vanishing of the kids, the sudden replacement of the priest. None of it made sense. Everything was like a part of the script of a horror movie.
The former priest died a few days later after we learned he was in the hospital. The kidnappings that took place during his years of service were forgotten. I always thought “convenient” his accident and then the sealing of the small door. Maybe he was responsible, maybe he kept his victims inside a chamber under the church. I always had a strange feeling when he was speaking. But I never told my parents about my suspicions, after all, nobody would distrust a “man of God”.
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ALAN BERGER
ALINA LEFFEL
ALISIA WEBBER
AMIRAH AL WASSIF
ANDREW CHINICH
AWOSUSI OLUWABUKUNMI
BLAED A. WOODLEY
CHRISTOPHER J. BAILEY
COLE SABIN
C.W. BIGELOW
DAVID C SCHWARTZ
GARY P. PAVAO
GEORGE ZAMALEA
GERALDINE MCCARTHY
GUSTAVO RIVERA
IVANKA FEAR
J.A.T. RYAN
JOHN F. ZURN
JOHN JOSEPH HAMILTON
JOHN ROSS ARCHER
JUDGE SANTIAGO BURDON
JUDSON BLAKE
KEITH BURKHOLDER
KEVIN LAVEY
LAWRENCE ROSE
LYNDEN WADE
MARGARET KARMAZIN
MARY GATHERU
MASSIEL ALBERTO
MICHAEL PASLEY
MICHAEL W. THOMAS
MIKE LEE
OKOLI CHUKWUEBUKA
RANEE MCCOMBS
SHARON FRAME GAY
SOHAIL DAHDAL
TAHSEEN BEA
THOMAS ELSON
TIM FRANK
TONY G. ROCCO