Short story

The Nightingale’s Rose – a short story

Posted by

9

This story picks up at the conclusion of Oscar Wilde’s short story “The Nightingale and the Rose.” Oscar Wilde’s story is a beautiful, hauntingly sad tale it can be found on this link: http://www.eastoftheweb.com/short-stories/UBooks/NigRos.shtml. Wilde’s story tells of a nightingale who voluntarily impales herself on a fatal rose bush thorn and sings all night until death to enable the bush to produce a red rose for a young student to give to his beloved. The concluding pathos comes when the student picks the rose and offers it to his beloved to have it, and his love, rejected and thrown aside.

Presently a wind came up from the west. It had begun far away as a gentle breeze, but when the white moon lingered in her delight at the nightingale’s death love song, it had intensified. Now it rustled all in its path. When it came upon a crushed, abandoned red rose in the gutter, it marveled at such vibrant beauty and the intensity of color, for the wind understood romantic love. First it caressed the remnants of the rose in a swirling eddy, then it lifted it and separated the red petals, swirling them into a brilliant blood-red column. As it carried them, love permeated its essence and it knew that it had to return them to their origin.

When it came to the garden, the wind heard the rose bush moaning, “The little nightingale gave her life-blood to pigment my rose. It was my best flower, a rose so red, so beautiful, that it was plucked at noon by the student to give to the professor’s daughter that she might dance with him at the Prince’s ball.” The rose bush shook all its branches in disbelief and continued, “She rejected his rose, rejected the rose of nightingale’s blood, in favor of the Chamberlain’s nephew’s jewels, and now the student is lost. Lost, for he has abandoned romance in favor of the dry logic of philosophy.”

While the wind played in the rose bush’s branches, it wept on, “Oh, wind, I weep for the heroic little nightingale, for the sweet nocturnal singer lying dead in the long grass. Tell me, you who move everywhere, was this, indeed, all for nothing?” The wind whistled soothingly and rocked the rose bush in an embrace and gently deposited the petals in the long grass over the nightingale’s tiny body. One loose petal draped over the thorn in her breast, the thorn which had penetrated her heart.

A young maid servant lived in a garret over the student’s room. All night she had listened to the nightingale’s romantic love song. She heard and understood the song of the heart of love, the song of a boy and a girl. At times she stood at her open window gazing into the night air, trying to see the bird. The song intensified her own love, and she cried soft tears into her pillow. She prayed to the bird,

“Oh, Nightingale, may your song touch the student’s heart so that he may see me. You sing outside his window, might not your song alert him of my love?”

In the morning, she sadly got up and went to work. After her daily duties were completed she slipped down into the garden. First she visited the holm-oak tree and asked it where she could find the nightingale, for she wished to thank the bird for its song. The holm-oak responded, “The little nightingale, who sang of love, sacrificed her life to create a red rose for the student to give to his love, the professor’s daughter, so that she would dance with him at the Prince’s ball.” It waved its leaves and wept because it was fond of the little nightingale who had nested it its branches. “Perhaps the rose bush can help you.”

The girl went to the rose bush under the student’s window and found the dead nightingale lying in the long grass under a mound of blood-red rose petals. She cradled the dead body in her hand and stroked the soft brown feathers on its tiny head, and brushed its body with the silken red rose petals. Then she touched its throat and beak with her long finger and lifted its body to her face, “Oh, nightingale,” she said, “your song of love and your sacrifice of your life cannot have been in vain. I shall bury you shrouded in the blood-red rose petals of love.”

The girl fetched a small trowel and dug a grave under the rose bush, and, as she knelt and worked she sang a eulogy to the little nightingale, her voice crystal and clear, echoing into the purple cavern in the hills and floating through the reeds of the river to be carried down to the sea.

Her song echoed that of the nightingale, and she also sang of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl. She sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid. Fervently, and sadly, she repeated the message that the little nightingale had given, and she sang of the love which is perfected by Death, the Love that dies not in the tomb.

The wind heard her song and lifted one of the loose rose petals and carried it into the window of the student’s room. It landed on his open philosophy book. The student touched the petal and, as he listened, he opened his heart to the joy of life, to the delight in living, to the enchantment of romance and art. “This voice has form and feeling,” he said to himself, as he walked towards his open window, “the world seems to have stopped to listen, just as I do now. Surely, after all there is a practical use for art.” He looked out of his window and saw the servant girl silhouetted by the setting sun as she knelt and sang at her task. The wind lifted her hair and it shone brilliantly.

He was about to call to her when he heard the sound of a carriage rattling down the road. There was the bejeweled professor’s daughter riding next to the Chamberlain’s nephew with his silver buckled shoes. Their angry voices carried in the evening air, for they were quarreling about the need for a shawl. The student understood the logic of needing a shawl on a cool evening, but, he said to himself, “They quarrel on the way to the ball; their night is doomed by practicality.”

For a while the student was silent as he opened his mind to new possibilities and then he spoke to himself again, “I, on the other hand,” and he gazed down at the singing girl, “I, on the other hand, have true beauty, love, and art at my feet.”

© Copyright, Jane Stansfeld, November 18, 2013

My Husband – a short story

Posted by

9

In nature it is delightfully calm after a storm, and so it was with us. Even though I was generally suffering from my injuries I always savored those violence-free times of calm and tried to eke them out to make them last as long as possible. The period after The Event was especially sweet although I knew, from the onset, that it was transient. What made it extra special was that I also knew that it was to be the last.

The Event had temporarily sobered him. Perhaps the shear impact of the violence and cleanup affected him; with the result that he spent more time than usual at home. He still jogged in the morning, and I loved to lie on the bed and watch him get up. He slept in the nude so that I could admire his beautiful body. When he arose and donned his jogging paraphernalia I’d watch the ripple of every well-toned muscle. During this period, after The Event, he would reach over and gently stroke my glossy hair before he left. While he was gone I’d arise and prepare myself for the day so that when he came back I could greet him at the door and give him a taste of my feigned love. For, yes, after The Event it was feigned, although sometimes I, with my newfound resolve, still got temporarily sucked into his charm. I made a rule for myself that, even though it disgusted me, I should greet him when he returned from his run. I would let myself rub against his wet skin to seal the illusion of my undying adoration.

We always ate breakfast together, he a bowl of cereal and milk, and I, milk. After he left for work I’d go for a walk, often a very long walk. Sometimes I’d be gone all day, involved in other activites, but I made sure that I was home, groomed and waiting at the door, when he returned in the evening. At first, after The Event, he would arrive home early so that we could sit together on the sofa and watch television. His taste didn’t match mine but I pretended to watch with him. Sometimes I even sat on his knee although I could tell that he didn’t like this much.

Soon, as I had suspected, he began to slip into his old habits. It began by his returning in the evening with alcohol on his breath. I suppose that he was dropping in on a bar to have a couple of drinks on the way home. On these occasions I continued to meet him at the door. I silently braved his off-time kicks, in my desire to maintain the illusion of my uncompromised love. It got even harder when he began to bring girls back with him. Before The Event he had never brought them to the house although I knew, knew only too well, that he was unfaithful to me. Now, I suppose, he thought that he could do anything, even flaunt these women before me. I pretended I didn’t care and greeted them with the same appearance of affection as I did him.

The moment after The Event, I knew what I had to do, although I hadn’t any idea how I would accomplish it. Over the weeks of the calm I had time to work out a strategy. It all hinged on his indulging in another drinking spree for only then would he be vulnerable enough for me to entice him into his basement. The trick was going to be how I could avoid getting hurt again during the encounter. The basement was quite small, more undercroft than a true basement with only one, very small, ventilation louver. During the calm I spent some time digging in the garden to make sure that the ventilation louver was completely covered in dirt. Initially he kept this lower level locked but he took to storing his alcohol down there and as time went on he became careless so that when he was out I could go down and inspect it.

It was as I expected, and smelt musty with a distinct odor of rotting which was not well disguised by the two by six rectangle of newly dug earth in the middle of the otherwise well packed earthen floor. It was that spot which had concluded the activities associated with The Event. He had a few bottles of water stored down there. I made sure that they were all broken and spilt. I even destroyed the whiskey bottle from which he had imbibed immediately after The Event. Sometimes I would sit on the slightly mounded dirt gaining strength and resolve from it. It took me several weeks to modify the support to the rustic wooden access stairs, but by the time he was bringing the women back to the house, they were so rickety that I knew that they would soon collapse. I half hoped that he would take one of his women down when he went for another bottle, thinking that their combined weight might cause a collapse.

I was patient, very patient and one day in late October I knew that my moment arrived. He came home much later than usual and was as inebriated as he was on the day of The Event. In the end I didn’t have to do anything; he did it all himself. As he lumbered down the rickety stairs I heard them groan and collapse. He yelled as he fell and was then silent. I had him. I backed up against the basement door and heard it give a loud click. For several days I heard him moaning and complaining but the sound was muffled on the outside by my carefully placed dirt and on the inside it didn’t matter. After a week I was convinced that he was dead and that I needed to let someone know.

I slipped outside and sat upon the front doorstep and started to wail. The mailman noticed me but at first he did nothing. At the end of the second week the mail and newspapers had accumulated and even he began to look concerned. When the police arrived I rubbed up against them wailing miserably.

“Here Kitty Kitty, what’s the matter? Where are your master and mistress?”

I answered by arching against their shins and followed them into the house. I waited by the basement door but it was the last one that they opened. The smell emerging was strong and even I had to draw back. A ladder was brought and they examined his body which lay on top of my grave. I didn’t stay to watch the exhumation of my murdered human body but glided away to live the rest of my lives in peace.

Copyright © Jane Stansfeld, October, 2013

The package – a short story

Posted by

6

When Mr. Jones died and Mrs. Jones retired she retreated more and more into her home. She took to making the majority of her purchases online. Each time that a new package arrived she carried it into her kitchen and opened it reverently, like a precious Christmas gift. She always marveled at the clean brown boxes with their neat ninety degree corners and pristine cardboard. When Mr. Jones had been alive he would rip open the crisp parcels with relentless speed in his urgency to unveil his new acquisitions; now, Mrs. Jones took her time opening the bundles, taking extreme care to preserve the packaging.

One day, when her neighbors, the McKinley’s, were out-of-town the brown UPS truck stopped outside their homes and when they were unable to make a delivery next-door, the uniformed delivery person rang the Jones door bell. Mrs. Jones hesitatingly opened up.

“Good afternoon, ma’am; would you take a delivery for the McKinleys?”

Now Mrs. Jones didn’t like taking deliveries for her neighbors for it meant that later on in the day she would have to make herself presentable so that she could complete the delivery, but she nodded and accepted the proffered package. The delivery person lingered after he had handed over the package, he backed up a few steps stood on her porch and looked intently at her.

“You’d better watch that one carefully. It made our whole truck stink. Can’t imagine what’s inside?”

His pose and comment seem to imply that he expected Mrs. Jones to know what it contained or, at least, what to do with it. Mrs. Jones was hardly listening to him and merely stood clasping the package, hoping that he would go away. When the man was unable to engage her in conversation he turned and sprinted up her drive to his vehicle. She quietly closed and locked the door.

She put the box on her hall table in readiness for her to take it next-door in the evening. She went back to reading a book in her living room. Soon an obnoxious smell began to waft through the house. Mrs. Jones put down her book and went to the hall table. The box sat innocently on the table and she gave it a more thorough inspection. It was cube shaped, about a foot in each direction. Unlike most packages, it looked grubby and worn on the outside. She picked it up and estimated it to weigh several pounds. She shook it, holding it close to her ear, but nothing rattled inside. She examined the label, but most of the shipper information was obscured by dirt. As far as she could tell the package came from the United Kingdom. One word stood out “LIVE,” but Mrs. Jones could not decipher either the words before or after it.

Mrs. Jones called her daughter to ask her whether she could think of anything which could travel through the mail “live” and not rattle. After discussion, they both surmised that the smell could only mean that what was “live” was now dead. They discussed whether Mrs. Jones should refrigerate the package or place it in the garage or even outside, anywhere where the smell would not permeate the house.

Mrs. Jones decided on the garage option and after she had placed the unwanted package next to her car she opened the windows to fumigate her home. When the air seemed clearer she closed the doors and windows and, feeling more secure, returned to her book.

But the stench still managed to enter the house. Mrs. Jones went into the garage and stood arms akimbo to stare at it. She wanted to open it but something held her back. It was probably not respect for her neighbor’s privacy, but more a belief that the box was some kind of test perhaps akin the Pandora’s box. And last she took it outside and put it on top of her dustbin. She spoke to it,

“Well, you two can stink together!”

She returned to her book and, as she read, dozed off. She dreamed of boxes of dead worms, after all the McKinleys were avid anglers, shaking her head for surely even dead worms would rattle. She dreamed of a kidnapping in which Mr. McKinley’s right thumb, well-packed in bubble wrap, was mailed to his home, shaking her head for even Mr. McKinley’s thumb wouldn’t weigh several pounds. She dreamed of a box of maggots and awoke in a sweat.

That evening she put on make-up and clean jeans and when she heard the McKinley’s car pull into their drive she darted out to retrieve the box. She carried it over to their house and rang their door bell. Mrs. McKinley answered the ring. She smiled when she saw the package and inhaled the smell.

“Oh thank you!” she exclaimed with glee. “It has arrived at last. What a delicious smell. I can’t wait to eat some on crackers.”

“Excuse me?” questioned her neighbor.

“Stilton.” She breathed in deeply as if to get and extra waft of the box. “It’s my live blue stilton. We get one every year direct from the UK. Quite delicious! This one smells divine. You must come over and join us when we enjoy eating it.”

Mrs. Jones shook her head and hurried home.

Copyright © October, 2013 Jane Stansfeld.

Tiddlers of Life – a short story

Posted by

6

The old lady had been dying for years. Each time that she took to her bed her doctor, a personal friend of the family, called her son to apprise him of the event. The doctor always went to some length to explain that there was no physical reason for her malaise. In response to the news her dutiful son would immediately drop everything and pay a visit. When he arrived the old lady would insist on a morbid discussion about funerals and wills. Then, after a few weeks in her sick-bed, she would pronounce herself cured and arise to her daily routine. On the occasion of this story she had been bedridden for several months, and had been there so long that her doctor, her son, and those who knew her, had begun to believe that this time was more serious and that perhaps she was on her death-bed. Her doctor told her son that if something didn’t change the downward spiral he expected that she would soon die.

The old lady lived in a small cottage in Wisborough Green on the east side of the village green immediately across the road from the village pond. The cottage also had a good view of the stone village stone church standing behind the pond. The Wisborough Green village green is located in the center of the old village and is large. It includes cricket and soccer fields and is where that the residents hold their annual May Day festivities. On three sides the green is looped by a road with houses on the opposing side overlooking the green. On the fourth side there is a group of houses which appear to be on the green. Most village ponds are located in the main green but at Wisborough Green the pond occupies a truncated portion to the east. The old lady’s cottage was among the cluster of buildings located in the east end portion of the green.

The old lady liked to gaze out of her bedroom window across the road to the pond and beyond to the church with its surrounding graveyard and, as she gazed, she would day-dream about her funeral and where she would be buried. She liked to imagine her funeral procession, the flowers, the hymns and the eulogy. Best of all she liked to think of all her village friends weeping in the pews as they reminisced on her life. She knew that it would be a wonderful full funeral and felt proud to be part of the festivities.

To the old lady the village pond was of little interest, but to children it was a magical place with an allure of excitement. This was especially true for the two visiting granddaughters of one of the other residents of the village. Every year, when they visited, they made sure that they were allocated one treasured day to catch small fish or “tiddlers”. The day before they went out they gathered the necessary equipment. Each girl’s most important tackle was an old jam jar and some string. The string was tied around the neck of each jar so that it could be easily hauled out of the water should a luckless tiddler happen to swim inside. The only other equipment needed was a bucket into which the captured tiddlers were to be placed and some bait. The bait was not absolutely necessary but, over the years, the girls had found that pieces of chicken skin generally acted as a good lure to entice tiddlers into the jars, and to, thereby, enhance their success.

At about eleven in the morning the girls had their gear ready and put on their rubber boots. The eldest was almost twelve and the younger ten. As they left they were horrified when their mother informed them that they were to take their four-year old brother with them. They both protested but their mother was adamant that their brother would enjoy fishing and that if he didn’t go, neither would they. She also gave them strict instructions that they were to make sure that he did not fall in and that he be keep out of danger in the form of traffic on the village roads. So it was that a threesome set out walking together down the almost-deserted village road to the pond. They covered the short distance fast and quickly found a good spot, on the banks of the pond. From their vantage point they could see through the greenish pond water to the black mud at the bottom and, best of all, they could see many black and silver tiddlers darting to and fro in the water. As their excited children’s voices rose up they interrupted the old lady’s contemplation of the church and she brought her gaze to the foreground to watch the fishing activities with some interest.

It immediately became obvious to the girls that their brother was a problem. He kept on trying to get into the water. They realized that keeping him out of the water was going to be a full-time job and would greatly distract from their tiddler catching mission. Somehow, by telepathy, they decided to frighten him into submission.

The eldest told him, “Be careful, don’t go too close. A green slimy monster lives in the bottom of the pond. You do not want him to disturb him or he will get you. He eats small boys.”

The younger added, “Yes, and his hair is pond weeds and he rises up with a wail. You must not disturb him. Sometimes small boys, just like you, have disappeared. People say that it is because they put their toes in the water.”

“It is an awful way to die. No-one wants to be dragged into the murky depths of the mud in this pond. You die in the mud and they would never even find the body.”

The boy’s interest was stimulated. He liked slugs and snails and thought how wonderful it would be to see a green slimy monster. All at once his options seemed obvious and so he stood behind his oldest sister and, as she leaned over to haul up a tiddler laden jam jar, he gave her a shove. She let out a piercing scream and flailed her arms and legs out so that she landed in the water with a wholesome plop.

The noise and commotion disrupted the serenity of the village. Immediately every bird within earshot, including the ducks on the pond, became airborne each of them shrieking in their own way as they rose into the air. The bird’s shrill alarm alerted the village dogs who added their yelps to the general uproar. The village cronies in the pub immediately ejected from the public bar and walked up the street, some with their pints still in their hands, to investigate what was going on.

The dying old lady took an immediate lease of new life and got out of bed. Within seconds she was downstairs and standing at her garden gate watching the wet girl climb out of the muddy waters. She was the first adult on the scene and might have been tempted to retreat back to bed had she not been greeted by the pub cronies. They shouted her name as they arrived to see the miracle of her resurrection.

The children were oblivious to the disturbance which they had caused and gathered up their tiddler tackle and began their walk back to their grandparent’s house. The wet eldest girl was a pitiful sight with weeds hanging from her wet clothing and mud covering the lower portion of her body. The little boy mused that, perhaps, she was the alleged pond monster. As they walked back the occupants of the houses overlooking the green came out to watch. Their interest gave the scene a parade-like stance.

When the children were close to their home their grandmother came rushing out with a towel. Word had somehow traveled much more quickly than the children and she already knew what had happened. She greeted them, not with an admonition about the mishap in the pond but with the affirmation that, today, they had worked a miracle in the form of bringing an old lady back to life.

Dune’s stalker – a short story

Posted by

11

Recently a friend challenged me to consider a story in which the main character commits a crime. His message was that, on occasions, the reader can empathize with a villain and that I might be curtailing my creativity if I only invest in “good” heroes. The following story is my first attempt at answering his challenge.

Angus Bruce was pleased when his wife suggested that they rent a croft on the west coast of North West Skye. It was a remote sheep farm where they could also raise a few chickens and dairy cows and be miles away from children. Angus was a hard-working, law-abiding, church-going, loving husband, who appeared to all to be an outstanding pillar of society, and yet he had a dark secret.

North West Skye presents a clean rugged landscape with white coral beaches, black sandy shores, steep cliffs and secret wind protected coves. The natural beauty of this wind-driven, remote, sparsely populated, place seemed to offer a God given curative retreat where Angus might face and overcome his obsession.

Angus’ secret was that he was a child molester. Over the years he had molested a number of his nieces and even a few of his best friend’s daughters. His actions disgusted him and when one of his nieces accused him he confessed to the girl’s family and to his wife. She didn’t believe him at first but when she heard the evidence she helped him talk to the girl’s family. Together they hushed everything up. They rationalized that this would save the child additional trauma. To protect further children Angus’s wife committed to help Angus face his problem and to keep an eye him while they both moved to a remote location away from children. Angus was full of remorse and speculated that the best cure for him was to a complete removal from temptation.

Angus found peace in their new remote home. He lived his normal pillar-of-society, moral life, and experienced a period of contentment. Sheep farming on a rented farm is a meager living so when someone at the kirk suggested that Angus could augment his income by letting the occasional vacationer camp in one of his fields with direct access through the sand dunes to a secluded beach and the ocean he agreed that it was an excellent idea. His wife was skeptical but rationalized that if any children come with the vacationers they would be strangers and unlikely to attract Angus. She told herself that, should the need arise, she would keep a watchful eye on her husband. Angus himself had come to believe that he had overcome his obsession and that all would be well.

For several years all was well. North West Sky is damp and not very warm so even in the summer only naturalist diehards wished to camp on its remote shores. But then, one summer, a little family with a caravan arrived. They parked in the field beside the dunes and each day the father accompanied by his daughter drove up to the farm to buy fresh milk and eggs. The little nine year-old girl, Amie, took to the farm animals and Angus took to the girl.

On the sixth day of their two week holiday Amie began to act strangely. While she was eating her breakfast cereal and milk she announced that she didn’t want to accompany her father to the farm to get milk and eggs. When her father pressed her she said without looking up from her food, “Daddy, I just don’t want to go any more.”

Her mother leaned over the table to touch her hand, “But why, dear, you like the farm animals, don’t you?”

“Yes, I like them.”

“So?”

“I like the animals but I don’t like the way that Mr. Bruce looks at me.”

Her parents looked at each other, one of those knowing looks that parents give each other and her mother asked again, “Surely that’s not enough reason. He doesn’t hurt you does he?”

“No…but he smells bad.”

“He smells bad?”

“Yes, when he comes up in the dunes and hugs me.”

“He comes up in the dunes and hugs you? When did he do this?”

“He just pops up. He comes when I’m alone. Mummy, he is big and he smells bad and I don’t want to be hugged like that.”

“You should have said something before, dear. Of course he shouldn’t hug you. Of course you don’t have to go to the farm.” Amie’s mother looked very concerned and she pronounced to both husband and daughter, “From now on you are not, I repeat not, to go anywhere alone. Daddy or I will always be with you.”

Angus Bruce was frustrated to find that the child no longer came to the farm and even by the shore was always accompanied by a parent. Initially he watched from a distance but as time went on he took to the dunes where he sat in secret excitement and waited. Somehow the dual emotions of his desire and relief that he was unable to satiate his longing in a deed that he knew he would enjoy and regret gave him a level of satisfaction. The days passed in a mixture of sea sun and sand. Then, one day, the day before the young family was to leave, the parents had become relaxed and less vigilant and the child walked through the dunes to the beach alone. Angus was there waiting as he had waited every day. He emerged from the dunes and walked beside her. He took her hand and slowly swung her around to embrace her. He wanted his action to be tender but he immediately saw fear in Amie’s eyes. She yelled, “Mama.”

Angus put his big callused hand over her mouth and spoke to her, his voice husky with emotion, “Don’t cry, little girl. I like you.” He could see fear in her eyes and she struggled in his grip. His whole body trembled along with hers and he lifted her effortlessly off the ground. Before he could reach cover in the dunes beside the path, to the place where he had already laid out a towel on the ground, Amie’s mother appeared.

She ran up to him shouting, “What do you think you’re doing?”

Angus put the girl down. He removed his hand from her mouth, and patted her on the head. “We were just playing,” he said as he retreated into the dunes.

Amie’s mother knelt before the stunned child and put her arms around her. Amie was clearly shaken. “I’m sorry Mama. I don’t want to play with him. I don’t like his smell. I don’t like the way that he hugs. It hurts.”

Angus went back to the farm house. His wife was in milking the cows and so he sat at the kitchen table and put his hands together to pray. “Oh Lord, save me from myself. Only you can do it. Tell me what I must do.”

As he prayed he saw a flash of lightning and heard a distant clap of thunder. A storm was brewing in the west. Angus knew that his God was communicating with him not a still small voice after the storm but a loud voice in the storm. He knew that he had to get closer. First he wrote a note to his wife – four words: “I am sorry, Angus” He placed it on top of his bible in the middle of the kitchen table, then he put on his bad weather slicks and went outside. He strode quickly to the small cove where he kept his sailing boat. By the time that he got there and stiff land breeze was blowing towards the dark black clouds over the ocean. He could see flashes of sheet lightning and hear thunder above the roar of the waves. He launched the small craft, set his sail and let the wind carry him out to sea, out towards the storm.

“Oh Lord,” he prayed, “your will be done. Lord, I answer your call, do with me as you wish. Cure me or take me.”

Copyright © Jane Stansfeld, August 2013

Sanctuary – a short story

Posted by

9

Knocker

I have always been fascinated by the sanctuary knocker on the north door of Durham Cathedral and often speculated what it must have been like for a fugitive to seek sanctuary – hence this story. The right to sanctuary was abolished by King James Ist in 1623.

Adam stood at the door of his home and gazed wishfully over the landscape. He watched the sun rising over misty fields and listened to bird-song mingled with the distant sound of the bells of Durham Cathedral. The peaceful scene soothed his troubled thoughts of the preceding night and for a few moments he felt calm.

It was April 1560 and Adam lived alone on the small farm which is father had given an entire life of labor to acquire. Adam missed his dead parents and absent married sisters but he knew that his loneliness was soon to be over when he and Mary got married. What worried him was that, although he and Mary were betrothed, Mary was being courted by Squire Geoffrey. Both Adam and Mary knew that the Squire had dishonorable intentions and that any pretty milk-maid was fair game for his amorous advances. They also knew that his wealth and position gave him an immunity to do as he wished without repercussion. Squire Geoffrey’s word was law in the local community.

Adam remained at his door long enough to hear Mary play her musical pipe at her window on an adjacent property. The melodic thin notes mingled with the Cathedral bells and told him that all was well with her. Adam loved this self-taught talent of Mary’s and the loving message that it conveyed. Soon the sound ceased and Adam knew that she had started her work and that he should start his. As he strode towards his field he noticed a stand of St George’s mushrooms and decided to fetch a basket to gather them. He dawdled as he gathered the mushrooms taking care to pick the freshest new heads. Perhaps due to his sleepless night he worked slowly and began to wander aimlessly into the woods enjoying the remnants of the dawn in their damp midst. When he found another stand of mushrooms on a decaying log he picked them and added them to his basket.

Instead of returning home he immediately walked to the city to sell his mushrooms. His first stop was Squire Geoffrey’s kitchen door. The cook answered his knock and seemed pleased to give him a few coins for his mushrooms. She explained that the Squire planned a hunting party today and that they would do well in the pies for his dinner.

The next day the hunting party participants were all sick and several died including Squire Geoffrey. After an intense inquiry the problem was narrowed down to the mushrooms which were identified to have included Death Caps (Anita Phalloides) mixed in with the harmless and tasty St. George’s mushrooms. Immediately foul play was suspected and the City of Durham rose in uproar – murder and revenge on every lip. The avenging mob located the cook who was placed in custody with death by hanging her pronounced punishment. Then they went on a rampage to find Adam. A crime of this magnitude had to be avenged.

For the first time in months Adam stopped dreaming of Mary and focused on his own plight. He fled into the very woods where he had found the mushrooms. He located the tree and recognized his error immediately – yes he must have been so engrossed in his dreams of marital bliss that he had lost his focus, of course these were Death Caps. He was filled with bitter remorse and was momentarily tempted to ingest some of the growths at its base. But, it is hard to give up hope so easily and so when he heard the angry mob calling his name he fled again. He stealthily made his way back into the City cherishing the hope that he would see Mary and that she would know what to do. But she was nowhere to be found, he couldn’t even hear her playing her pipe all he was aware of was the clamor of the mob. He panicked and, forgetting Mary, ran for his life toward the Cathedral. He ran up the Bailey, across the Close and headed for the Cathedral North door with the sanctuary knocker on its surface.

He arrived out of breath and, for a split second he paused in front of the knocker. Its empty eyes and scowling face seemed to mock him in its ferocity. How could something so menacing be the key to safety? Even now he paused to fleetingly wonder, if he touched it, would he bid adieu to the life he knew and to Mary. He was sure that if he didn’t touch it he would lose life itself as he hung on the gallows as common criminal. For that brief moment he wondered whether the gallows wasn’t preferable to life without Mary. If he went to the gallows he would, at least, die looking at her – or would he? Mightn’t her family prevent even this last gesture? In this moment of indecision he heard the mob burst upon the Cathedral close yelling his name. It was now or never, he reached up and lifted the smooth knocker and slammed it upon the wooden door in a resounding rap.

His knock was immediately answered by both of the monk watchmen who kept continual vigil over the knocker. They unlatched the big door and welcomed him in. They relished the enormity of their action –the fact that, even though Henry VII had dissolved most of the monasteries, at Durham they retained the power to grant sanctuary to anyone who touched the knocker. Their action served as a poignant reminder that the influence of the church was so great that no force in the land could assail their granting of sanctuary.

Soon Adam heard the bell in the Galilee chapel began its mournful ring letting the city know that the Cathedral had accepted a fugitive. My goodness, he thought, it tolls for me. While the bell tolled in the background, Adam entered a new life in which he was a pawn. First they stripped him of his clothing and possessions and clad him in a black robe with a cross, the emblem of St. Cuthbert on the left shoulder. They explained the simple terms of their sanctuary. He would have to make a full confession to make amends with God. In return they would house him for a thirty-seven day grace period during which time they advised that he make peace with his accusers and those he had wronged for, if after the grace period, he still needed asylum they would escort him to the coast and place him, penniless, clad in his black robe, on the first ship to leave; never to return to England.

Adam made his confession the next day. He confessed that, yes he knew the difference between Death Caps and St. George’s mushrooms they even grew in different locations. His explanation was that he had been preoccupied and distracted and hence had made a terrible mistake. His confessor wanted more and kept asking him about his feelings towards Squire Geoffrey. Adam admitted that he hated the man and had often wished him dead but he staunchly maintained that he had not intentionally delivered the poison. His confessor told him that the devil works in mysterious ways and that the fact that Adam wished Geoffrey dead was tantamount to his having murdered the man with his own hands. His confessor advised prayer and penance for the rest of Adam’s life. He even suggested that Adam consider facing his accusers and accept his worldly punishment in preparation for the divine.

Over the following days Adam had time to think about his situation. Reconciliation with his accusers was, he knew, impossible. Several people were dead and the society he knew wanted him to hang. He knew that facing this demon would mean certain and immediate death; but as the days went by without his seeing or hearing Mary or her pipe he also perceived that the price he was paying for his life was great. He asked himself repeatedly whether this new life without Mary and her music in a foreign land where he would be a destitute person without even language was preferable. At times he cursed his touch on the cold knocker’s smooth handle, at times he fantasized on a miraculous forgiveness.

On the thirty-seventh day Adam and his entourage of monks began their 18.5 mile walk to Hartlepool. Over much of the way they were surrounded by crowds who had come out to see the murderer pass by. Adam walked unfettered still clad in his black robe. No restraints were necessary for all knew that any attempt to leave the road would violate Adam’s protective sanctuary and he would immediately fall into the hands of his accusers. Adam grieved inwardly as he looked for Mary and listened for her pipe but he saw and heard nothing. He was saddened to think that she had abandoned him so easily.

Although Adam lived so close to the sea he had never seen it. Initially the vastness of the waters, the sound of the waves, freshness of the sea breeze and the smell of the harbor distracted him from his plight. But soon the monks identified a small sailing vessel loaded with wool. It was bound for Flanders and the monks quickly negotiated a passage for him. When he left the shore and walked up the gang plank he knew that he was, indeed, about to leave the life he knew. Momentarily he was thankful for the thirty-seven days of sanctuary in the Cathedral, time in which he could mentally prepare himself for this awful moment of departure alone and unloved.

They set sail almost immediately and Adam stood at the rail of the ship and gazed at Hartlepool. It was evening and as he strained to watch it, he saw the life which he knew, together with the setting sun, sink into the horizon. His eyes clouded with tears as he murmured a sweet apologetic good bye to Mary. Then, he heard her pipe playing their tune, the notes mingled with the calls of gulls overhead. He turned to face the direction of the sound.

Copyright © Jane Stansfeld, August 2013

New furniture – a short story

Posted by

4

In the days before e-mails and mobile telephones, in the middle of the growing city of Houston, there was an architectural office located off Loop 610 in the Buffalo Bayou ravine. The building was situated just above the level of the hundred year flood plain and had parking on the roof. This meant that, on the day of our story, the furniture delivery van parked on the roof next to the only visible structure – a small lobby with stairs and elevator. The delivery men, who were professionals, quickly manipulated their package into the elevator and rode down to the main lobby.

They hesitated when the elevator doors opened. The vast architectural lobby with its clean lines, exposed cast-in-place structure, brick paver floor, and frameless windows looking out into a tree-covered ravine, was unlike anywhere they had been before. Instinctively they wondered whether they were in the right place. They walked over to the large spare reception desk to greet Mandy, the attractive blond receptionist.

“Good afternoon, is this EFS Architects?”

“Good afternoon, yes, EFS Architects.”

“We have a delivery. We need someone to sign for it.”

Mandy took the papers and checked them – there was a manger’s name, and a purchase order signed by one of the principals. Everything was in order.

“Could you un-pack it?” she said, “Then I can sign the receipt.”

The desk which emerged from the protective wrapping was a highly decorated ponderous thing which, even the transport team saw, was strangely out-of-place against the spare detailing of the lobby. Mandy was also surprised but she walked over to it and inspected it to make sure that there were no scratches. She tested the drawers and then signed the paperwork and the carriers left.

Mandy liked the authority which taking deliveries gave her. On a normal day her job was to answer the telephone, transfer and take messages, and to greet visitors when they came into the office. These responsibilities suited her well as she loved people and had a special knack of being able to remember faces and names. Some clients even made a point of arriving early for design sessions so that they could exchange comments and mildly flirt with her. She didn’t mind for she was sure that one day one of them would ask her out and who better for a date than one of the firm’s affluent clients.

On this day she quickly called Paul Jones, the manager whose name was on the PO. He arrived accompanied by one of the principals. They stopped when they entered the lobby, for this desk was not what they expected.

“There has been a mistake, a terrible mistake,” said Paul. “This is not what I ordered.”

Mandy gave him the papers, and he disappeared into the office to emerge some time later with a catalogue. Someone, probably he himself, had transposed the item number on the order; and the wrong piece had arrived. While he was gone, the principal had become excited and irate. He shouted at Mandy, his voice resounding on the hard surfaces of the lobby, “Get that thing out as quickly as possible. We have clients arriving to tour the building this evening. When they arrive that thing has to be gone.”

Mandy didn’t like the implication that the mix up was somehow hers; but she had better sense than to argue with an angry, almost irrational boss. After they left the lobby she called the vendor who calmly told her that Wednesday was the day for their area of town and that they would gladly schedule a pick-up for the following week, but anything before then was out of the question. She was at her wit’s end and shared her concerns with Jennifer who worked the executive office. Jennifer thought for a while and then suggested that her brother had a furniture show room only a few blocks away and that he might be able to help. Sure enough Jennifer’s brother had a van and men available. Within an hour they came and removed the offensive desk.

The next day Paul Jones had a new PO which was delivered to the executive office area. Jennifer put it into the principals’ signing folder; and in due course it was signed. She placed the new order. No one asked her about the returned desk and so she sent the paperwork on to the accounting department who checked the signatures, and signed PO and paid the bill. No-one asked about the desk, and so Jennifer told her brother to sell it. When he sold it he kept a third of the proceeds for himself and gave the rest to Jennifer.

For some time Jennifer wondered whether she should tell Mandy about her wind-fall; but then one day when Mandy was complaining about her debts and desire for a new purse, Jennifer mentioned what had transpired. She rationalized that since Mandy had had to take the brunt of the principal’s anger that day that she deserved some extra compensation. She also saw Mandy as an accomplice whose support in the future would be valuable. As soon as she was sure that Mandy had no scruples she gave her a third of the proceeds.

Now Jennifer was savvy as well as being attractive, which is why she had been able to land a job as secretary and “office assistant” to the principals of this large architectural firm. She couldn’t stop thinking about the little wind-fall which she and Mandy had made over the desk mix-up. She decided to test the system and prepared a PO for a new chair using the name of one of the other managers. She slipped it into the signature folder when it was bulging and waited. Sure enough the PO came back signed. She placed the order and alerted Mandy. When the delivery came, Mandy signed the appropriate papers and directed the delivery men to Jennifer’s brother’s store. She then passed everything on to the accounting department. The simple process worked!

This is where our story gets interesting for there was another secretary, Mary, in the building who was dating one of the young architects. His dream, like that of many young architects, was to one day open his own firm. After he proposed, he suggested to Mary that he hoped that his firm would need an accountant and who better than his wife. Mary started night school and persuaded her boss, Paul Jones, to let her transfer into the accounting department.

The accounting department resented Mary; for they had to teach her everything, and she asked ever so many questions. She read the purchase orders instead of matching numbers, and was soon asking about the new furniture. They told her, “Heavens, just do your job, Mary. Don’t be Mary, Mary, contrary! Your job is to match numbers, check the signatures, and process for payment. We haven’t got all day!” Mary nodded and tried to accept their admonition. Every day she steeled herself as she attempted to hone her senses to see numbers not things.

After a few months Mary seemed to be adapting to accounting. Superficially she was, but she couldn’t dicipline herself to totally ignore the documents which came across her desk. So when a PO for an expensive floor lamp arrived she put it aside and asked her fiancé about it that evening. They both knew that floor lamps, of any kind, were taboo in their modern clean-lined office. Her fiancé speculated that the PO must be for a lamp for the interiors group to evaluate for a project. This explanation made some sense and the PO got processed.

Mary’s night school ethics class gave her a different perspective. They advised that one should always be alert and watch for evidence of increased or unusual affluence. She knew what everyone earned and couldn’t reconcile Mandy’s expensive designer clothing with her meager salary. She knew that Mandy did not have a permanent boy-friend and asked herself how she managed. Occasionally she had seen Mandy’s family during the office Friday night happy hour. Their dowdy clothing and range of conversation brought her to the conclusion that if they were affluent they concealed it very well.

The week before Mary’s wedding she received the paperwork for a large conference room table. Paul Jones was the requesting manager. Mary knew and liked Paul and felt able to approach him and so she went out of her way to catch him in the break room and to casually ask him about the refurbishing of the conference room. He laughed, “What do you mean Mary? You must be mistaken we are not refurbishing anything!”

Mary blushed and murmured something about a possible confusion, but, as she and her fiancé left for their wedding she placed the PO for the large conference room table bearing Paul’s name and principal’s signature together with the signed delivery receipt bearing Mandy’s signature on his desk.

© Copyright, Jane Stansfeld, July 2013

The Poltergeist – a short story

Posted by

7

Nowadays few people have heard of poltergeists, and if they have, they probably know of them by the Wikipedia definition or perhaps from movies or TV dramas. Here we learn that poltergeists are troublesome spirits, akin to ghosts, who haunt particular persons rather than places. We learn that poltergeist manifestations generally include; moving objects, pinching and biting, hitting, odd noises without explanation, and strange, apparently one-sided, conversations.

This may be all good and proper but when I was a child my mother gave me an entirely different explanation – one which appeals to me far more than the present popular accounts. In fact, after you have heard her description you may well realize that your home also hosts a poltergeist.

Mother began with a picture. I remember her drawing to this day; a dark black blob-like being with disproportionately large eyes and the lower portion of its body squeezed into the bath tub drain. The image which she drew in 1955 illustrated its ability to morph into a semi-fluid state. This is an image adopted by the “Terminator II” and other movies in which we encounter beings that can flow like mercury and then reassemble into recognizable forms.

We lived in a large house dating from 1901 and Mother went on explain that it was not unusual to have a poltergeist in a house of that age. She introduced me to some of our poltergeist’s mischievous, and tell-tale goings-on.  According to her the first, most common poltergeist activity is the theft of socks. If you house one he probably has the same attraction for them. The problem, according to Mother, is that poltergeists go for single socks leaving an orphan behind, she never explained why they only remove one, perhaps she didn’t know or perhaps I never asked. I even wonder if this is because poltergeists only have one foot or because they use the socks for other purposes. Maybe they use them as bedding or food or some other mysterious function only known to them. Mother kept the orphan socks in a special drawer always hoping that pairings would occur– they never did.

Mother went on to blame any odd occurrence in our home on the luckless poltergeist. Such things included lost keys, mislaid letters, books and items, the occasional strange breakages and even odd nocturnal noises and movements. Generally the manifestations were in secret and we never actually saw objects levitate and did not experience any biting, nipping or shoving. From this I deduce that ours was a very nice poltergeist, although I am convinced that he ate Santa’s cookies on Christmas Eve!

It is strange but I now believe that we have a poltergeist in our modern sealed air-conditioned ten-year old home. At first the realization didn’t bother me unduly as I can handle a few mismatched socks, indeed, like my mother before me, I have an orphan sock drawer, and when it gets too full I make some of them into dusters.  But, of course, it didn’t stop with socks, and we began to hear strange noises in the walls – an uncanny gnawing, rasping sound, always at night and always when my husband or I had been woken by some strange force.

The next manifestation was the moving of objects. Now here I have to be honest, and explain that we never saw an object moving, only the results of its motion. The car keys, for example, which my husband always puts on the hall table, ended up in our bedroom; or my cell phone on the back patio; or a book moved from bedside table to the bench in the garage. Such instances might be explained by our getting older and more forgetful, however, the increased frequency seemed disproportionate to the speed of our aging and so I knew that our poltergeist was getting braver and more mischievous.

The limits of my tolerance were reached when my visiting daughter, carrying her baby, tripped on the stairs for no apparent reason. She managed to catch herself and to keep hold of the baby although she was severely bruised.  She was convinced that her mishap had something to do with the slick surface of the treads and her socks. Oh no, socks again as the root of the problem! I thought to myself – if it looks like poltergeist, and acts like poltergeist, then it is a poltergeist. Yes it carried the marks of poltergeist activity and I was worried as our being seemed to have abandoned mischievous in favor of malicious.

My concern drove me back to the internet to search for a poltergeist whisperer or exorcist. After all there are whisperers ranging from husband whisperer to horse whisperer and a cat whisperer, so, I thought, why not poltergeists whisperer? I found no one, no web site, devoted to poltergeist whispering or exorcism.

Then I remembered mother’s drawing and decided to purge our drains. My logic was that if the poltergeist could go down a drain perhaps this was his means of access to the socks in the washing machine and perhaps the drains served as his habitat. I called Roto-Rooter and had all the drains de-clogged. I even insisted that every p-trap be disassembled and thoroughly cleaned. For a while I was lulled into a belief that the poltergeist had departed. But just as I was starting to celebrate another sock went missing and I knew that I had accomplished nothing.

At about this time the gnawing noises in the walls increased. I wondered whether this was because the poltergeist had changed habitat from drain to wall. But, when I talked to our neighbor over the fence, he suggested that our problem was a rat infestation. I called in an exterminator who confirmed my neighbor’s theory. He gave us a two headed line of attack. First, that we seal the eaves and second that poison and traps be placed in opportune places. I had my husband do the sealing and the exterminator place the poison and traps. This approach netted some dead rats and the gnawing noises ceased, but I was no closer to solving my poltergeist.

One evening, about a month later, when my husband was away on a business trip, I answered the front door bell to an odd looking character. He was a slight man of indeterminate middle age wearing a starched white shirt, pressed blue jeans and loafers. If it weren’t for the loafers and lack of a hat I’d have guessed him to be associated with the rodeo. Normally I wouldn’t give a stranger on our porch the time of day but there was something about his stance which lulled me into acceptance. He didn’t step too close and yet he didn’t step back as so many unwanted solicitors do; he kept just the right distance to suit my sensitivity. As we spoke I waved, across the yard, to our neighbor, who was outside cleaning his car; whereupon my visitor mumbled something about his acquaintance with them. He smiled pleasantly, a beguiling sweet smile across his stubble face and mentioned that he was there on my stoop because he had heard that I was looking for a poltergeist whisperer. Looking back it sounds stupid but I was so surprised and pleased that I invited this total stranger into my home.

We sat down at the breakfast room table and I poured us both a coke and brought out a plate of oatmeal raisin cookies. I told him about the drains and he nodded as if he already knew about this fruitless exercise; then I went on to tell him about the rats. He nodded and remarked, in his soft masculine voice, that the rats were probably an annoyance to my poltergeist and that their extermination was a good thing. I showed Mother’s drawing to him. He smiled merrily as he fondled it in his hands and eventually he looked at me and commented,

“You mother knew a lot. This is a good likeness. I do not advise its general circulation.” He shifted so that his body was bathed in sunlight giving him an ethereal aura and went on, “I’m sure that this image is treasured by you but ask if I may keep it?”

I hesitated before answering for I liked the drawing but his look was most beguiling, “OK,” I said, “you may keep it but only if you can communicate with my poltergeist and make sure that we have no more accidents on the stairs.”

“That should be possible” he murmured.

I was getting a little frustrated by his sleepy demeanor siting in the sunlight enjoying my cookies and so I asked “What will you do, how can you communicate and whisper to my poltergeist?”

“We communicate,” he said evasively, “but apart from no more accidents what do you wish to achieve, and what will you give in return? You realize that total exorcism is futile but we can modify activity.”

“So, you can’t get him to leave?”

“Nope, and even if I could another would move in. You are best off pursuing a modification of behavior.”

At that moment I realized that I liked our poltergeist and didn’t want total exorcism. I certainly didn’t want to have to learn to live with a new comer. “No more accidents.” I said “If you can’t totally exorcise my poltergeist then I ask for no more accidents and a reduction in moved objects. I need assurance that there will be no more escalation of activity.”

My visitor reached for another cookie. “I can fix it so that all you need to do is to stop fretting and to weekly leave out a plate of these cookies. Your poltergeist will be happy and there will be no more negative activity.”

“How, how will you accomplish this?”

“Our discussion is enough,” he replied, “and now I need to return.”

I showed him to the front door and watched him walk away his body becoming more and more difficult to distinguish in the play of sun and shadow up our front garden steps. As I watched I noticed his socks to be decidedly mismatched. On his left foot was a striped tan and on his right a black and white harlequin pattern. Surely, I thought, those are my two most recently missing socks.

A little unsettled, I turned to look at my neighbor who was putting a final polish on his car. I waved and asked, “Did the gentleman who just left also talk to you?”

“Which gentleman?” was his unnerving reply, “weren’t you talking to yourself?”

That’s when it hit me. It is me, I am the whisperer. I’ll have to set up a website tomorrow.

Copyright © Jane Stansfeld 2013

Syrup of Ipecac – a short story.

Posted by

10

This short story is extracted from my book “A Sin for a Son.” It takes place towards the end of WWII in the spring of 1945. Dr. Laurence Medford is part of the British Army stationed in Nairobi, Kenya

In the spring Laurence was confronted with a challenging medical problem. The hospital janitor, a man they all knew as Bundi, fell ill. Bundi, as his name in Swahili suggests, was a carpenter and workman who kept the place running. His illness distressed all who knew him. When he stopped coming to work they realized how much he did and missed his help as well as his cheery presence. They missed his twinkling dark eyes and smiling face with his remarkable set of glistening white teeth which contrasted with his shining dark skin. They missed the aura of health which exuded from his athletic figure, and the way that he stood proud and happy with his morning greeting, “Jambo?” (literally “Hello, good day, how are you?”), to which they would reply, “Jambo!” or “No problems!”

Laurence went to visit Bundi’s home. He found it in a non-descript, grimy back street, a simple hut with thatched roof and adobe walls. Inside Bundi lay lethargically on an old stained mat. Laurence examined him and found no obvious malady. Bundi’s wife told Laurence that he was eating less and less and daily getting weaker. His skin looked sallow, his eyes sunken and he hardly moved or expressed any emotion. His previously muscular slender body already looked wasted and skeletal. Laurence ordered that he be hospitalized. Over the next week the medical community tried to diagnose what ailed him. Eventually Jirani, one of the other Kenyan orderlies, took Laurence aside and told him that the case was hopeless as Bundi was suffering from a malady outside “white man’s medicine.” He had been cursed by the Oloiboni or juju man.

Jirani explained that the juju man had cursed Bundi because of his association with Laurence and Laurence’s institution of a system of certifying the local prostitutes. Laurence had started his system because many of the troops were contracting venereal diseases. He rationalized that if he could make sure that the prostitutes were healthy, the troops would also remain healthy. Bundi had been the messenger who assisted in the two-pronged initiative.

The troops were strongly advised to visit only prostitutes who carried certificates signed by Dr. Medford, while the prostitutes, through Bundi, were invited to come to the hospital for medical check-ups and certification. The system worked well and they were able to assist some of the sick prostitutes as well as prevent the major epidemic which had previously been assailing the bored troops. The problem was that the girls’ local families, who managed their activities and regarded their takings as important income, were annoyed by the loss of income and control. One girl in particular, who was identified as carrying syphilis, had a direct family link to the juju man. When she was diagnosed, the family’s income stream was cut off and so they spearheaded the initiative to bring in the juju man to assist in righting the problem. Bundi, as the link to the British troops, was identified as the prime target for their revenge.

Laurence worried that he should be the indirect cause of Bundi’s illness. He was also horrified to find that a witch doctor was able to affect a man and kill him without any apparent disease or injury. He reasoned that, if the hospital staff could convince Bundi that “white man’s magic” was more powerful than the juju man’s curse, perhaps he could be saved. The English medical team met to strategize how to accomplish this feat. They agreed that they needed to showcase their powers in an impressive enough ceremony to convince the dying man that the spell was broken and that he could live.

At first they could think of nothing showy or dramatic enough to compete with the centuries of display that the juju man must have at his command. Then someone remembered their high school chemistry and suggested that they perform a demonstration of burning metals. They remembered that the soft white metal magnesium, which is used in incendiary bombs, burns with a brilliant white light. They could all remember high school chemistry experiments of burning magnesium unquenched by water. They rationalized that if they burnt some zinc and magnesium, including dousing the burning magnesium with water, they could display the power of the white man whose fire is unquenched by water. They hoped that this type of exhibition might put them on the right track. They further decided that, after the performance, they would administer a strong dose of syrup of Ipecac, telling Bundi that this would make him eject the evil spirit which was lodged in his body and thereby cure him. The logic sounded impeccable.

Putting the show together was a challenge as they were restricted to the supplies in the hospital dispensary. They managed to scrounge together a Bunsen burner, pieces of zinc and magnesium, tongs, goggles and protective gloves. They prepared the Ipecac in a crystal glass. They persuaded Jirani to act as an interpreter. They performed the ritual to the soft notes of a gramophone which someone kept wound up in the background. They scheduled the entire procedure to occur at night to further emphasize the visual effects. They had difficulty getting everyone to wear goggles but, other than this, there were no hitches. The magnesium spluttered and burnt brilliant and rejected the water with leaps. The presentation team were energized and elated, glancing now and then at Bundi as he lay on his cot. His expression of quiet resignation did not alter. At the conclusion of the session he obediently drank the syrup of Ipecac.

They waited. Bundi did not vomit. The doctors had given him a strong dose and were amazed that it had no effect. They double-checked their calculations and references, rallied and prepared a second stiff dose which Bundi again drank. He still did not react. They wondered if they dared a third dose but decided that the man was dying anyway, making this their only chance at saving him. He drank it. Then, the poor man began to vomit. He retched and heaved in utter misery. Word spread throughout the hospital that white man’s magic may be more powerful than the juju man’s but it was more painful and decidedly less appealing to the wasting away which accompanied death after the juju man’s curse.

For almost a week they fought for Bundi’s life. They administered fluids, they bathed him, and they replenished electrolytes. Just when they were about to abandon hope, he began to rally and asked for some food. At that moment they knew that, on this occasion, white man’s magic had overcome the juju man’s curse. Bundi’s wife expressed thanks and gratitude to have her husband back, but Bundi could not talk about the events. He returned to his job without his previous carefree smile and cheery disposition. He moved like a zombie returned to the living but not returned to the existence which he knew before his ordeal. Perhaps the memory was just too painful or perhaps he didn’t want to have his entire value system and understanding of the universe turned topsy-turvy.

*****

Several months later Bundi and his family disappeared. When Laurence asked Jirani, he got a shrug. This time Jirani had no easy answers. He merely muttered something about the need to return to one’s roots, a need to make things right with the gods. No doubt Bundi had undertaken to visit the juju man to re-establish the balance of his world.

Copyright © Jane Stansfeld 2013

The Muse – a short story

Posted by

4

Even though Brad had been failing at work before his official retirement, his entire office went to his funeral. He was too young to die, and to go in such an accident seemed a cruel twist of fate to one who had already endured much. Even as they arrived at the church each of them looked at the handicapped spaces with an additional twinge of remorse. They reminded so poignantly of this man who had had three unlucky episodes in his life.

For yes, Brad had a handicapped sticker on his car although he seldom parked in handicapped spaces rationalizing that he was ambulatory and needed exercise. He was right on both scores. However, no one begrudged him a close-in parking space for, surely, missing one hand needed some compensation. He had managed to overcome his handicap with remarkable stoicism and could drive, type, draw and complete his daily duties as quickly as people with two hands.

He lost his right hand in a freak accident when he was four years old. An inquisitive child, sitting on a butcher’s counter assisting his grandfather make sausages, he put his little right hand into the meat grinder along with the meat. Those were the days before elaborate prostheses and so Brad learned to cope with a stump on his right. He did well, passing through school with honors and then on to university to become an architect. He was successful in his profession and eventually fell in love with, and married, a colleague interior designer. At that point in his life things looked rosy.

His second blow of bad luck was his wife’s inability to conceive and their joint sadness. Brad faced his sorrow with nicotine and alcohol, which drove his wife to ask for a divorce. After the divorce he threw himself into a bachelor life, revolving around architecture, cigarettes, and alcohol. The three worked together like waves in the ocean. At times one eclipsed the others, at times they worked in unison. Unfortunately the waves were part of a spiraling eddy, and as they whirled around each other, they became increasingly intense until Brad, caught in their action, began to suffer.

He entered the ‘black” phase of his life. Each night he drank enough to dull his pain and took to his bed thinking about the futility of life. Sometimes he saw dark shadows looming over him. Sometimes the shadows were his own thoughts channeled into alternate ways of ending his misery. There were so many options: a high place, a gun, a gas oven, a bath and razor, starvation. At these times he admitted to himself that his present self-destructive path, laced with cigarettes and alcohol, was probably on the right track. Gradually the alcohol eclipsed architecture and Brad took what he euphemistically called an ‘early retirement’.

His lack of employment had many side effects. With less to live on he moved into a slummy apartment, but with decreased obligations he could concentrate more seriously on drinking himself into oblivion. His dark shadows were frequent nocturnal visitors whom he greeted with mixed emotion.

One night when he retired to bed sad and sodden, just as he finished his last cigarette of the day he heard a soft female voice call his name. He drowsily turned towards the voice and saw her shadow moving across the room. Her movement was so smooth that he wondered if she was floating. He took a deep breath and pondered who his beautiful visitor could be. She didn’t scowl, as his demons of earlier nights had menaced, she simply smiled at him. Then she was standing beside his bed and her cold hand touched his. He felt a wave of desire like an electric shock. He swung his feet to the ground and sat up. He stared into her face and noticed that her eyes were so dark that he couldn’t distinguish her pupils. He shifted his gaze to behold the rest of her face. The moonlight gave the room light and shadow; he saw her countenance to be pale and very beautiful while her dark hair was braided into an elaborate seeping style to expose her long, Modigliani, white neck.

She gently, very gently, drew him onto his feet. That was when the music started. The Blue Danube floated through the open window on soft night air and they were dancing. He was in perfect control; his right hand held her back and guided her movements, his left touched hers. Her flowing black dress, which hung from her shoulders, floated and swayed as they danced.

They danced on a highly polished wood floor in a room of mirrors. He kept catching glimpses of themselves; a flawless matched pair moving as one across the floor. Fred and Ginger could not have been more perfect. Their harmonious movements were synchronized with the music. They waltzed until he felt dizzy and his right hand on her back was beginning to throb with the heat of contact. Then she led him back to his bed and kissed him; a soft brush of her lips on his. Trembling, he lit a cigarette. She shook her head to indicate that, no, she didn’t smoke, and was gone.

The next morning he arose earlier than his norm and ate food. His encounter of the previous night haunted him; he could see her, feel her body, and his every movement was set to the Blue Danube. He went to the mall, still floating on his cloud of content. Uncharacteristically, he parked in the best handicapped spot. As he walked inside he stared at that nonexistent hand which had throbbed so much the previous night. He went to a men’s department and bought himself the most elegant black silk pajamas that he could find.

That evening he drank less and, instead of collapsing into bed, he bathed and dressed in his new pajamas before retiring. He lay in bed reading and smoking until drowsiness began to overtake him, then he turned off the light and smoked in the moonlight. No sooner had he extinguished his last cigarette than she appeared. She was wearing a short low-cut silk dress which swished as she moved. Again she touched him and he rose. Vito Disalvo’s “Tango in the Park” began to play and they tangoed.

They danced on a decorated mosaic floor in a tall rotunda. She matched his every motion, or was he matching hers? He swung her around with both hands as they looped, curled, and swayed to the music. His whole body tingled with pleasure at the excitement of their exotic dance. At each extraordinary step he heard applause from the balconies above. It reinforced his exquisite joy. Just when he thought that exhaustion would overtake him, she led him back to his bed and kissed him with the same brush of soft lips. Trembling, he lit a cigarette, again she shook her head indicating that she didn’t smoke, and was gone.

He greeted dawn with only one thought on how fast he could make the day pass; how quickly he could trick night into coming. He drowned his anticipation in alcohol but not so much that he couldn’t still prepare meticulously for bed. On this night he stumbled a little for he was drunk both with alcohol and anticipation. Just as on the previous nights, she came to him as he finished his cigarette. Even in the moonlight he could see that her dress was fiery red. She had one strap over her left shoulder and wore matching long red gloves. Her touch was soft, so very soft. As he rose he dropped his lighted cigarette on the bedding, which began to smolder. He didn’t notice for the music was a foxtrot, and he was already lulled into her aura.

They were on the beach, the warm sand was hard enough for dancing and a mist enveloped them. They were the couple in the Jack Vettriano’s painting ‘The Singing Butler”. All movement centered on them and oh, how they danced. His right hand guided her on her bare skin exposed by her backless dress; slow, slow, quick, quick, slow. The tempo gradually increased as they danced in unison. His ecstasy amplified until he blended into her essence and was gone.