<![CDATA[Great Wits Jump - The Library of Stories]]>Wed, 25 Mar 2026 15:22:16 -0600Weebly<![CDATA[A Seafarer's Tale]]>Sun, 26 Mar 2023 15:36:03 GMThttps://www.greatwitsjump.com/the-library-of-stories/a-seafarers-tale

Now Available
on Amazon.com

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A Seafarer's Tale

Where are the Sailors,
That history use to know,
Strong, Stout, Rugged mates,
That knew how the sails blow.
Are They grounded on the Shallows,
Or lost below the thirsting waves,
Have they cast their courage earned,
Or become stranded beneath an ocean's grave.

Only those who have lived a life at sea,
Can feel the taunting of this rugged life,
Through hopeful times or mournful strife,
To know the feeling when the lines are cast,
Then thrust upon the ocean vast.
]]><![CDATA[Poems Worth Reading - #2]]>Sun, 03 Apr 2022 03:52:09 GMThttps://www.greatwitsjump.com/the-library-of-stories/poems-worth-reading-2In Honor Of
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An old soul, in ragged cloth, stood among the rows of chiseled stones,
Besides the dried worn grass and dusty air,
He’d taken what life had thrown.
A fragile air lit upon his skin—cracked, thin, spotted, aged—
Yet the thoughts which rested upon the heart,
Were fresh, still captured in mind’s cages.
“And so, I’ve come to know, my friends,”
He whispers to the fallen honored few,
“That life brings with it many things,
Whose freedoms through our hearts do ring,
From you in warrior shrouds.”
With melancholy accolades’, this aged soldier alone does stand,
A quivering memory stains the tears,
As he salutes, with a worn warrior’s hand.
A warming breeze shifts hard through years,
Upon his thoughts so etched,
Born from loss, upon the cross of life’s fate he bears.
Besides him stands unknown, a warrior young and strong,
In clothing stained from battles fate, from wars long past gone,
Who held the aged, sorrowed arm,
Supporting a comrade from life’s harm,
Through the trials of his journey.
Another stood before them fixed, with rifle crossed and straight,
Surveying the lands before them,
Ensuring no foe, upon his charge, berate.
Still others stood a distance off, upon the gravestone fields,
In salute they returned the strength just given,
For this comrade who refused to yield.
When we ponder on freedoms born, by those who’ve before us gone,
Do we cherish the memory they have given,
From the warriors hard fought throng.
Each sacrifice must upon us lay, for the freedoms they did pay,
Both for the living and those that passed,
For that land of Freedom, we pray, will last!
The aged Warrior does not stand alone,
Nor should the fallen few,
Through us let not the memories fade,
Stand true for those who fought so brave,
Through the trials of their journey.
With peace the aged Warrior shines, his battle truly won,
Who stands alone among the souls,
From whence our Nation’s Freedoms come!
Now Available on Amazon.com
Great Wits Jump
© Copyright 2022 S. C. Gardner
]]><![CDATA[Whimsical Poems]]>Fri, 01 Oct 2021 06:15:36 GMThttps://www.greatwitsjump.com/the-library-of-stories/october-01st-2021
Whimsical Poems From My Stash-of-Stuff
]]><![CDATA[Poems Worth Reading - #1]]>Wed, 02 Jun 2021 03:56:01 GMThttps://www.greatwitsjump.com/the-library-of-stories/poems-worth-reading-1Rainbow's Gold
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I scampered to find a bucket,
     to catch the rainbows gold,
With gleeful thoughts I eyed the spot,
     Where the boundless treasures flowed;
Yet when I reached the very place,
     That I thought the treasure lay,
Not a trace of gold awaited me,
     And the rainbow flew away!
"Where is the rainbows crowning glories,"
     My thoughts cried out in anguish,
That's when I heard the mocking chant,
     Which whispered through my soul,
"Yee ne're shall catch my treasures, lad,
     Nor relish in my wealth!
For fleeting are the riches gained,
     When the rainbow shines away!"
So when you chase elusive dreams,
     Remember this Irish saying,
'That earthly rainbows do exist,
     Yet their treasures are but waning.'
So place your eyes on truthful riches,
     Whose rewards are yet to come,
For the Rainbows Glory shall be yours,
     For Eternal is Everlasting
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© Copyright 2021 S. C. Gardner
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]]><![CDATA[The Old Man & The Train]]>Thu, 02 May 2019 22:05:50 GMThttps://www.greatwitsjump.com/the-library-of-stories/the-old-man-the-train
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He paused and thought about the idea for a long, long time.

The sounds from the freight train sped past throwing his charcoaled gray hair into a twirl, but he bare noticed. A group of boisterous teenagers dressed in various states of disarray passed by him on the old wooden depot platform, they registered only a slight annoyance as he was lost in thought.

He continue to ponder. There was no hurry. This was important.
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"The Old Man & The Train"
by Steven C. Gardner
​

     He paused with a frightful thought.  A glorious, beguiling thought, that pierced his very core.  It fell deep upon his thoughts, sinking into the hallows of his mind like fresh tar on exposed flesh.  It felt rough at first, sticky, oozing through his awakened imagination.  Yet as he pondered upon this tremendously enlightening affliction, it gave way to pure ecstasy, echoing across his imagination with a cry, a halleluiah of joy, which overtook the thick blanket of despair, that had so bellowed at his everyday humdrum existence.
     With a shout, it skipped through his consciousness with a fierce wind, a thunderous glee, an orchestration of pure delight.  As the thought grew, it fed upon itself, making him flinch with embarrassment, as all around must surely see the shining light that so radiated across his soul.
     He paused, with this enlightened glow, this awakening, that so thrust itself upon his aged face.
     He thought hard about this revelation for a long, long time.
     The clanging tweets from a whistling freight train sped past, throwing his charcoaled-gray hair into a jumbled twirl.  Yet, he barely noticed.  A gaggle of boisterous youths chattered like peacocks nearby.  He heard not a peep from their glee.  The orchestration of life spun around him, swaying this way then that with a purposeful chaos.  To him, it was only a far-in-the-distant distraction.   Life clamored all about, yet was a barely perceptible fray of humanity.  Like gliding ghosts, the throng of apparitions drifted as shimmering wisps, that his mind only saw as faded shadows.
     He stood paralyzed upon the old wooden depot’s platform, continuing to ponder.  There was no hurry.  This was important.
     “It might be,” he whispered to himself.  “It could be.  It ought to be.  Could it be?”
     A gaunt look of annoyance spread across his wrinkled face as a feeble twitch shook his weathering left hand.  His legs quivered slightly beneath the scratchy cotton blend fabric slacks he wore so poorly.  He shuddered, though not from his aged condition, but from this sudden, spectacular, miraculous, annoying feeling that filled his imagination.  How could he have missed it after all these years?
     Slowly, he picked up the worn brown leather briefcase he had dropped.  Determination swelled through his tired skin as he made his way through the evening crowd, all waiting to board the rustic commuter train home to their various destinations.  This bustling throng was all too commonplace to the old man, his life having sustained itself through these long, daily rituals.  It was a repetition that filled his lungs with drawn tradition, while quelling his dreams and frustrating any thought of variation in the choices he so dreadfully lived by—a routine that had infected his every thought since the passing of his beloved Deloris.
     Now he began to gain a sense of renewed purpose as he trudged along the old worn, familiar wooden platform.
     "Can you believe this place," a young male voice spoke offhandedly to his side.
     “So old fashioned,” his female companion chuckled.
     Continuing to look forward, the old man cringed his way past them.  The young couple burst out in laughter.  He heard the young man rudely whisper, as though no one else existed on the platform besides themselves.  “And there goes the wagon master!”
     A distant muffled whistle drifted through the air.  The old man’s wrinkled skin shivered in anticipation as the 5:40 commuter train could be heard making its way slowly toward the platform.  Several children rushed forward, gawking along the walkways edge hoping to catch a glimpse of the oncoming train, hurriedly followed by worried adults who quickly shooed their flocks back to a safe distance.
     The idea was always there before him, he thought once more, but somehow unattainable, intangible, as a mystery waiting to be solved.  An untold story with heart-filled beginnings, the old man thought, wrenched by unfulfilled hopes, dashed conquests, with the ending unaccomplished, waiting to be written.
     The idea began to glow even brighter.
     He found his place near the front of the platform between a middle-aged woman with long finely kept auburn hair in a woolen turquoise sweater intently reading the latest gossip magazine, and a sullen looking teenager in knee-waist pants and a dark colored pullover jacket.  The boy sported a rattled, unkempt bundle of black hair dripping down from a dingy blue and black ball cap.
     “Rain,” the young man stated holding out a tan-stained hand as though to catch an imaginary drop.  “Looks like it’ll rain.”
     “Might,” responded the old man offhandedly, staring thoughtfully ahead.
     The young man unconsciously hiked up his pants and kicked a small pebble off the platform, “Don’t care much to get soaked if it does.”
     Looking instinctively up at the dull overcast clouds, a slight smell of moisture drifted past the older man’s senses as his thoughts continued to wonder.  His heart sped with a meager bit of anticipation from the possibilities of his revelation.  For the formulation of his idea grew as the tiniest sprout drifting toward the light—growing, spreading, and implementing itself from a vague idea to the possibility of encouraged action.
     “Can’t seem to understand why so many of the locals still ride this thing,” the younger boy sniffled, glancing about, pointing down the platform, “There’s Mrs. Benson, her three spoiled brats in tow.  She owns a Catty, yet here she is riding the cattle cars.”
     The older gentlemen followed the younger boy’s attention, and couldn’t help but agree.  Why would the Benson's bother themselves with such inconveniences?
     “And there,” the young man sneered, “Near the drinking fountain.  That’s the Mayors brother, Jared Montfree.  A bit of a dope if you’re ask me.  He needn’t join the everyday-class of us who hop this ferry.”
     With a discerning glance, the older gentlemen snorted a silent sneer at the thought of the Mayor, Emmet Montfree, a man-of-the-many, so his mayor-torial campaign slogan so emphatically embellished.  Emmet had married Deloris’ very younger sister, yet even after all these years the Montfree’s had scarcely acknowledged his existence.  He felt like a fog in the memories of those about him.
     The auburn-haired women suddenly exclaimed, “What a tart,” and continued to be engrossed in the magazine, oblivious to all that was transpiring around her.
     The red and black train breached the forming mist and slowly screeched its way along the platform, stopping with a sudden clang!  The tangled sounds of shifting metal rattled the air in non-harmonic tones.  The wooden doors creaked open allowing those who wished to exit to rapidly step down from the train as the engine continued to idle in a boisterous, pulsating, and irritating mixture of deep rattles and pops, accompanied by a pale hiss whose sound emanated from the heated engine.
     “All aboard!” shouted the conductor from a distance far down the trains’ collection of cars.  The older man slowly slid his way aboard and found his usual seat, stiff and worn, at the very front of the train, and sat with his back facing the engine.  He preferred to watch the passing landscape, usually ignoring what lay ahead.
     The young boy sat silently across from him, while the auburn-haired woman slid beside the old man, still intently scanning the gossip filled magazine.
     Within minutes the train lurched and began to slowly move.
     “My mother use to ride this train,” offhandedly spoke the young boy as he stared out the window.
     “What,” the older man muddled, his own thoughts distracting him.
     The softened overhead lights cast a pasty shadow over the young boy’s youthful countenance.  A melancholy presence settled about him like a morning frost—cold, subdued, remembering.  A lifetime of wisdom seemed to radiate from this youth, thought the old man, dully shining while slowly emerging as a painful awakening memory seemed to possess him.
     From his uncomfortably familiar seat, the old man saw a pinch of himself in this young boy’s demeanor.  A reflection of a long distant memory when choices stretched before him like a field of wild poppies, swaying gently in an early morning spring day, choices that made a difference and added purpose to one’s soul.  But those were yesterday’s memories.
     “I see her on occasion,” the young man pondered sadly.  “In my mind I see her beside me, humming a quiet song.  She loved to sing.”
     “Where is she,” asked the older man.
     “She died.  Three years ago.  Walking home after work.”
     “I am sorry.”
     “It was a day much like this one,” he waved his hand about the car.  “After leaving this train she often stopped at the small bakery ‘round the corner from the station to buy day-old bread.  It’s what we could afford,” the young man paused.  “The owner, Mr. Parkins, kept it special for us.”
     The old man’s thoughts drifted towards the story being told, wondering where this was going to lead.
     Tilting his eyes momentarily, the older man saw a deep chasm of pain settle within the younger boy’s thoughts, yet a calm presence had overtaken his exterior, resting on him like a comfortable shirt, familiar and well fitted.
     “I remember hearing the whistle from this train that night,” he continued, as the train clattered its way along the familiar tracks.  The evening sky slowly dimmed, spreading shadows through the car.  “My Mom had me young, when she was but seventeen.  Never told me who my dad was, but everyone around me knew.  You could tell since those we would meet often blurted things like, ‘you have your father’s build,’ or ‘the hair, just like his father’s,’ and stuff like that.  Mom would politely stop them from saying more, often tellin’ them it was her wish.  Most would shake their heads quietly and mutter polite, irritating words before drifting away.”
     The car shifted and noisily rattled from a street crossing as it continued toward its next stop.
     The old man couldn’t help but be entranced by the story.  The young boy’s thoughts became his thoughts, the vision of the Mother became his mother as he rode the tale within his own mind.  His vision was clouded with perceptions of a young woman, a mother, caring for a fatherless child, whose obvious love encapsulated his being.
     The young man continued as though nothing else mattered.  As though telling the story for the first time and hoping the telling would ease some hidden pain.
     “After stopping at the bakery, she was on her way home.  It was dark, the street a bit damp from the rain that had drifted by earlier that evening.  No sidewalks along the road to our house.  Lived in a small, drafty old house, just off the county road, right outta town about a miles walk from the train station.”
     Lights flickered through the window as the train rushed past a loading platform filled with crates of assorted sizes, while a few workers leaned against several pillars or sat lazily upon the cargo.  The sound of the train changed momentarily, from a broad clanging echo, to a sudden confined rhapsody as it whisked past the dock, then returned to its familiar rackety-tact momentum as it fled back into the darkening evening.
     “I remember her smell mostly,” sniffled the young man as he stared out at the passing night.  “A bit of cinnamon, sweet and familiar.  As she was walking,” the young boy continued after a thoughtful pause, “along the dark road a car came around the bend.  A well-to-do silver Porsche, a rich man’s toy.  Was told it slid on the damp road.”
     The old man sat silently, absorbed by this tragic tale.
     The train’s whistle blurted as a splash of rain began to streak along the car‘s darkened windows.
     “Nothing could be done they said later.  Was fourteen at the time, had been home alone after school.  Took care of myself mostly, while my mom worked, which was a lot.  They said the car probably hit one of the ruts in the road.  Wasn’t maintained very well, the road, full of mismatched patches of asphalt, all clumped together like melted candles.  The car had flipped and settled on the roadside among the damp dirt and sticky crab grass.  Wasn’t noticed until early the next morning.  I had gone to sleep thinking mom had to work late.  I had school the next day, and we didn’t have a phone.  She worked late a lot.”
     A slight chill drifted through the car, settling upon the three passengers as though attempting to smother their thoughts and engulf them with a dull, fore-boarding spirit of despair.  The older man felt the loss as personable as he did his beloved wife of fifty-three years, whose passing had paled his heart.
     “The funeral was small, done at the town cemetery.  A few people from mom’s work, the baker, and the preacher from some Protestant church were there. The preacher spoke a few words, but I heard none of it.  No relatives came, never met any of them anyway.  She was buried next to her little brother; he had died from pneumonia when he was three.  Mom’s parents had scorned her when I was born, ‘the bastard-child is no kin of ours’ it was said of them.  I only knew them from a few well-guarded photos that my Mom kept.”
     The young man raised his eyes slightly and appeared to look straight into the old man’s eyes, catching his soul with his words.
     “No one claimed me since then.  No one seemed to care, no one noticed that I was alone.”
     The splatter from the rain grew louder as it pelted the wooden planks overhead and dripped down the sides along the panes of glass like beaded tears, all rushing diagonally against the darkened landscape outside.  The dull light of the box car cast long yellow shadows that shifted as an occasional light sped past.
     “When the funeral had ended I drifted through the cemetery.  Another group of people had gathered a distance from my mom’s grave, another funeral, but well attended.  No one noticed as I approached and stood quietly behind them, listening to their whispers.”
     The car jolted a bit to one side.  The old man instinctively thrust a hand upon the imitation leather seat, bracing himself.  He continued to watch the young man, who was now staring out of the darkened window at memories only he could envision.
     “’He lived a good, long life,’ someone quietly spoke, and ‘a loving man, good to his family,” reverently whispered another, and things like that.  As I glanced about, there were many sorrowful faces—some stood with arms clasped, red eyes full of tears, others with quivering lips, and many more with blank, meaningless faces.  Across the way, beyond the flowers, the caskets, and the crowd of mourners, sat an old lady, quietly sobbing under a protective umbrella and being comforted by those around her.  I can still smell the early spring flowers that lined the coffin.  My Mom loved the spring flowers, ‘full of life’ she said.”
     They sat in silence for a few minutes.  The echo of the rain and the ringing from the metal wheels scraping along the tracks filled the air.
     The older man’s mind wondered, pierced by memories of his own.  Like the time he met his lovely wife Deloris as she rode astride the pitch-black Stallion along the country lane not far from his folk’s ranch.  She looked so young, so curious, so innocent, and the horse so big for such a small, delicate girl.  Yet her confidence yielded an air of strength that overpowered such a huge, encompassing animal.  He instantly fell in love.
     They had married two years later with the expectations and joyfulness of any newlyweds.  They lived in bliss in an old, worn down, farmhouse owned by his parents, where the roof leaked, and the floor slanted slightly to the south.  Yet, with all its problems, their lives were full of joy and contentment.
     “What purpose do we have,” his wife Deloris asked him one day as they sat among the hay stacks eating freshly picked red apples, their bare feet dangling in unrestrained playfulness.  “Why do you love me so?”
     “Because your nose scrunches when you laugh,” he replied, mimicking the rapid snickers that she makes and feigning shyness.  She punched him in the arm.
     “Not,” she playfully mocked.  ‘No, really, I am serious, what purpose do we have here, in this life?”
     “Well,” he coughed momentarily, stalling for time.  “I guess, it is to be true to ourselves, to be kind and honest to others, and to love those whom we love.”
     She smiled slightly, and looked down at her dangling feet.  For what seemed an eternity she remained in thoughtful silence.
     “My feet are small,” she whispered after a few moments as she slowly wiggled her toes.  ‘When I walk it takes twice as many of my steps to match one of yours.”
     He had noticed a wondering look in her eyes, as a distant air seemed to absorb her, spreading about as though wishing to possess her.
     “I look about us and see the land stretching for miles, with only our small home in view,” she continued, as if painting a picture that she so desperately wished for him to see, yet was too priceless for him to own.  “The tall grass sway by the unseen winds.  The blue skies above us are vast and expand forever upward.  We sit here, small and tiny, as the earth spins rapidly around the sun, as the planets bob about our galaxy, dwarfed by an ever expanding somethingness that dwells between us and our closest neighbors.”
     She paused, a strange melancholy settling on her normally enthusiastic spirit.
     He had no answer.
     “What purpose do we have here,” she seemed to quietly plead while a hopeful smile rested upon her.  Eight months later the birth of their first and only child, a daughter with sandy red hair, graced their lives.
     She had a small laugh that made their house a home, with the curiosity and determined playfulness that stretched far beyond the boundaries of her small, delicate body.  With enlightened blue eyes, just like her mothers, and with the spirit of newness, their little daughter bounced upon life as though all things had value, purpose, and meaning.
     Joy and contentment drifted through his life then, spoiled by the brightness of the women that graced his presence, filling his family with purpose and love.  The sparseness of their lives was filled with meaning.
     Yet all too soon the spark drifted to despair.  Their daughter became ill.  She was sullen and quiet, weak and tired, drained of the familiar active spirit that had engulfed her very being.
     She passed away when she was only eleven, complications from a weak heart they were told.  Then soon after, his wife withdrew within herself, sullen and distant, never again the strong, headstrong girl that rode upon the large tall black stallion.
     For thirty-eight more years he cared for her, sat quietly beside her, covered his lovely wife with all the tenderness he could, only to watch her wisp slowly away from his grasp.  She passed away one evening as they sat together on the old, worn blue sofa, as he silently read a book, one arm comfortably wrapped around her tired body, her head resting gently on his shoulder.
     He pictured himself at the cemetery, sitting in a chair surrounded by a few consoling mourners, just like the young man had described in his recollection.
     “What can one do when no one notices,” the young man spoke, continuing his tale.  “Most live in ignorance of those around them.  Rushing around with their own problems and concerns.  Sometimes we are our own worst enemies.” 
     The train’s whistle announced the approach of their first stop.  The older man unconsciously looked out of the darkened window, waiting to glimpse the first signs of the dully lit station that would soon approach.
     “The old lady at the funeral had looked up, and by some chance seemed to peer straight at me,” the young man continued, captivating his audience once again.  “Her face instantly changed from sorrow to spitting anger.  ‘It’s your fault!’ she yelled out.  ‘You did this!’  All eyes turned toward me, some shocked, others confused.  That is when I recognized her, from the photos my Mom had cared for so reverently.  She was my Grandmother.”
     With a screeching jerk the train hissed to a stop at the platform.  The old man had been too absorbed by this revelation that he failed to notice the approach to the station.
     The tired commotion from those departing and the few who boarded the train cars further down hardly breached the attention of the three occupants.  After a few minutes a distant shout of “All-Aboard” pierced the evening air and the train once again commenced on its journey.
     As they departed the station, a barrage of fierce rain splattered the streaked windows, shortly followed by a brisk, hallowing wind that seemed to penetrate the poorly sealed wooden train car’s door, sending a chill through the dimly lit compartment.
     The clatter from the train and the briskness of the weather fed the sullen atmosphere within the car.  Finally, after a long, thoughtful pause, the young man continued.
     “Found out later that my Grandfather had died after getting the news of my Mother’s death.  Collapsed right on the spot I was told.”
     Silence filled the compartment.  The rain seemed to fade as the train’s rattle vanished and only stillness remained.
     “I’ve thought about things for a long time after that,” the young man stated looking down at his worn tanned sneakers, slightly fidgeting with his hands.  “Don’t think I’ll ever want to treat others that way.  I mean, don’t want to separate those who you are supposed to love from each other.  My Mom taught me that, ‘be kind,’ she would say, ‘be forgiving.’”  He paused, then with a slight quiver in his voice whispered, “I do miss her.”
     After several quiet minutes the train stopped at the next platform.  The young man stood up, unconsciously hiked up his pants and opened the door to the compartment.  As he was exiting he turned and looked once again straight into the older man’s eyes.
     “Never did meet my father,” he said, “but did find out he was the driver of the silver Porsche.”
     The door closed, and the two remaining occupants sat in silence for a long time.  The woman in the auburn hair began to silently sob.  “So sad,” she muttered, wiping her nose with a tan handkerchief, “Oh, so terribly sad.”
     It would be a long time before the idea the old man had would drift back into his thoughts, and then he would realize how minute’, insignificant, and self-serving the thought was.
     There was much more to life.  A greater purpose.
     The old man looked up quietly, the air seemed suddenly still and calm as the train whispered forward toward it's destination.
    The old man dug down into his weathered, cotton pants and pulled out a well-worn yellowed piece of paper.  He had found it tucked away in his wife’s dresser after her passing.  Slowly he opened it and stared at the neatly cursive writing, penned so reverently by his loving Deloris.
"To be true to ourselves, to be kind and honest to others, and to love those whom we love.”
     He thought for a moment, smiled, and tucked the precious memory back into his pocket, as a vision of a young petite girl astride a tall-black Stallion drifted happily across his mind.
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© Copyright 2019 S. C. Gardner
]]><![CDATA[THE BOX - The Awakening of the Seer, Chapter 1: The Past]]>Tue, 16 Apr 2019 06:00:00 GMThttps://www.greatwitsjump.com/the-library-of-stories/the-box-chapter-1-the-past
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     "It is a known fact that ye not speak the name of them that cared for the dead when they do die," reverently whispered Jarrah as they peered through the thorny Australian wattle bushed at the well-dressed group of mourners.  "They need respect.  That is the peace they seek, so the Father has told me."

     Geoffrey only nodded.  His throat parched with fear, while his sandy hair prickled with the unspoken thoughts of someone who knew that what they were doing was--unjust.

The Box & The Awakening of the Seer
Chapter 1: The Past

By S. C. Gardner
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Beware of those whose claims are as of old,
Whose thoughts betray, engulf, beguile;
Of memories claimed for purposes unknown,
To enslave the mind, the thoughts, the soul.
To entice the very faithful into acts of despair,
To raise their own statues in memoriam,
To be esteemed by their own glory!
~ Translated from the 'Archivist's Codex'

~ Early Spring 1918 ~

     “It is a known fact that ye not speak the name of them that cared for the dead when they do die,” reverently whispered Jarrah as they peered through the thorny Australian wattle bushes at the well-dressed group of mourners.  “They need respect.  That is the peace they seek, so the Father has told me.”
     Geoffrey only nodded.  His throat parched with fear, while his sandy hair prickled with the unspoken thoughts of someone who knew that what they were doing was—unjust.  They had lain on the damp crab grass for over an hour, his faded woolen pants and thin torn shirt chilled his tanned skin while the late afternoon breeze limped by, sending warning shivers through his mind.
     The preacher’s voice was muffled from where they lay, undistinguished from the sounds of the birds in the young Karri trees that sat above them, but his exaggerated actions sent images of death and damnation through Geoffrey’s soul—his damnation.
     “Look,” Jarrah nudged him.  “Da widow has fallen!  Does she not know he is in heaven with Jesus?”
      The young widow’s legs wavered and went limp.  Fortunately, her sister’s husband caught her just in time before she could prostrate herself upon the coffin, but he was not stout enough to hold the weight of such a large woman for long.  Her ruffled, black petty coat flung up and knocked over little Benson Collins, her sister’s bratty son, who would gleefully turn them in if he knew they were hidden a mere fifty paces from the gathering.  Fortunately, the widow seemed to regain some composure, merely buckling her knees, regaining her balance, thus saving both her sister’s husband and herself from a disastrous fall into the newly occupied grave.  Young Benson was not as fortunate, and he lay wailing upon the hallowed ground, his distress being comforted by the young widow’s sister.
     A sudden chuckle erupted from Jarrah’s throat.  “Da mean one has fallen.”
     Geoffrey glanced at his companion, whose charcoaled skin and ratty hair was in rude contrast to the cheerful grin that plastered his face, enhancing his broadened, yet slightly bent nose.  Jarrah’s clothing was in harmony with his—torn, ratty, and worn.  The current war in Europe had disrupted everything, even in the far distant lands of the Commonwealth of Australia, where food shortages and war rations had been enforced since 1915, leaving orphans such as themselves to fend for life’s necessities by any means possible.
     Jarrah’s life was always in a troubled state.  It started with his birth about fourteen years earlier when his white ghost-Mother was brutally beaten to death only a couple of days after he was born.  Jarrah was taken in by the local Aboriginal tribe and claimed by a man who later confessed to be his true father.  He learned from both worlds, the ways of his Father’s clan and the religion of his Mother.  An Anglican Priest known as Father Bishop mysteriously appeared one day proclaiming to be sent by God to bring the true faith to the local natives.  An old, gray bearded man, who walked with a stiff limp and whose face was worn and fatigued, yet whose eyes were strangely purposeful.  Geoffrey had known him as well, but only from a safe distance.
     “I feel as if I was chosen,” Jarrah confessed to Geoffrey one day.  “The Father had taught me special.  He gave me your language, read to me from your God’s book, and told me who I really was.  I was chosen, he said, the gift would go through me.  But I knew not what he means.”
     With the mark of two worlds upon him, Jarrah was an outcast from the white English society of his Mother and brutalized by the members of his aboriginal tribe.  His father had passed away the year before the war from some mysterious fall, which left Jarrah to find his way in the world through his own ingenuity.  Father Bishop had vanished the next day after his father’s death leaving Jarrah on his own.
      It was the spirit of Jarrah’s Mother that had spoken to him in an altjeriga, or dreamtime, that had brought them to the cemetery.  Though skeptical, Geoffrey had followed his friend more out of something to do then out of belief.
     “I still don’t understand,” Geoffrey whispered.  “Why you need what is in the coffin?”
     “Ah, because I have not told you all I have been told,” Jarrah replied as they both watched the mourners slowly depart.
     The Preacher had stayed behind to mind the grave, while the mourners drifted away toward the carriages that waited to take them back the town, a mile to the south.  As the living pulled away from the Cemetery, the sky began to dim, quietly turning colors of deep reds and subtle purples.  Turning toward the bush, the Preacher motioned with an impatient air of indignation.  Moments later Jonathan Hawks, the aged caretaker, limped out using a shovel as a crutch, obviously intoxicated.  Pointing toward the open grave, the Preacher made a few instructive gestures and departed.
     The boys watched impatiently as Hawks awkwardly began heaving the burial dirt over the polished coffin.  After only a few agonizing attempts Hawks paused and looked around sheepishly, pulled out a flask and consumed the contents.  The boys heard the caretaker grumble, thrust the shovel into a mound of parched dirt, and shuttle off, vanishing amongst the darkening bush.
      “Don’t sees why we should wait,” Jarrah eagerly announced.  “We might gets the box before the light goes.”
     Geoffrey nodded.  The warmth of the approaching summer night would soon pass, and the sooner they completed their task and left the grounds of the departed, the more comforted Geoffrey would feel.  They shuffled out from their hiding place and quietly approached the open grave.
     With calm agility, Jarrah jumped into the grave and landed quietly onto the coffin, slightly slipping on the dry dirt that lightly covered the richly adorned coffin.  “The Ghost-Mother told me,” Jarrah began, “to watch for da death of Master Evans, da box would be wheres he lay, she had said.”
     “But what is in the box,” whispered Geoffrey.
     Jarrah looked up and chuckled.  “I do not know!”
     Geoffrey was even more puzzled then before.  “Why then are we getting it?”
     A loud clang pierced the air as Jarrah snapped the latch on the hallowed lid while Geoffrey watched the eager hands of his friend purposely explore the coffin, attempting to find the secrets of how to open it.
     “Why are we getting it,” Geoffrey quietly emphasized.  “Why?”
     Another snap rang out from below, accompanied by a rasping of escaping air.  The putrid smell of the dead whipped past them, temporally overwhelming their senses.  Geoffrey choked momentarily as images of ghostly spirits haunted his imagination, chilling his soul.  The troubled sound of bending wood and rusting metal pierced Geoffrey’s mind as Jarrah slowly opened the coffin’s lid, revealing the contents of a pasty-faced Master Evans, adorned in a black, woolen suit, his cold, dead arms clasping a solid wooden box edged with metal bindings.
“The Father showed me da box once,” Jarrah sounded, awed with reverence as he peacefully removed the hands of the dead and lifted the heavy object from its resting place. “He only tells me that da box has the secret, and dat it must be passed on.”
     “The secret?  The secret must be passed on to who,” Geoffrey asked.
     “It is not me to knows what it is,” Jarrah stated.  “It is for dem’ that comes after me, the Father taught me.”
     “What do we do with it then,” Geoffrey asked, puzzled by his friend’s eager eyes that stared up at him from below, holding the box up toward him.
     “The Ghost-Mother said to give da box to you!”
...There is more to "The Box" that must be Discovered...
Images of Wolfs in the Forrest with title saying Open the Archive's of The Box
What is in "The Box" no one knows.
Who are the Voices from the Past.
Why does the Seer not know who he is!
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© Copyright 2018 S. C. Gardner
]]><![CDATA[Consequences of the Past - Part 1 of 3]]>Fri, 08 Feb 2019 07:00:00 GMThttps://www.greatwitsjump.com/the-library-of-stories/consequences-of-the-past-part-1-of-3
Title Image of story
     "Ship astern, aft starboard," a voice echoed from aloft.  "Three masts and runnin' full!"

     Captain Morton grabbed his spyglass and moved to the rail.  Steadying himself against the firm railing he peered toward the horizon and searched for the approaching vessel, hiping his eyes would quickly adjust to the morning glare that was just making it's presence known.  He frowned when he finally saw what he was looking for.

     "What is it, Captain?"  Mr. Deprior softly spoke by his side.

     "It's her," he replied, lowering his glass and pondering.  "It's the Merriam!"


Consequence of the Past
~ Part 1 of 3 ~

by Steven C. Gardner

Picture


Early Spring
1787

     She was old, past her prime, yet the timbers held together well as she skimmed with determined purpose atop the dark-green frosted seas.  With sails full, Captain Morton calmly pushed every ounce of speed he dared out of her while maintaining a steady, vigilant course.  The mid eighteenth-century merchant ship obeyed each command with firm familiarity as the Captain corrected for the least deviation, all in an effort to hasten their arrival.  If the weather held, he thought, they could make it, but only just in time.
     “Maintain course, Mr. Deproir,” he sternly stated.  “Watch the crosswinds.”
     “Aye, Captain,” was the first mates reply as he checked the heading and ensured the Coxswain's vigilance.  “We’ll make it in time, sir, I’m sure of it.”
     “Yes,” he firmly answered, keeping his voice as calm as his self-control would allow.  “If fate favors us, we will.”
     The frail merchant ship creaked in protest against the strains it was being tasked to perform as the morning sun began to rise ever so slightly from behind the ships weathered stern.  Looking up, the Captain noticed the grayed canvas sails being attended to by many of his faithful, yet fatigued crew.  With luck, both men and ship would hold.
     “Ship astern, aft starboard!” a voice echoed from aloft.  “Three masts, and runnin’ full!”
     Captain Morton grabbed his spyglass and moved to the rail.  Steadying himself against the firm railing he peered toward the horizon and searched for the approaching vessel, hoping his eyes would quickly adjust to the morning glare that was just making its presence known.  He frowned when he finally saw what he was looking for.
     “What is it, Captain?”  Mr. Deprior softly spoke by his side.
     “It’s her,” he replied, lowering his glass and pondering.  “It’s the Merriam.  I suspect she hasn’t spotted us yet.”
     “We’re probably to low on their horizon, protected by the morning darkness,” Mr. Deprior countered.
     “Aye, that is what I suspect as well, but it will not hold for long.”  Closing his eyes, he calculated for speed, shifts in the wind, and distance from their objective, factoring in every nuance he could.  “All hands-on deck!” he commanded, moving towards the Coxswain's station.  “Slow to starboard, make your heading north by northwest.”
     “Slow to starboard,” the Coxswain replied.  “Make my heading north by northwest, aye.”
     “Furl all sails,” the Captain continued, checking the compass.  “Douse all lights to keep our profile low.”
     The Boatswains mate sprang into action, commanding the crew with the speed of a cannon blast.  “Ye he’rd him, make it quick.”
     With practiced efficiency, the crew sprang to their tasks, each aware of the consequences that lay before them if detected.  Men scrambled up the ratlines and sidled along the foot-ropes that were attached to each yardarm.  The wind was spilled from each sail as the crew hauled on the clew lines rounding them upon their weather braces.  Each man that stood aloft straddled the yard and pulled on their respective reefs in silent unison, drawing the sail towards them, where they were bent or secured to the yards.  As this was being accomplished, others rummaged through the ship ensuring all lamps were doused or portals draped, all except one cabin that no one dared enter or disturb.
     Captain Morton watched with stern appreciation, conscious that his crew was constantly glancing towards the quarterdeck, attempting to assess if their work was acceptable.  He was vigilant of, and had tentatively cultivated, this attitude.  Years of careful crew selection, scrupulous training, and generous incentives, had formed an almost paternal bond between them.
     “Sir,” the Boatswain interrupted.  “The fore topsail has given way, an’ several canvas strips have torn.  Might take awhile to repair.”
     Sighing to himself, he wondered what else fate could do to intervene and disrupt their progress.  “Break out the spare but wait till the Merriam’s masts have faded beyond the horizon before hoisting it.”
     “Aye, Capt’n,” he acknowledged, moving off to carry out his orders.
     Walking to the railing, he watched the distant ship plod along.  Time is what they did not have, and patience was not a virtue he possessed easily.
     “Captain,” Mr. Deprior quietly interrupted.  “It may not be my place, but do you think it is time to talk to our,” he paused momentarily, unsure what words to use to describe his thoughts, “our guest?”
     “Awe, yes,” was his reluctant response.  “You are right.  I’ve delayed this long enough.  Inform me immediately if there are any changes.”
     “Captain,” he answered with a nod.
     Abandoning his post, Captain Morton moved toward the officer’s deck.  Since their rushed departure several weeks earlier from the eastern shores of England, he had not spoken privately with their prisoner, who had been confined to quarters, except for the occasional meal with ship’s officers, and a couple of walks around the main deck during calm weather.  It was probably an obvious conclusion to say he had been avoiding this confrontation, steering for ‘other duties’ whenever the subject was subtly suggested by Mr. Deprior, or the ever-vigilant ship’s doctor.  But that time had passed, and if he neglected to grasp the opportunity now it would soon disappear once they arrived in Boston.
     “Good mornin’, Captain,” stated the guard as he approached the cabin below decks.
     “Good morning, Stevens,” he stated.  “How is the prisoner?”
     “Quiet sir,” he said, pointing over his shoulders at the cabin door.  “Not a sound that I could make out.”
     “Good.  I’ll relieve you for a while.  Go topside and get some air.”
     “Aye, Captain,” he replied, reluctantly heading for the active main deck.
     Composing himself, Captain Morton took a deep breath.  Gently, he knocked on the cabin door.  Receiving no answer, he tried again.
     “Mother, are you awake?”
*****
     “Come in, Isaac,” she whispered, slowly rising from the bunk, wrapping the wool blankets tight around her feverish body.  She abhorred sailing.  Avoided the subject at all costs.  Now she found herself facing her worst fears—the ocean and a forced return trip to the once British Colonies of the Americas.
     Isaac entered the small cabin.  She was amazed at the stark change that had taken place in him since she had seen him last, more than eighteen years ago.  The once innocent seventeen-year-old, whose kind, trusting nature had dominated his every feature now stood before her a man full of self-assured confidence.  His above average height contributed to the image of deserved respect, which his crew appeared to give him freely, and just like his father, dominated every aspect of his surroundings.
     “Am I disturbing you?” he stated with an uncomfortable edge to his voice.
     “Yes, but it is your ship, is it not?”
     He moved across the small cabin and covered the window with the drape that loosely hung near by, ignoring her jab.  Then, sat in a small oak chair and rested his arm next to the worn brass washbasin that sat upon a small rustic table.
     “My abduction went quite smoothly.  May I now ask the nature of my imprisonment?”
     As she watched him ponder, she recalled the events that brought her to this point.  It was only seven years before the Colonies proclaimed their unjust independence against England and their sovereign, King George, that she had swiftly left the Americas for her family home in York, England.  The events of seventeen seventy brought pangs of sorrow to her soul, for not only did she lose the home she had so patiently cultivated in the new land, but her husband and son as well.
     “That is an answer I have not been privy to, Mother,” Isaac offered.  “Father—your husband—has adamantly made the request.  Nay, had ‘ordered’ that it be done, and so you are our guest.”
     She watched as he pondered his next comment, disturbed by his almost unflinching controlled demeanor.
     The ship made a sudden role as it seemed to crest a shifting wave and her head began to spin again, still unaccustomed to the ocean's constant influences.  Isaac sat unconcerned from the effects of the ocean.
     “Are you aware of the personal cost of your swift departure,” Isaac inquired with a pained determination.  She noticed a flicker of the past overtake his stern confident demeanor, one that carried some long-hidden memory that she was not privy to.  “There were consequences for us all.”
     “My reasons are mine to live with,” she replied bitterly.  The vast distance of time now seemed only a momentary crossing, and the years of separation slipped from her memory like a mild mid-summer afternoon English rain, at first an irritant but soon replaced by the bright growth of hollyhocks, delphiniums, and peonies that splattered so neatly through her families Yorkshire residence.
     The ship made a sudden turn and Isaac appeared to change from the grown son she both adored and despised, to that ship’s alert Captain.  He rose purposely from the oak chair and began to move toward the cabin door as footsteps rapidly approached from without.
     A firm knock interrupted her thoughts.
     “Excuse me Captain,” an excited voice rasped, “We appear to have a problem.”
     “One moment Mr. Deprior,” he replied, and turned sternly toward her.  She flinched at both the concern and disgust that framed his face.  “We may not have much time for conversation, Mother.  But know this, Father is waiting for your arrival with both trepidation and resolve.  The fate of which I know not, nor the purpose for your return.”
     He swiftly opened the cabin door and departed, latching the lock firmly from without.
     She shivered and pulled the few damp blankets tighter across her chilled shoulders.
*****
     “What is it?”
     “The Merriam, she’s changed course, appears to be doubling back, may have spotted us.”
     As they approached the main deck, Captain Morton immediately noticed the new topsail being hurriedly drawn and secured, and the crew rushing to raise all sails.  The winds were snapping each sheet full as they rose into place and Isaac could feel the exhilaration that began to thrust the old ship forward.  This was the thrill that all Sailors felt, what they dreamed of, the catch that sparked one’s imagination as the ship rushed through and crested each wave, the saltine spray caressing the skin and stroking the deck, energizing both men and ship with the urgency of the adventure that lay before them.
     Quickly assessing their situation, Isaac validated Mr. Deprior’s suspicions of the Merriam’s intentions.
     “Make your tack to the north west, we will match her course and hopefully her speed.”
     “We are but a day’s sail from the harbor.”
     “Yet we may still have to force our way to port, she will gain on us with every wave.”
     “Aye, sir,” Mr. Deprior confirmed.
     The ship crested each wave with urgency, rising and falling with that so familiar rhythm that each sailor fell in step with.  The old ship strained, its timbers vibrating, forging forward, battling the innate tempest that nature persisted to bestow, yet with persistent eagerness she edged forward, determined, unable to admit defeat, too proud to relinquish its rightful place upon the high-seas.  Each wave appeared to grow stronger, and the winds kicked harder at the masts with each breath.
     Then, as she strained, struggled, and endured, the morning sun crested the eastern horizon with a renewed burst, spraying the ocean’s façade with a brilliant sheen of reds and yellows, shimmering violets, pungent orange with a slight taste of turquoise.  Each ship basked for a moment it its newly found warmth, only to be presented with a revealing, fierce bank of dark, black, intangible clouds engulfing their destination to the west.
     The contrast was exhilarating.
     “Patience,” Isaac thought out loud as the Merriam drew closer, “there is always a way.”
     The sails snapped full as the Coxswain shifted the wheel slightly to port, catching the full thrust from the southerly winds and tilting the ship allowing the leeward side to rise.  The ship aggressively slipped across each rising swell.  A pelting rain began to wash the deck, drenching each sailor with its staining, chilled spray, numbing the skin as though possessing each soul it touched.
     The ships drew closer.  The H.M.S. Merriam possessed a smoother line to her keel.  Captain Morton sensed the chase was nearing its climax and constantly peered at their close pursuer
     Determination, pride, and experience filled Isaac’s thoughts.
     “Mr. Deprior, what is your estimate of when she will be within range?”
     “Suspect sir, about another half hour at the most, yet, if I may interject,” he stated thoughtfully.  “How can her Captain fire upon us?  Our prisoner’s safety and return must be their main objective.”
   “High, Mr. Deprior,” Captain Morton firmly answered.  “She will attempt to disable a mast,” he said pointing upward, “slow our momentum, cripple the rigging, board us and retrieve her.”
    “Aye, but she must know we would tact to starboard, display our broadside and fire upon her.  We are not divested with the same purpose as they.”
     “Yes, yes, and that is their weakness!” he confirmed, slapping Mr. Deprior on the back.  “Here is what we shall do.”
*****
     Sir Thomas Preston watched with increased impatience, his dull tailored amber doublet, or long-coat, clung to his long linen shirt, moistened by the salt spray as he stood stoically on the bow of the Merriam.  He was a soldier not a sailor, and his last voyage upon these waters still penetrated his soul with a foul taste, and his mood was soiled by the drawn-out chase.  He had lost everything those many years hence, his rank, his dignity, his pride, yet the difference between then and now had changed from being the pursued to the reluctant pursuer.
     The ship, less than half a league ahead of them, was clearly no match in speed to the Merriam, it’s lines lower and deck slightly broader, with sails, though taut, were not as crisp nor fresh.  Yet, something oddly familiar settled through his memory.  Something about the way it moved, it’s look, it’s shape, which carried a baring of familiarity that he had somehow been unable to grasp until now.  It was the Fortunate, an old merchant vessel, the flag ship of his Brother in-law’s fleet, Jonathan Morton.  Who possessed the helm now he knew not, for years take their tole on men whose lives contemplate the vigor’s of the seas, and it was so the last time he laid eyes on Captain Morton.  The only pertinent truth that he could attest to was that his Sister and wife of the said Captain was captive aboard the vessel before him.
     “A poor stinking ship,” he muttered to himself.  “The blight on the soul of my household."
     He turned from the bow and hurried his way across the length of the ship, a seething stench drawn upon his weathered face.  Those in his path gave way, having felt his wrath since their rapid departure from the eastern shores of the Yorkshire.  With a pained expression Sir Thomas approached the quarterdeck and sternly climbed up the railings.
     “Commander Jenkins!” he spilled.  “It is her!”
     Turning from his conversation with his Lieutenants, Commander Jenkins eyed him with an air of dismissive irritation but acknowledge Sir Preston’s intrusion with the proper baring his title requested.
     “Sir,” the Commander questioned, “What is your need?  We are finalizing the approach.”
     “It is her, it is the Fortunate!”
     It took a moment before the naming of the ship came clearly into focus and the meaning finally pieced the puzzle together, a neatly placed circumstance that solved the ‘why’ of the matter.
     “Awe, the story now comes in complete circle.  I know your history in this case.  Is it coincidence?”
     “No, consequence,” Thomas concluded.
     A distant yellow clad of lightening flashed far off to their port side and illuminated the darkened westerly horizon, dampening the seas with its crystal display of sparks that crackled along the breath of its domain.  A low, beating rumble soon followed, bouncing through the hull with the radiance and power of what all knew was a fierce warning from nature of what was to come.
     “Then,” concluded Commander Jenkins, turning quickly back toward his comrades, “let us commence.”
     “All hands to station!” the 1st Lieutenant shouted as the first piercing wave of rain from the approaching storm began to hail upon the deck.
     Sir Preston watched with a slight smile of revenge as their ship rose upon the approaching wave and split the crest, sending a chilled spray along the sides of the fore and main-decks in tune with those of the storm’s front.  The Fortunate in-turn dipped slightly from view, its bulk edged downward as its sails seemed to float independently from the hull.  Each wave brought the Merriam closer to its desired goal and Thomas to a satisfactory finale’.
     Though the safety of his Sister was paramount and her return to civilization was the pursuant goal, he relished in the prospect of defeating this demon before them once again and completing the circle, extracting some resemblance of revenge for his disgrace those many years hence.
     “She’s tacking hard to starboard!” a voice urgently echoed from above.
     All heads turned in disbelief.  Commander Jenkins spouted without thought, “She’ll stall, be breached by the waves, what demons possess’ her helm.”
     With a curious feeling that penetrated his soul, Sir Thomas Preston felt a sudden twist of spite rush through his demeaner, salted, soured, and twisted by the ill winds that rushed possessively about them.  A thought flickered through his mind, that of illusion, deviousness, trickery, something about the fate of his obsession which was about to melt before him.
     As the Merriam began its descent it was obvious that the Fortunate’s tack was indeed straining to starboard as it slipped toward the basin of the well.  All stood astonished at the unpredictable tactic.
     “Hard fifteen degrees to port!” proclaimed the Commander, “We be fools that follow the foolish!”
     Just as their ship began to slip down the wayward side of the churning wave, committing itself to this capricious, insane course of action, the ship before them swiftly sliced back to port, a hard almost dream like maneuver, perfectly timed to allow it’s timbers to slice up the next wave, and sloped just enough to present its angled port side to that of the Merriam’s.
     Several flashes illuminated the storm laden seas, blasts that emanated from the lower hull of the demon vessel that twisted before them.  Clouds of froth puffed from the gun ports of the Fortunate’s side, bellowing upward, slowly dissipating into the rain-mist fog that now drenched both vessels.
     At the same moment, Sir Thomas Preston felt the breath of multiple projectiles passing all around him, scraps of iron, small sharp nails, debris of all types, each burning, whistling past, with a hellish fever and whose only aim was to maim, destroy, and tare to shreds anything that came into its path.  They burst into the railings and planks, splintered the timbers, shredded the main canvas mast, each with a thundering strike that continued to cascade throughout the ship, plunging the surrounding scene into an image of raw evil.  Those about him screamed in terror as they were sliced, muscles torn, flesh devoured, legs and arms mangled, opened wide to the elements, where there was no escape from the on slot of chaos that bled upon the deck.
     Thomas instinctively crouched, his cold shaken hands protectively reached to shield his exposed head, as a chaotic blast hit the steerage on the quarterdeck, evaporating the wheel instantly.  The few Marine’s that stood nearby had their once pristine battle-ready dress lacerated and pierced from their bodies, with men and muskets being thrown fiercely toward the starboard wings, where several were helplessly tossed into the turbulent ocean below.  Fires erupted and began to slip across the deck, each sizzled and cracked with a destructive intent that all sailors knew too well.
     Orders were barked by the few remaining officers, at least by those who had maintained their wits and their lives, all in an attempted façade to save the ship from further destruction, yet all Sir Preston could grasp was a penetrating sense of anger that encapsulated his very being.
     And all he could see was the Fortunate cresting the turbulent swells in the distance, a vail of rain and mist shielding its putrid hull, as it gleefully disappeared and escaped his grasp.
~ End of Part 1 ~
To Continue the Voyage of "Consequences of the Past"
or, Return to "The Library of Stories"
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© Copyright 2018 S. C. Gardner
]]><![CDATA[It Was a Good Day]]>Tue, 27 Nov 2018 07:00:00 GMThttps://www.greatwitsjump.com/the-library-of-stories/it-was-a-good-day
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I was born in the year of 1282, in the very early spring, just outside the Sicilian city of Palermo, but had no recollection of it since my father had fled with his small family soon after my birth.  Though the province at the time was mainly Sicilian in race and culture, it was then ruled by French monarchs, whose presence often caused an air of resentment amongst those whom they ruled...

"Listen my infant ones," father would dramatize, waving his arms frantically while in the telling.  "We fled out of fear for all that was ours, for our very lived we would forfeit if it were not so.  Oh, the death that rained about our very feet that day!"

It Was A Good Day
by S. C. Gardner

Picture
     It was a good day.
     Though not particularly interesting in any way, just another common, uneventful day filled with the chores of life.  I wasn’t drawn to what happened in any manner, having gone about events as I usually have, for the sheep were in need of being herded to a slightly higher pasture as the approach of warmer weather drew near.  The fresh pickings from the valley had been devoured by the mostly docile creatures, and I needed to mend my dried sandals as a lace had finally split for the final time, and merely binding them with another knot proved of little help.
     Our small hamlet far below the favored rolling hills in which I had dwelt upon for several weeks was closer than it had been for days, and my supply of flattened bread and dried fruit needed replenishing before moving the herd to higher ground.  So I did what was necessary.  Early that morning, I gathered a few meager bits of bread and a small satchel of water from the small stream nearby, and began the nearly half days trek to our small village, leaving my two obedient dogs to guard the flock until I could return later that evening.
     I was born in the year of 1282, in the very early spring, just outside the Sicilian city of Palermo, but had no recollection of it since my father had fled with his small family soon after my birth.  Though the province at the time was mainly Sicilian in race and culture, it was then ruled by French monarchs, whose presence often caused an air of resentment among those whom they ruled.
     My father had lived and prospered in Palermo since his youth, and as he often told me and my slightly older sister, Phoicia, that it was a “magnificent place, Palermo, full of culture that one could taste in his soul.”
     Though my sister and I had no memory of the place, we would listen to his stories of its Phoenician beginnings, its famous ports that brought in trade and prosperity to the region, and the diverse relationships with various conquering kingdoms of Normans, Arabs, and French influences that swelled there.  But the most interesting to us as children was the reason for our small family’s quick departure from the region.
     “Listen my infant ones,” father would dramatize, waving his arms frantically while in the telling.  “We fled out of fear for all that was ours, for our very lives we would forfeit if it were not so. Oh, the death that rained about our very feet that day!”
     Now I must confess, though my Father was a most interesting story teller, it felt at times as I grew older that the stories tended to be more, and more—how shall I say it so as to imply a true sense of my feelings of the matter?  Yes, that is it—the stories became more embellished as time progressed.
     “Know this,” Father would always warn us as he told the tail of our exile.  “Trust not the pompous French swine’s that grope the dignity of our women and defecate windless words of superiority—which fall like rotten fruit from the vine.  Bitter grapes is all they produce, with an aftertaste of vinegar rich spittle.”
     We learned much from father’s tales, my sister and me, despite his flavor-able descriptions, and gradually pieced together a small portion of what prompted our living in this small, peaceful village.
     I remember at times after the telling, my Father would become distant, as though the recollection sparked some conflict within that he somehow had tucked tightly away.  There was some untold truth that he ne’er imparted to us which seemed to plague his mind.  It was at times like these that our Aunt and caregiver, Tanythe, would attempt to console our father.  “Hush Hush,” she would oft repeat to our Father, “you must remember why.”  This made me ponder more each time.  What hidden mystery lay at the base of these tales?
     But today was a good day, and as I rounded a small grove of Saracen Olive trees with their protruding gnarled trunks, twisted and tangled in bizarre shapes, a small pleasant breeze greeted me.  The sweet sense from the ripened olives spread across my nostrils reminding me of my hunger.  Yet, as I stopped to ponder which of the fruit to eat something different and uniquely out-of-place overpowered this wonderful scent.  Mixed with the scent from the olive trees was something a bit different and totally unexpected—the smell of smoke.
     I was but fifteen years, and coming into my strength, beginning to perceive greater meaning from my surroundings then when in my mischievous adolescent years. Like my father, my arms were strong and lightly golden, and though my father’s skin was becoming wrinkled and dry, mine was smooth and resilient.  My dark, long curled hair fell over my shoulders and rested slightly on the tanned shepherd’s clothing that all in the village wore in similar fashion.  And like my father, my intuition was sharp, though inexperienced, and it was currently fully aware.
     Though the curiosity of such events still remained a mystery to me, I was sensitive enough to understand the difference between the aromas of a cooking fire created through the flumes of home fire stacks, and the crisp raspy wild burning of brush, wood, and flesh.
     Quickly I snatched a few ripened olives and resumed my trek.  With each step the force of the ill flavored aroma grew, and the surrounding air began to fill with a light haze thrown my way from the flickering breeze it drifted upon.  I rose up upon the crest of a hill still a distance away from the village and saw through the small stocky trees a darkened whisk of smoke simmering over the valley floor.
     I started to move down the slippery slope of the hill with its loose shale and sandy footing and found a clearing with a better view of the distant horizon.  From here the details were only vaguely beginning to separate themselves, yet the main bulk of the rising smoke was most definitely hovering over our small, peaceful village.
     I began to move more urgently.
     For some reason, a memory struck my now troubled thoughts.  A curious phrase that Aunt Tanythe would oft repeat when in times of personal stress.  She had a way with words but never in a rambling manner like my Father—and not as numerous.
     I was told that she once held the eye of all that looked upon her, in which her beauty was finally attuned to catch the attention of all she passed.  But sadly, years and experience had chiseled her fine features into a thoughtful, more respected viewing, which attracted a more whimsical demeanor.  One of my father’s confidants that visited us oft told me Aunt Tanythe was “now sought after for the wisdom of her thoughts then the pleasures of her flesh.”
     Yet the Tanythe I knew and loved, had always been to me the mother I had never known, and a source of comfort whenever I was in need.  That is why my thoughts spread toward the phrase I so often heard her whisper, as though a comfort to herself then a spark of instruction to myself and my sister, Phoicia.  It held a message that I dare not understand, or more reasonably came to understand as her method of concealing her true thoughts from my youthful discernment.
     “Be not blighted,” she would whisper, “by the scant tricks of youth.  They fade with experience, replaced by the fate of years.”
     There was more reflected in her words then I could understand at that time, but the trials I was about to unknowingly embark upon would soon strengthen those words and force their meaning into my soul.
     What happened next as I approached our small, normally placid village turned my good day into something vastly different.  For as I rounded the last few hills that obstructed the view of my home, I came to an abrupt stop upon the well flattened path a mere two-hundred paces from a horrific seen.  Through the bellowing fog of smoke, I saw a vista of destruction, littered with mangled animal carcasses, crumbling huts, broken stables, smashed pottery, and sprinkled with a few charred-lifeless bodies—and all of them smoldering.  The smell was horrific.
     My name is Jacabus.  I am the son of Tebaldus.  My mother was known as La signore bella Adelasia de’ Luchinus.  And this is where my attempts at the telling of my story begin.
To Be Continued...
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"IT WAS A GOOD DAY"

~ a 10 Part Novelette ~

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© Copyright 2018 S. C. Gardner
]]><![CDATA[Illustrious Illusions]]>Fri, 06 Apr 2018 06:00:00 GMThttps://www.greatwitsjump.com/the-library-of-stories/illustrious-illusions
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I stood, not moving, for in my mind I knew it was my fault that he was in this condition;  I blamed myself.  At the time I could have stopped him but I didn't.  I was too stubborn.

Illustrious Illusions
by S. C. Gardner

Story originally written in 1977.  Have made a few edits and corrections, though left the story as close to the original as possible.  This represents my first attempt at a full, completed, short story. 
     “Mornin’ mate,” the Captain said.
     “Good morning Captain,” I gave in reply as I forced the cabin door closed behind me.
     “How’s the weather?  T’was a rough storm last night,” he said knowingly.
     “Sure was sir, but it’s calm now.”  I moved towards the shutters and opened them to let the fresh salt-air rush by the Captain to brisk his bearded face.  Upon turning, I noticed he was just lighting his pipe, giving it a light puff and sending a signal of smoke twirling through the air.  “How is the Captain today?”  I asked, proceeding to his side.
     “Just fine, thanks; should be walkin’ on these old sea legs of mine any day now.”
     “Sure that’s wise sir?”
     “Don’t doubt me boy!  I know what’s good for myself.”  He turned away and focused his mind on a dimly lit lantern swinging by a rope from a thin beam above.  His deepened eyes followed its every movement as it swayed to and fro, his brow frowning in concentration.
     He drew his pipe once more to his quivering mouth, barely visible through a thick charcoal-colored beard, which seemed to have been pasted to his double chin.  An abundance of hair flowed over his ears, while the crown of his head was partially bare.  His eyes were deep, sunken in their resting place with their thin shades half drawn.  One large hand limply held his prized possession, while the other lay by his side as he sat confined in his over-sized bed, his big body hidden beneath a few layers of heavily woven blankets.
     I decided it was time for me to dismiss myself, so I refilled a half-empty wisky glass lying on a barren table by the Captain’s side and turned to leave.  But before I could do so, a large hand grasped my thin wrist and tugged me towards the bed in which he lay.
     “Mate,” he said quietly.
     “Yes?”  I replied with a fearful voice.
     “Do you really think I’ll ever walk again?”  His eyes seemed to reach out, searching for the answer they wished to view.  A flicker of hope flashing across his saddened face.
     I dared not answer him in fear of what my answer would be, for I was just a cabin boy and not the angel of truths, or the devil of disappointments, but just a cabin boy, full of my own dreams.
     “Maybe,” I told him passively.
     He held his head rigid, daring not to show his disapproval of my answer.
     I stood, not moving, until my courage returned; then I scampered across the room till my hand felt the delicate design of the brass knob connected to the hardwood cabin door.  Momentarily I stood motionless as my mind reversed itself, it seemed as if eyes within me began to function, replaying yesterdays past.
     “Doctor,” I asked, recalling what had happened, “will he ever walk again?”
     The Doc stood for a moment and rubbed his wrinkled face with his pale hand, staring at the Captain who was now fast asleep enjoying his dreams.
     “Boy, let’s just say he’ll never rise from that there bed on his own pow’r,” he said pointing at him.
     “But Doctor, I can’t tell him...”
     “Tell him anything you damn well please, but make sure by every means possible he does not try to walk.”
     “He’d rather die than be stuck in—“
     “Do what I told you or he will die!”  He picked up his oversized black bag and tramped out the door, but before doing so he turned and gave one last command:  “He doesn’t walk.”  The door slammed and he was gone.
     I stood, not moving, for in my mind I knew it was my fault that he was in this condition; I blamed myself.  At the time I could have stopped him but I didn’t.  I was too stubborn.
     My hand still lay tight around the knob as I came back from my memories.  I turned the handle slowly so I would not attract the Captain’s attention, for he had dived once more into his private world on which he now relied for peace and contentment.
      I made it out and was soon standing safely outside his door.  ‘Face the facts,’ I told myself, ‘I must give him a definite answer.  I must tell him he will never walk, instead of just a simple maybe.  I must face the truth and tell him.’
     My eyes became foggy as the thought of the accident flashed through my swollen mind.  Once again the incident was called to my view, making me suffer that much more.
     “Help me boy,” he pleaded as we came upon a downhill stairway.
     “No!” I said.  You can do it yourself, I thought; it’s your fault, you’re half drunk, out of your mind, sneaking too many drinks from that bottle you call your comforter.  “Don’t put your burdens on me.”
     He staggered towards the obstacle, trying to conjure up a way to proceed with caution.  He took the first painful step as I stood rebelliously watching close by.  And that’s when it happened.  I saw it as if time were slowed and every little detail reached out to my memory, engraving it there forever.  A foot slipped, then a leg collapsed; he tripped, stumbled, and rolled down the stairway.
     I couldn’t have moved if I wanted to, for something held me back.  Whether it was for my own preservation or a lofty sense of righteous justice, I could not tell.  Then, after a prolonged fall, his deadly journey ended.  He lay silent at the bottom of the death trap, moving nothing except my emotions, which moved me to rush down to his panting side.
     “Boy,” he whispered with pain, “You’ll suffer in hell.”  That’s all he spoke, but his body cried out its own painful meaning.  His twisted legs called to me as if they were condemning me for their fate.
     My eyes steamed and that’s all they could remember.  As I stood by his door, my hand still glued to the door’s handle, my mind resumed its grasp on today’s realities.
     I came to the conclusion that I would postpone telling him his life-long fate.  Let him live a little longer in the desire of today’s dreams.  Anyway, who am I to pull the hopes and thoughts out of someone’s life?
     I released the handle, which was my last connection with that reality, then proceeded down the hall to the next.
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© Copyright 1977-2018 S. C. Gardner
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