Novel
Ted Morrissey

Previous Chapters
 
                                                        Letter 5 – Part 2
                                                           Cappadocia
​
I’ve never shared this story with you. When I awoke, now with full light at our window, the visitation to Maurice’s room seemed patently unreal; it seemed replete with the residue of a terrible, terrible dream. Now it has returned as a dream which like memory confirms the reality of the event. I used to feel that Maurice’s spirit lingered in the house, in his room especially. That is why I was loathe to separate Agatha and Felix by replacing one of them to Maurice’s vacant room—though my own rationale wasn’t clear to me. If something of Maurice remained, I did not want him feeling unwelcome . . . on account of his merely being deceased. (I know how it sounds, especially now that I have articulated it.) Nor did I want Aggie or Felix infected by Maurice’s death—not the disease which ravaged his lungs, mind you: rather I thought of death as a condition into which they could be persuaded—just as the devil was seen to lure young Puritans into his ranks, to write their names in his black book. Vaguely I imagined death attracting them from the realm of the living to his own realm: the cold and colorless realm of death.
It is true that when Robin arrived I had little choice but to put him in Maurice’s unused room. Beyond that, however, my concerns did not apply to my brother. He had already visited the icy region of the dead and had managed to return. Of course I was not thinking so lucidly at the time. Only in retrospect can I sort through my thoughts and feelings, can I begin to make some sense of them (though I suspect there is meagre sense to be made).
I have gone on so, I barely have time to prepare for my guests.
For this visit, Mae was a paragon of punctuality. A hired girl had transported William, carrying him in a sling around her neck. Poor thing, she was thoroughly fatigued when they arrived. Mae dismissed the girl, who I think was barely older than Agatha, with the instruction to return in two hours’ time. However, I insisted the girl stay and keep Mrs O company, thus affording her the opportunity to take some refreshment. That decided, we convened the visit in the parlor. Mae has the fairest complexion, and the exertion of walking had added paint-strokes of ruddiness which stood out especially in the context of the indigo dye of her dress. I noted that William had inherited the characteristic from his mother, as his thin cheeks were quite flushed. Shortly his coughing commenced, and I began to fret that the scarlet patina was more ominous than a simple dermatological trait. Felix was entertaining the boy with some of his old blocks. I instructed Felix to return to his lessons; he began to protest that they were complete but he recognized his mother’s tone and exited the parlor, no doubt to find his book. Leaving the child was not a sacrifice. Mrs O had brought us tea, and perhaps the perceptive Irishwoman was of a similar mind: Shortly after I sent Felix away, Mrs O asked if ‘Miss Aggie mightn’t lend a hand in the kitchen.’ William sat on the rug between his mother’s legs and manipulated the wooden blocks for his amusement. He seemed to be trying to make words or pieces of words—the early indications of a prodigy, which would not be surprising given his parentage.
After Mae had had some tea and we had dispensed with the usual pleasantries, she inquired as to whether Captain Walton were at home. Hearing him called that, though perfectly appropriate, threw me a bit off-center for a moment. Perhaps his entitled nomenclature spoken aloud made real certain aspects of his voyage which had remained in the region of abstraction in spite of my knowing their veracity and validity. After all, one could not look upon poor Robin without accepting as fact that he was the survivor of hardship—and only just. Still, it seems odd, even to me, that such a simple utterance could affect so profoundly one’s perception of the material world; and I wonder if it was not so much the phrase itself—‘Captain Walton’—as the way Mae had said it: her voice and intonation mantling the words in authority. I could imagine Robin’s men pronouncing their master’s name in just that manner as they looked to him for guidance, for strength, for resolve in their bleakest moments—the name carrying their dependency on him to lead them out from the baneful bergs of ice into open water and an unencumbered path to their homeport. And he did; Captain Walton did.
These impressions, or the skeletal framework of them, passed through my mind in that unsettled moment before I responded to Mae’s inquiry that Robin was at home but most likely engaged at present—though in truth I have little idea what Robin is engaged in during the long hours he remains sequestered in his room—other than, it seemed, sleep.
‘Why do you ask?’ I enquired. Mae hesitated before reaching into the bag she had brought with her and deposited near her seat. I imagined it held items for little William; and no doubt that is true too. At present, however, she removed some papers, folded in half and bound with a black ribbon. She held the small parcel in her lap as she spoke: ‘I have informed you that I am engaged in writing something. I believe it is more accurate to say I am engaged in struggling to write something. I feel that my subject draws nearer yet is still out of view. When I met you and your brother at Mr Smythe’s, it struck me as a sign of some sort. I spent time in Scotland a number of years ago and while there I conceived of a yarn about a captain and crew who explore the Polar region. I heard stories of such explorers from the mariners who counted Dundee as their homeport. I wrote the beginning of a narrative about such an explorer. I have copied it out here’—she indicated the papers in her pale hands—‘and I was hoping that Captain Walton may be so kind as to read the embryonic tale and share his unvarnished opinion, especially in regards to its air of authenticity. I did not think this would be my subject matter—in fact, it seems rather far from it—but the chance encounter . . . well, it isn’t wise to debate one’s Muse when she finally begins to whisper in one’s ear, is it?’
She proffered the small bundle. In truth I am dubious as to the wisdom of Robin’s poring over Mae’s narrative. He seems reluctant to take up the pen on his own behalf—he has yet to comment on the literary projects described by Mr Havens, of the Geographic Society, whose card rests in the drawer of the foyer table. Nevertheless, I accepted Mae’s offering and assured her I would share the pages with Robin.

Novel
Anna Sujatha Mathai

Poetry
Peter W. Chaltas

​
​This time the page is
waiting for the poem.
No need for the lines
to force their way
on to it ,
and into to it.
There's no violation
here this time,
only a white willingness
of the page
to be inscribed
with the blackest letters,
as permanent and
Immutable
as a ratio
of golden means,
that is
pricked and inked
into the page
divinely
as it
lays spread out alone.
 
Today the poet
is an ink artist,
in a skin parlour
with a willing client,
who asks for the inscription
to be made,
regardless of the pain.
​

Peter W. Chaltas is an entrepreneurial poet and has been writing poetry since the age of 16 when his father passed away. He was educated at Trinity College at the University of Toronto, and majored in Literature and Philosophy. In his fifties, he became an online twitter poet. His work has since been published in online publications, as well as on Pwchaltas.com. Over the years, he has written 14 collections relating to art, poetry, creativity, love, loss, death, and nature. These unpublished poems were meditations and therapy written for himself. He is now publishing his works, and reciting in public.
Two of his poems will be published in Lakeview International Journal of Literature and Arts, Vol.5, No.2, August 2017.

Novel
Ted Morrissey

Previous Chapters

​                                                       Letter 5 – Part 1
                                                                  Akko
Dear Philip,
I shall begin with the ‘news’ that Mrs Shelley is intending to call this afternoon, and I have in turn invited Mr Smythe. I seem to forget the kindly gentleman until I desire something of him; and I detest that quality in others. Mrs O was quite in favor of the idea of my entertaining, and she suggested making a pastry which she calls ‘the bishop’s buttons.’ I suspect Mrs O is stimulated by the prospect of a break in the monotony of our daily schedule. I had not thought of the possibility of her suffering under the slow but steady weight of routine, as the Puritans used to crush their hostile witnesses by the addition of one small stone upon another, until either confession or expiration, whichever came first to the supine recipient. However, after my outing, foolish and selfish though it was, I can understand the desire for stimulation beyond the humdrum everyday. At the same moment I recognize the luxury of boredom, for searching for food, for shelter, for safety would certainly be stimulating departures from the daily dullness of eating, sleeping, and failing to fall victim to foul play—and I certainly appreciate your efforts to prevent those sorts of exhilarating experiences. (I can envisage your shaking your head at my silliness to register complaint on the grounds of boredom.)
I assume Mae will bring her darling little boy, William, named for his grandfather; thus Agatha and Felix will have a charge for the duration of the visit. I can imagine that Mae is lonely for her poet husband, as he maneuvers to elude the deputies who wish to jail him for debt which he is simultaneously attempting to discharge. It seems a profound logical fallacy to lock up someone who owes money, thus making it more difficult to secure the needed funds. I suppose the strategy is to extract funds the debtor may be attempting to conceal—or to force family and friends to intercede on the imprisoned one’s behalf. It must bear fruit in most cases; otherwise the authorities would cease the practice. Meanwhile wives and children bear the burden of their absent husband and father.
My apologies for sliding into that tangent, my dear. No doubt my own history (with Papa’s death and my family’s subsequent financial collapse) has left me especially sympathetic to Mrs Shelley’s situation. Hopefully I can provide a few hours of congenial warmth and distraction from her cares.
I have never been inclined toward daytime napping, as you know, but I must admit to feeling uncommonly fagged, and the idea of such repose is attractive at the moment. It is as if yesterday’s exhilaration must be mirrored by an equal depletion of energy—a universal law of some sort. I perhaps have a better understanding of Robin’s inclination to sequester himself in Maurice’s room hour upon hour. He must have suffered a very grave depletion of energy during his travails in the far north—physical energy, yes, of course, but even more so a kind of spiritual energy: an energy of the soul, of the psyche. I worry that, unlike physical exhaustion, simple rest will not be adequate to restoring Robin’s psychic energy. Yet I find the question of what would be adequate unanswerable. All this discussion of depleted energy has only emphasized my need for some rest. I shall continue after Mrs Shelley’s and Mr Smythe’s visit, my love.
The rest was a mistake it seems. Of course I must pass little Maurice’s door on way to our room. I have never told you but I am inclined to reach out and touch the ancient maple of the door as I pass—I suppose emblematic of a mother’s wish to touch once more the dear face of a departed child, though the gesture only brings back a momentary stab of grief, an instant’s recollection of the loss. Today was no different. Behind the door I heard Robin’s quiet movements, too quiet to even begin to guess at his activity. Yet the sound of his presence may have exaggerated the piercing stab of grief, for the moment I lay in our bed a most vivid recollection commenced. I hesitate to term it a ‘dream’ as it was far more potent than an unbidden fantasy—also it was nearly pure memory with no embellishing of the mind’s faculty for embellishment. It was the recollection of an event that I have not shared with you, nor any living soul. After Maurice finally succumbed to the pneumonia which his frail little frame had fought so courageously, and I was struck with grief so profound I felt as though I too was drowning—or, worse, buried alive with the terrible weight of the grave’s dirt pressing, pressing, pressing upon me, slowly suffocating me. Upon the doctor’s advice, you administered to me a strong draught of brandy and bade me sleep, which I had not done for days due to my vigil at Maurice’s bedside. I did sleep for a time but awoke to a silent house. Even though I knew the vision may finish me, may complete my death which began with our little boy’s final, labored breath, I summoned the strength to rise from bed. Too exhausted to bother with robe and slippers, I softly tread the cold hall in only my sleeping gown, whose ghostly form seemed to me like a shroud in my tortured imagining. I went to Maurice’s room, and slowly pushed back the door, the ancient hinges of which wept at our devastating loss. Maurice’s tiny form lay covered on his bed, just as he had lain in life, struggling to keep hold of it, only a few hours before—though I knew not how long. In my shattered state, grief-stricken and exhausted, I had lost all account of time. A wan light entered through the window, casting a sickly illumination on Maurice’s lifeless form, but I knew not if it were the pale light of dawn or of dusk. The window sash was drawn up to allow an airing of the room in spite of the chill night (or day)—as if one might draw death and devastation from the room as one does an unpleasant odor. I took an unsteady step toward our little boy and his name was upon my trembling lips—when the sheet that covered him fluttered as if a hand had moved—and again. Perhaps he was not dead after all; such mistakes have been made; doctors of physic are hardly infallible in spite of all their airs. I rush to Maurice and pulled back the covering. I searched his pallid body for another sign of life. I put my hands upon his cold face and beseeched him to move again. ‘Mama is here, Mama is here. Awake, little dove . . . awake,’ I pleaded. But there was only the bloodless hue and immobile limbs. His lids were not fully closed and beneath them I saw the lusterless orbs of the dead. Just then I felt the icy draft upon my fingers, some chill breeze blown in from the open window, and I understood that the fluttering sheet had been only that: a cruel hoax, God’s last laugh.
I believed I was depleted of tears but a few final drops fell on Maurice’s gaunt face. I wiped them away before replacing the cover exactly as it had been, and I returned to my bed, my desolation renewed and complete; I doubted that I would awaken . . . for how could my fractured heart continue beating?

​