The Recluse Storyteller

by Mark W. Sasse

  It would be easy for Margaret today. Her inspirations sat six feet away. She leaned her head back against a throw pillow.

  * * *

  “‘No. No. No,’ Gwen sobbed, kneeling over the motionless Benjamin. A second later, Georgia knelt beside her, arm flush against her sister’s shoulder with no malice or defensiveness in either of them. Their only concern was for their brother.

  “‘Please Benjamin. Please God. Please Daddy. Please. Benjamin. Benjamin,’ cried Georgia.

  “Gwen picked up the precious bundle and swayed him gently back and forth, rubbing off the blood from the cut in his forehead. Georgia hugged her sister and swayed alongside. As they hovered over the root of the great crab apple, a familiar presence stood looming from behind. They could both feel the tingling through their beings. They could feel the warmth and the love of many Christmas Eves, snuggled close together by the family fire. They could feel the warm sunshine and the fragrant flowers that spruced up the dead prairie every spring. They felt it all, but they dared not turn around because they doubted their senses and feared that the other would not feel it.

  “‘My children,’ whispered a voice inside their heads. It was a hollow echo, like a sound vapor that faded in and out. It startled them with an equal measure of hope and fear. Gwen could not believe her ears, even though her heart submitted to her hope in agreement. Georgia couldn’t contain herself anymore.

  “‘Papa?’ she said aloud, still looking at Benjamin in her sister’s arms. ‘Papa?’

  “‘My children.’

  “‘Papa?’ said Gwen, slightly turning her head to look behind her.

  “‘Don’t turn around, my child.’

  “‘Papa, why did you go away? Why, Papa?’ cried Georgia. ‘Gwen so wanted to see you, and then we had a fight. And now Benjamin is hurt. Oh Papa, what should we do?’

  “‘Don’t worry, my children.’

  “‘But Papa, Benjamin. Poor Benjamin.’

  “‘Fear not. Georgia, do you remember the light you saw across the sky this morning?’

  “‘Of course, Papa. I knew it was you. I knew it was telling me that you were coming home today. And then I saw you. I knew you were coming.’

  “‘No, Georgia. That light was not for me nor Benjamin. But do you remember what I told you? At the table, under the tree, do you remember?’

  “‘I will never forget it, Papa. I will never forget it.’

  “‘Good. Tell Gwen, and never forget.’

  “‘Papa, I’m scared. What about Benjamin? What about Benjamin?’

  “‘Don’t worry, Georgia. The light was not for him. I love you, my children.’

  “The thickness lifted, and they remained on their knees, begging God for divine mercy on poor Benjamin’s soul.

  “‘Georgia, I’m afraid. Was that really Papa? I don’t understand. What was it he told you under the tree?’

  “‘He told me to be brave. Gwen, we must be brave.’”

  * * *

  Margaret paused and put her head down to look at the twins. They were enraptured by both her story and ice cream. In unison, they leaned in towards the recluse storyteller and asked with eager eyes what would come next. She put her head back against the pillow.

  * * *

  “‘Gwen, we must be brave.’

  “At that moment, Benjamin coughed and opened his eyes. He looked dazed for a moment, like he was trying to recognize where he was. Then he looked deep into Gwen’s eyes and belted out the loudest cry that echoed through the valley.

  “‘Waaahhhhh!’ he wailed joyously. Gwen and Georgia smiled and cheered and hugged each other. It was a miracle. Their brother had come back to them. They laughed and hugged him as he continued to cry like the colicky baby he was. Every shrill pitch reinforced his vigor and aliveness. Every teardrop signaled the renewing, cleansing, life-giving flow that overwhelmed their beings. Their brother had returned.

  “‘Gwen, I’m so sorry for fighting with you.’

  “‘No, Georgia. I’m so sorry for not believing you. You are my sister. I need to trust you. I’m sorry.’

  “They hugged each other some more as they rocked the wailing youngster back and forth.

  “‘Let it out, Benjamin! Let it out. Ring it through the hillsides!’ yelled Georgia.

  “‘Ring it through the valleys!’ shouted Gwen.

  “‘Ring it through the world! Our brother’s alive. He’s alive.’

  “‘Yes!’

  “Their rejoicing continued for a few more minutes. Eventually, Benjamin, exhausted, tucked his head into his wet blanket and fell asleep, occasionally sobbing pitifully like a whimpered cry of a puppy. They laughed each time he hiccuped out his distress only to immediately fall back asleep.

  “‘Let’s go home, Georgia.’

  “‘Just wait one minute. I want to look at the tree one last time.’

  “She walked over to the spot where she had sat on the chair and talked with her papa. She knelt down in the grass and looked out over the vast horizons. Gwen came over and put her hand on Georgia’s shoulder.

  “‘Is this where you met Papa?’

  “‘Yes.’

  “‘I wish I could have seen him.’

  “‘You will. I know you will. He’ll come back to us just like he did today.’

  “Georgia folded her hands like she did in Sunday School and looked into the sky in the same direction which she saw the flash the night before.

  “‘Thank you, Papa. Thank you for taking care of us. Thank you for watching over us. We love you.’

  “‘Come back soon,’ added Gwen.

  “The girls both had tears in their eyes. Georgia stood up and grabbed Gwen’s hand, and the three of them started their long trek home.”

  * * *

  Margaret paused again and sighed.

  “Ms. Pritcher,” asked Sam. “Why do you look so sad?”

  “Yes, I love happy endings.” added Pam.

  “No ending. No ending.”

  “It’s not over? Well, what happens next?”

  “Yes, we really want to know. We have a little bit of ice cream left, and our mom won’t be home for another thirty minutes.”

  * * *

  “They remained hand in hand the whole way down the expansive hill they had climbed earlier in the day. They traded carrying Benjamin on and off as he continued to snooze like he never had before. When they reached the open meadow near the base of the hill, they saw it for the first time. Smoke. Billows of black smoke rising out over the clump of trees which shaded their small wooden house.

  “‘Fire. Gwen. Fire!’

  “Georgia sprinted on ahead, jumping over Poor Man’s Creek and running past their small barn. Their house was completely engulfed in flames. The front door was wide-open and the roaring flames had already penetrated through the roof. Georgia stood, mouth open, crying to the heavens in horror, helpless to do anything. Within seconds, the main beam of the roof came collapsing down. Everything was gone.

  “Gwen reached Georgia’s side a few seconds later and stared into the inferno—the unforgiving light which now casted a shadow on their lives. Down the north-side road, the one that their mother had used that morning to go to the market, came the Thompson’s horse and buggy. Mr. and Mrs. Thompson were sitting in the front as they pulled up alongside the girls.

  “‘Girls, are you all right?’ asked Mr. Thompson.

  “‘Yes, sir. We are not hurt.’

  “‘I’m so glad you got out of there,’ replied Mrs. Thompson as they both got down out of the buggy.

  “‘We weren’t here. We had a picnic up on Harper’s Hill today, and we just got back and saw the house in flames. Where’s mother?’

  “‘You mean you haven’t seen her?’ asked Mrs. Thompson looking concerned. She put her arms around the girls and looked over at sleeping Benjamin.

  “‘No ma’am. We haven’t seen her since she left this morning. I thought she went with you.’

  “‘She did. We brought her back
about an hour ago. Then about twenty minutes ago, Tommy McGuiness came riding over and said that he was up in the meadows and saw the house fire. He came to report it to us since we were the closest neighbors.’

  “‘Stay here, kids. Rachel, come,’ said Mr. Thompson.

  “They walked over towards the house, keeping a safe distance. As they approached the front of the house with the wide-open door, they saw something strange. A lantern, overturned, sitting beside a pile of wood ash with burning embers.

  “‘Aahhh!’ gasped Mrs. Thompson, as she saw through the smoke a body, badly burned, laying on the floor by the chair. It was motionless.

  “‘Oh my,’ said Mr. Thompson.

  “‘The poor girls. What will become of them?’

  “‘Let’s get them out of here,’ he said, turning toward the girls who had inched closer to them. ‘Come along children. You’ll be coming with us today.’

  “‘But what about Mother? Where is she?’ asked Gwen.

  “‘Girls, we need you to be brave.’

  “If ever a word was overloaded with meaning, ‘brave’ topped the list—an ominous phrase from an apparition, calling them both to heed and endure, triggering inside them emotional fear that would not soon subside. And then Georgia remembered Papa’s other words.

  “‘The light was not for them,’ repeated Georgia. ‘The light was not for them.’”

  * * *

  Pam’s cell phone rang.

  “Hello? Oh, hi, Mom. Yes, everything is fine. We’re just … watching TV. No, my voice is fine. No, I haven’t been crying. Well, we did see this sad show on TV. You’ll be home in fifteen minutes? Okay. Love you too, Mom. And Mom, we really do love you. Bye.”

  Sam stood up.

  “We have to go, but we must know what happens to Georgia and Gwen.”

  “Can we come back some other day?”

  “Yes,” said Margaret in her robotic manner.

  “Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye, Ms. Pritcher,” said Pam.

  “Goodbye,” mimicked Margaret.

  The girls scooted to the door and slyly looked at each way before quickly exiting and returning to their apartment. Margaret stood facing the hallway, and she sighed, looking for relief.

  “Mother is dead.”

  She turned around and shut the door behind her, once again leaning up against it. She reached down to the locket around her neck and unclasped it. She stared for the longest time at the two ink portraits inside.

  “Twins. Beautiful twins.”

  She closed the locket and began to cry.

  Chapter 10

  The Tipping Point

  Chester Tomsey had been trying to reach Margaret all week, buy to no avail. She spent every waking hour thinking of the bank, the burning house, the bright light, and the ridge of death. She had even forgotten to go to Full Brands the following Tuesday evening. Her house was a little messier than usual, but she had her thoughts—her many thoughts. She often felt the presence over her shoulder, and it reminded her of the past and prompted her into the future. It made her sad.

  * * *

  “‘Reverend Taylor. Let me go. I’ll bring Nicki back. I promise. You stay in the village. My father really wants to talk with you,’ said Quan, who pointed to a gaunt old man, shirtless, ribs sticking out like a series of speed bumps, standing next to the entrance to the nearest house-on-stilts.

  “‘But I’m worried about Nicki.’

  “‘I know. I’ll bring her back. I promise. But my father really wants to speak with you.’

  “‘Okay. That’s why I came here in the first place.’

  “Quan looked over at his diminutive father speaking Vietnamese to him in a machine-gun like fashion.

  “‘But I don’t know Vietnamese. How will I talk with him?’

  “‘My cousin Tran is inside and will translate for you. Go. You need to hear what he has to say.’

  “‘Okay. Thanks, Quan. Please bring Nicki back.’

  “‘Don’t worry. I will.’

  “Quan got on the Honda Dream and sped out of sight while Reverend Taylor’s hand was eagerly grabbed by Quan’s father, leading him up the steps and into the bamboo-floored-dwelling with open air windows and a thatched roof.”

  * * *

  The phone rang—a rare occurrence in the house of a recluse. Margaret looked over at the phone, which symbolized nothing more than the awkward link between her inner self and the outside world. She didn’t want to answer it, but she stood up, walked to the desk, removed the receiver, and put it to her ear without saying anything.

  “Margaret? Margaret? Is that you?” asked Janice on the other end. “I guess that’s a silly question. Who else would it be?”

  Margaret said nothing, glancing lazily around the room as if she heard not a word.

  “Margaret? I know you can hear me. Now listen. I received a call from Mr. Tomsey, and he said he’s been having a hard time getting a hold of you. Are you all right? Why aren’t you answering your emails?”

  No response.

  “Margaret. I don’t have time for this. Would you please answer me? Margaret? Margaret?”

  The recluse storyteller hung up the phone rather methodically, almost petting it once it lay flat across the dial. She walked back over to her couch and took up her familiar residence.

  * * *

  “About an hour later, Quan reached the small, mustard-colored provincial hotel, which was run by the People’s Council. It cost nearly a hundred dollars a night for foreigners and had the amenities of a 1950s motel. Nicki lay on the bed with the rattle of the air conditioner keeping her company. She fumed over her father’s behavior and was regretting coming to Vietnam, as she stared at a small gecko on the ceiling overhead and hoped beyond hope that it wouldn’t have a heart attack and fall on top of her. Quan knocked gently on the door.

  “‘Nicki? Nicki?’

  “She jumped to her feet, surprised to hear her name, but she displayed an understated relief that she was no longer alone. She liked Quan. She also was happy it wasn’t her father. She didn’t feel ready to talk with him yet.

  “‘Nicki? It’s Quan. Can I talk with you?’

  “She unbolted the door and opened it part way.

  “‘Come in.’

  “‘Thank you.’

  “‘I don’t want to talk about my father. I’m just exhausted.’

  “‘I wanted to apologize to you. You were right. We both should have been honest with you. Actually, I’ve been watching you for about two years. I’ve always wanted to meet you, but your father didn’t think it was a good idea. He’s a good man, you know? A really good man.’

  “Nicki nodded. She knew it was true. She knew his heart.

  “‘I know.’

  “‘I’ve really admired you for a long time. I was sad when you graduated last year.’

  “‘I just can’t believe that you know all about me, but I didn’t know anything about you. I suppose I saw you around, but …’

  “‘I know. Asian students are always around. But we are hard to get to know.’

  “‘No, that’s not what I meant. Didn’t my father come?’

  “‘No, I asked him to stay in the village to talk with my father.’

  “‘Why?’

  “‘Will you come back with me?’ Quan stood up out of his chair and leaned forward towards Nicki. She noticed that he was quite handsome.

  “‘I don’t want to go back there,’ she said, turning away from him.

  “‘I think you should. You should hear what my father has to say.’

  “‘Why?’

  “‘Then you’ll understand.’

  “‘Understand what?’

  “‘Just come. It’s important.’

  “Nicki turned her head, acquiescing with a slight nod.

  “‘Great! I have the motorbike out front.’

  “‘Motorbike? Oh, no. I’ve seen how you people drive around here. I’m not going on any motorbike.’

  “‘You’ll love
it. No helmets either. Wind in the hair! Come on.’

  “Quan grabbed her hand and pulled her out the door. She was on her way back to her father.”

  * * *

  A disturbance in the hallway awakened Margaret’s sensibilities, and she went over to put her head to the door to discover the juicy gossip of the day. Mr. Cheevers’ voice boomed throughout the corridor, mixed with the high-pitched, nasal tone of Mrs. Trumble.

  “You are unreal,” said Cheevers.

  “I’m just trying to be neighborly.”

  “Bull. You’re trying to stir up trouble just like you always do.”

  “I can’t help it if the incompetent mailman keeps delivering the mail in the wrong place.”

  “No, you can’t help that. But you also can’t help wanting to cause problems for Margaret. You were going to knock on her door, weren’t you?”

  Silent pause.

  “Weren’t you?”

  “Well …”

  “You are unbelievable. Why don’t you knock on my door so I can slam your fingers in it as well?”

  “Well, I’ve never heard a ruder comment in my life. You, sir, are a brute. And you are probably in cahoots with that so called innocent girl standing on the other side of that door.”

  She held a few advertisements in her hand and threw them all over the floor. She looked at Cheevers and stuck out her tongue at him, turned around, and disappeared into her apartment across the hall from Margaret. Cheevers picked up the sheets sprawled all over and approached Margaret’s door to slide them under when to his surprise, she quickly opened the door and held out her hand to receive the junk mail.

  “Margaret. These are for you. Are you having a pleasant day?”

  She looked at him, emotionless, as if she had received a wad of mail from an inanimate mailbox.

  “Well, I’ll see you later,” he said, slightly tipping his red cap in her direction.