I
The early morning fog clung tightly to the bent figure as he walked down the steep, well-worn path that led through the forest. Dawn had entered the world only moments before, bringing with its golden rays a cool, almost sweet taste to the air. The man who walked in his steady, fuming fashion would have preferred to walk down the slope at night, however, for he hated the sweetness that the sunlight brought each morning.
Everything about the morning Mr. Hearley hated—for that matter, everything about the day as well. When he arose from his hard bed in the morning there was no thought of the soon-coming rays of the sun, no thought of the fire that would soon be blazing in the hearth; nothing more than curses would enter his mind as his feet touched the cold wooden floor of his cabin.
Everything about the morning should be done away with. I hate the sunlight, I hate the happy shadows of the trees—and most of all, I hate the birds!
Suffice it to say that the reason he hated birds the most was that it was they who woke him up before dawn. He might have been less bitter towards the day in general if they hadn’t, but to be woken up before dawn was a thing he could not stand. “It’s indecent and immoral for any living thing to be up before the sun is!” he would tell himself as he sipped the thick, black coffee, waiting for his eggs to boil. There was a little window that he would stare out of every morning before breakfast, and in its view could always be seen a little bird, cheeping merrily. How he hated that little bird!
Once, he had tried to hire a neighbor’s boy to go out and shoot the thing for him, but the poor lad, upon seeing the blue-breasted creature, had refused to do it. Therefore, he contented himself to stare bitterly at the little animal, the bad aftertaste of the coffee only causing his scowl to grow with each sip. He would smile every now and then at what he reasoned the bird didn’t know: He was saving up to buy a cat, and once he had it, oh what fun it would be!
He smiled again now as he thought of it, his old rubber boots cracking the leaves and twigs that had fallen onto the path the night before. His smile only grew larger as he imagined each leaf he trod upon as little birds—blue-breasted birds—birds who would perish once he had purchased the cat. The merry twittering in the forest canopy above him stopped as he passed by. His grimace sickened as he looked up at each frightened pair of eyes that peered down at him, their looks a pitiful sight.
“Gaze on, you miserable beasts! Soon I’ll have my cat, and then we’ll see if you dare to chirp anymore,” he muttered, a sudden gust of wind forcing him to pull his cloak more tightly around him. With a wicked little laugh he shook off his musings and quickened his step; he needed to get to the banks of the lake before the morning waned. Inside, he wanted the day to be over with as soon as it possibly could, but first, he needed to work.
Work lay at the lake, or rather, inside of it. Mr. Hearley was a fisherman by trade, and although it was not the best of jobs, he did manage to eke out enough for a living.
It’s a wretched job, though, and doesn’t give one much to live on, he would tell himself every time he entered his boat. He did not like fishing, but Mr. Hearley did love his boat, and it was for that sole reason he was still engaged in such a profession. He had been offered better jobs before, but no, for the sake of his “First Lady”, a fisherman he would remain.
It was a pleasant little boat, although it had seen better days in the past. A dull green painted its hull, with a single stripe of red running through the middle. The inside was lined with a tacky-smelling varnish that made one gasp for air if they placed their face too close to the woodwork. At the front of it was a little carving of a mermaid with the word Clarice clumsily etched beneath it.
Why he had chosen such an odd name for a boat, no one could ever ascertain. Once, old Jack Dall (one of the other fishermen) had asked him why, but Hearley had erupted into such a fury after the inquiry that no one ever dared to ask again. The day he had come to live near Lake Township he had picked out the boat himself, promptly changed its name to Clarice and ordered the mermaid carved for it. For this reason, some rumored that it was because Mr. Hearley was once a captain, “An ol’ sea dog if one could ever be named.” As the rumor went, he had lost his former ship to the sea and bitterly vowed never to take up the ocean again, choosing instead the lake where the water was more peaceful. Therefore, the name of the boat was in memory of his old ship that had been called
Clarice.
This rumor had never been proved, though, and few even believed there was any amount of truth to it. For how could one find out? As a rule, Mr. Hearley never spoke about his life before he moved to Lake Township, and if ever one were to ask, he would fly into a fit of rage that could last for days on end. It was for this reason that he had few friends. He didn’t care—in fact, nothing could have been further from his mind then the thought of having friends. To a man such as Mr. Hearley, acquaintances were as good as mustard; “Good once in awhile, but can make the stomach churn if indulged in too much.” He was quite content to live alone, only coming to town when it was absolutely needed.
The terrain round about him began to flatten as he neared the steep inclines of the path, mellowing out as the foliage gradually thinned. Before him stood an open field that, in summertime, would be filled with the glow of marigolds and daisies, their rich pollen filling the air as dragonflies would dart to and fro in search of their mates. Now, however, the meadow lay barren and empty, and the few flowers that courageously remained became more and more grey and lifeless with the onset of winter. No children or dragonflies frolicked there now; only the occasional squirrel would run through the hedge, trying its best to escape the cold.
Mr. Hearley loved the meadow right before the winter, its once proud fields stripped of all dignity and lying naked for all of nature to see. He thought it worthy, almost glorious, that the object of such enjoyment and happiness should be brought to its knees once a year.
Once the winter comes on, though, she’ll have an old blanket of diamonds to keep her warm, she will—damn her and her sense of dignity! he thought as he walked through the fields, spitting on the ground in disgust. He watched the ground as he trudged onwards, carefully looking to see if there were any flowers that were left alive. If there were, he would trample them without a second thought (he hated flowers almost as much as he hated birds).
The walk through the desolate meadow ended quickly, and once he came out of it, he felt better than he had all morning. There had been no flowers nearby to destroy and the hem of his trousers was wet with dew, but he didn’t mind—in fact, he almost had a showing of a smile upon his face. Before him, there lay the one thing that still brought him enjoyment in life: Before him lay the lake.
It seemed as if it were a giant mirror that had been placed on the earth to reflect the sky, its waters murky yet always calm. Several loons glided with the utmost grace upon its surface, their little bodies leaving trails of ripples that spread out far behind them. The mist still hung thick around the water, its blanket a chilly defiance to the rising sun. On the edges of the horizon floated several other boats of those fishermen who had already begun their day’s work, the men inside seeming as small as dolls.
Mr. Hearley knew that by noon the lake would be teeming with fishermen, each trying to make the bigger catch before their neighbor did, their songs and curses rising high throughout the valley. He hated the sound of the fishermen, even those who were friendly and didn’t make as much of a ruckus. He would not wish them a good day, nor did he want any of them to offer him such. That was why he preferred to be here before they all came, so that he could arrive at his “special spot” before any of them would try to talk to him.
His “special spot” lay at the eastern side of the lake, as far away from the town as it could possibly be. On the northern corner, a few isolated islands protected him from the noise of the other fishermen on the other side of the lake. It was here, too, that the fattest fish were found, and though they were not as numerous, they were better than most. It seemed as if these aquatic beings hated noise as much as Mr. Hearley did, and that was why they came there; so that they could commune with their fellows in silence.
Even though he was nearly at the lake and his beloved, Clarice, Mr. Hearley did not rush down to the docks. Rather, he walked even more slowly and ponderously than he had in the forest, the scowl returning to his face once more. There were a few fishermen who were getting their boats ready, but upon seeing Mr. Hearley, all smiles left their faces and their conversation lowered into hushed tones. If ever Mr. Hearley saw one of them smile, his scowl would only worsen.
Without a word, he stepped onto the dock and solemnly trudged over to his dinghy. The craft swayed lightly as he entered and threw the ropes anchoring her on to the dock. Sitting down with a resigned sigh, he placed each oar in its hold and pushed off, wrapping his cloak tighter around his body. It would be a while before he reached his destination, and he needed to get there before anybody else did.
II
“It seems to me, Clarice, that the only ones who understand us are us two… and the fish of the lake, of course.” The effigy of the mermaid didn’t reply his comment, only returned his stare with the same gloom she had the entire afternoon. Earlier in the day, warming rays of the sun had cheered up the frosty atmosphere of the lake, but as she began to sink into the horizon, what little mirth she brought slowly started to fade away as well. Thick shadows from the trees that surrounded the banks snaked their way through the water’s edge, casting further gloom around the inlet Mr. Hearley had been fishing in.
As the day wore on, though, the old fisherman’s spirits climbed higher. By mid-afternoon, there were twenty large fish; their innards already taken from them and dumped back into the water and their white flesh smeared in layers of salt. He had thought that to be enough work for one day and so, rather than continuing on, sat in his boat for some hours, conversing with it as he did on occasion.
“It’s so good to be able to have a friend, you know; one that doesn’t judge you or betray you suddenly,” he remarked bitterly, spitting into the water. “Yes, I know you’ll never leave me, old girl; that’s one thing a man can count on in life. One can never count on life because people have a way of cheating you… Yes, such a way of… cheating… you.” He frowned, glancing at the mermaid once more, his eyes glistening with a misty, far-off look. “Ha-ha! But what am I talking about? Come, old girl, let’s be back before it gets too late. If there’s one thing a man can count on, it’s his boat.”
Lifting himself from his inclined position, he placed both the oars in their holds and began to row back towards the docks. The sun was setting rapidly; her last rays a feeble promise to the world that she would return the next day. As he rowed, Mr. Hearley thought of days before he had come to the lake, before he had become a fisherman.
* * *
He had grown up in a small town not far from Lake Township. His father was a cobbler, his mother a seamstress, and between the two employments they had managed to send their son for some traditional schooling. He was never too interested in school, though, and was always daydreaming of adventure and the sea. Nothing excited him more than the thought of being a sailor, to explore the vast horizons that lay outside his little world of trees and earth.
Then in his twentieth year, a ship from Barcelona docked in a town nearby. She was unloading cargo in the town, and from there would return to the Mediterranean and the warmer, safer waters for the winter season. The very evening he heard the news, he had told his parents that he was leaving, and—after a subsequent argument with his father—he packed his things and left the next morning, promising to return in the summer.
The months rolled by and the winter’s chill gave way to the warming rays of June. The snow that had held the little village landlocked melted to the harmony of robins singing and squirrels chattering amongst the trees. Mr. Hearley returned, though he was not the same man as when he had left his family. He seemed older and wiser too; his limbs bronzed with the sun and shaped firmly. His eyes, once filled with the joy of youth, were now sharper and more alert to his every surrounding.
He had many stories to tell, tales of the exquisite wonder that lay in the far south of the Mediterranean. There were accounts of trading among the peoples of Spain and watching the bullfights that took place that time of year, and of drinking long into the nights and awaking on hot afternoons when all were lazy during their siesta. There were tales of the ports in Africa and the many people he had met there, stories of the Moroccans and their exotic customs, of little boys who clambered up coconut trees as fast as any ape, and of women who displayed such beauty without daring to show even their faces. There were many more stories that he told his parents, too many to be mentioned here: Of friendships forged through the trying work aboard a vessel, of drinking and fighting and nearly escaping from the swords of pirates, of meeting many new people and learning new ways that had hitherto never been fathomed.
After relating these things, he told his parents what he considered the best part of all: The ship he was signed with was to make a five-year trading voyage around the world, and he had been among the few who were handpicked to come. He was elated! His parents were distraught. His father tried to reason with him, but he would not listen. The zealousness of youth still held too firm a sway in his mind for him to be persuaded. So therefore, rather than upset their son with their worrying, they made him promise that he would return to see them when he was done. He did so—gladly—and, two days later, set off for a far and distant sea.
The years went by slowly for the parents of Mr. Hearley, each day filled with anxiety and earnest prayers to the heavens on behalf of their son. The seasons came and left; summer giving way to winter and winter giving way to spring, each season bringing them a day closer to their son’s return. But Mr. Hearley did not come on the fifth year, or the next year, or the next. Inquiries were made about where the ship had last docked, but they were of no avail. Several months later, a funeral service was held and an empty coffin was placed in the cemetery outside the village.
The years went by. Then, one stormy night, Mr. Hearley arrived back in the village where he had once lived. Again he did not look the same as when he had last left, and while his first sea voyage had yielded good results upon his physique, his last one had not. He seemed paler—thinner too—than when anyone had last seen him. His clothes were bedraggled and his face held a sort of weariness to it, as if he bore the entire weight of a life of sorrow upon his crooked brow.
He did not go straightway to his house, for, upon hearing that he had been proclaimed dead some years ago, thought it better to not startle his parents with what they would consider a vision of a ghost. So instead, he sent a letter to his father, telling him that a certain man wished to see him in the tavern at noon the following day. When the father came, he was shown to a secluded room that his son had rented just for the occasion. Mr. Hearley sat in the shadows, away from the fireplace, but once he revealed himself his father experienced a potpourri of emotion. At first he seemed puzzled, then joyfully amazed as he understood, and finally, sorrowful, seeing the desolate state of his son.
“Son,” he had said, “what has happened to you?”
“I am sorry, Father,” Mr. Hearley replied, hesitating at first. “I would have come sooner, but I… I ran into a nasty affair with pirates.” (Here his father shuddered, hardly daring to imagine the terrors his son had been through).
“Is that why you seem so miserable?”
“In part, but—but—there was something else, something too difficult for me to think of, much less explain,” he replied, something resembling rage building up within his eyes.
“What will you do now?”
“Go away, far away, but not to the sea. I have given that up, and I wanted to say goodbye for the last time… I would have called Mother too, but I fear that the shock would have been too great for her—bless her, she has such a weak heart… You do understand, don’t you?”
“Aye.”
“Good. Then with this, I make my goodbye. Goodbye, Father, and please… remember me.”
“Always, my dear boy, always,” his father cried, tears flooding his face. Then, with that, Mr. Hearley arose from his chair and walked out of the room, leaving his father by the fireside to weep alone.
* * *
That was the last time he ever saw his father. As the years passed he had thought of writing him, but in the end had chosen not to. There was the chance that his mother could find the correspondence and realize her son was still yet alive, and he was not willing to take that chance. So, therefore, he lived alone—always alone, always embittered to his surroundings.
“And a damn fine day to be bitter too!” he muttered to himself, spitting into the water once again. He didn’t like to think too much on the past; it only brought back painful memories, memories that never failed to leave him even more spiteful and depressed afterwards.
The shoreline came rapidly into view, and his energy mounted as he rowed all the more vigorously. The shore meant his home, and his home meant a scanty supper and a bed; the latter being one of the few things that he could actually say he still enjoyed. His bed meant a respite from the pain that tortured his mind, the pain that filled his heart with every waking hour heralded so harmoniously by the birds. As he pulled up onto the dock, his blood boiled at the very thought of ‘those wretched little beasts.’
“Just you wait, you little demons!” he yelled as he tied his vessel to the pier. “Just you wait until I get my cat!”
“And why would you want a cat to fight demons?” a little voice piped just behind him. Mr. Hearley nearly jumped in fright, spinning around to see who could have been eavesdropping on him. “They’re much too small, I think; and besides, Mama says demons can only be fought by angels.”
It was a girl—a little girl who had dared to interrupt his ranting! She sat on the pier right behind him, her little hands folded neatly on her pasty yellow dress. Green eyes peered with curious innocence from behind brown curls that fell down to her waist. A thin little smile played itself across her lips, seeming to grow bigger with every word she said. There was one irregularity about her, though: On her left leg a brace was clinging tightly to the flesh in an attempt to keep the limb straight. The child did not seem to notice, though, and dangled it above the water as she did her other leg in perfect oblivion.
“Well, if you must know, it wasn’t for demons at all that the cat is for. No, little girl, I’m buying the cat to kill birds—all the blue-breasted birds,” Mr. Hearley replied, with a certain odd relish in making his intentions known to her.
“Kill all blue-breasted birds? But that’s a horrible thing to buy a cat for!” she replied, getting up off the pier and following the fisherman down the path that led up the hillside. “There’s a little blue bird down near my house,” she began at length. “Mama says it’s her favoritest one in the Township, and I think it is true.”
“What does it look like, little girl?” the fisherman asked, hoping that, if he indulged her, she would go away.
“Why, he’s the most splendid little thing—he’s got a white stripe running down the center of his chest, he does. He comes outside in front of my window every morning. Mama says that’s because he likes me.”
“A white stripe, you say?” Mr. Hearley asked, a wicked smile forming on his face.
“Yes.”
“You know, little girl, this is more splendid than I thought. That little bird of yours is the exact same one that I am going to kill someday.”
“Kill my little bird? No sir, you must be joking,” the child whimpered with fright, her eyes filling with tears at the very thought.
“No, child, I’m not.”
“But—but you can’t! Mama always says tha—”
“Look, missy, I do not give a trifle of a damn about what your mother tells you. I’m going to kill that bird with my cat or, by the good Lord, I’ll buy a shotgun and blast that thing till the
coming of Armageddon!”
The girl said nothing, her eyes frozen on the fuming form of Mr. Hearley before her. Tears filled her eyes more rapidly now, and one by one they began to fall onto the dusty path that lay beneath her feet. Mr. Hearley said nothing in return, his angry eyes fixed on a patch of shrubbery near the child. Inside, he felt the tiniest form of regret welling up within him, but he stifled it out as quickly as it came. He did not want to feel anything but hatred for everything that surrounded him. It was, after all, this rage that had kept him alive since he left his father in the tavern so many years ago.
Slowly, the little girl turned away from him and took a few steps back towards the village.
“You’re a very mean man,” she whispered under her breath.
“Yes, I am a mean man, and by God, I only intend to get meaner!” At that, the girl no longer cried in shame but let the tears flow and wept openly, her dress soon becoming wet with the little drops of misery. Mr. Hearley, not being one who liked a scene in the least, turned around nervously, shuffling his weight from one foot to the other. Then, with a grim thought of determination in his head, he began to walk away.
III
Three more days had passed since the incident with the little girl, and for Mr. Hearley, they were passed in a satisfactory manner. No one had come to seek his acquaintance or offer him good will, as so many of the townsfolk did during the holiday season, and neither did Mr. Hearley offer them any goodwill. In fact, it seemed that ever since the incident with the child the villagers disdained him even more (something that the fisherman took the utmost delight in thinking).
He would continue his days as he had for so many years: Bitter in the morning, but in slightly higher spirits as the day dragged on. As the days came and went, the chill of winter began to creep into the little Township, and one by one, the villagers began to ready themselves for the birth of Christ. Mr. Hearley knew that he would take no part in such celebrations. It was not that he hated Christmas entirely, for in truth, there was some of it that he found to be quite agreeable. He wished peace into the world in his own special way on that day, for peace was one of his few personal requests. However, even the very thought of “love” and “goodwill towards men” drove him into such a fury that all he would do for hours afterwards was sulk. He hated those words almost as he hated the concept of them, and it was for this reason alone that he refused to celebrate Christmas in the traditional way.
There was also another thing that the fisherman did not like—though why he had it within his mind he could not tell, and try as he might, he could not get it to leave. It was the image of the girl, the little crying girl with the yellow dress who he saw frequently within his head, and this happening puzzled him more then it unnerved him. He could not understand why, when beforehand, nothing of the sort had ever troubled him before.
However, as the days grew closer to that wondrous season of Yule, there seemed to be a slight bit of change in the angler, though not as one might have thought. Determined not to let the remembrance bother him, he incorporated a sort of bounce in his step, as if he had never had anything wrong with him, and once in a very great while one could almost swear they saw brief flashes of a smile cross his lips, when he was certain that no one was looking. These smiles though were quite fake, made for the sole purpose of making his neighbors believe nothing had happened, and the instances they occurred in were very brief with long periods in between. Still, the villagers could not remember the last time that they had seen such a thing, and much gossip spread. Mr. Hearley was, in fact, delighted that his ruse was working, and hoped that, because of it, no one would hear of how he had made the little girl cry.
On Christmas Eve, Mr. Hearley did not rise early to leave for the dock, but decided to sleep in bed all morning. Not even the birds outside could wake him, for, having had a very late night selling his wares in the market, he found a deep and heavy slumber come upon him that no sounds could wake him from. When he finally awoke, he made himself his scanty breakfast and went outside, walking up and down the trails alone for the rest of the day. He had always loved to walk trails, even as a boy when he had felt the calling of the sea. He found the thrilling loneliness to be wonderful, as he was able to spend much time with his thoughts without the calling of work in the back of his mind.
That night as he sat down by his warm fireplace, the remains of supper by the table and a little mug of chocolate in his hands, he heard the faint sound of a rapping at his door.
Who, by the bloody saints, could it be at this time of night? he thought, looking outside. It was snowing now, the heavy flakes falling to engulf the earth in a blanket of frozen wetness.
There it is again: rap-tap-tap—damn it! Who would want to disturb me? He looked over by the nightstand that stood next to his chair. There upon it lay the book that he had been meaning to read for quite some time, but had never gotten around to doing.
“Might as well go and see who it is,” he muttered, rising from his chair and walking towards the door. He hoped—for the sake of whoever it was knocking—that it was not carolers. The last carolers who had dared disturb him on Christmas Eve had had a pair of slippers thrown at them.
“Yes, who is it?” he cried, flinging open the door and looking around. Then he stepped back with a look of shock and muddled disbelief. There, standing right outside the doorway, was the same little girl whom he had made weep several days before. She looked on the verge of weeping again, though, her faced riddled with lines of weariness and fear.
“Oh, please sir—” she began but was promptly cut off.
“What do you want? Why are you disturbing me in the middle of the night? Haven’t your parents taught you any manners, missy?”
“Please sir, it’s for my parents I’ve come. I—they—they’re ill, very, very ill. I’ve walked so far. Mama says it’s the coh-le-ra and, and…”
“And I do not believe you!” Mr. Hearley shouted, flinging the door open even wider, his nightgown flapping furiously in the biting wind. “You’re just saying that to get back at me for what I said to you before! Ah, but I know your mind, yes, I know it well! Look here, go home and that’s it, you hear? Goodnight, missy!” And, with that, he slammed the door shut and left the child out in the cold alone.
That night, Mr. Hearley slept firmly, though not soundly. His mind was filled with dreams; ghastly dreams, the type of dreams that make one shiver and quiver on even the warmest of nights. There were little girls in yellow dresses and throngs of blue-breasted birds, all pointing to him and laughing, “Aha!” as he fell. He dreamt this many times that night, for each time he would awake from his dream, he would fall back to sleep and dream it again—him always falling, them always laughing.
The next day was cold and unwelcoming to Mr. Hearley. Every thought of having a peaceful, quiet day was shattered with the coming rays of dawn. He did not know what to make of the little girl’s appearance the night before, but the happening played itself over and over in his mind, haunting him even more. Was she really telling the truth? He could not say. He didn’t think she was, but something on her face seemed to tell him just the opposite; it was the look of fear and genuine distress that was painted on her youthful cheeks. Mr. Hearley still refused to believe it.
He spent the entire day inside; staring into the charred remains of last night’s fire. No one came to wish him a Merry Christmas, and perhaps that was a good thing, for no one could tell that he was mad, and most certainly no one would wish to be the subject of his curses and ill will on Christmas morn. That night he ate his supper alone, and after reading some of his book, fell into a fitful sleep.
The next day was spent in solitude as well, though nothing ran through his mind this time. He lay upon the floor for the better part of the afternoon, staring up at the ceiling, thinking of nothing and feeling nothing. He was intrigued by the distress on the face of the child, yet why he was, he could not tell. For a time, he thought it was because he had known similar distress, but after a while he knew that he had not. What has caused his trouble as a youth (and subsequent misanthropy) was from what had happened to
him at sea, not from what had happened to
another. As the day drew on and the shadows on the floor grew deeper, a thought entered into his head:
Hearley, ol’ boy, you’re being pathetic, lying there on such a day. Perhaps—yes, perhaps you could at least go and see if she was telling the truth. There’s no harm in doing so, and after you’ve found out, you can put these musing out of your mind entirely.
“Yes, I think I will!” he cried, jumping up from the floor and heading towards the door. He threw it open wide, and stepping out onto the little path, breathed in the cold air of the late afternoon.
It was getting dark, and the thick shadows of the tress crept stealthily over the wet carpet of snow, making each flake seem like a little diamond in a vast sea of black. He looked out onto the path. There, just before his house, stood a little form coming towards him. Who is that? he wondered, and then waved, “Hail, who are you?” The figure stepped closer to the house and out into the dying embers of the sunlight. It was the little girl.
She did not look like she had the last time he’d seen her, though. Her dress was torn and dirty, and long streaks of soot covered her from head to toe. Bare and numb little toes wiggled nervously in the snow as she cast her eyes downward, ashamed to be seen this way. She had obviously been crying, Mr. Hearley could tell that, but why she was crying he could not understand. In one of her hands she dragged a little blanket through the snow, her posture limp and dejected.
“Little girl, how splendid—I was just about to come your way! Tell me, how are your parents?” The child looked up at him, her eyes filling with tears again at his question. She cried for a moment then, sniffling, opened her mouth.
“They—they’re dead,” she said at length, tears gushing forth in a new wave as soon as the last word was uttered.
“Dead?” Mr. Hearley asked in shock, his face paling at the news. Obviously, whatever he was counting on hearing, he had not thought this would be the response.
“Yes, dead… and the house is cold and empty. The little goose Mama was going to cook for supper still lies cold inside the hearth.”
“But… but how?”
“The coh-le-ra… Oh sir, I tried to tell you—I really did—but you wouldn’t listen to me!” she wailed, her little knees buckling as she toppled into the snow in misery. She lay there in a heap, her little form convulsing with every fresh sob that came from her throat.
“There’s no use crying over what cannot be helped now,” Mr. Hearley said, not knowing what else to say to her. “Why didn’t you tell anyone else besides me?”
“‘Cause I don’t know anyone else, sir,” she replied between sobs, her cheeks pink from rubbing. “The other children don’t let me play with them, ‘cause they think my leg is funny.”
Mr. Hearley stood there for a moment, beholding this child, this utter incarnation of misery. Inside, beneath the layers of hardness and bitterness he had built up over the years, he felt remorse, for he too knew how she felt at that moment. With almost a sense of shame, he wondered if there was anything he might have done to save her parents had he not sent the child away that dark and freezing night. Something within him screamed to help, to show compassion upon her. He hesitated, not knowing what to do; then, with a sudden impulse, he placed his hand upon her shoulder.
“Come, girl,” he said, forcing every syllable out of his mouth. “It is late, and a cold house is not the right place to be this time of year. I will take you in for tonight, but only tonight, you understand?” Slowly, she nodded her agreement. “Good, now get up off the snow—that’s better. Tomorrow we shall look into this.”
“Th—thank you, sir for your… hos-pi-tal-ity. At least, I think that’s the right way to put it—Mama always said it was,” she replied, getting up off the snow. Without wasting any more time, the fisherman stiffly led her up into the house.
Much to the surprise of Mr. Hearley, the supper they held together that night was quiet. He could not tell if it was because of the recent trauma that the girl had undergone, or if she was well taught in manners, or if she was simply hungry. Whatever it was, the child had hardly said a word since he had brought her inside and placed her near the fireplace, and only spoke when she was spoken to.
Mr. Hearley thought this to be odd, for though he had never associated himself with children before, he had always thought them to be rowdy and always running off into mischief. However, as it had gotten closer to suppertime she had said less and less, and during the meal, she had simply stared off into the fireplace, not even bothering to reply when the fisherman would ask her something.
She was like this for some time after supper as well. Shortly after their meal, the fisherman had given up any hopes for conversation altogether and had reclined back into his chair, a book in one hand and a cup of chocolate in another.
“Why did you name her Clarice?” the girl’s tiny voiced whispered, her eyes still not leaving the fire.
“Hmm, what?” Mr. Hearley—who had hitherto been dozing—replied.
“Your boat, sir,” she said more boldly. “Why did you call her
Clarice?”
“Well, why shouldn’t I?” Mr. Hearley said after a moment’s pause. He shuffled his weight nervously, obviously irritated by the question. “It is, after all, a properly random name for a boat, is it not?”
“Not really, sir—if you don’t mind me saying so. Mama always says that boats are named after something or someone special. Papa was a fisherman, and he named his boat after someone special.” Her little voice trailed off as she stared into the fireplace, her little mind recalling distant memories.
“Really? What did he name it?”
“Anne,” she replied and started sobbing softly. “He named it Anne… after me.”
A sharp pain struck the fisherman as she said this, starting within his chest and coursing all over his body; a pain of guilt and of hurt that had been re-opened by her words. He had wondered before if she felt the same pain that he had gone through before, and though he would not have guessed it, he realized that she did in more ways than one.
“There… there is something I wish to tell you,” he said stiffly, his teeth tightly clenched to prevent his voice from cracking.
“What is it?”
“A story.”
“Oh, a story. I love stories. What type of story is it?” Anne asked, immediately scooting closer to his chair.
“A story… a story on how boats get their names,” he replied with a resigned sigh.
“That sounds nice, please tell it to me.”
“I will, but—oh—how should it begin?”
“‘Once upon a time,’—that’s how most of Mama’s stories used to start.”
“Alright then, once upon a time—as stories so often go—there lived a man who dreamed of the sea. The sea fascinated him, intrigued him, everything that was the sea he swore himself to. His mother and father did not like the sea and they tried to keep him away from it, but—”
“Why didn’t they like the sea?” Anne asked, suddenly turning red as she remembered her manners. The fisherman smiled back at her patronizingly.
“They just didn’t… they thought the sea would be bad for their son, but their son would not listen. He went out to sea on many ships and went to many places, but still he was not satisfied. Then he found a ship that would take him ‘round the world—and ‘round the world, missy, is a very long distance, you know.
“It was fun for him as he sailed, and he visited many places that he had never known before. There were the natives of South America with beautiful women who played in the jungles, their hair done up in little rings, and flowers amongst their curls. He visited the coasts of California and slept under the open sky in a village of real ‘Indians’ for the first time.
“Many other places he visited, and many other wonderful lands he saw. But the most beautiful were the lands of the Indies, and it was there that he met a girl. She was a lovely young woman who loved the sea as much as he did. She told him that she was from London, from a rich family that dealt in spices from the interior of the peninsula.
“By a stroke of luck, the ship that the man was on had been passed down to him by the captain himself before he died of scurvy. Therefore, being in charge, the man called shore leave for the crew and was able to spend much time with the spice merchant’s daughter. As the days passed he began to fall in love with her.”
“That’s very nice,” Anne remarked, her little eyes sparkling with the mention of romance, as little girls’ eyes so often do.
“Yes, it was very nice for a time, but there was a problem. The girl said that her father would never let him be with her since she was rich and he was poor. Therefore, she suggested that they run away together. She said that there was a secret cove that lay near an island some miles offshore. She told him that if he would be there in three days’ time she would come to him, and they could live happily ever after.
“And so the young man waited; waited and dreamt of his love. Those three days were spent in twilight, in a dream of anticipation that seemed to take a lifetime to complete, yet at the same time was short as a second. There were many tales of pirates in the region, but the young man did not care. Nothing would keep him away from his love.
“Then, on the night appointed, he took his ship and crew and they sailed to the island where she said she would be waiting. It was foggy that night and a strong westward wind blew them straight to the island, but made coming away from it nearly impossible. However, once they had come to the island, they did not see the secret cove but a pirate frigate—that’s a thirty-gun ship. The pirates told the young man and his crew to surrender, but rather than do that, they fought the best they could. The sailor’s ship was destroyed and all but the captain were killed. He was taken down into the hold of the pirate ship to await his fate.
“The young man waited for three days in the brig of the vessel, and let me tell you, the inner depths of a pirate ship are none too pretty. There were rats, big rats that would come by and eat his food, and if he tried to scare them away, they would turn and try to attack him. Then, at the end of three days, the captain of the pirate ship came down to see him.
“The young sailor was expecting an evil-looking man to come, the kind that has a patch over one eye and smells of too much brandy. Imagine his shock, Anne, when he found out that it was not an evil man at all but something much, much worse. It was not a man but a woman, the very woman whom he loved!
“He asked her to explain, and she told him that she had seduced him, tricked him into coming to the island just so that she could have the gold his boat carried. Then—as if that was not bad enough—she told him that by pirate law the captain of any vessel who did not surrender to a pirate ship would be tortured to death.”
“How awful!” Anne cried, shuddering.
“Yes, it was awful for the young sailor. Night and day they tortured him, using cruel methods to try to break his spirit. But even though they hurt him, even though they left him for days without food and only enough water to survive, he would not let go. He held on, hoping that one day someone would come to rescue him.
“Then, when he felt as if all hope was lost from him, an English Ship-of-the-Line intercepted the pirate vessel, and in the battle that ensued he managed to get away. A merchant vessel picked him up, and once his health returned to him he found another ship to take him back home to England.
“However, when he returned, he found there was nothing left for him. No family, no friends; all thought that he had died long ago. Therefore, he began to start a new life, far away from the sea and all that it entailed. However, though he found a life and a new village that suited him, he could not forget the memory of the woman he had once loved. Every time he had seen her when he was tortured on the pirate ship, he would only scream ‘I love you!’ For, in truth, Anne, although she tricked him, although she tortured him, he loved her still, he truly did.
“Therefore, taking up the profession of a fisherman, he decided that he would name his new boat in memory of her. His mother had always told him that ‘true love never forgets,’ and he knew it would be the same for him. He truly had loved her, and therefore, he would make sure he never would forget her by naming his boat after her. And that is how, once upon a time, a boat got its name.”
“That is a pretty story.” Anne yawned, breaking the silence that had filled the room after the tale was done.
“Yes, it was a pretty story; a pretty story indeed.”
“I think I’d like to go to bed now, though. Mama always used to tell me that after supper comes stories, and after stories, bedtime.”
“Then off to bed with you. No, no child, you will not have to sleep on the rug. There in the closet is a mat. Go and pull it out, and then you’ll have something to sleep on.” After a few minutes of Anne tugging at the cot and Mr. Hearley scrounging around his bedroom for an extra blanket, they managed to make a bed for the girl.
He watched her now, her tiny form sleeping peacefully by the warmth of the fireplace. “It is not right for one so young to know such misery… such sorrow,” he muttered to himself, his empty mug grasped numbly in his hands.
You were once like that too, ol’ boy. Before you went out to the sea.
“Yes, I know, but I wasn’t sad like she is now.”
No, I was sad later… damn it! Mankind was not made to be sad in such a way. A child loses her parents, a young man loses his love and life. Who is to say which is more wretched?
“But I never hated you!” Mr. Hearley half-shouted out into the shadows that surrounded him. The child stirred at his outburst and he lowered his voice. “Even though you killed me in every way except death, Clarice, I kept my promise… I always loved you.” He looked at the sleeping form of the child again. “I never have forgotten you.” He closed his eyes and imagined his beloved as he remembered her, every line and every curve that he had recalled so vividly in his mind before. He had not forgotten, and perhaps that was a good thing, yet sometimes he wished that he could have forgotten and lived his life in peace.
“It does not matter now, though,” he whispered, staring at the ceiling.
I once hated mankind so that I did not have to hate you, my love, and therefore, I put disdain upon my own soul. I thought that no one could have known what I had gone through, and I hated them for it. He looked down once more at the sleeping form of Anne, her eyes closed in peaceful serenity.
Now I know that this is not so—now I have the chance to love again. Sighing softly, Mr. Hearley got up and stoked the fire for the last time that night. He headed to his room, a fresh tear trickling down his cheek with every step. He felt that every tear was a token, a symbol of the pain and spite that he had built up within him for so many years.
He came to his bed and mechanically entered it. The tears did not stop flowing but came even more, wiping his mind clean and leaving an abysmal emptiness in their wake. Then with a sigh, he shut his eyes and began to think, but his thoughts were not of his long-lost love. In his mind he pictured the little girl who slept by the fireplace, and he wondered how he could help her in this time of distress. Then, with another sigh, Mr. Hearley smiled the first, genuine smile that he had in years. Inside, he knew that everything would become fine again.
