Old Horace Hunter
(From Blarney, Ireland to the Waters of the Drake)
Coming forth at sundown off the village square, a grass field, dominated by the local townsfolk, where often they congregate, during the warm months all the way through and past October, in Blarney, Ireland, leaning back his head and a little forward, as he crossed the street, to give a hearty hug to his young daughter—each exchanging a pat on the other’s back and a kiss on the cheek, Old Horace Hunter, bid Narcissa farewell, god speed, as she was to depart and go onto her apartment, and ready herself for Halloween, and her father to drive himself a short ways out of the city limits, to the nearby—old Blarney Castile, an old ruins dating before AD 1200, to meet his friends for a Hollow Eve’s party.
“Dearest father,” she pleaded, in a most sad way, “stay in town, tonight, I have the queerest of feelings.” (Knowing in several days her father would be taking a trip to the far-off waters of the Drake Passage, she was worrisome)
“A young woman of your age always fears for her father’s life, it’s quite normal,” said old Horace, with a chuckle, “I’ll be just fine; later on this evening, I’ll be packing for Punta Arenas, Chile, and for a voyage into the turbulent waters of the Drake, something I’ve been wanting to do for a long time, like our European forefathers.”
“But father,” she murmured in a lower voice, “it’s Hollow Eve, come with me, we’ll be bobbing for apples, and doing other such games, we’ll have fortune tellers present, it will be a most ominous night under the safety and roof the many. It is not wise to be alone on such an Eve!”
“It is not all that far a distance from here,” exclaimed the old man, “you can see the castle from here, so be not worried.”
Old Horace Hunter fell to sleep in his car, inside an unoccupied, wooded area, within a forest dense but shallow in length and width, off the main drive from Blarney to the face of the castle itself. And there he had the weirdest of dreams, a nightmare in the makings. And perhaps what had oozed him to this near deadly and nightmarish sleep, was the dreary road he was on, dark as evils afterthoughts—the gloomiest of all trees hanging over the car, providing shadows and shapes with the light of the gibbous moon, as if tarantulas were hanging overhead. It was the most freakish and peculiarity for a soul to endure, and thus, its solitude set in motion the mind to create a theater for visions and the devils demise for a lasting nightmare.
It was from this evil omen, this long sleep that came forth a dream, the old man had—awakened fully, he found himself in a paranoid state. And in the following days and months and years, it became worse and worse. First he could not stand next to a lake, then a river, then nor could he look over a bridge onto a body of water, he could not listen to the sound of water after awhile, when he did his pulse would race. It got so bad, that after an even longer term, he could now allow the Priest to sprinkle holy water on him. And God forbid, but he did not go on his long sought out trip, to the Drake Passage. All because of a dream, a dream that brought him out of a ships cabin to enjoy the fresh air and spellbinding huge waves of the Drake Passage, to its stern, whereupon, he looked over the railing, and found himself being pushed, and there he drifted as a bloody corpse, sinking to the oceans bottom. And then upon his waking, fear had set in.
It was said, the old man retired to his estate, and there he sat in his rocker, rocking, dying slowly from, day after day, of the gloom.
Note: “Surprisingly, this is my first story out of nearly 700-short stories, that deals with Ireland, and I am half Irish, what a coincidence, and now that the story is half done, I just noticed it was Irish, by gosh, it’s about time.” Dlsiluk October 3, 2010 (No: 687)
No comments:
Post a Comment