Last Residing Place
((or, Ordained by the Devil) (Puerto Natales))
Part one of two
In the mountains vicinity of Torres del Paine (in Patagonia), adjacent to the Strait of Magellan, in the Town-ship of Puerto Natales, Chile, in 1914, is an old story told, a lore of sorts, of an old man by the name of Hank Loft Lyn, employed by the Port Victorian Industry as a foreman on the dock area, it was a time when the sheep industry was at its zenith; Hank had a daughter, and the story goes something like this:
“In winter of 1914, a young man was sentenced to an unusual decision that involved death, or a continuation with the romance he was already having, already having with Marcella Loft Lyn, daughter to Hank Loft Lyn. It had started out, as a secret relationship—although it no longer was. And one of ill repute, according to Hank; and he tried aimlessly to talk his daughter out of the relationship, but was driven to accept it, presumably it was no satisfying thought. And so he came to accept tentatively the ongoing relationship, acting as if he was unaware of its seriousness, so far as to examine its close involvement, and the more obstinate he became, the more conviction he acquired to ransack the relationship, but in vain could he make any kind of settlement between the two—during this ongoing period. Even in favor of paying Bram Sherwood Crow the lover’s way out of town, back to Santiago, where he was from. But it didn’t seem to appeal to him, and thus, he continued to do as he pleased, in this small Chilean town-ship, of Puerto Natales.
“Briefly, the evidence shifted to where he was in favor of accord between killing one, or both of them, facts of the case, were: if he could not have his daughter, to attend to his needs in his elder years, and have to be left alone—as his wife had long been dead—then why should Bram have her, or perhaps if he couldn’t kill either one he could kill himself. In any case, a psychodrama seemingly was in play—between him, and his second-self, his mind’s eye, and he went through a dramatization, role playing, as if he was his daughter and Bram and himself. As if his log cabin home was a theater; and as if he had an audience: even a psychodrama director. He had come to the conclusion, the only relief he would have is to hauntingly play this drama out
“Therefore, it came to pass, the evening for that drama to be played out, when Bram came to see Marcella—thus, there would be no nightly chats this evening, to his dismay, and Hank told Bram—in no vague words, to follow him to the basement—which kept his imagination at high pressure, wondering where his Marcella was, and what was to become of him; once taken down into the potato cellar—as they often called those small cubbyhole type basements in those far-off days, that kept vegetables and other sorts of goods chilled, with gun in hand, Hank told Bram, to face the two doors dug out of the earth—recently—with his very hands, supporting beams all around the two doors, husky looking rafters (a dreadful sad face came over Bram, for the appalling circumstance had taken upon him this very look, brought him to examine his self-values, afresh—within his thoughts. But he said not a word he knew why he was there, he had been told more than once to leave Marcella alone, consequently brooding was not to be effective) Hank now telling Bram: “Behind one of these doors is my daughter, who says she can’t live without you, and behind the other door is a bear, that will devour you. My beautiful daughter-in-waiting, whom you will have to marry, if you select the right door, if not the bear will eat you and she will die alone—where she is now bound and tied—if indeed the bear doesn’t get to her first, as she chose to do; in either case, I will leave the selection up to you. And then he left the cellar, and Bram, to wait anxiously for his decision, locking the trapdoor behind him, knowing he’d have to make a decision one way or the other, that is to say, to save her, or run after him to save his own life, or beg for it. But he did not beg, and he did not run.
“Then, after the trapdoor shut, a moment of silence prevailed, then he heard his lover—a muffled voice from behind one of the doors, but which one he just couldn’t make out for sure, and he now could hear the bear, and again he was uncertain which door the bear was behind, his roar was so loud he figured he could be on either side of the wall which divided the bear and his lover—the voice of the bear became terrifying for Bram, as he started to extend his hand to open one of the doors the one to the left but stopped short (both doors being only inches apart). He hears the trapdoor, the one Hank had gone up and through, he hears it open, the latched, —he looks over his shoulder he can even see a little light from it, now it was opened completely: as if he now had a third choice. Now he stands stone-still, rethinking, hesitant, he was now having doubts and imaginings together making a force so full that he was driven (there was no longer any traction for a gratifying thought)…”
Note: Written 10-7-2010 (No: 691) bs
((Part one of two) (Part two: “Fresh from the Tomb”, No: 692/October 7, 1:29 a.m.,))
Fresh from the Tomb
((Ordained by the Devil) (Part Two))
Introduction: When my wife read this story—that is the first part of “Ordained by the Devil”, she asked what the ending was like. and I told her, I at first didn’t want an ending, so the story was complete as is, but I knew the ending, and had penciled it out, as an outline on a piece of paper, and tucked it away inside a book, for safe keeping, incase I’d want to bring it out some day and reedit the story. The story was written to make a person think, and for the reader to write his own ending. But she talked me into producing my ending, the one I had written down and tucked away.
The Ending
What was Bram Sherwood Crow’s decision? It went—to my understanding—something like this:
He turned about—in that damp and chilled cellar, saw the door was now opened, the trapdoor that is, and he left, gone out through that trapdoor above him, something had aroused the self-interest side of him, moreover, there was a traitor somewhere in his mind, something of our needs, in this case his needs superseded everything else—our doings to survive, amidst us unknown sometimes, perhaps, until cornered, something that we think is tied, tight, is really somewhat untied and comes looser in the wash—to do one dishonor—this is what took place. When silences no longer lit, and the pulse of life and death rifles alone within our beating minds, from bells to cannons—this was his second moment, where nobility and her whose beauty had at one point, won his heart, was fraud in the long run, and anxiety broke loose and wild and won him to nearly fly to safety, as wailing sounds pushed him up that ladder through the trapdoor, past Hank Loft Lyn, with not even a second thought—and out of the house, with not even a touch of either door in the cellar, to feel the pulse of who was behind those two doors, he grabbed the third choice, eyes wide open (if indeed we must get into more detail, it will only get worse).
It was but a short while before the police arrived at the scene (the constable, side by side with Bram), the boyfriend now leading them, to the trapdoor, and as a result, seeing to two mangled bodies, and the bear had made his escape also to who knows where. What had taken place was that the old man, Hank had gone back down into the cellar, left the door behind him unlocked, opened up the door to where the bear was, the door to his left, the very one Bram was going to open, and had opened up the door to where his daughter was, said to her, “You see, when I gave him a third choice, he didn’t select you, so in the long run, he was not worthy of you Marcella,” then the old man turned about, to endure his death by the bear standing but a few feet away, waiting reluctantly, for his feast.
Said the constable looking at Bram Sherwood Crow, “What can be sweeter than to find out she was not worth your loss?” Having said that, he said no more, I suppose knowing it was too late for him—Bram Sherwood Crow—to fight it; he could only wait now—wait with patience—for some kind of relief, and to this end, he could do nothing either, and the last anyone ever heard of him, was he had gone back to Santiago.
No: 692 (October 7, 2010)
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