Writer Wanted

"In my experience, nothing is harder for the developing writer than overcoming his [or her] anxiety that he is fooling himself and cheating or embarrassing his family and friends."
-John Gardner, novelist and literary critic

How true. In fact, I have privately faced that question many times - am I fooling myself? Am I really a writer? Okay, I'm writing these words, so in that meager context alone I do qualify. Broadening it out a bit I have written stories and articles in my time and been paid for doing it (Never enough to quit a day job, that's for damn sure.). I even wrote an unpublished novel manuscript that deserves to remain unpublished. But still…a writer? Me?

It's not like I go around telling everyone I'm a writer. And I certainly don't delude myself by thinking that people are clamoring to read every inspired word I put down. Hardly. (Though to be totally honest what writer doesn't, by the very nature of what he or she does, namely committing words to paper, secretly crave just a little immortality?)

So when does one who writes become A WRITER?

Novelist James Michener once said something to the effect that a good writer should only be published after he's written a million words. A dramatic way of saying one has to put considerable time and effort into his craft in order to call himself a writer. No argument there. I have no idea how many words I've written in my lifetime, but by that measure I'd have to start copying the dictionary cover to cover just to get up to speed. (Right now the word count on this piece stands at about 225, so let's see – 1 million divided by 225 equals – never mind.)

Like it or not, in this age of social media and the internet it doesn't require a gifted skill set to see one's words in print. Not that that's always a bad thing. There's easy access for everyone like never before. I simply choose not to define a writing vocation by including tweets and Facebook postings.

I earned a Masters Degree in Creative Writing. Does that give me honest claim to calling myself a writer? By itself I would have to say no. Just as someone who gets a degree in Philosophy shouldn't go around telling everyone they're a Philosopher by trade. Have you seen the want ads lately? Now that's a tough field to break into.

Do you have to write every day to be a writer? Probably wouldn't hurt. But I don't. Sorry, e-mails and shopping lists don't count.

Do you have to have a book out there with your name on the cover? Do you have to have a literary agent? Your own website? A thick portfolio of published articles?

Or can you just be someone who can put decent sentences together in order to get a point across, every now and then nailing it with a touch of clarity and color?

I'll go with that last one for now. So, yes, I am a writer. Really.

WHEN I GROW UP I WANT TO BE…

(This one isn't fiction.)


A football.
That's right. When I grow up I want to be a football. It says so right there in black and white, in the shaky hand of a third-grade student who happened to be me a long time ago. It's part of an irreplaceable chronicle called "My School Years," in which are archived the class pictures, report cards and various statistics of my grade school years. And there on the back page of the third-grade section I declared to the world what it was I wanted to be when I grow up. Not a fireman. Not a policeman. Not even a cowboy, astronaut or soldier. Nope. I marked the box with the blank line and wrote down the word 'football' in fat, uneven letters.

Now it doesn't take a genius or child psychologist to figure out that what I was really trying to say back then was I wanted to be a football player. I simply ran out of room to fit in the other key word. (God, I hope that really was what happened.) Nothing unusual about a young boy dreaming of being a football star. All I needed to work on was my throwing arm and/or my penmanship a little more.

Anyway, I came across this forgotten footnote recently and it got me to thinking: Why is it that some people know early on what they want to do with their life – or at least have a pretty good idea, while others struggle for years to find their 'calling'? Indeed many never find it at all. What triggers that light bulb to turn on for some and not for others? Is it Divine Intervention? Destiny? The way our particular molecules of DNA happen to wrap around each other? Or something more mundane like good education or plain old good luck? I know hard work fits in there somewhere, too, but doesn't that come after the fact?

That's not to say that anyone has an easier road just because they know what they want to do. We all have our struggles, our highs and lows, our dead ends. No free passes when it comes to that. Nor should there be. And certainly not everyone needs that 'aha' moment in order to lead a productive and fulfilling life. It just stands to reason that much like someone taking a long vacation trip, those who know ahead of time where they want to go have an advantage over those who just get in the car and start driving.

The truth is I'm still looking for some road signs.

I write these words not as a former football star, but rather as a man of steadily growing years who is still learning, still searching, still wondering: What do I want to be when I grow up? And again I am trusting that my vision can reach a little higher than wanting to be a fully inflated genuine leather pigskin.

By the way, according to my fourth-grade entry my focus had shifted to wanting to be a scientist. Yeah, that one turned out real good, too.

A Resting Place

In the end, I guess it all comes down to how you look at things. First time I laid eyes on that place the words wisped out of my mouth without my even thinking.
"What the hell?"
It was the last thing I expected to find hiking through lush green woods near my late brother's land, miles away from the nearest town or church. The closest landmark was a dirt road that didn't even have a name. I had walked through these woods with my brother before, but this was my first time back since…well, since he was gone. Somewhere along the line I must have taken a wrong turn. No signs gave warning, no fences or paths marked the spot. Set in a small clearing it had all the looks of a place lost in time and not meant to be found again.
Yet there I was, looking at a gathering of tombstones.
Seven in all. Choked off from the rest of the world by tall trees and untamed grass. Not one of them stood straight. Some were cracked, one cleanly broken in two.

The dirty white slabs appeared at first glance to have no markings on them. Though it was a late summer afternoon with not a cloud in the sky, the light and warmth of that
God-given day hardly seemed to reach in here. Maybe that explained the slightest of chills that crawled up the back of my neck like an evil whisper as I stared at those stones. What were these things doing out here?
Right away I caught a whiff of something sour in the air. Maybe a dead rabbit. Maybe some wild mustard weed growing nearby. Whatever. What struck me next was the noise – there was none. Was it just my imagination or was there nothing of what you'd expect to hear in the woods this time of year? No birds or insects buzzing, no rustling of leaves in the trees. All replaced by a quiet that went from subtle to eerie in the space of two or three hushed breaths. The spell was soon broken by something over to my right. Moving down there in the—
Son of a bitch.
A long thin snake, black as oil with no markings, slid its way slowly over the broken stone and a bare spot of ground. I watched it stop for a moment, lift its head up briefly, then continue on and disappear in the tall grass.
Of all the crazy things…a snake?
My body tingled as though I'd just touched a live wire. I held my breath waiting to see if it might reappear. When finally I felt it safe enough I did move carefully, treading as lightly as I could over the hard ground toward the nearest markers. The chiseled letters on the tombstones were speckled with moss and so weather-worn as to be almost invisible unless you were right on top of them.

Mathias Petersen Hans Petersen
Fodt 27 Sept 1862 Fodt 27 Sept 1862
Dodt 12 April 1869 Dodt 13 April 1869

Fodt? Dodt? What the hell kind of old world language was that? Then those dates. Eighteen Sixty-nine.
Damn.
Only with a second look did I catch other peculiarities. Twins – born on the same day and dying at a tragically young age. Buried one day apart.
A tepid breeze blew out of the north, and I might have been relieved to feel it were it not for something else, a strange noise it carried. It was faint and seemed to swirl in the wind, but for a few seconds I swore I heard it: horse's hooves. It could have been coming from any direction, or none at all. I'd heard tell of an Amish settlement a few miles west of here, so the idea of a horse and carriage traveling down the nearby road wasn't so far-fetched. No sooner had I begun to wrap my thoughts around that idea than the breeze died down and any sound of a trotting horse, if ever it was really there, vanished as well.
Silence returned.
I shook my head and stepped toward the next two tombstones. Same last name. Same date of death.


Johanna Petersen Engebret Petersen
Fodt 10 June 1849 Fodt 6 Mar 1846
Dodt 19 April 1869 Dodt 19 April 1869

I looked over at the next two.

Albert Skaarsgard Greta Halvorsen
Fodt 25 June 1848 Fodt 17 Oct 1847
Dodt 19 April 1869 Dodt 19 April 1869

The final marker, the broken one, lay face down in the dirt, and visions of that snake crawling over it moments earlier kept me from reaching down and lifting it up to read the name inscribed.
It struck me that I was standing on hallowed ground. A final resting place for seven souls long ago departed. Just because it didn't look like your typical manicured cemetery didn't make it any less a final resting place. But why then was there not so much as a single crucifix or peaceful symbol carved anywhere in this place? Why not even a word of grace. No hint of anything holy here. And then there was that god-awful snake, coiling back and forth over the ground like some devilish sentry guarding its post. Add it all up and, well, what if this place was different? What if this place was somehow unnatural and these people were meant to be forgotten? What if—?
Oh, for Christ sake, get a hold of yourself.

Obviously someone thought enough to make these headstones; maybe that was how they did it back then. Just names and dates. No big deal.
I stared again at the names of the twins. Then it came to me – the image of two grinning boys wearing scruffy trousers, dirty cotton shirts and wide-brimmed hats. These immigrants to a new land. Happy despite the hardships and too young to know any better. Walking down a dirt road or through a tall cornfield on a hot summer day, laughing and playing the way all kids should. That quaint little snapshot lingered for a moment until I started thinking about what could have happened to them – to all of them – to make them end up here.
I heard something: a whispered, chattering sound coming from beyond the trees. I looked all around me but saw nothing. A few seconds went by before I heard it again – this time longer and louder. That's when I realized what I was hearing wasn't a bird, it wasn't an animal, and it sure as hell wasn't the wind. It was the unmistakable sound of children giggling.
My heart was pounding in my chest like a tiny fist as I now had the inescapable feeling I was being watched. My mind said no, that's not possible, but the hot tingling on my skin said otherwise. I wasn't alone. Then something fell into the grass near my feet. An acorn maybe, or a small pebble. Almost like it was being thrown at me.
What the fuck?
"Who's there?"
The laughing stopped.
"Come on, who's there?"

Another object skipped on the ground and bounced off one of the headstones. I didn't have to wait long before it started up again. This time it was coming from those trees over to my right. Children laughing. Swear to God.
I should have run while I had the chance.
"You looking for something?"
I jumped when I heard his voice. I didn't know who he was or how he got there. Suddenly he was just there, standing behind me at the edge of the clearing, a thin old man with stringy white hair and an unruly beard.
I put a hand to my chest and waited for my breath to come back. "Jesus Christ."
As soon as I said that I thought I caught an angry glint flash in his eyes. Like fire. Then it passed just as quickly.
The bib overalls and red plaid shirt were as smooth and worn down as an old saddle. And cradled in his right arm, pointed to the ground but menacing nonetheless, was a shotgun. The damn thing looked positively antique.
"This is private land," he said calmly, like so many around here a man of few words. A trace of Scandinavian accent hung in his voice.
I thought about going up and offering my hand, introducing myself, but the unblinking stare – not to mention the gun at his side – held me back.
"I'm sorry if…I was just hiking through the woods. My brother's place is…was over that way. Guess I got lost."
"You best get on back then."
"Wait a minute. Hold on. You're the owner here?"
His answer was slow in coming. "You might say that."
"So what do you know about these headstones?"
"Why?"
"No reason, just curious. My brother never said anything to me about a cemetery back here."
"Don't figure many folks knew about it."
"How come?"
"Happened a long time ago."
Tell me, damn it.
"Please, I'd like to hear about it."
Another long pause before he answered. "Story is a family of Norwegian homesteaders passed through this way once, looking for good farm land to set up stakes. God-fearing people. Never caused nobody trouble. But then the whooping cough come around and the two boys took sick to it. Weren't no doctors or nobody to help. The young ones died real fast. Father had to dig the graves and lay them down with his own two hands. After that he got tore up with anger. Cursed God for taking his boys."
His bony hands tightened around that shotgun.
"Some say he lost his mind. Others say he made a pact with the devil himself to get his boys back. Believe what you will. But one night while the rest of the family was sleeping he loaded up his gun and put the barrel to each and every one. Saved himself for last."

The old man let out a sigh and lowered his head. "Does terrible things to a man when he has to bury his only two sons."
Two giggling little boys in wide-brimmed hats?
"So who buried them here? I mean, if the whole family was dead..."
He looked up but all he did was shrug his shoulders. His sad gray eyes wouldn't leave me alone as we stood facing each other, me in the sun, he in the shade. Finally I had to look away.
"That's quite a story," was all I could think to say.
The old man stood there, saying nothing, doing nothing. That unnerved me as much as that shotgun he was holding. Yet at the same time I could almost feel the hurt leaking out from that old man. A feeling to which I could relate.
"My brother he…uh…owned land back there," I said, pointing quickly over my shoulder. "Maybe you knew him – Josh Barton?"
The man shook his head. "I'm too old. Don't much know people around here no more."
"Well, he…he passed away two months ago. Heart attack. Kind of thing you never see it coming. But then, who does?"
"You miss him?"
What the hell kind of question…?
"Sure I do. I mean, yeah. In fact, it's still hard to believe he's gone."
"You got family?" he asked.
The question jolted me a little. "I'm divorced. Got a four year-old girl. Light of my life."
"Good. A man's gotta stay close to family. Don't you worry, won't be long you'll see your brother again."
What in the world is this guy talking about?
Next thing I know he's lifting the gun barrel a little higher, his right hand sliding toward the trigger.
"Now you ought not be here," he said softly.
"Look, I don't know what you're talking about. What is it about this place, anyway?"
"Said it yourself, you only found it 'cause you was lost. Be on your way. You don't belong here."
"Who are you?"
He nodded toward the ground behind me and I followed his gaze to the tombstones. Right away I focused on the broken one lying facedown in the dirt. The one name I hadn't read.
"I'm what you might call the caretaker," he said. "See to it nobody disturbs these graves."
Caretaker? Damn, either this guy's crazy or—
Just then my mouth went dry and a chill ran straight through me.
"That's what you're doing here – staying close to them?"
He hesitated for a second, then nodded.
"You mean all this time, all these years—"
"Each of us got burdens to carry. Some heavier than others is all."
My God, this can't be happening.
I stepped back quickly, almost stumbling over my own feet.
When he spoke next his voice seemed to carry an echo, like it was coming from deep inside a tunnel. "Like I said, this here is private land and you're trespassing. Now you best get going."
All at once a gentle breeze began to blow and I could hear the trees and bushes rustling. That was enough for me. Too stunned to say or do anything else, I kept back-peddling. After taking one last look into his eyes I turned around and started walking away. Slowly at first, then faster and faster until I was running like a scared little kid. When finally I did find my way back to the familiar trail I was sweating and nearly out of breath, though I didn't stop. Not until I was safely across the property line. Back where I belonged.
Only then did I look back at those lush green woods, now alive with birds. And the faintest sound of children giggling.



-end-

A Few More Good Ones

"Sir, if you were my husband I would poison your drink."
                                  - Lady Astor to Winston Churchill
"Madam, if you were my wife I would drink it."
                                   - his reply


"When I read about the evils of drinking I gave up reading."
                                   - Henny Youngman


"My wife and I were happy for twenty years. Then we met."
                                   - Rodney Dangerfield


"The problem with the world is that everyone is a few drinks behind."
                                    -Humphrey Bogart


"I had some words with my wife, and she had some paragraphs with me."
                                     -Anonymous


"Some people ask for the secret of our long marriage. We take time to go to a restaurant two times a week. A little candlelight, dinner, soft music and dancing. She goes Tuesdays, I go Fridays."
                                      -Henny Youngman

And finally...

This exchange between Groucho Marx and a female contestant on his television show You Bet Your Life:

Groucho: "You have twenty-two children! Why do you have so many children? That's a big responsibility and a big burden."

Woman: "Well, because I love children, and I think that's our purpose here on earth, and I love my husband."

Groucho: "I love my cigar too, but I take it out of my mouth once in a while."

A Faraway Fable

And now for something completely different...

Picture if you will a tropical island, lost and forgotten in time as it lies alone, surrounded by an endless reach of blue-green ocean. Without burden or benefit of civilized advance the island remains as it has for centuries, uncharted and unknown. From horizon to horizon the sun arcs across the sky every day, blazing relentlessly.

            Once removed from the power and surf of the ocean, the beach of sparkling white sand gives way to plants, vines and trees of every shape and size that together hold the sun's heat and refuse to let it go. In there the place comes alive with the shrieks and chirps of birds and other creatures heard but not seen.

            Running through the middle of that jungle is a small river. Its brown, silty water moves slowly, but at least it moves. The fetid air all around does not. At a bend in the river is a sandy bank, and it is there every day that an old crocodile lays in the sun like a fallen log. With weathered skin and crooked white spikes jutting out of its mouth he shows his age. Robbed of his speed and quickness by uncounted years gone by, he is content now to live out his time in peace, knowing full well that on this island he has no challenge.

            One day everything changes when a young sailor is washed ashore, the sole survivor of a shipwreck on a reef miles away. Tumbling in on wave after wave he collapses on the soft warm sand, gasping and grateful to heaven that his life has been spared. He rests his head on the sand and his parched lips whisper, "I'm alive," before he closes his eyes and sleeps.

            In the days that follow he struggles but learns to survive on his own: finding bits of food, harnessing fire, building a shelter. He starts to regain his strength. As the days stretch on and it becomes clear that he is the only human soul on this island his thoughts grow bold. Fear and sadness at his plight slowly give way to the notion that, for the first time in his young life, he is, by natural order, king of all that he sees. 

            He explores the island and comes to know of the old crocodile, always lying there motionless on the river bank. But for the young man what was once fear soon becomes something else. It starts out as little more than a game – throwing a clump of mud at the animal and quickly ducking behind a tree. This done, of course, from the safety and distance of the other side of the river.  So he throws a stick. Then another. Soon he is stepping out into the open, standing at the water's edge and throwing stones at the animal's head. Every day he comes to the river and plays his game. Every day laughing, taunting, then turning his back and strutting away. Each time the croc sits and does nothing.

           

            Then one day the young man comes down to the river, only to find the sandy bank empty. He looks up and down the murky stretch of water.

            Nothing.          

            "Where are you?" he says softly to himself. His heart pounds and the sweat runs down his face as he scans the tangle of plants and trees around him.

            "Where are you?" he yells.

            The jungle falls silent.

            With hurried steps he retreats to the safety that he always finds on his side of the island.

            But he is compelled to return the next day, and the day after that. The crocodile is not there. By now a faint voice of triumph is ringing in the man's head. That croc must have known he'd met his master. Still, only a fool would test those dark and perilous waters. Better to simply claim victory and walk away.

            And walk away he does, tossing out of his mind the funny notion that somehow the jungle is watching him. He returns safely and dives into a lagoon just off the ocean. Wading in to the clear blue water the heat of the day washes off him as he floats on his back and stares up at the sun and the limitless sky. Minutes pass by unnoticed and he smiles. King of all that he sees.

            By the time he hears the rush of water and looks over it is too late. The force smashes into him and takes him under as a searing pain rips through his chest. He tries to fight but it doesn't last long. The last two things he sees are bony white teeth and clouds of red blood. His last thought is one of regret. Profound regret.

           

            When it's all over the old crocodile crawls up on the beach. Beneath the sound of breaking surf he slowly makes his way back to his favorite spot in the sun where he will rest once again.

            Long live the King.

-end-

An Open Letter To My Dad

In honor of Father's Day I thought I would post a letter written by my father, Clarence Stolt, in 1963 after the passing of his father.

An Open Letter to my Dad:

The phone seemed to jingle a little more nervously than usual when Carol called at the

office and said you had slept away peacefully.

It wasn't unexpected. We both put up a bold front in our last visit at the St. Paul V.A. Hospital 10 days ago, but inwardly we knew.  You made it clear that 85 was a lengthy life and you had no regrets in leaving.

I boarded the Hiawatha train the following day and found the quiet of a streamliner rolling northward an ideal place for reminiscing.  You had a full life, Dad. Coming over from Sweden in rugged pioneer tradition and starting a new life in northwestern Wisconsin was no easy task.  But it sure developed your initiative, independence and, best of all, the good old virtue of common sense which more than compensated for your meager schooling.  Never gave it much thought before but your working years must have been in excess of 60 years.  I don't think you were idle a day until you reached 75.  With limited means you saw that we three kids went to college, which is a splendid tribute to both you and Mother.  Remarkably good health blessed your life until that pesky hip accident. This, coupled with Mother's passing, dulled your zest for living a little, but you kept such thoughts pretty much to yourself.

Two old photographs come to mind.  The faded confirmation photo in which your eyes speak sheer devilment, and that picture of you in your Spanish-American war uniform displays a physique few servicemen boast today.  Not much fighting in that conflict, but those training camp conditions you mentioned on occasion didn't make me a bit envious.  Incidentally, I'm told you were the last of the Spanish-American vets in Pierce County.

By golly we had some great times together.  Those fishing trips on the St. Croix river:  (remember the time I cast your new rod into the depths of the Mississippi?); those leisurely car trips along Lake Pepin where as a youngster you did some commercial fishing; those trips to the Minnesota State Fair.  Oh yes, there were many more – the pheasant we snitched out of season; and how you enjoyed coming to Milwaukee to see the Braves perform.  Never could figure where you got the stamina to sit through those laborious doubleheaders.

Our Christmas gathering last December left the most pleasant memories.  You were feeling exceptionally chipper and I was amused by your comment that Kent Francis, my youngest, really warmed up to you on this visit.   I know how happy you were two years ago when he came along to carry on the family name.  Kent is a dynamic chap, a little too mischievous at times; I'm sure he takes after his "Gwam Pa."

Truthfully, Dad, I never heard anyone say a harsh word about you and my memory isn't good enough to recall all the compliments concerning the love, respect and help you gave your fellow man.  Typically, you never bothered to mention to me your recent generous gift to the local church.  You are certainly worthy of the Lord's promise: "Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard…the things which God hath prepared for those that love Him."

Thanks for everything, Dad. I know you are having a marvelous time now, and deservedly so (though I'd like to know how you explained about that pheasant incident). I won't say goodbye – just so long for a spell.

Sincerely,

Clarence

Alice the Goon

Beware fast night, b'neath cold pale moon,

When all manner of men shall cower.

A mare, she shall rise with a dense, crooked eye,

The one they call Alice the Goon.

            .

            Long ago it was called All Hallows Eve or All Saints Eve, a solemn, mystical night when, it was believed, the souls and spirits of the dead could come back to pay a visit on the living. For better or for worse. Today we call it Halloween - a popular holiday of parties and cheap costumes, maybe a good joke or two thrown in for good measure. Somewhere between all that, between yesterday's superstition and today's celebration, lies the following tale.

            It happened during the season of the dying leaves, the sometimes sparkling, sometimes dreary time of year when the days grow shorter and the nights turn colder; the end to another hard year of planting, hoping and harvesting. In villages near and far there was little to do now but wait for the long winter soon to come. And pray for enough bounty in those harvests to make it through till Spring.

            Late at night a bonfire crackled and sparked in one such village square. A group of men sat around the fire, quietly drinking their wine and feeling the warmth across their faces, turning their backs, as it were, to the darkness all around them. The women and children had already retreated to the safety of hearth and home.

            The hollow call of an owl broke the silence.

            "Harvest moon," Schoolmaster Benjamin Thomas said, looking up at a starry sky. "Mighty fine night for witches, I'd say."

            Startled looks all around.

            "Shhhh," whispered Joshua Jamison, a devout churchgoer and farmer. "You heard what the parson said – there's to be no more of that talk 'round here."

            "The parson," Thomas said, choosing his words carefully, "is not with us now."

            "Bloody hell does that matter? We've all had our fill of witchcraft and then some. You know that. Does no good to stir things up again."

            "Does no good to be afraid of the dark, either."

            Jamison scoffed. "You be careful there, Master Thomas, such talk only invites more troubles."

            "That would be your view, my friend, not mine."

            There was a tense pause before the short, half-witted one they called Eric the Half a Man spoke next. "I heared once an old man tell that if you want to see a witch fly through the sky all you need do is wear your clothes inside out and stand on a big rock at midnight. On harvest moon no less."

            "Don't be daft, ya silly old goat," chided Nels Van Echten, the burly village blacksmith. "Witches can't fly. Besides, everyone knows what you ought do is ring a bell five times at midnight and they won't come anywheres near."

            "Ach, you're both tipsy," said old man Wilson, widower and onetime barrel maker, now more or less retired. He cleared his throat with vigor and spat on the ground. "What you need do when you fear a witch is about is walk backward 'round your house three times a'fore the sun sets."

            Eric the Half a Man, for one, was confused. "Walk backward the whole time?"
            "Do it and they don't dares bother you. I should know. I done it."

            "And it worked?"         

            "Not one single person come knocking on my door since I did the funny walk."

            The men looked over at Wilson as the firelight danced on his craggy face. Hard to argue the logic.

            The night drew longer, the moon rose higher, and a slight breeze drifted through the moonlit compound. One by one the men drained the last of their mugs and retired for the evening, each man bidding good night to the others and heading home with his own groggy thoughts. Only Schoolmaster Thomas remained, but as the hour grew late his eyes, too, became heavy and he knew it was time to turn in. He just couldn't lift himself out of the chair. The breeze had shifted and now it began to blow stronger through the trees from the north. With one strong blow the rustling leaves and scraping tree branches made a peculiar sound that could almost pass for laughter; a woman's laughter. It floated in the air for a moment, then was gone. Thomas leaned forward. Could there be someone out there at this time of night? Laughing? Or was it all just a trick of the wind and his weary mind? His own logic quickly settled on it being the wind and he slid back in his chair, pulling his coat tight against the chill. But then came the unsettling feeling that from out there in the darkness someone was watching him. The eyes of someone, or something was, at that very moment, upon him. He could feel the goose bumps.

            "Wilson, is that you, you old rummy?"

            All was quiet.

            "Van Echten? None of your foolishness now. I warn you."

            No answer. Nothing at all.

            He stared hard into the darkness for a full minute until finally the presence went away. A pickled grin came to his lean face as he poured out the last of his wine on the ground. Enough of that. On weakened legs he stood up and braced against the chilled air. One last look around. Probably nothing more than a deer.

            "Witches indeed," he muttered before heading for home as quickly as he could manage.

            The village awoke next morning to bright sunshine; the air crisp and scented with woodsmoke. There were chores to do, mouths to feed, and with the early bustle no one noticed that the chair occupied by Wilson the night before was broken and shattered. No one yet noticed the five-pointed star – a pentagram – crudely scratched into the ground on the same spot.

            Thomas was on his way to the schoolhouse when one of his students came running up to him, nearly breathless.

            "Master Thomas, Master Thomas, have you heard?"

            "Slow down, young man. What's the excitement?"

            "Old Mister Wilson was attacked last night asleep in his own bed."

            "Attacked?"

            "Bludgeoned something awful, so they say."

            "Is he safe? Is he alright?"

            The boy shrugged his slender shoulders. "He swears it was a witch that done it. Keeps saying a name over and over - Alice something or other."

            Thomas stiffened. Despite considering himself a man of logic and reason, mere mention of that name was enough to cause a chill to brush up against him; an ill wind blowing. Without saying another word he sent the boy on his way. The memory of it all still hung fresh in his mind.

            Her name was Alice Thornton, a spirited young mistress who once lived in a downtrodden house at the edge of the village. Heavier and taller than most her age, with thick black hair billowing out, it would by nature have been her lot in life to stand out in a crowd wherever she went. But what sealed her fate was a terrible accident involving her first attempt at shoeing a horse. One slip with a nail, a crushing kick to the face, and a curse was born.  

            For what has a young woman when beauty and hope is taken from her? To whom can she turn when all have turned against her? Throughout the village the children taunted her, throwing stones and running from her with shrieking fright. Having once been seen wrestling with a neighbor's pot-bellied pig, colorful stories of her brute, manly strength sprang from every child's mouth. Adults were no less cruel, and from them came

more accusations: she spoke in strange tongues, they said. She had the power to levitate herself off the ground. Her face bore the mark of the devil himself. She was different and different was not welcome.

            Time passed, but not so the cauldron of rage now simmering inside her growing body. Living in the shadows she came out only at night. Strong drink and foul words became as much a part of her as the black frock coat she took to wearing year-round. No one dared speak to her. No one dared cross her path. Thus was the fateful transformation made complete. Young Alice Thornton became Alice the Goon.    

            Then in the middle of harshest winter a strange illness befell several children, their faces stricken with tiny scabs that no herb or poultice could cleanse. Panic settled in amongst the villagers, prompting the elders to meet in secret. When old man Wilson stood and declared this the work of a witch all, save one, quickly cast a guilty hand against Alice the Goon. The only prudent thing to do, they reasoned, was banish Alice from the village.

            Later that same night, before said banishment could be carried out, someone took matters into their own hands and set fire to her house. Terrible screams were heard as the flames grew higher. Not one person tried to save her. Some swore they saw Alice running through the snow and into the woods, shouting curses while her dark coat and hair trailed smoke.  She was never seen again. Within weeks Alice, and whatever ailed the children, were long gone and forgotten.

            At the news of the attack on Wilson the schoolmaster hurried to see for himself the damage done. Men and women still huddled outside the old man's home, whispering

and wondering what had happened during the night. Thomas worked his way through the crowd. Inside he found Wilson lying in his feather bed, his head and arms covered with nasty bruises and welts. It was all Thomas could do to gasp the man's name.

            "'Twas her," Wilson said right away, his voice trembling and racked with pain. "Alice the Goon come back from the dead."

            "Calm down, my friend."          

            "Don't tell me to calm down. Look at me. Look what she done."

            "An awful thing, no doubt. But a thief perhaps. Some roving bandit that came down from the hills."

            "With long black hair and the devil's eyes? I know what I seen and it was her, I tell you. Standing where you are now, arm raised with a pitchfork in her hand." He closed his eyes and groaned, like he was watching it all over again.

            Looking down at the floorboards Thomas could see all sorts of scuff marks and scrapes of dirt, but no telltale clues. Nothing else in the room seemed out of place.

            "Did this thug say anything? Take anything?"

            Wilson shook his head and wouldn't stop. "She's come back from the grave to take vengeance on us all. On All Hallow's Eve she come back."

            Knowing no words would bring comfort to the old man Thomas left quietly, stepping out into the muddy yard and welcoming for a brief moment the warm calmness of the sun. That is until he saw the stumpy figure and struggling gait of Eric the Half a Man coming around the house. Walking backward.

            "What the devil are you doing?"

            "More bad news, I'm afeared," Eric said, stopping to take off his dirty bowler hat and scratch his head.

            "Well?"

            "Tell you one thing, squire, ain't as easy as you'd think walking like this. But you remember what Mister Wilson said about…you know, witches and all."

            "Damn it, man, what's the bad news?"

            "Seth Hopkins. He come to town this morning saying he found all his livestock killed over night. Says the necks was cut clean through."

            "Their necks?"

            "Sliced like melons, each and every one. What a bloody mess that must've been, eh? Poor bastards."

            "How does one sneak up on an animal and cut…?"

            "Killed 'em real fast, I bet."

            "But why?"

            Eric shook his head. "That's just what Seth said."

            "Where is he now?"

            "Who?"

            "Seth Hopkins!"

            "All right, all right, no call to get snippy. I reckon he's back at his stable, cleaning up all that rot."

            Thomas stood dumbfounded, not knowing what to make of this. "I must get back to the schoolhouse. The children will be waiting for me."

            Eric flashed his dirty yellow teeth. "Right. You do that, squire. You go to school like a good little boy. I'll finish up my duties here."

            Thomas watched as Eric continued walking backwards, then he himself turned and started to make his way down the road when from behind he heard a grunt and the heavy thump of flesh falling to the ground. He shook his head and kept on walking.

            As if vicious assaults on man and beast weren't enough, reports started coming in from every corner of the village telling of broken windows and petty thefts – a chicken here, a sack of grain there. Horses were skittish. The well water didn't taste right. Something strange was happening. Then to top it off there was the discovery of the pentagram – the mark of the witch - scratched into the ground in the village square. By nightfall everyone was on edge.       

            Master Thomas still could not bring himself to speak aloud of such things as curses and witches. But he was no fool either; obviously someone had been intent on doing damage here. Like his neighbors he too would bolt his door and keep vigil for the safety of home and family. Sleep would not come easy this night.

            Indeed, into the wee hours Thomas sat in the amber glow of an oil lamp, a loaded rifle leaning against the wall within easy reach. Ready to move at the first unwelcome noise. But all he heard was the occasional gust of wind outside and the steady ticking of a wall clock inside. The hours drew out slowly. Time ticking away softly until finally his eyes closed.  

            Somewhere in deep slumber it came to him – a vision of a black horse thundering across an open field at dusk, ridden by a hooded figure, face unseen. Coming straight on.

The animal's breath bellowing and its hoofbeats tearing into the ground. Getting closer. Getting louder. Until almost on top of him. Until…Thomas awoke with a start. An echo still rang in the room, followed by a pause, then three more pounding bursts. Not on his door itself but the wall beside it. He sat upright and saw right away it was still dark out. This was no longer a dream.  

            "Come out and show yourself," came a husky, womanly voice.

            He leaped to the door, pressing his shoulder against it. "Who are you and what do you want?"

            "Don't you want to come out and see an old friend, Master Thomas?"

            The voice seemed to be coming from further away now, no longer right outside the door. He took a quick look at the gun sitting on the other side of the room, but now fear held him powerless. The wall clock kept ticking.

            "Well now," came the voice from the other side, "that ain't very neighborly. And you such the perfect gentleman and all."

            "Who are you?"

            The reply came with throaty venom. "You know who I am!"

            Indeed he did. His long silence said as much. He wanted to say her name. He wanted to purge himself of all this ugliness once and for all, and knew that would start by the simple act of acknowledging her name, but he couldn't do it.

            She came back softer this time. "Didn't think I'd forget about you, did you, Master Thomas?"

            He rested a trembling hand on the door handle. "Are you…are you what they say you are?"

            "I'm a friend to the darkness is what I am. And darkness is a friend of mine. You people here saw to that a long time ago."   

            "Go away. You have no enemies in this house."

            "Got no friends neither."

           

            He didn't hear the padded footsteps of his wife coming down the stair.

            What's going on here?" she said.

           

            His own voice was whispered but strained. "Go back upstairs."

            "Benjamin—"

            "Do as I say!"

            "Who are you talking to?"

            "I said get upstairs. Now!"

            Reluctantly she did as she was told. For Benjamin Thomas his duty was now made clear. As husband and father he had to keep danger from crossing this threshold.

            "I'm coming out," he announced.

            The cold air hit hard, as did the blanket of darkness all around, for the moon this night was hidden by clouds. Heart pounding, he closed the door behind him and stepped out.

            "Over here."

            Startled, he looked to his right but still saw nothing.

            "Come closer."

            Amidst gusts of wind he heard the crunching of twigs and leaves, then the

spark and light of a small torch. There she stood in immense form. Gone was the black frock coat, replaced by a tattered full length cloak made of some coarse material. The face that came to partial view was big and round as the moon, streaked with dirt, and framed by a tangled mass of hair. But still it was not the gruesome sight he had expected. Until she moved the torch just enough that the flickering light caught the battered bones and her wayward eye, a cloudy, lifeless organ. It was Alice the Goon all right.

            "Frightened?" she asked in a playful tone.

           

            Thomas didn't answer. At least not in words.

            "Well you ought be. You and every damned man jack in this village who cursed me, laughed at me, then ran me out. Tried to burn me out."

            "If you're a witch then do with me what you will, but leave my family be. They've done you no wrong."

            "Ah, the family. How is the family these days?"

            His throat was so dry he thought he might choke.

            "Your wife still pretty as a picture?" 

            "Please, for the love of God—"

            Even her laugh was rough as rocks. "My dear Master Thomas. Don’t you see? Ain't really me you should be fearing. What you need fear is the ugly side of your own pitiful souls, the part folks like you don't choose to see when they stare into the looking glass."  

            Thomas locked eyes on her in the dancing light, struggling to sort through his own tangle of fear, guilt and confusion.

            "But what you did to poor Wilson—"

            "Poor Wilson?" Her breath plumed in the air. "That idiot scoundrel? He got what was coming to him, nothing more."

            "And the livestock?"

            A sly smile came to her. "Got to allow me a little sport."

            "Sport? Be damned, that was a man's livelihood you destroyed."

            "Then ask Seth Hopkins who was it lit my house afire that night."

            "Is that was this is all about – your revenge?"

            Something close to a growl came from her. She waited, then asked a direct question that caught him off balance yet again: "Do you believe in ghosts?"

            "I am a Christian man."

            "Answer the question, school teacher."

            "No, I do not."

            "And witches?"

            A long moment passed before he gave his answer. "No."

            "Well, well. Not so the others 'round here. They very much do believe."

            "Then what would you have me tell them?"

            Again she paused, as if she had long been contemplating the answer to that very question. "Tell 'em I'll be back. Tell 'em I do love this time of year."

            A sudden rush of wind, as if heaven-sent, began to rattle the trees. She turned her hulking frame to walk away, then came back around. "Oh, when you see Seth Hopkins tomorrow you can tell him why it was his house burned down."

            "His house? It didn't burn down."

            She grinned. "Hopefully he'll get out in time."

            The wind blew out the torch and pitch darkness returned as he listened to the footsteps falling away, watching her shadow disappear. And almost ghost-like she was gone.

           

A toast, all hail, and raise ye a glass

On All Hallows Eve; full moon.

To a two-fisted hellcat named Alice,

The one they call Alice the Goon.

-end-