In Sickness and in Hell: A Collection of Unusual Stories Page 11
She realized he was not smiling back. His eyes were red and his skin was pale.
“Loved one, what did you do?”
He told everything, every little detail his tormented mind could recall. She listened, clinging tighter as he told the sad story.
“Then you did what you had to.” She tried to console him but she was still in shock at his words. She did not doubt the truth of what he had told her. “There was no other option. It was what he wanted.”
“No, it was what he thought he wanted. But he was wrong; I smiled when I killed him.”
She stared at her husband. Her joy, at first transfigured into disbelief, grew into horror.
“I didn’t want to, but something in me couldn’t help it. Something in me was elated that at last my family had revenge. He said himself that he was the source of all our pain and struggle.”
She had known many people, good men and women all, who had died because of the god’s “experimental” plagues and famines. She wondered if she would have done the same as her husband, or if anyone at all would have been able to truly forgive actions that had robbed so many people of happiness. Her mind and body felt cold.
“I thought I had forgiven him, even he thought so, but it was never true!” Her husband screamed in fury at the very nature of what had happened. “It is still his law, still his nature that overshadows my desire. I’m just another flawed creation, we are all flawed creations. Humankind’s only virtue is camouflage: we’re just better at hiding our flaws than the others. Do you see? Do you understand? He called humanity his greatest success and he died thinking that. He never knew what we were. He died freeing a mistake!”
She could not speak. There was nothing to say. After a while she realized she was sitting in the dusty road, her whole body numb.
“I understand. But now that he is gone...what do we do?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out my whole trip back. We have to leave.” He pointed towards Mountain Sacred. “See that cloud? It isn’t going away. We can’t live here anymore.”
Over the next few days, the farmer gathered his family and spread word that everyone had to leave Valley as quickly as possible. Some called him prophet at first, but it was not long before everyone but his family called him devil. He had not accepted their offerings and he did not defend himself from their accusations. He just repeated that it was time to leave. As the black cloud had spread without any sign of dissipating, the families had taken what they could and fled. By the sunset of the seventh day, Valley was devoid of life and light. The sun could not penetrate the shadow of the dark cloud that hung permanently over all of Valley.
In the Outer Lands, the world was beginning to change in inexplicable ways. The humans tried to rebuild the society they had known, but now they had to fight the land for food and their prayers went unanswered.
When the farmer died, none but his family attended the funeral. His sons built a pyre at the entrance to Valley and laid the tired shadow of their father across the dried pine. His daughter, fourteen now, had heard his story from her mother many times. She brought her old doll and set it by her father’s hand. Her mother set the fire and they all stood back to watch. The fire caught quickly, spreading to coat the whole pathway in purging flame. After an hour of silent vigil, his sons returned to their own wives and families and farms. When his daughter left, the fire still showed no sign of dying. The last to leave was his wife.
The man she loved never came back from Mountain Sacred, she thought. In the years that had passed they had spoken rarely. He’d been unable to stand living around people and as soon as the new lands of his family had been established he had left them all to live alone. She had visited him every once in a while, after her anger at his desertion had faded. They never spoke. They would just sit until she left. Now, as she watched the blades of flame consume the body of her husband, she realized there was one thing that might have saved her husband, one thing she had never said to him.
Early on she had tried to console him. She had tried telling him that he could not blame himself, that it had all been part of their god’s plan. Her husband had never listened because she had never said what he needed to hear most. After a while she had stopped trying to help him. That was when he left, and when she began to hate him.
She had been blinded by her emotions then. But now that he was gone, she felt she knew the words that might have brought him back to her. She knelt, her long hair falling forward to hide her face. Even if she had missed her chance, she still wanted to say the words out loud.
“Maybe you are right, and it is not in any man or woman to forgive the god who did this to us and to you, my love.” She felt as if she could barely breathe. “But I am your wife, and you are my husband. I know these words are too late, but I hope, somehow, you can hear them: I forgive you—”
Her words, swathed in tears, fell to the dusty earth. The wind carried the dust to the fire, and the rising air delivered the last of her words to the heavens above: “—and I will always love you, Cain.”
The farmer’s wife stood and turned her back to the flames that would burn forever, blocking the entrance to the Valley of the Shadow of Death. She walked into the Outer Lands; into the new world of humankind.
Hi, My Name Is Grace
-a play in one act-
Characters:
Grace - Forlorn character. Has been waiting a long time to be in a story.
Character 2 - Newly created character. Speaks more formally and politely than Grace.
Setting:
The blank canvas within an author’s mind.
[Lights up on Grace sitting on empty stage. Grace sighs. Rising, she approaches the edge of the stage, keeping her eyes fixed down as if looking into an abyss. She seems nervous about what she is doing. Behind her in shadow, Character 2 walks briskly across the stage. Grace glances back without much interest. After a moment, Character 2 walks back on stage wearing a somewhat different outfit, pauses, goes offstage again. This time, Grace watches with more interest and her gaze lingers towards where Character 2 disappeared.]
Grace [looking straight up]:
You gotta get started sometime, man.
[Hopeful beat. Grace shrugs and again focuses her gaze at the floor off the end of the stage.]
[Character 2, again with a slightly different outfit, wanders to the middle of the stage behind Grace and stops, looking around in wonder.]
Grace:
He must like you.
Character 2:
What?
Grace:
I said, he must like you. You’ve been back and forth here a couple times now.
Character 2:
Have I?
Grace [laughing]:
Yeah, back and forth, in and out. I’d wager he doesn’t even have a plot yet.
Character 2 [uncertainly]:
Oh, I see. [Beat] May I ask, who “he” is?
Grace [gesturing at everything]:
The author.
Character 2:
Ohhh, okay. Thank you for explaining. [Beat] And, who are you?
Grace [considers the abyss off the edge of the stage again, then visibly makes a decision and approaches Character 2 instead, away from the edge]:
Hi, my name is Grace. Nice to meet you.
[Grace shakes Character 2’s hand]
Character 2:
It’s nice to meet you too, Grace. One last question, if I may?
Grace:
Shoot.
Character 2:
It’s just that…well…who am I?
Grace [looks at her mismatched outfit up and down]:
From the looks of it, you’re nobody yet. [Character 2 looks distraught] It’s okay! I’m not really anybody either. He’s never put me on paper, so everything could still change.
Character 2:
I don’t much like not having a name.
Grace:
I know the feeling. Don’t worry, he’ll get around to it. If you
like, sometimes you can push him a little. Try concentrating really hard on that question: “What’s my name?” I think it helps sometimes.
Character 2:
Does it?
Grace:
Well I mean, it hasn’t gotten me outta here yet, but I think it works. Here, watch me. [Grace looks intensely focused. Character 2 walks around her, studying. Grace opens her eyes and smiles, pointing offstage] There! It worked that time! [Grace crosses to the side of the stage, retrieves a chair and takes a seat] Now you try.
Character 2:
Very well then. [Character 2 concentrates]
Grace:
And I’ll see if I can get us some more furniture.
[Both Grace and Character 2 look concentrated, eyes squeezed shut]
Character 2:
Olivia! Amanda! April! Susan!
Grace:
Table! [opens one eye, peers offstage, retrieves a table]
Character 2:
…Denise! Candy! Archibald!
Grace [pausing]:
Archibald? That’s not a girl’s name!
Character 2 [in a horrified whisper]:
My name is Archibald?
Grace:
Now don’t you sweat it, Archie, he probably just thinks that’s funny. He goes through a lot of bad ideas before he gets anything good, believe you me. Keep pushing him.
[Character 2 resumes shouting girl’s names]
Grace: Chair! [Opens eyes, looks around. Nothing this time] Chair! Ah, there we go! [Retrieves a second chair from offstage]
Character 2:
…Katie Lee…Olivia…Olivia… [Opening her eyes, excited] My name is Olivia!
Grace [smiling]:
See! That’s a beautiful name. Now come on over and take a load off, Olivia.
Olivia:
I feel so much better now that I have a name. I really can’t thank you enough for your help, Grace.
Grace:
Don’t worry about it. My pleasure.
[They sit in silence. Grace, patient. Olivia tries, but after a few moments gets fidgety]
Olivia:
Grace, what are we doing here?
Grace [with certainty]:
Christmas.
Olivia:
Christmas?
Grace:
Christmas.
[Beat]
Olivia:
Pardon my language, but what in the blue blazes does that mean?
Grace:
Beats me. But I’m afraid that that’s all that he’s got so far. You, me, and Christmas.
Olivia:
Well that doesn’t sound like much of a story to me.
Grace:
Shhhhhh not so loud. He might agree with you and give up. Then we’ll never get out of here.
Olivia [eyeing Grace]:
You seem to know quite a lot for a nobody with nothing but a name.
Grace [distant and haunted]:
Well, I’ve had a long time to figure it all out.
Olivia:
How long?
[Grace doesn’t answer]
Olivia [with intensity]:
How long, Grace?
Grace [still distant]:
I’m not sure, exactly. Time passes strangely sometimes, but…I’ve seen a lot of others go out there. Maybe…18 stories? 20? I’ve been here all that time just…waiting…
Olivia:
I see. I’m sorry to hear that.
Grace [with somewhat forced optimism]:
Naw, it’s fine, you’re okay. It’s hard sometimes, but I have faith. He’s written some alright stuff. He’s not great, but he’s good. I’ll get out there someday.
Olivia [trying to brighten things up again]:
Well at least you’ve got me now, right?
Grace [not particularly convinced]:
Sure.
Olivia:
What’s the matter, Grace? Do I annoy you?
Grace:
No, no, nothing like that. It’s just that I’ve seen a lot of others already go out into the world, most of them that he came up with after me. It just doesn’t seem fair sometimes, you know?
[Everything seems to shake as if in a small earthquake]
[Grace jumps up, gripping the table, trying to hold it back as it is pulled offstage by unseen forces. The table disappears and Grace lets go]
Grace:
No! Give it back! Write about me, you doofus! No one wants to hear about a table!
Olivia [scared]:
What was that?
Grace [angry, pacing the stage]:
Another one! Another one complete, and I’m still here!
Olivia:
I don’t understand, what happened?
Grace [defeated]:
He finished another story.
Olivia:
But, I didn’t see anyone else come through here.
Grace:
Really? Because the hero just made a grand exit from our world and a grand entrance into theirs.
Olivia:
You’re referring to…the table?
Grace:
Yeah, it was an “experimental” piece of fiction. No characters, nothing really happens, just an idea piece about a table. He writes things like that sometimes when he gets frustrated. He won’t make a penny on it and no one will ever read it, but he calls it “art” and puts it out there just the same.
Olivia:
Well then why do you care?
Grace:
It’s the principle of the thing!
Olivia:
Grace, sit down. If you’re honest with yourself, you’d know you don’t want to be in an experimental piece with a table. If I may, I’d say you’re afraid.
Grace:
Me? Afraid? Ha! What would I be afraid of?
Olivia:
That you’ll never get out there. That no one will ever get to meet you. That you’ll die here, having never lived, having never made someone laugh, or cry, or witness their world in a way they never have before.
Grace [stunned]:
How did you know?
Olivia:
Because I’ve only been here an hour or two and that’s how I feel already. I can’t imagine what it’s been like for you, waiting all this time.
Grace:
Olivia, I’m sorry I got angry like that. It’s just…it’s just…it’s hard to keep my hopes up.
Olivia:
Grace, you said he’s good but not great, didn’t you?
Grace:
I said that, yeah.
Olivia:
And you’re still here, right? After what, twenty stories since he thought of you?
Grace [pointing to where the table exited]:
Twenty-one now. Why, what are you getting at?
Olivia:
I just want you to realize that you’re here, in his head. He likes you, Grace. He’s just waiting for the right story. The longer the wait, the better he gets. Maybe you’ll be his masterpiece one day.
Grace [considers, smiles a little]:
You’re a quick study, Olivia. Thank you.
Olivia:
I had a good teacher. [Winks at Grace] Not great, but good.
[They both stand and begin taking off a layer or two of clothing, revealing different clothes underneath. They seem not to be in control of their own bodies]
Olivia:
What’s this, now?
Grace:
He’s fine-tuning us. Don’t worry, it won’t be anything major.
Olivia:
Grace, I’m still worried.
Grace [still changing]:
Don’t be. Look, what’s your favorite color?
Olivia:
Orange.
Grace [as Olivia is still changing something]:
Alright, and let me ask you this then: What’s your favorite color?
Olivia:
My favorite color? Why, it’s green.
Grace:
There, you see? Writers are always be
ing told these details matter so they waste a lot of time messing with them, but you’re not any less Olivia for liking green.
Olivia [abashedly]:
Actually I prefer blue now.
Grace:
Uh...well it is disorienting while it’s going on, I’ll give you that.
[They stop changing and achieve normal looking final outfits. They sit]
Grace:
See? All that fuss without moving the plot forward at all.
Olivia:
What plot?
Grace:
Exactly! [Yelling upward at author] What plot?
Olivia[shooting to her feet]:
It’s a story about hope!
Grace [also coming to her feet, excited]:
Well I guess I’ll have to eat my words, he is making progress! And?
Olivia:
And…and that’s it for now. But he knows that much.
Grace:
A Christmas story about hope. That’s mighty original. Sheesh.
Olivia:
Indeed. I’m starting to understand why you’ve been here so long.
Grace:
Right? No plot, not much of a setting, and—If I’m lucky—two characters.
Olivia:
Well, if he can write about a table then I trust he’ll be able to think of something for us.
Grace:
He’s just lucky we don’t age in here, that’s all I’ve got to say. Here, let’s try this. [Grace stands, places chair with its back on the ground, and sits in it, staring up]
Olivia:
What good does that do?
Grace:
It’s an exercise. We take what we’ve got so far and move it around, try to see things from a different angle. Maybe it’ll help him get some ideas and get us out of here.
Olivia:
I suppose it can’t hurt. [Olivia places her chair on its side and “sits” in it]
[They wait]
Olivia:
Grace, I was wrong. It can hurt; my neck is starting to ache.
Grace:
That’s nothing, my butt’s gone numb.
[They rearrange themselves in different, still incorrect ways]
Grace:
I get the feeling that it’s not working.
[They right their chairs and then take seats again]
Olivia [as they are righting their chairs]:
Something else did occur to me while I was sideways though.
Grace:
What’s that?
Olivia: