Father

By J. Kyle Jefferies

Dedicated to my father, Stephen,

for whom I have the utmost love and respect.

December 25, 1999

Foreword

It is difficult to surrender the story of one’s past without passing it through the lips of another. If an individual aims objectively and truthfully to portray his or her own feelings without partiality, an incredible challenge is placed before them. In order to tell our stories, our journeys and adventures that make life unique, sometimes we must find a vehicle, an anonymous other, who can attempt objectivity. However, even with the most neutral of narrators our stories are like scars on our body and in very subtle verses the characters we create will expose the inseparable connection that binds them to us.

To put it more simply, I am the writer and director of my life. I smell, see, taste and touch all that has happened, is happening, and will happen to me. Yet, it is not so simple to act my life, for it would be to start at the beginning all over again. Plus, how can I act? All that I have felt has not been in a theater, where one can disappear backstage at the end of a scene, where one can remove the make-up to uncover one’s true self, where the mistakes we make are not our own, but merely a character’s. The same character who, no matter how hard he or she may try, will inevitably make the same mistake with every performance. Therefore, it is necessary that I hire literary actors to play myself. Only through these characters can one try to criticize and examine me. Only through the theatricality of my personal self can someone attempt to interpret the secrets of my soul, the core of my being, the breath of my life.

*****

In a small valley, due east from the beaches where the sea endlessly washed its soul upon the sand and stone, there was a valley where a small village lived. Surrounded by great mountain walls the village, which was called Gretank, obtained a certain freedom from the rest of the countryside. Its independence relied on the people who lived in the village to foster good will and happiness toward one another. The village had always been a very peaceful place. The serene parks and broad avenues were invitations for every person to stroll carelessly without concern. On one of these avenues, just around the corner from the park there was a cottage. It was a modest house in comparison to those that surrounded it, but nonetheless it possessed a certain charm. You could tell just by looking at the garden the very sort of person who lived there. A small fence trailed around the outside. Yet, unlike many fences whose object is to keep unwanted visitors out, this fence merely defined the edge of the rose and tulip beds. It invited people and animals alike to come and go, as they should please. In the garden there were several well-pruned fruit trees encircled by small, brightly-colored flowers. Inside the house lived a mother and her son, who had barely spoken his first words. His goos and gahs were playful and musical. They brought delight into the heart of the eager young mother.

This mother, whose name I should tell you is Antonia Witherspoon, worked as a washerwoman for many of the prestigious houses in the village. All of the village families loved her beaming smile and cheerful personality. Each day she would tote her son, Henry, along with her, running errands, delivering and collecting the laundry. When they walked along the uneven cobblestone Henry’s head bobbed up and down on the back of his mother gazing up in wonder at the birds that circled and dove overhead. Sometimes, when they would take a shortcut through the park, Antonia would put down her laundry and let Henry crawl through the spires of grass, much to his delight. Occasionally, he would venture too far and turning his head would see his mother chasing after him. This game of cat and mouse usually ended up in a wrestling bout, sending peals of laughter echoing throughout the park.

Each night when they returned home Antonia busied herself around the house preparing dinner in the kitchen and running Henry’s bath. Henry usually built magnificent castles from wooden blocks in the living room, only to knock them down. After dinner, Antonia would put Henry in the bathtub and wash every nook and cranny of his delicate body. For the most part, Henry was quite cooperative but occasionally he flailed his arms while laughing hysterically as water soaked his mother and covered the bathroom floor. After the bath, Antonia laid Henry in his cradle and read to him stories of knights, princes, witches, and fairies until he drifted off into sleep, his tiny chest rising and falling with each parting breath. After Henry was asleep Antonia would retreat to the living room to enjoy the part of the day she cherished most. She relaxed in her rocking chair knitting and enjoying a cup of tea, abandoning herself from the toils of her day and the problems of her life. Often, Henry would wake in the night and hear unhappy sobs coming from the living room. Rather than reply with his own cries, he would shut his eyes and fall back into his dreams.

That Saturday, the village buzzed with excitement. The market occupied most of the park and all day people bustled back and forth in front of the Witherspoon house. Antonia spread a large blanket out underneath the apple tree and displayed many of her carefully knitted sweaters, socks, blankets, and hats. Many people stopped either to purchase one of Antonia’s colorful items or just to chat and discuss matters of the village. Henry enjoyed Saturdays very much; he played about in the garden with the cat, Tom, and watched with large, curious eyes the people walking to the market.

"Lo! Lo!" he pronounced excitedly, waving his chubby hand at the passerbys. People who knew Antonia stopped and cheerfully patted Henry on the head commenting on his charming looks and astonishing growth.

"My how he’s growing into such a charming young lad," exclaimed Madame Bellant approaching from the street. Madame Bellant was the wife of the local vicar, and a good friend to Antonia. She was Henry’s favorite visitor because she always had something sweet inside the folds of her dress. This Saturday was no different and when Henry crawled off with the sweet, sticky bread he had received Madame Bellant sat down beside Antonia.

"Have you heard from Jim?" she asked cautiously. Jim was Henry’s father. When he and Antonia were first married he had seemed so charming and delightful, but soon after Henry was born his mood changed as if autumn had invaded the depths of his summer soul and leaves blew like a cyclone inside him. Often he would come home after having too much to drink and Antonia would hear dreadful stories of his lewd, late-night escapades the next day. Antonia permitted this only to a certain point, then told Jim that she would not have young Henry growing up with a father who could not control himself and would set a bad example. Jim seemed reluctant to leave but Antonia heard that immediately after he arrived in Belport, a small village some distance up the coast, he had moved in with another woman.

"You know," continued Bellant, "that boy is going to need a father. Not just for him, but for you. You see, people may seem much more intelligent than many animals but often they are very similar. The need to support some one and be supported is an instinct. It can be unbearable, but possible, for one to go through life alone. What I’m saying is to keep your mind open and don’t condemn yourself, or young Henry, to a solitary life."

Antonia often though about Madame Bellant’s words. She could see the truth in them and would often have young suitors call on her. However, many were dismayed that Antonia already had a child; that they would have to bear the weight of another man. Many nights, when the weather was nice and Henry had gone to bed, Antonia would sit on the front porch of her little cottage and stare up at the stars, wishing on this one and that one. She would wish the same wish on every star, that some day Jim would come back and be the father that Henry needed and the husband she had once loved. It seems that when we love someone too much we often find ourselves loving the idea of love. We place ideals and expectations in someone who cannot live up to them and then, when we look to that person for some semblance of what we thought they were, our hopes dissolve and melt away leaving only a puddle of emotion in their place.

As summers and winters walked hand in hand through Gretank, Henry grew in leaps and bounds. He was now approaching the age when he should begin grammar school, but Antonia was hesitant. An outsider who had arrived only recently would replace the elderly schoolmaster who had just retired and Antonia was unsure whether she could trust Henry’s education to a complete stranger. She decided that she must meet this person and find out if her son’s schooling could be guided safely in his hands. For that reason, she invited him to her cottage for dinner the following Sunday.

In the meantime, Antonia had heard many things about this new schoolmaster. His name was Alexander Patensky, recently arrived from the continent. In Madame Bellant’s opinion he was very sure of himself, but not overconfident. He had a subtle air of nobility that followed him like a faint shadow she had said. And she also noted that he was quite handsome, giving Antonia a quick jab in the ribs with her elbow.

That Sunday, after Antonia had collected Henry from the refectory where he and other children sang and played while the adults attended the sermon, she rushed home and began to prepare for the schoolmaster’s arrival. She had purchased a fresh leg of lamb at the market the day before, and now she diced carrots, potatoes, broccoli, and other herbs and spices adding them all to a stew which, as it cooked, filled the house with a delightful, homemade smell. Henry kept himself busy setting the table and tidying the living room that had become covered with his toys throughout the week.

When, at around half past seven, there was a knock at the door Henry rushed off to answer it, knowing that the man who was coming to dinner would be his new teacher. He opened the door and was immediately surprised at the height of the figure that stood before him. No sooner had he reached up to shake hands with the stranger, than the man shrunk in size bringing him face to face with Henry. Henry noticed first the schoolmaster’s eyes. They were the eyes of a man whose had seen much and understood more. The stranger smiled at Henry and spoke,

"Hello young man, my name is Alexander Patensky, but you can call me Mr. Patensky." Henry was overcome with the deep gentle tone and accent of the schoolteacher’s voice. It sounded to him like the biggest of the bells at the church, when they would ring with the smaller bells and produce a harmonious chorus.

"My name is Henry," replied the boy, quite unsure of himself until he felt his mother’s hands upon his shoulders.

"And I am Henry’s mother, Antonia Witherspoon." Antonia had removed her cooking apron and she wore a dark velvet dress; only in certain light could you make out the deep shade of green in the fabric. She had also pinned up her chestnut brown hair exposing the gentle curves of her neck. This first image of Antonia had quite an unexpected effect on Mr. Patensky and it was not one he would soon, or ever for that matter, forget.

Antonia invited the schoolmaster in and seated him at the head of the table informing him that dinner would soon be served. Henry cautiously crept into his seat, never altering his gaze from the tall, curious man.

"It smells delicious doesn’t it Henry? Tell me are those your animals?" asked Mr. Patensky, pointing at a collection of figurines which occupied a small shelf behind the dinner table.

"Yes," replied Henry.

"That is quite a collection, maybe you can show them to me after dinner." Henry was quite excited at this suggestion and ate faster than usual, even though several times throughout dinner his mother gave him a look that told him he should slow down and chew his food.

After dinner, Antonia cleared the table with the help of Mr. Patensky. Though he offered to help finish washing the dishes, Henry was eagerly pulling his hand toward the shelf where the animals stood. Antonia smiled as Mr. Patensky gave her a helpless look and was soon observing all the animals of Henry’s collection while Henry explained to him what each one was, and what it liked to eat, and where it lived. Mr. Patensky was immediately won over by the charm of little Henry, and looked forward to being his teacher as much as Henry looked forward to being his pupil.

When Antonia finished the dishes, she made two cups of tea and told Mr. Patensky they should retire to the living room where they could sit comfortably and discuss Henry’s schooling. Meanwhile, she sent Henry off to bed; he was thoroughly disappointed because he had many other curious collections in his room that he was sure Mr. Patensky would be interested in.

When they where finally alone in the living room Antonia looked gravely at Mr. Patensky.

"Mr. Pate-"

"Please, Miss Witherspoon, call me Alexander."

"Alexander," she continued, "I would like to make sure that my son receives the proper education, please tell me about yourself and your experience as a schoolmaster."

Alexander told her the story of his life. He was raised in a strictly religious family and this often was reflected in his teachings. However, over the years he had learned that discipline, though very important, can be accomplished in many ways. He related to Antonia his experiences in the Far East, working with children and adults alike as a missionary. Antonia was impressed at how accomplished a teacher he was for being so young, for he looked as if he had barely reached the peak of his life. After he had finished, Antonia told him that she was quite satisfied, and even impressed, with his background and she was sure that Henry would learn a great deal from him. He assured her of that, and commented that Henry seemed very intelligent and would be a pleasure to teach. After their conversation had finished Antonia brought the schoolmaster his coat and showed him to the door.

"Goodnight Alexander, I hope you find your stay in Gretank very rewarding."

"Thank you very much for dinner. Have a good evening, Miss Wither-"

"Please," interrupted Antonia, "you may call me Antonia."

As the fruit trees in the garden received more blossoms each spring, the Witherspoon house received more visits from Mr. Patensky, or Alexander, as the household now knew him. These visits did not go unnoticed and Madame Bellant often came to Antonia questioning the nature of the conversations, looking for good gossip or a trace of romance. Antonia always gave her the same sated reply: "We’re only friends, of course." Madame Bellant was keen enough to recognize this was not the case and often noticed the glimmer in Antonia’s eyes if she were to visit shortly after Mr. Patensky.

Antonia was not the only one affected by Alexander’s frequent visits, and not the only reason for them either. Henry was now in his second year of grammar school and immensely enjoyed the time he got to spend with Alexander in and out of the classroom. He only thought of Alexander as Mr. Patensky when he was in the classroom and preferred to call him Alexander, which they were both accustomed to. He particularly enjoyed the times out of the classroom when Alexander would take him on hikes up to the neighboring mountainside. Sometimes on Sundays, when he got out of Church early, Henry would hurry home to meet Alexander and they would head for one of the many peaks that surrounded and sheltered the community. By late afternoon they would reach the summit and Alexander would pull a small morsel of fruit or chocolate with which they could celebrate their triumphant ascent. Many times Alexander would also bring a writing pad and sit down to his thoughts while Henry explored the surrounding areas. These moments of release after both had been strained by the vigorous demands of school forged a bond between man and boy, much like the bond between father and son. This also formed many questions in Henry’s head because he was getting to the age when he questioned his past, and wondered why he had no father like many of the other children in the village. His mother had always told Henry that his father had left for his own good reasons but never told him what exactly those reasons were. Henry did not think of it much at first, but recently, he often wondered about what his father was like. Perhaps he was like Alexander and, if he came back, would take him hiking, to the pond, and the many other things that Henry enjoyed so much.

Summer was approaching and Henry was very anxious to be out of school. However, he was aware that Alexander was leaving for several weeks to return to visit his brother on the continent. Henry would sorely miss the adventures that he welcomed each week; in the summertime, they could be had every day without thoughts of such trivial matters as school. As the days of school became fewer they seemed to Henry like a clock that moves slower and slower for lack of being wound. Yet, the last day of school finally arrived and much to the relief of all the schoolboys for the weather had become hot. The last few days in the classroom the air had been stifling and all the boys eyed the window, outside of which laid the cool streams and cloudless skies of summer.

After school, Henry rushed home to his mother; he was excited to show her the impressive marks he had received that term at school but also just excited that he didn’t have to return the next day. That evening, Alexander stopped by to say goodbye, he was leaving for a month it had been decided and would not return until July. It was a pleasant evening; after the sun had sunk behind the western horizon the air became cool and comfortable and Henry, Antonia, and Alexander moved to the porch to enjoy the twilight hours. They joked and laughed about all the things that would happen in the coming summer months but throughout the Witherspoon house there was a sense of melancholy at the loss of Alexander, whose continual visits had made him very much a part of the family.

As the night drew on Antonia told Henry that it was time for bed and that he should not forget his evening chores just because he was excused from school responsibilities. Henry promised that he would not and with one last parting handshake from Alexander, he disappeared into the house. For several moments after Henry had left Antonia and Alexander remained silent. There was no tension in the air, only an appreciation for the quiet chirp of the cricket and the rustling of the leaves on the apple trees. Finally Alexander spoke,

"I will miss you Antonia, and Henry as well."

"We will both eagerly anticipate your return," replied Antonia, sensing that Alexander was thinking something he could not say.

"Antonia," Alexander took a deep breath and closed his eye. When he opened them he found Antonia’s deep, dark eyes staring into his, he knew that he could not bare it any longer, "I must tell you; since I have come to this village, many people have welcomed me. However, none have made me as comfortable and happy as you and your son have. I am deeply indebted to you for this."

Antonia felt Alexander’s hand on her own, searching for a response, "No, Alexander, I am indebted to you. You have been a teacher, and more importantly a father, to my son. The way he looks upon people and nature with such respect, these are things I could never have imparted to him."

"Could I…" Alexander began hesitantly, but then summoned the courage and continued resolutely, "Could I be a father to your son?"

Antonia could no longer bear the weight of her emotions and sunk in to Alexander’s long arms letting tears roll down her blushing cheeks. For a long while the pair sat on the porch silently. The sky darkened and heaven’s jewelry box opened displaying the twinkling wealth of stars that confirmed and united their love. Alexander left that night knowing that the month he must spend with his brother might be the longest month of his life. Antonia sat on the porch, by herself, blessing the stars that had granted her wish come true.

When Alexander returned from his visit it was determined that he and Antonia were to be married. Antonia had talked with Henry about this and he had, in all earnest, told his mother that it would be splendid. So in August, when the apples on the tree ripened, so did the love of Antonia and Alexander. Alexander had made arrangements to move into the Witherspoon house. Antonia would not have had it any other way. Soon, the three were living together and it looked as if the warm blanket of content had pulled its soft covers over the tiny cottage.

However, one knows that content, know matter how far and wide we search for it and even if we think we’ve found it, can be elusive. Henry, much like his father after his birth, felt a change within his breast like the seasons of the year collapsing and restoring themselves within each other. During the summer months Henry had tasted a freedom to roam like a wild horse upon the empty prairie where there was nothing to guide you but the wind. Though he very much liked Alexander, he felt a wall between them. How could this man love him like a father when he was the son of another? Henry had reached the age when not just his mind pulled and tugged at the strings of his soul, but his body was changing and he could feel the surge of emotion through him, the loss of his childhood innocence. He began to explore these newfound passions inside him and they drew him farther and farther away from the rose-bed security of his mother and the tiny cottage.

Antonia felt Henry pulling away from her and though she tried to hide it, she felt a pain course through her blood each time he looked at her with his distant, inflexible gaze. Antonia did not know what to do; she had never dealt with the emotions of a pubescent boy so she turned to Alexander for help. Since he had moved in with the Witherspoons he had taken on a certain responsibility toward the family but this was the first time Antonia had asked him to take action against Henry’s unrest.

So when Alexander tried to speak with Henry he did it cautiously, "Henry," they sat together outside on the front porch, "Your mother had been worrying about you a great deal lately. Your recent behavior has been quite unlike you; she only wants you to be happy."

Henry dodged this sympathetic plea as if it were a dagger, "And so she’s sent you to sort me out, eh?"

"Henry, you know that’s not her intention. She doesn’t understand the changes that you are going through; and though I don’t either, I think it is safe to say that I’ve been through similar changes in my life."

"Look, you don’t understand. Similar changes perhaps, but how could you possibly know what I’m going through. Maybe if you were my true father you might feel how my blood trembles in my veins, but you’re not nor will you ever be."

These words cut through Alexander as none had ever done before. Could Henry not see how much he cared for him? He had done everything in his power to be a father to Henry, who had none, and it still wasn’t enough. Alexander was quite upset and now spoke out of defense and love for the boy, "Look Henry, you owe it to your mother and I to try and see things from our perspective, have we not done all we could to try and work things out, to create a family where there was none?"

"No," replied Henry bluntly, "and so I will look for mine elsewhere." He vowed at that moment to leave this village that stunk of its authoritarian demeanor, to find his father and reunite the bond between father and son. He slept uneasily that night and in the early hours of the morning packed a small rucksack and headed out the door. Antonia came from her bedroom as he was preparing to leave.

"Where are you going Henry?" she asked in a tired, helpless voice.

"I’m leaving mother, I’m sorry but I don’t feel that I’m loved here. I must leave and find my father who must foster more care for his son than is found in this house."

"Please Henry," his mother begged.

"Goodbye," and without so much as a kiss or glance backward stormed from the house. Antonia crept to the window and watched him disappear in the emerging dawn. She felt Alexander’s arms rap around her and, like a flower wilting from a lack of sun, collapsed in his arms shedding tears that fell like soft petals to the ground.

On the road, Henry felt a quiet satisfaction. He was free from the binds that held him in Gretank, free to explore the world as he willed. Unconsciously, he turned and looked back to the village, it seemed tiny and insignificant from where he stood on the hillside. The road from Gretank to the ocean was well traveled and lined with many trees. That particular morning it seemed especially lively to Henry. Flocks of birds flew overhead in rigid formation migrating to where life might be better. Small squirrels rushed around beginning to harvest their winter stash. A few billowy clouds floated unmoving across the sky. Henry felt hearty and when he noticed a traveler several miles ahead of him he quickened his pace and soon caught the man who, though he seemed an old bard to Henry, had a friendly look in his eye.

"Hallo," said young Henry.

"Hello and how do you do?"

"Oh, very well sir, and how do you fare?"

"Well, my bones aren’t as lively as yours, you see, but I’m sure they’ll carry me over this hill by and by. What’s your business boy? You look as if you’re in a mighty hurry." The old man’s voice swayed rhythmically like a pendulum over the words as he spoke.

Henry related to the old man that he had recently left home and was seeking out his father whom he had never met. Henry was pleased to tell his story to someone else. He had been going over the matter endlessly the night before and, to say to the least, Henry felt more reassured in his journey after he told the old man. The bard listened attentively to Henry’s story and was impressed at the youth’s bravado.

"Slow your pace and I’ll tell you a story of my own, from a day many before this one. I was a young lad like yourself once, who had a boiling within my blood to travel the country and see what secrets I could find."

Henry liked the old man and since he was in no hurry and the day was nice he walked leisurely beside him, curious as to what sort adventures the man had encountered in his life of wandering.

"Well, you see, it was like this, growing up in my family wasn’t an easy task. My father was an old grunt who worked his land just as hard as any man could. And working the land wasn’t easy bread either. Some years no matter how hard we worked we still wouldn’t have enough to feed the family. Well, you see, me being the eldest of the bunch, I was destined to take on the farm when my father became too old. This made me just about as mad as a penned up dog inside. Why was it that my life had already been chosen for me while me brothers and sisters could go and do as they please? That was the question I wanted an answer for. Well, I thought about it long and hard and often and came to the conclusion that I wanted to see the world and didn’t want to stick around on that farm for the rest of my life. I told my father this and you can imagine how worked up he got. At first, he was fierce and angry but then after a couple weeks he was just upset. He could never understand how I wouldn’t want to inherit something that he had worked so hard to create. Well, I was in a sore spot and so I thought that if I was going to leave I might as well do it as soon as possible. I knew that I could get a job aboard a ship as a sailor; the nearest port was two days walk away. So I set out, but before I did I had one last talk with my father. He told me sternly, without anger or emotion, that if I left now I shouldn’t ever come back. Those words hit me like a boxer’s punch straight in my gut but I think because I was his son, and just about as stubborn as him, I refused to give up my purpose and left that very day."

Henry had been very quiet until that point and couldn’t hold back his curiosity any longer, "So have you ever returned?"

"After I left," the old man continued rhythmically, "I journeyed far and wide. I have visited every ocean or sea in this world, and probably a couple in the next. And do you know how I did it? Hard work, something my father had taught me long ago when I was very young. If you want something, you have to work for it. I often thought about this and many other lessons that my father had taught me. I vowed one day that I should return to my family’s farm and thank him for the part he had played in making me the person I was. Well, I did return and I was welcomed but I had arrived too late. My father had died several years previous to my return and my younger brother had taken over the farm and was quite successful. When I learned of this a pang hit my heart like an ugly note on a harp and sent me into discord. All I could do was sit by my father’s grave, under the giant oak in our tallest field and thank the breeze that rustled the leaves above. I never got to tell him how important he was to me, or how much I thought of him throughout my years of travelling, or how sometimes I wished I was still back on the farm tending the grain by his side."

By that time, the old man and Henry had reached the top of the pass. The plains toward the coastline spread out before them and the mountainous ridges and valleys lay behind them while clouds still floated overhead unaware of time, emotion, or longing.

"If you take anything from my story," the old man turned and focused his sky-blue eyes on Henry’s, "let it be this: many times, when we sit to feast at the table of life a plate is set before us. However, instead of being thankful for our plateful we gaze down the table at the delicacies and fortunes to be had and when our eyes come to rest on our own plate we feel dissatisfied and hungry even though we have not even tasted a bite. Remember this, my boy, the grass is always greener…"

As Henry continued he couldn’t help but feel an excitement come over him in waves, as if he were a beach himself. He walked along the road that paralleled the coast and often gazed out at the ocean. It was so magnificent and serene, he thought to himself. That first night on the road Henry slept under the stars; though autumn had begun to take hold of summer’s dynasty Henry found a comfortable, grassy bluff to rest for the night. The wind howled in off the ocean but safely nestled in the tall grass he slept soundly and was only awakened by the first rays of a new rising sun emerging on the horizon.

After enjoying a meager breakfast of bread and cheese, Henry continued on his way. Judging from people he had spoken with in several of the coastal villages he believed he could reach Belport by nightfall. By afternoon, black luminous clouds began to roll in off the ocean. Henry was quite worried of becoming engulfed in a storm so he quickened his pace, hoping to reach his father’s village before the sky was wrung, like a sponge, upon his head. Unfortunately, he did not succeed and several miles from Belport he felt the first drops and before long it began to pour. By the time Henry reached the small, coastal village he was soaked to the bone and ducked into the first public house along the way.

Inside, a fire crackled in the hearth and tables and chairs covered the floor erratically. Henry made his way to the bar and asked the man behind it if he knew of Henry’s father. The man gave him a sharp look and recognizing the similarity of Henry to his father replied, "Yea, I know 'im, but 'e lives o'er the far end of town and ya’ might want to wait for this squall to pass before ya’ 'ead out."

Henry agreed and took a seat close to the fire pealing off his damp clothes and vigorously rubbing his hands together coaxing blood to his fingertips. In the meantime, the innkeeper had brought Henry a warm cup of soup and some bread that he had requested. The soup was thick and meaty and Henry’s tongue immediately became wet with its arrival. After eating Henry felt quite sleepy and, looking outside, feared the storm might carry though the night so he decided to take a room. His money was low but he figured that he would meet his father on the morrow and would be well taken care of.

That night, in a small but comfortable room upstairs, Henry dreamt of many things. Images flickered in and out of his dreams like fireflies on a summer night. He saw his mother at home with Alexander, first joyous, then weeping, then joyous again. He saw the old bard hobbling endlessly along the beaten path. He saw his father rushing to enclose him in his arms and placing before him a large banquet which was held in honor of Henry’s return. There were many guests at the banquet and all seemed gay and sincere. All along the vast table lay roasted turkeys and huge plates of fried fish, gelatin desserts and endless wine. Henry sat at one end and his father at the other. For a long time, it seemed Henry just looked through the candlelight at his father while the banquet seemed to fad out and become a quiet rustling in the background. But slowly, Henry’s father seemed to become less recognizable, as if the table were growing in length and then, when Henry could no longer see his father’s face, he looked down at his plate. It was empty.

The next day Henry awoke feeling rested and excited. The day outside was gray and the streets were wet from the night before but the rain had ceased. Henry quickly gathered his few possessions and made his way downstairs. After briefly talking with the bartender, Henry rushed out of the tavern with a general direction of where his father lived.

As he walked through the small town he felt a nervous apprehension within himself. What if his father didn’t approve of his seeking him out? He had not thought of this. However, Belport bustled with activity and filled him with optimism. He would like to make a fresh start in this town, which seemed to hold much more potential that tiny Gretank. As he crossed the central bridge, Henry noticed a change in scenery from the town’s center whence he had come. It was only slight but noticeable and Henry only though for a moment what the significance of this might be. As he continued down the path he noticed less people on the streets and figured that these must be the residential quarters and that most people were already working. He did encounter a vagrant-looking woman, whom he asked for directions to his father’s house. The women smiled at him in a queer and distant way and told him his father’s house (smiling especially broadly when she said house) was along the next row to the left, the last one on the right. He ventured on but couldn’t help noticing as he went that there were no "houses" as he got farther from the bridge, merely small lean-tos, odd and dilapidated looking. He followed the women’s directions and soon brought him to a quite small, but well taken care of, shack. Henry was flustered by the appearance of the place where his father lived, but no less determined so he strode to the door and knocked lightly. A woman answered. She looked as if she mustn’t be much older than Henry in age, but had not worn her years so well. She was attractive but wore a rather large amount of powder on her face that Henry thought made her look odd and unnatural. Henry told the woman that he was looking for his father, Jim, and that he believed it was here that he lived. The girl said that her husband’s name was Jim, but that he had no children. Henry insisted that unless any other man named Jim lived in these parts, it must be his father who lived here. The woman stepped back from the door and looked Henry up and down, she too must have noticed the resemblance between Henry and Jim so she told Henry to come in.

"My name is Lucille, but people call me Lucy," the woman said when she had seated Jim in one of the two chairs that existed in the one-bedroom shanty. Henry told her his own name and that it was nice to meet her. Unconsciously, Henry looked around the room and noticed that it held little more than a stove, a small bed, the table he was sitting at, and some crudely constructed cupboards.

"So where you from?" questioned Lucille, who sat across from Henry and eyed him nervously.

"Gretank," replied Henry and when he said this Lucille’s eyes seemed to spark.

"Oh, Jim told me that he once had a wife who lived among those parts, but he never said nothin’ about you." Jim looked at her silently wondering how he should reply to this. But he didn’t have to because behind him he heard the door slam open and turning he saw a ragged, sheepish looking man stumble in.

"Jim honey," said Lucille ducking under the man’s arm to balance him upright for it obviously appeared he was drunk, "this young man says he’s your son, from Gretank."

The man’s head jerked back and he squinted one eye as if to bring Henry into focus, who had stood from his chair looking cautiously at the man. No doubt Henry saw an image of himself in the overweight, weaving boozer who could be none other than his own father. Henry’s head spun probably as much as his father’s. How could this be? How could he, Henry, who was did so well in school, in sports, who was so interested in the world and what it contained, be a product of this man.

Henry was overcome, the small shack seemed to collapse on him and he felt trapped and dizzy. Storming past the couple, almost knocking them down Henry escaped. He heard the man begin to say something as he fled but did not stick around to hear what it was. Henry walked fast and then began to run; he ran and ran and ran, across the bridge, through the town, past the public house where he had stayed until he was safely free from the nightmare of Belport.

As soon he crested the first coastal bluff he sank in the grass some ways off the road and began to weep. He did not weep loudly, just a low, soft, murmur. Tears poured down his cheeks like the questions that flooded his head. How could this be? What could he have done to deserve such a father? He spent a long time pondering these questions and feeling miserable for himself, and the way he had treated his mother and Alexander. He now knew why she had sheltered him from that man, that horrible, disgusting excuse for a man. He thought of what he had done. How could he ever return home? What was he to do? Henry sat there for most of the day, and into the night. He had hardly slept off and on when he noticed the sky begin to change and the stars begin to fade. He knew what he must do; he must return to Gretank and apologize to his parents. The shock of his father’s appearance had branded such an image in his mind that he buried it deep within itself, vowing to forget it though he knew it would be impossible. He stood up from the tall grass and looked out on the ocean, the wind and newborn sun dried his tear stained cheeks but could do nothing to erase the stain from his soul. He turned and, with his head hung low, began the journey home.

For Henry, the world was not so alive as when he had begun his journey. The ocean was not magnificent and serene any longer, but a vast desert of water. The birds were not flying to a haven of life, but escaping from the cold world of starvation. Henry no longer walked with the spring in his step but slowly, looking neither left nor right but straight ahead, absorbed within himself. He wouldn’t have noticed his friend, the old bard, resting upon the side of the road if the man had not jumped up to greet him.

"Hello there, you look as though someone’s stolen your pride."

Henry shrugged and told the man of his experience in Belport. The old man couldn’t help but feel sorry for the young boy whose hopes and expectations had been crushed in a single blow.

"Have a seat," the bard motioned to the log on which he had previously been sitting, "let met tell you another story; maybe it will cheer your spirits."

Henry was in no rush to return, shame-faced, to Gretank, so he slumped down on the log next to the man. The bard produced some bread and cheese from his rucksack, which Henry was thankful for because he had no money and couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten.

"Once, while I was travelling among the many islands of Polynesia, we stopped in the port of Redemelay. We were scheduled to be in port just three days, delivering supplies and picking up cargo. However, while we were there, a crack in the seam of our hull was discovered. We would have to repair the ship before we sailed so we were given wages and told to report back in two weeks, when we would journey on to India. There were many beaches on the island, and the wet season had just ended so I figured that I would just sleep on the sand, among the palms. The first night, while I was walking on the beach, I met a Polynesian girl. It is impossible to describe her looks because she was beyond beauty. Because of all the ships that came and went in Redemelay, she spoke a couple words in English. I told her that I was stuck on the island until our boat was repaired. She asked me where I was going to stay and I said that I would sleep on the beach. She shook her head back and forth, ‘No sleep here’, she said to me and took me back to her hut, which was quite comfortable. I ask her why she didn’t live in the village and have a husband and children. She told me, or at least I understood from her English, that her husband had died in some sort of dispute in the village. She had been banned from the village and so she lived out in the jungle, near the beach to avoid the tigers that stalked the dark shadows of the deep forest and would rarely come as far as the beach because they feared the men of the village.

"The entire time I stayed on the island I enjoyed the company of Sheshkana, for that was her name. Many nights we would sit on the beach watching the sun set on the ocean, then light a fire and talk throughout the night. I think she spoke much better English after I left. I was in heaven while I was with her but I didn’t allow myself to fall in love with her because I knew I would be leaving shortly and it would be more painful for both of us. Often, she would look at me with the roundest, most beautiful brown eyes and say, ‘You stay with me.’ Oh, how I longed to stay on that island but I was still very young and the desire to see India and beyond was one I could not give up. When the two weeks was up, I had to return to the boat. I felt wretched leaving her there all by herself. When I got back to the boat, half the crew was miserable from being tortured by sand fleas that were rampant on the beach at night. I was so lucky to come across such a woman, but I realized this too late. For the next year I thought about what a terrible mistake I had made. I tortured myself for leaving her and almost never thought of another woman. This was not easy either travelling through the ports of Persia where the women are as beautiful as the moon is full. I realized that though I had tried so hard not to, I had fallen in love with her. As soon as I had the opportunity I returned to Redemelay. I went to find Sheskana and was overjoyed when I found her exactly where I had left her, in her hut by the beach. She was happy also and I told her that I had come back for her, if she would have me. For many years I stayed on that island content to spend my days fishing, hunting, basking in the sun away from civilization. Looking back on those years, I think they were the best of my life…"

Henry looked at the old man and saw the look of longing in his eye; the glimmer of a love that had once been but was no more.

"So why are you not still on the island?" Henry asked.

"Malaria," replied the old bard, not seeming to want to describe what must have happened to his beautiful love.

Henry looked at the man, "Maybe I should go to Polynesia, I cannot think of how awful it will be to go home."

"Obviously," answered the old man, "you have not understood the gist of my story. Sometimes, you don’t realize what you have until it is gone. It my case and I suspect in your case too, you can recover what it is that you have lost. Many people are not so lucky and after they realize what they had was so good it is gone forever. Go home to your family, embrace them for who they are and leave the memories of this journey behind you."

Henry stood to leave, "I will forget Belport and this journey, but I will not forget your kind words, thank you."

"Goodbye," said the bard and patted Henry on the shoulder as he turned to leave, "the grass is always greener…"

As Henry walked from the mountain pass down into Gretank, he realized how foolish he’d been. How could the dirty streets and foul sea spray of Belport compare to the marvel of the mountainside in this valley, his valley? It must be, thought Henry, that all people have to make mistakes in their lives so they can learn from them and become better people.

When he entered the village and stepped up to his front door he was overcome by how much he had missed the small cottage when he had only been gone several days. Tom, the cat, purred and rubbed against his leg. Henry bent down to stroke Tom’s soft fur, took a big breath, and then entered the house. His mother was sitting in her rocking chair, rocking back and forth, but when she saw him enter she sprung up and wrapped her arms around him.

"I’m sorry mother," but he hardly knew if she heard him because all he heard in reply was sobs of delight. He put down his bag and told her about his trip and awful discovery of Jim (he refused to call the man his father). Henry asked his mother if Alexander was in the house because he wanted to speak with him and apologize for what he had said. His mother told him that he had gone to the pond for a walk.

Henry decided that he would go to find Alexander at the pond. He walked through the town and felt the chill of winter coming on. The leaves had all but disappeared from the trees and everywhere there was frosty reminders of the cold nights that had visited the village. Indeed, the sky was darkening in the late afternoon and soon people would be escaping the cold chill to warm themselves inside by the hearth.

Henry found Alexander sitting on a log by the pond, writing in his journal. He sat down beside Alexander, surprising him.

"Hello Henry," Alexander started, "it’s surprising but good to see you."

"It is good to see you as well. I would like to apologize for everything I said before I left."

"It’s unnecessary Henry."

"Just let me finish. For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve been nothing but nice to my mother and I. You’ve raised me as your own son and taught me so much about the world, and especially myself. Never once have I thanked you, I just want to say I’m sorry and thank you for all that you have done."

A warm smiled rose on Alexander’s face, "Thank you Henry. You know it won’t always be easy. I know what you’re going through, and life is constantly throwing us reminders that we are human, and we hurt, and make mistakes. The faster you can overcome the sad and troublesome times in life the more you will enjoy the happy and memorable ones."

They both stood from the log. It was getting dark and they knew that Antonia would be expecting them home for dinner. Henry gave Alexander a warm hug. It felt so good to be home, to have a home. He thought of the old bard’s words and was glad that he had not lost his family, that he had not made an irreversible mistake.

"Thank you Alexander," Henry spoke but as soon as he had uttered the words them seemed uncomfortable and restricting. He paused in the fading twilight, then sure of himself, as sure as the sweet flowers of spring follow the cold frost of winter, he affirmed, "Thank you Father."

As they walked home together, oil street lamps were just beginning to be lit and cast a pink glaze on the ominous clouds above. All around the city people cuddled up to those they loved, relying on each other to warm body and soul. Outside, as father and son walked along the avenue that led toward home, the first gentle flakes of winter began to drift from the sky. They covered the ground with a blanket of soft, content whiteness, which was glorious but would no doubt melt, with the tide of the seasons.

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