a story by Frank Mueller (Fjm)

Elliptical Shores


One


Opening


The paths that led to its graves, narrow and winding, gave, for him, the cemetery its charm. As did the graves themselves – with their spare stone markers, some of which were decorated with ivy.
As he walked down one of those paths, the grave his eyes focused on brought happiness to his soul. The stone said simply,

Rebekah. She had her forever dream.

He knew someone named Rebekah once. Or thought he had.


She alighted from the carriage, and was greeted by an immediate sense of isolation. Rarified air, deep rooted and leafy trees, high but neat grass; this was why she had come here.

“It’s so beautiful here.”

“Yes,” the driver said. “Well, get back in, and I will take you the rest of the way.”

“Good,” she said, mounting the carriage. “How far?”

“Not very.”

It was more than a passing reflection; she did feel very good here. Within her sight was all that she wanted. It felt good to escape the limits of her village, so much more than she thought it would. Good to escape the often conveyed indifferences and the pettiness of its inhabitants. She felt uncomfortable with life in a community where privacy was little more than a word. The contradiction was that she did feel safe and cared for among so many who knew her.

Still, here was a place at once refreshing. Its naturalness assailed her, though she had not yet reached her destination. It was under such a spell that she again asked the driver, “How far?” and was exhilarated by his rewarding answer, “We will be upon it in moments.”

When she saw it, the shadow of the great asylum, predominant against the afternoon sky, she felt, beyond anything she thought she might have felt, her purpose, and so her soul, was shown her.

“I am,” the driver said, “as are we all, at your service.”

“Good,” she said, trying to sound as though she were not taken aback.

“Yes, it is. We’ll be served well.”

“We’ll see,” she said, forsaking further conversation for the present beauty that was hers to enjoy. Hyperbole threatened to visit her, even as the façade of the asylum, with the continued pace of the carriage, broke through the shadows. She could see its stature; such an asylum, she thought, should be imposing. For a curative atmosphere, and certainly cures were hoped for. While continuing to be impressed by the asylum’s austerity, she looked forward to be the one to offer such hope.

“We’re glad you’re with us, Miss Jenkins,” the driver said.

She smiled, but her focus on the asylum permitted no further conversation.


Standing before the asylum’s expanse, memories come easily. She was a child, and stories of lunacy were told, were believed, and were ignored. She was a girl of teenage years; her perceptions were framed and shaped by those around her. Stories of lunacy were no longer ignored but were woven into community gossip at times hurtful and cruel. She was a young woman of imagination and changing passion, stories of lunacy so much more now than the entertainments they had been. Now she was here, standing before the asylum, her freedom from perceptions formed by ignorance about to be realized. Here, she would no longer have to feel herself part of a citizenry whose care for “our unfortunates” was little more than a façade. Here, she could rejoice in letting such memories fade into the nothingness they deserved.

She regarded this as a good place, a place that ―

“Miss Jenkins.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, embarrassed because of her inattentiveness.

“It is impressive, isn’t it? I’ve only achieved part of my purpose.”

She smiled, a beautiful smile. What this place needs, he thought.

“I am to introduce you to our family,” he said. “I know you will be well received.”


Guided down the well lighted halls of the asylum, the colors of the walls pleasing, she felt the informality of our family most appropriate, and was happy to tell him so. All this was somewhat surprising. She read of asylums that were stark at best and not much more than warehouses for the ill at worst. This place was refreshing; she did not want to work in one of history’s relics.

“The souls who come to stay with us,” he said, “are all here because they want to be here. We have no problems.”

“No major problems, I believe you mean?”

“Yes, I suppose you might say that.”

Do I hear annoyance? She wondered. Good, it shows I’m talking with an honest man.

“We do have our little antagonisms, but it’s like I said. We’re family here.”

“Yes. The normal annoyances of family.” God, there was that beautiful smile.


The warmth of such a fine day was but one thing that invigorated her soul. Her resoluteness in coming to this place, her desire to better herself in a place where she could find purpose, was another, and one of far greater importance. The existence of such a place she found difficult to imagine, even now while she was looking at it. It was expansive, and austere, and what she thought she needed. She had a personable man to show her the asylum. She truly felt her life was on the up-turn.

She was most interested in seeing the asylum’s family, the reason why she was here, and the one member of that family who was to be her specific charge. She looked upon the challenge of such a singular thing with just enough apprehension to elicit questions. Why should she be given such a responsibility? Was she prepared for this? And, all apprehension aside, the answers were clear; her preparedness was not in question, it was the asylum’s faith in her that was worth everything.

She was meant to be here. Nothing else was to be said. Or thought of.


Proud to be accompanying such a lovely woman down these halls of her future employment, he felt a sense of the worth he was aware he possessed but lacking on so many past occasions. The reason for this, he had no doubt, was Miss Jenkins. Her enthusiasm was indeed needed in this place, but it was the decisiveness he had seen in her countenance, that he had heard in her voice, that made her presence here indispensable.

Her employment at the asylum would be challenging. The patient she was to be charged with was, he would have to say, enigmatic. A good word, perhaps the only one that did him justice.

“You provide a good tour,” she said.

“But not a complete one. That will wait for another time.”

“Really?” He couldn’t miss the sardonic quality of the pronouncement, a bit of charm he found highly agreeable.

“Until you familiarize yourself with some of our family.”

“With one in particular?”

“Yes. With the reading of his history. The history that we know of.”

“Or that he is willing to provide?”

“Yes, we think that’s probably right.”

Was this “family member” a manipulator? It seemed to her he was being described as such, and this struck her as especially attractive. That thought, attractive; a most interesting thought. One that bothered her. Just a little.

“My name’s Rebekah,” she said. “Miss Jenkins sounds so formal.”

“And formality doesn’t become you?”

“Not right now.”

“Does that extend to our family here?”

“I’d like it to. That might take some time.”

“Time. Yes, you’ll have all you want. I trust it won’t be too much.”

“It’s time I will appreciate.”

“Good. There’s much to know.”

She wanted nothing less than to immerse herself into the life of the asylum. To appreciate the trials of those living here. To prove to herself the worth she was certain she possessed. And, of equal importance to these two, to free herself from the sameness of the community she wanted little part of.

Those around her could never she her in a role such as this. Neither could she. Things have a way of changing, and so do fortunes; this was a reflection that she both desired and needed. She smiled, and she hoped her guide saw it.

“I think, Rebekah, we should see the director now.”

“That’s not you?”

“No, and I’m sorry.”

“So am I. I was feeling rather comfortable.”

“He wants to see you."

“Why? Doesn’t he know who he’s hired?"

“He wants to see who he’s hired.”

“He will tell me what I need to know?”

“Perhaps more,” he said, taking her hand, to their mutual pleasure.



The Director, Rebekah thought upon her first introduction, was an amiable man. The importance of this, she could not dismiss. It meant she could work with him, not apart from him. His smile was warming, as warming as her guide, and she wondered is everyone in this asylum so friendly?

“Can I call you Rebekah?”

“Please.”

“Sit down. There are things I would like to tell you before you start with us.”

“Which will be?”

“As soon as we finish here.”

“No time to catch a breath?”

“I don’t believe you’ll want any."


Two


Opening


Yes, he thought he knew a Rebekah once. But was that years ago, or minutes ago? One thing he did know, here time did nothing but go by. Not fast, not slow, it just went by, with nothing to show that it was inherently meaningful, or anything out of the ordinary. But, She had her forever dream. The phrase haunted, and in this haunting he could take solace.



The art of listening is not lost among any of the fine people living here. Indeed, to listen is to live in this place. Ah, but what, and in some cases who, do they listen to? For me, it is the night that speaks, and it is the night that awaits my answers. I try to give it justice, what it and I deserve. You see, it’s part of the game I play, the game that I’ve learned to play so well.

What amuses me is there are those who think I belong here. I am, of course, quite willing to let them believe that. I take my victories when I can, and I’ll tell you it is a pleasure to fool my captors. It is a consequence of my musings that I feel at home in this place – and quite interesting, really.


High Tides and Low Seas


It is now your turn to listen, for I do not wish to waste these words on those who would trivialize my intent, which is only to offer evidence of my frailties. In telling this, I hope to give you justification for your mission, and to give myself a few smiles. The irrelevancy of what you may think of me no doubt is upsetting to you, because you see your mission as a great one, but you see I don’t want you to suffer from any delusions. I get so tried of you wanting to understand me, to figure me out. Why do you persist so? If you will allow me, I might help you to find an answer. But you have to listen, and listen with care. That’s all that’s left for you.


And what’s left for me? I ask myself that sometimes, when I care to entertain a thought so insignificant. It isn’t often. I live. That’s all. That’s enough.

I have my friends. They ask nothing of me, but offer me much. Happiness, that is their gift to me, and no one here, not anyone, can give me what they can. I talk to them. I share my pleasures with them, and my pleasures are simple things really. You see, I don’t need complications, and I have none here. Ah, happiness.

The night stars call to me, and it is my privilege to answer. Oh, I’ll tell you, it feels so good to do something I don’t have to do. They think I’m crazy here. I wonder just who are the crazy ones. I don’t answer the stars indiscriminately because they don’t always deserve answers, being the faceless bodies that they are. They can be so cold, so barren, but this is something, that over time, I’ve gotten used to. I play my games with them too. To listen to these, my night friends, and then to turn away from them, though they may or may not deserve my playfulness, this is just one more thing that gives me happiness.

The truth is that for a long time I didn’t feel any desire, and certainly no need, to talk about this. This is no longer the case. Still, I wonder if you will be able to appreciate what I have to say.


I am a man not without privilege. Does this make me seem arrogant – foolish, maybe? I am, after all, held captive in this asylum. My captors are nice enough to me. I am free to walk the halls and the grounds without threat. I am free to listen to, appreciate, the stories of others in this place, some here because of disease, either of the mind or of the heart, some here because their families give them no choice. There are times when I’m willing to share in the games of this place, when I imagine myself losing to the frustrations here, but I quickly comfort myself with the realization they’re not my frustrations. I feel sorry for those who lack understanding of why they’re here, I really do, but I feel ignorance the best way to avoid dealing with things I don’t want to; this, and the fact that I chose to be here. I’ve forgotten exactly why I did, but I feel comfortable that I can also choose to leave.


Confusion, to some degree, lives with everyone in this place. Sometimes I amuse myself by thinking that those whose confusion was the reason for their being sent here are the fortunate ones, but usually I don’t waste my time with such thoughts. Why should I? When I look at those around me, I wonder why anyone should.


She has dark hair, long to the waist. My attraction to her is genuine. I feel funny about this, perhaps strange, that she is somehow my misfortune. The truth is I want what she gives me, and I struggle with this. I really do.

I don’t like to struggle with things, it does my confidence no good, but that confidence has never been so tested. And yet, I may love her. If you knew me better than you say you do, you would understand what this, what she, is doing to me.

And so I will now tell you a story. It could be our story, mine and hers, or the story of everyone in this place. I don’t know if it matters. I certainly don’t care whether it does.
___________

Pleased with the rewards of her day, and in anticipation of learning to come, and now alone, this was a good time, Rebekah thought, for refection. Her guide having left for other areas of the asylum, the director now busy with other duties, she felt her time of refection would be best served by spending additional time walking the asylum grounds.
“Yes” she said, an affirmation,” this is exactly what I’ll do,” and so she began her walk of reflection, while within the asylum’s recesses, a story was being told.


Three


Opening


She had her forever dream. Simple words that were playing games with his mind, and playing them well, for they were beginning to suffocate him, or something he couldn’t even guess at.

A forever dream, what was that anyway?


Still, and always, it rains


I suppose the phrase it began with a woman might be something of a cliché, but in my case it’s true. Yes, the same woman with hair down to her waist, at once affecting emotions I thought I had successfully held in check.

She scares me. And this I find remarkable.

Under the light of the stars, I listen to her words, the gentleness of her voice a gift to me, “I want to make you happy. It’s what you need.”

“I’m happy.”

“Not very, I think.”

“Why do you say that?”

I want there to be humor in the question. But being with her I can’t find any.

“Walk with me, and you will know.”

When I think of her, I think of troubled fascination. When I am with her, I feel at odds with myself, a feeling of control slipping away from me.

I tell her this, and she doesn’t seem to care. She says I shouldn’t either. I, of course, tell her I don’t, that it’s simply a curiosity I wish she could share.

She wants to know about my friends, and I tell her of the night and the stars that populate it, and she tells me she can understand this.

“How can you?”

She smiles and says nothing, the most disconcerting thing I have ever felt.

I dream of her sometimes. Awake or asleep, it makes no difference, but it is difficult for me to sleep in this place listening to the noises and complaints that seem to echo through the halls. I do acknowledge there are souls confined here who actually are sick.

Dreaming of her can be satisfying to me; it is less troubling to me than confrontation that can be challenging. But, she is a challenge, and although troubled by this, I do feel happiness with her, and this seems enough for me. Still, this is not easy for me to understand. Should it be? I don’t know.

She looks into my eyes, more than just a look, a focusing really, and I feel I am under her intense examination. I don’t like it. But I do like her, being with her, her hair long and like silk, trapping silk, even though I feel a subject under study.

“I make you uncomfortable,” she says, a statement rather than a question.

“Yes,” I say, surprised with the immediacy of my reply.

“I want to know who you are.”

Fair enough I thought. “Let me tell you.”

”There’s no need.”

I feel a need, but I wonder if this need is greater than it should be. Is such a thing possible? I solve the riddle, or attempt to, by telling myself that I don’t care, though I feel there is something of a lie in there somewhere. I have said that she scares me. The rest of the truth is sometimes I scare myself.

So my story continues, because it must.

“You have friends,” she tells me.

“Yes, the stars and the night.”

She smiles. I’ve grown to love her smile. “I think of myself as your friend. Why do you want to hurt yourself?”

“I don’t.”

“Can I believe you?”

I don’t like her questioning me, but I do concede her feelings in doing so. I acknowledge, also, my part in this, having told her of my blade, because she makes it easy for me to tell her things I should keep hidden. I’ll tell you, though, the things I’ve told you, and will tell you, comes close to being a matter for my consumption only, my blade being a very private thing. But I’m confused now, and things have changed. I can only hope good things will be the result.

Is there enjoyment derived from introducing my blade to young women, putting it deep in their flesh, hearing their gasps of surprise, watching their pain heighten as their bodies succumb to the beauty of steel? Maybe. There is a level of happiness, to be sure, but I think it has more to do with the desire for control. You know, that’s really very funny.

“You’re not sure of me,” she says, “of how you see me. I find that very interesting.”

“So do I.”

“We should think of that. I do like you”

“I do want that.”

The truth in her eyes speaks volumes to me. As do her words, “Let me bring you happiness.”

“You have,” I say without thought, for how could my response be otherwise?

“I know you have your blade. Show it to me.”

Is it any wonder, I think to myself, as I smile my assent, that she captivates me?

“It’s beautiful,” she says. And she wraps her hands around its hilt, with so much care, I think. I watch her place its point to her waist. “I want to give you pleasure.” And she says, her smile an irristable thing, “Push it in for me. For you.”

“Yes,” I say, control promising to again show itself to me, and I put my blade in her, and I hear her sigh, an unexpected response. Appropriate because I don’t think of her as overly demonstrative. She rests against me and I feel the joy of her words, “I love you,” and I know what she says is true. I feel what she wants me to feel, her body reacting to the blade, the increasing shallowness of her breathing, her body’s movements as death is reaching for her, and I say, ”I know you do.” I listen to her as she directs me to “hold on to your blade. Know that it, and I, are joined.” So much beauty, my soul smiles for her, for both of us, and I feel her life leaving her. I allow myself the pleasure of a brushing of her hair, its silkiness leading me to the love I will always feel for her.” Hold me,” she says.
“I will,” I say, and in these words I make my everlasting promise to her.


Rebekah knew she had some thinking to do. One of the perks of the position I hold, she thought, or, more precisely, the position I am asked to fill. But, oh, what a gift she had been given. She prayed she would use it well.

This place is going to be good for me; she thought and knew at the same time. I’ve needed something like this for a long time.

She felt comfortable here, and it would be her pleasure to bring some of that comfort to the asylum. She didn’t know, at this early time, if anyone in this place would benefit from her doing so. This would come later, she supposed.

She looked forward to the opportunities this place would continue to offer her. Here, she could, she prayed, find her significance. Which is, what? Good question, she considered, but do I have the answer?

Questions of this magnitude aside, the charge she had been given was of great concern to her. What she had learned of him thus far only whetted her appetite for more. This, too, would come. For now, she was happy to be here, away from the influences she had left behind.

“Yes, Rebekah,” she said, herself the only beneficiary of her words, “this time you have decided well.”


Four


Opening


He stood before the stone marking Rebekah’s grave. Here, in the pristine environment, where solitude was much appreciated, he could let his thoughts wander. Rebekah was one of the joys of the asylum. Now, she was here, where he could visit her, where her soul could unite with his. And where he could say, with all the sincerity he had to give, “Rebekah, I love you.”


The seas beckon, the confused soul answers


She lies before me, silken and capturing hair framing a face so angelic as to cause the formation of tears, her smile beautiful and inexplicable, my blade buried in her waist. She lies, as if resting, the earth her bed, and the stars, now her friends as they are mine, her canopy. She lies before me, and I hear her say–do I?–“thank you.”

I nod my answer, and it is more than this, it is my almost overwhelming appreciation of her. I think of my friends the night and the stars, and I think the strangest thing about all that has happened is that none of this is very strange a all.




For as the sea rushes to the shore and we are buffeted by its
waves, we again become familiar with the play of the mind.



Frank J. Mueller III