Perhaps it was his voice, or the way that he looked at you when he smiled that smile when he knew that you were fibbing, or the thick-bellied thunder of the laugh that jellied to his cheeks leaving his eyes awash with happy tears. Maybe the melancholy of the silent solace of his rocker, puffing deeply at his pipe, combing deeply through his beard, rocking backward and forward, staring at the photographs.

It was Sunday’s that we loved the most.

"You’ll see Papa tonight," Father would say as we walked dual file, best dressed into Church.

For an hour we would not talk, nor look sideways or behind. We sat, knelt, genuflected with clockwork precision to the order of service. Father looked proudly as we led the hymnal, nodding recognition to fellow parishioners when complemented on his two little angels.

Six o’clock and we’d climb into the wagon, Father would smile, reach into his bag then wink to me as he pulled two striped candies from his leather satchel saying, "Look at what Baby Jesus brings to good children."

It was not until the age of six and my outburst at Scripture class: " Baby Jesus lives in my Father’s leather satchel!" and the caning that followed that I understood the meaning of Father’s wink. The candy never taste as good when I understood that baby Jesus didn’t make it…

A mile of cobblestone streets and the wheels would click-clack against the stones. Father would sit out front with a whip made of leather that would snap like clapping thunder on the horses, and they would whinny then break into a trot, as we lay half-asleep within the cart.

We’d hear the sounds of pianos playing, babies crying and the drunken curse of Tom Bandy the village drunk who cursed his wife with a yell and himself with a whisper as we passed the village gates. There were smells of rich gravy and pork roasting over the Sunday fires, farmyard odors and the sounds of livestock preparing for sleep. We’d enter the forest where the lights grew dim as its canopy enclosed - a sunset chorus of birds and insects met us in our dreams until we’d be wakened by the barking of the dogs.

Tommy and Bill were first to greet us. We’d stir as they barked and squealed as they ran around in circles before the gate. They’d jump on one another, biting playfully, until Papa called them to heel.

Papa walked with a limp and he leaned on a stick with the head of a dog as a handle as he paced toward the gate. He’d greet Father with a kiss on the cheek then he’d ask of Mother’s health.

"She’s a strong woman," Papa would say as he wiped the tear from Father’s eye.

I remember being lifted from the cart; my pelvis and shoulders would crunch with the curling of my back as I was taken into Papa’s arms. "Sleep now my little prince" he’d whisper. I’d feel the damp cold of Tommy’s nose as he tickled my feet with his kisses.

Inside was small and cluttered with a table set with old plates and mugs and tatty red serviettes. Papa’s bed was in the corner, beside an old mattress that was made up for our bed. An old rocker sat before the fireplace, which smoked beneath a mantle where Papa’s photos slowly, faded with age.

We’d sleep until supper; sit at the table with Father and Papa who ate in silence while we’d titter amongst ourselves until we’d eaten our fill, kiss Father goodbye then pretend to sleep until we heard the sound of his departure whereupon our eyes would open and we’d whisper. "A story Papa?"

"A voice from the heavens, sweet Jesus!" he’d say and his shaggy head would freeze then he’d round toward us with a wild grin. "And what story would you like?"

Papa had a unique way of talking when we were alone. He was animated and excitable, and his face would light up with delight when he told us of happy situations. He was stoic and somber for stories of bad tiding. He’d act out situations: becoming a one-man pantomime; contorting his face, distorting his voice to match each character. He’d walk about the room, sometimes with a limp, sometimes bent double like a hunchback, shifting from place to place, character to character as he told his tale. At times he would distort his face so that he was unrecognizable - for an instant we’d be terrified and bury our heads beneath the sheets, gasping for breath yet when he sopped we’d beg him to continue the tale.

Yes. We looked forward to Sunday like no other day for the sake of Papa and his stories. He could tell a tale like no other.

One summer’s Sunday evening, not long after I’d turned nine, we were snuggled beneath the quilt waiting; waiting for the sound of Father’s departure. My sister curled cat-like, at my side as we listened for the horses: their steady clip-clop that echoed as they passed along the track. The night was quiet and it seemed forever ‘til Papa’s voice signaled father's departure and we heard the steady gait of the horses’ departure.

We looked at one another and smiled then our voices spoke as one. "A story Papa?"

"Sweet Jesus," he replied as he shook his shaggy head. "And what kind of story would you be wanting?"

"Tell us the hunting story," I cried.

"No!" cried my sister "The story of the fox!"

Papa sat into his rocker, swinging gently as he lit his pipe, blowing smoke rings past his thick beard, which he massaged philosophically.

"Have I told you of the ghost?" he asked quietly

"Ghosts?" we responded in unison.

"Aye," Papa answered with solemnity.

"A real, real ghost?" I asked nervously.

"Aye, but I’m thinking you’re too young. I’d be scaring you with stories of ghosts that live just down the road."

"Down the road?" asked my sister. She twisted nervously beside me.

"Aye," Papa repeated and for a moment the shadows seemed to deepen and the fire flickered suddenly as Papa slowly shook his head.

"You’re too young to hear such things"

"Oh Papa," pleaded my sister. "We’re not to young! We want to hear about the ghost!"

"There’s no ghost." I said with a smile, "Papa’s teasing us."

Papa turned toward me with a serious face.

"Never speak lightly of the ghosts, boy," he said as he turned about to face his shadow, raising his arms suddenly so it jumped like a blackened scarecrow onto the ceiling.

"Did you see that?" he whispered

"It was your shadow!" I shouted with laughter.

Papa winked to me so that my sister could not see him.

"So, you want to hear about the ghost?" he asked as he lowered the flame of the gas lamp, which made the cabin flicker with the glow of the open fire.

"Yes! Oh yes! Papa Yes!" we answered.

He reached forward, fluffing our pillow then tucking us comfortably into bed. "You’ve got to be snug for stories," Papa used to say.

Crouching low so that his face was only inches from ours, Papa began his tale.

"Many years ago, not long after the first church was built a young priest appeared with a cart full of household wares and books piled so high they spilled out onto the ground."

"Whose ghost was it Papa?" asked my sister.

Papa looked toward her with patient eyes, making the sign of the cross across his chest. "God rest his soul," he whispered.

After a time the townsfolk soon grew to love him for he was a kind, warm man who became the answer to the towns’ spiritual needs. He was a tall, thin man who wore a pious expression on his face. He’d hold his head to the side as he listened, and he nodded gently as he spoke with a soft voice. Yes, when he spoke to you, you could feel his words in your chest, in your heart."

"Did he die Papa?" my sister asked.

Papa turned toward her with sad eyes as he tenderly stroked her forehead.

"He was a man of the cities, unused to the variance of the wild, pioneers, such as we but he loved us as he loved God - for he saw God within every man. Even us wild country sinners."

We nodded as we listened closely to Papa. Watching him with steady eyes until distracted by a cold wind that shook the door open, sending a breeze through the cabin that momentarily dampened the flames within the hearth until the door slammed closed. The fire re-ignited with and the burst of wind.

"Shh," said Papa as he held a finger to his lips…

I imagined I heard the sound of slow moving footsteps moving toward the window. I saw the silhouette on a man appear then disappear within an instant.

Papa followed my gaze. "Are you scared already, boy?"

"There was someone at the window," my sister said.

I nodded slowly in agreement, remaining quiet.

Papa laughed, caressing her cheek with his roughened palm. "It’s only a story my love. The dogs will bark blue murder if someone steps within a mile." He stroked out heads for reassurance then continued.

He rose slowly, walking in circles around the room while holding the gas lamp beneath his chin, which illuminated his face. He continued the tale slowly, almost in a whisper, increasing his speed and his volume: he walked faster and faster- in time with his speech, which quickened with each step.

Our eyes followed him about, hypnotically. Watching, listening, following his movement until it seemed that our heads were turning at a dizzying speed. His words tumbled; they danced - one into the other - so that each became indiscernible except for random words that threw themselves from the strange hypnotic buzz that enveloped the room. Again, I saw that figure at the window. I could not see its eyes yet somehow I knew that it was staring at me. It froze me…

Papa stopped as his eye caught mine.

"His body was found at the base of the cliff," he said slowly.

Papa stood tall, casting angry shadows on the walls then as Papa began to move - we followed his silhouette and it began to change -transforming from Papa’s stooped and hairy form to a tall, thin man dressed in sweeping robes and wearing a wide-brimmed hat. It walked with a slow and steady stride that followed Papa about the room.

Papa continued his circumnavigation yet the silhouette stopped independent of Papa who continued oblivious to its presence. He kept talking yet I could no longer hear his voice as the shadow leaned forward, whispering windy words to us, reaching its black hand toward us as we sat frozen with fear.

The front door swung wildly open with a gush of ice-cold wind. It slammed closed again, leaving the cabin in total darkness.

We looked about. Papa was nowhere to be seen within the darkness…

"Papa?" I whispered.

I lit a candle and saw Papa’s motionless body, lying on the floor.

"Papa!" we cried together - our voices filled with breathless panic as we hugged his chest.

He opened his eyes.

"Well I’ll be damned!" said Papas’ weary voice.

We sobbed as he hugged us back.

"Fetch me the whiskey," he commanded.

Papa sat up slowly, swallowing half a bottle of the thick golden liquid in slow gulps until it was finished.

"Papa," I ventured. "Papa, what happened?"

"That’s enough stories for tonight, boy," he said then he tucked us into bed, setting his chair beside our bed for the night. He sat there nervously until dawn, fingering through a dog-eared version of a King James that he gripped in his hands…

10/14/2003

Author's Note: The beginning of this story has been sitting in a bottom drawer for about 4 years...I found it over the weekend and decided to try to finish it off...If it seems a little dis jointed in places, I guess that explains it...

Posted on 10/14/2003
Copyright © 2024 Graeme Fielden