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Tales of Papa

by Graeme Fielden

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 to and fro, backward and forward. Staring at the photographs...

It was SundayÂ’s that we loved the most.

"YouÂ’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 and 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 oÂ’clock and weÂ’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 FatherÂ’s leather satchel!" And the caning that followed that I understood the meaning of FatherÂ’s wink. The candy never taste as good when I understood baby Jesus didnÂ’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 snapped like clapping thunder on the horses hides, and they would whinny then break into a trot as we lay half-asleep within the cart. WeÂ’d hear the village 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 out of the town. There were smells of rich gravy and pork roasting over the Sunday fires. Farmyard odours and the sounds of livestock preparing for sleep. WeÂ’d enter the forest then the light would grow dim as its canopy enclosed us as and weÂ’d hear its sunset chorus in our dreams until wakened by the barking of the dogs.

Tommy and Bill were first to greet us. We would wake as they barked and theyÂ’d squeal and run around in circles before the gate. They would 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. HeÂ’d greet Father with a kiss on the cheek, then heÂ’d ask of MotherÂ’s health. "SheÂ’s a strong woman," Papa would say as he wiped the tear from FatherÂ’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 PapaÂ’s arms. "Sleep now my little prince" heÂ’d whisper.

IÂ’d feel the damp cold of TommyÂ’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. PapaÂ’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 sizzled and smoked beneath the mantle, where PapaÂ’s photos slowly faded with age.

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

"A voice from the heavens sweet Jesus!" heÂ’d say and his shaggy head would freeze then heÂ’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 sombre for stories of bad tiding. HeÂ’d act out situations: becoming a one-man pantomime. Contorting his face, distorting his voice to match each character. He would 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 unrecognisable. For an instant weÂ’d be terrified and weÂ’d bury our heads beneath the sheets, gasping for breath. Then weÂ’d beg him to continue the tale.

We looked forward to our Sunday visit through the week.Papa could tell a tale like no other.

PapaÂ’s Ghost

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 gait that echoed as they passed along the track. The night was quiet and it seemed forever ‘til Papa’s voice yelled. "Goodbye," And we heard the steady gait of the horses’ departure. We looked at one another then our voices called in unison "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, swaying gently as he lit his pipe, blowing smoke rings through his thick beard, which he massaged philosophically. "Have I told you of the ghost?" he asked.

"Ghost?" we cried together with wide-saucer eyes.

"Aye"

"A real, real ghost?"

"Aye. But IÂ’m thinking youÂ’re too young. IÂ’d be scaring you with stories of ghosts that live just down the road"

"There are ghosts down the road?"

"Aye" he repeated.

The shadows in the cabin seemed to grow and the fire flickered suddenly as Papa slowly shook his head. "No. YouÂ’re too young to hear such things"

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

"ThereÂ’s no ghost." I said with a smile. "PapaÂ’s teasing us."

Papa turned toward me with a serious face.

"Never speak lightly of ghosts, boy."

He turned about to face the wall where his shadow stood like a black scarecrow. He raised his arms suddenly, making his silhouette jump to 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 fire's uneven glow.

"Yes! Oh, yes! Papa Yes!"

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

Crouching low so that his face was only inches from ours, Papa began his taleÂ…

"Many years ago. Not long after the church was finished, a young priest appeared with a cart full of household wares and books piled so high they spilled out onto the ground as he passed."

"Whose ghost was it Papa?" asked my sister. "Was it the priest's?"

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

"After a time, the townsfolk grew to love him. He was a kind, warm man. The answer to the our spiritual needs.

"What did he look like?" quizzed my sister.

He was a tall, thin man who wore a pious expression on his sallow face. HeÂ’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? How did he die?" my sister continued.

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 were. But he loved us as he loved God - for he saw God within every man. Even us sinners!"

We listened closely to Papa. Watching him with steady eyes until the door blew open, sending a chilled breeze through the cabin, which dampened the fire for seconds until, with a bang it slammed shut and the fire re-ignited with and a burst of sparks.

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

I heard a soft shuffle of feet. The sound of slow moving footsteps approach the window as a silhouette appeared, then disappeared in an instant.

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

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

I nodded slowly, remaining quiet.

Papa laughed, caressing her cheek with his roughened palm.

"ItÂ’s only a story my love. The dogs will bark blue murder if someone steps within a mile."

Papa stroked out foreheads reassuringly then rose slowly from the chair to walk in circles about the room while holding the gas lamp beneath his chin to illuminate his face like a jack-o-lantern. He told the tale slowly, almost in a whisper, which increased in speed and volume as he progressed. Our eyes followed him: watching, listening, following his movement until it seemed our heads were turning at a dizzying speed. The words tumbled. They danced one into the other so each became indiscernible except for random words that threw themselves from the strange hypnotic buzz that enveloped the room.

Papa stopped suddenly before the window. "His body was found at the base of the cliff," he said.

His silhouette cast angry shadows into the walls.

He began to walk again and the silhouette began to change. Transforming from PapaÂ’s stooped and hairy form to the shape of a tall, thin man dressed in robes-like the figure at the window. It walked with a slow and steady stride, following Papa about the room until it stopped independent of Papa who continued, oblivious to its presence. The shadow leaned forward, reaching a black hand toward us. We screamed in unison.

BANG!

The front door swung wildly open with a gush of ice cold wind. It slammed closed again, leaving the cabin in total darkness. We gripped one another in our bed as we screamed for Papa.

We couldn't hear his voice. The cabin was earily quiet except for the sound of our heartbeats, which seemed to reverberate through the cabin.

"Papa" I whispered.

I lit a candle and saw his motionless body prostrated on the floor.

"Papa! Papa!" we cried. Our voices filled with breathless panic as we hugged his chest.

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

We sobbed as he hugged us back.

"Fetch me the whiskey," he commanded.

Papa sat up slowly to accept the bottle, gulping at the thick golden liquid until it was finished.

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

"ThatÂ’s enough stories for tonight, boy," he said as he tucked us into bed and set his chair beside our bed where he sat all night, nervously fingering through his dog-eared Bible.

05/17/2004

Author's Note: This is an edited version of "A Visit to Papa's," written in 2003. Many thanks to Kate Reynolds whose collaberation and with the first amendments to the story was invaluable.

Posted on 05/17/2004
Copyright © 2024 Graeme Fielden

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Alex Smyth on 05/18/04 at 02:55 PM

Graeme, you have gotten me in trouble. I just peeked in at work, intending to do a quick skim. Of course I got lost in the wonderful, evoking details for way too long. So have printed and will finish on my lunch break. I LOVE PAPA!!!

Posted by Quentin S Clingerman on 05/21/04 at 02:38 AM

Most engaging, with solid characterization, builds suspense, and an ending that leaves the reader wondering!

Posted by Max Bouillet on 05/21/04 at 08:29 PM

"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 baby Jesus didn’t make it." That paragraph made me laugh aloud! Priceless characterization. I've viewed this evolve over time and it seems fresh ever time I read it. There may be a few grammatical things in the first paragraph to tend to --though in short fiction you have a tad bit more literary license. This is an excellent read.

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