To Seek Revenge

  “All aboard!”

The shout was all but drowned out by the whistle that sounded, loud and hollow, a second afterward. The young man raced down the platform, suitcase and overcoat flapping behind him, and leapt into a train compartment. The train started to move a moment later, and the young man let out a sigh of relief. He tried to catch his breath as he moved down the corridor, searching for an empty compartment. Unfortunately for him, the train was very busy, and he had to settle for a nearly empty compartment, the only other occupant being an older, handsome man, with dark, slicked-back hair, streaked with gray, and smoking a pipe. He was reading the newspaper, and looked up and smiled kindly at the young man as he entered, before returning to the paper.

The young man smiled back, and placed his bag in the overhead rack, before settling himself opposite the older man and withdrawing a book from the large pocket of his overcoat. The older man looked up again to see what he was reading. He smiled.

“You’ve just been to see the production, I assume?”

The young man nodded vigorously, shutting the book. “Yes. The most fantastic night I’ve ever spent in the theatre. I’ve come down all the way from Birmingham to see it, spent a month’s wages, but it was worth it. Have you seen it, sir?”

“Irving’s Hamlet? Alas, I haven’t had the pleasure,” replied the older man, refilling the pipe. “I’m sure it was marvelous, though. Irving usually is.”

“I don’t think I can express how wonderful it was in words,” replied the young man. “It was a completely transcendent experience. I don’t mind telling you that I wept at the end. I felt so strongly for Hamlet, for Horatio, for…well, for everyone! Except for Claudius, naturally.”

“Naturally,” agreed the older man. “We do not feel for villains.”

“But even he…at the confessional scene…well, it was so well done, that I even felt a bit sorry for him then,” continued the young man. “The whole show was just so…so…oh, there are no words! But forgive me, I mustn’t go on like this. I must sound like a terrible fool, and I fear I’m boring you.”

“Not at all. It’s good to see enthusiasm and emotion in a young man. So few people feel true passion these days,” retorted the older man, lighting his pipe and giving a few experimental puffs.

“You really must see it if you’re returning to London,” finished the young man.

“I will be, soon,” replied the older man. “And I’ll get round to it, no doubt. I haven’t missed one of his performances yet. A wonderfully emotional actor, Irving. He captures what it is to be human very well.”

“Yes, he’s very believable,” agreed the young man. “You forget you’re in the theatre sometimes, and believe that you’re actually in Elsinore, witnessing all that horror. It really does move one to tears.”

“I’ve no doubt about it,” replied the older man. “But I would concede that he’s the greatest actor who ever lived if he can make Hamlet believable. As much as I admire it, it’s as much a fantasy as anything Hans Andersen dreamed up. A story to frighten children, nothing more.”

“I don’t think I understand you, sir,” replied the young man, half puzzled and half angry.

“Well, the whole idea of a man becoming so obsessed with revenge that he destroys everything he loves in pursuit of it. It’s preposterous. Just like every revenge tragedy,” retorted the older man.

“Is it, sir?” asked the young man, tentatively. “I always thought it was a very important moral, not to seek revenge or it will destroy you. It’s what separates us from the beasts, after all.”

“Nonsense, when did you ever see a beast seek revenge?” demanded the older man. “Our ability to seek revenge makes us human. Our ability to harbor a grudge, and to plot and plan so that the other is in pain as much as we are – there’s something wonderfully human about the whole idea. Beasts don’t have the ability to reason revenge out, or to plot and plan like us. Revenge is an inherently human idea. And it doesn’t destroy you, if you don’t go overboard. Hamlet did, poor fellow. But that’s his own fault for being a bloody fool, nothing to do with his quest for revenge. The idea was perfectly justified; the flaw was in the execution.”

“Are you saying Hamlet could have avoided his own death and everyone else’s?” asked the young man.

“Of course he could have,” retorted the older man. “If he just thought logically about the whole idea of vengeance. If he, like a rational human being, had planned out how he was going to achieve his revenge, and then have executed it swiftly and effectively, like a rational person, it would all have been very simple and tidy and no one would have been hurt. But then I suppose you never know whether he’s truly mad or not.”

“But surely the point of the story is that revenge is a bad thing?” questioned the young man. “Surely however he did it, the result would have been the same?”

“I think not,” replied the older man, puffing thoughtfully on his pipe. “But then I’m not Shakespeare. I have often thought of writing my own revenge story, where tragedy isn’t involved. Tragedy should not, in my opinion, be necessary in a revenge tragedy. Not if the protagonist is a rational, thinking, careful human being.”

“I just can’t think of any case in which revenge would be justified,” retorted the young man. “As human beings, we have a duty to forgive those wrongs done against us, as we hope to be forgiven by God.”

“Don’t be silly, my boy, God is as vengeful as the rest of us,” retorted the older man. “He made Man in his image. He gave us the ability to reason and plot and seek revenge. He has no need to forgive that which he gave us. But I can see I’m not convincing you,” he said, noticing the young man’s skeptical look. “Very well, I shall give you an example. This is a true story involving a friend of mine, a very old and dear friend. This man was heir to a great estate and fortune, and in love and engaged to a very attractive and wealthy woman. Her name was Ellen Markham, and a more beautiful and gracious woman never walked the earth. He had everything that could make a man happy, and he was, indeed, very happy. And then one day an old school friend of his came to stay, young, handsome, and very charming. Too charming, in fact. He won away the heart of my friend’s fiancée, and wormed his way into his family’s affections. They all thought him an ideal young man, and suddenly my friend seemed useless and lazy compared to him. My friend understandably began to hate this man. He was in actuality far from being lazy and useless, and so all his talent, passion and energy was put toward this hatred. It became a constant companion, a familiar that whispered incessantly in his ear, a green-eyed familiar which drove him to seek vengeance. But it was not an irrational familiar.”

“Nor, initially, a malicious one. My friend had no desire to physically harm the man, just to take back what was, in his mind, his due: the affections of those he loved. He believed this could be easily accomplished. A few well-placed rumors with the right sources, and hey presto, the man was soon embroiled in scandal. My friend congratulated himself on the good job he had done, and how clever he had been about it. So did my friend’s familiar. But sadly, the outcome was not as my friend had expected.”

“Rather than shrinking from him, his loved ones united around the man. They refused to believe the vicious, scandalous rumors. My friend’s former fiancée, now his friend’s fiancée, pitied him and grew angry over the ‘devious and malicious lies’ that had soiled his good name. My friend’s family were nothing but supportive, and told the world they didn’t believe the rumors either. And so my friend had to deny them as well. His plot for disgracing his friend hadn’t worked. Well, it had worked, but it hadn’t made a difference. And so my friend realized that the only way to remove the man from his life was to, literally, remove the man from his life. This thought appalled him for many months, so that he couldn’t act. But then came the day of the man’s wedding to his former fiancée, and my friend knew he could wait no longer.”

“But unbeknownst to my friend, the man had found out who had started those malicious rumors about him. The man had found out all about my friend’s jealousy, and suspected my friend’s plot. And he had mentioned this to his fiancée, and my friend’s parents, who saw themselves as having no choice in the matter. And so the day of the man’s wedding was also the day that my friend was committed to a mental institution. Whether or not he deserved this or was even justified in being sent to one is debatable, but his family were very powerful, and had connections with doctors who signed the necessary paperwork. And he’s still there to this day, poor chap.”

The older man fell silent. After several minutes silence, the young man cleared his throat. “And then, sir?” he asked, tentatively.

“What do you mean, ‘and then’?” asked the older man, relighting his pipe. “That’s the end of the story.”

“But…you’ll forgive me, sir, but I would call that a revenge tragedy. Your friend became obsessed with vengeance against this man, and in the end it destroyed him. Or at least he lost his freedom, and his mind. I would call that a very tragic end.”

“You forget, my boy, that my friend wasn’t the only one taking revenge,” retorted the older man. “Revenge worked out well enough for the other fellow, didn’t it?”

“I suppose it did,” agreed the young man. “I didn’t really consider him. But what a horrible story! Is it true?”

“Quite true, sadly,” sighed the older man. “I may visit my old friend at the institution when I get back home. Depends on the time, of course,” he said, checking his watch. “Ellen doesn’t like me to be late for dinner.”

The realization hit the young man just as the train whistle screeched, and the vehicle slowed to a halt. “Well, it’s been a pleasure talking to you, young man, but this is my stop,” said the older man, rising to take his bag from the rack. He pulled on his gloves and hat, and then held out a hand to the young man. He took it and shook it mechanically. “I hope you found my story diverting. Perhaps we’ll meet again someday. Enjoy your revenge tragedy, but remember to bear in mind the difference between fiction and reality. Goodbye.”

And the older man left. The younger man watched him go, and sat in silence for several minutes, even after the train pulled out of the station and continued on its way. Then he sighed, and returned to Hamlet. It was important to bear in the mind the difference between fiction and reality, but in all honesty, he preferred the justice of fiction.

SOS

It was a foggy night, a chilly night, and not a night Ensign George Rawlings wished to be on watch. He would have preferred almost anything to standing sheltered in the bay on the cliffs, watching for any sign of distress from the passing ships, but mostly his thoughts turned to a roaring fire and a smoke in The Fox, with perhaps that pretty barmaid, Angela, offering him a pint of ale. With that dazzling smile of hers, he could never resist anything she offered. And her charming company would certainly be preferable to the fog and the sea, his current companions. They were cold and lifeless, and she was young, and beautiful, and vivacious, and…

He shook his head abruptly, trying to clear her from his thoughts. It was torture to think of her, and the fire, and the warmth, and all the rest, when he was stuck out in the chill on this rock for the next four hours. But His Majesty’s loyal servants had a duty, and the duty of men such as Ensign George Rawlings was to watch the coast for any sign of British ships in distress, and any sign of enemy ships on the horizon. Not that it was likely that the Germans would attack in this fog. They’d have to be mad too. Mind, if all Rawlings had heard about them from the Newsreels was true, most of them were mad. Still, even the insane would think twice before venturing out in this weather. The fog was so thick and chilly that it clung to him, and the spray from the sea only made matters worse. And he couldn’t light a fire for fear of giving away his position. The best he could do, he reasoned, was to settle himself in the lea of the rocks, relatively sheltered from the spray, and huddle together with his thick winter coat and blankets, and pray that the watch would pass quickly and without incident.

His prayers were not answered. The moment he had settled down, he heard a beeping coming from the small shelter in which the radio had been set up. Cursing, he rose and hurried over to the device, which was beeping out a familiar signal in Morse code: SOS…SOS…SOS.

Rawlings picked up the intercom. “This is Ensign George Rawlings of His Majesty’s Navy. Please relay your position, over.”

There was silence on the other end, merely a crackling sound. Rawlings repeated the request. “Relay your position, over.”

More crackling. And then a repeat of the Morse code distress signal: SOS…SOS…SOS. This signal sounded further off and farther away, and was soon overpowered by the crackling. And then, silence.

Rawlings put down the intercom, uncertain of what to do next. He couldn’t locate the ship in distress if he had no coordinates to go by; it could be anywhere. On the other hand, he couldn’t just leave a ship in distress, nor one which clearly had no other means of communications.

The crackling suddenly sounded again, and the code was repeated. SOS…SOS…SOS. It was louder this time, coming through loud and clear. Rawlings repeated, “Relay your position, over.”

SOS…SOS…SOS…and then silence again.

Rawlings waited, but the signal did not return. He waited for several minutes, and then turned and left the radio, returning to his position of watch on the rocks.

And it was then that he spotted a dark shape in the midst of the fog, bobbing along at the mercy of the tides. It was not a warship; it was too small, but it was headed right for the rocks near the cliff. At that moment, the crackling radio started up again, and this time the signal echoed around the cliff. SOS…SOS…SOS.

Rawlings wasted no more time. He seized hold of the phone next to the radio, and dialed a number. The dialing tone rang once, twice, and then a voice on the other end sleepily muttered, “Hello?”

           

“Sorry to wake you, sir, but it’s Ensign Rawlings,” he said. “I know it’s an unsociable hour, but I think you’d better come here, sir. We may need to organize a rescue.”

“Damn it, man, can’t you handle it?” muttered the man on the other end, yawning.

“I think not, sir,” replied Rawlings, hesitantly. “The ship’s communication appears to be out, and it’s heading for the cliff…they don’t appear to be able to steer, sir. We’re going to need to have the lifeboats ready for rescue…”

“Yes, yes, yes, all right,” interrupted the other voice. “I’m on my way.”

Rawlings hung up the telephone, and returned to the cliff to watch the ill-fated ship. It was heading straight for the rocks, being tossed mercilessly by the waves toward its doom. Rawlings watched a moment more, and then began to take the path down the cliff face to the waiting lifeboats on the beach. The fog was thicker down at sea-level, and Rawlings could no longer see the ship. He could only see his hand in front of his face if he held it about an inch from his nose. Fortunately he knew the beach very well indeed, and could find the waiting lifeboats without the aid of sight. He began to untie one from its moorings, and could still hear the radio up above on the cliff, repeating its distress call: SOS…SOS…SOS.

Rawlings reached into his pocket and withdrew his compass – he would need it to navigate in this mess. Sight would be completely useless; in fact, it was complete madness to go out to sea at all in this fog. But he had no choice. There were lives at risk, and his duty was to save them.

He leapt into the boat, and put the oars into the water. He then began to row due north, hoping that he would be able to locate the ship by sound.          

He was not disappointed. After only a few moments of rowing, his boat suddenly knocked against the hull of another ship. The sea had stilled and was now almost eerily calm, but the fog was still thick and impenetrable, and Rawlings couldn’t make out the rest of the ship above him as he cupped his hands and shouted, “Hello, this is Ensign George Rawlings, His Majesty’s Navy. Permission to come aboard?”

Complete silence from above. Rawlings waited a few moments, and then reached into the bottom of the boat and picked up a grappling hook and lasso. He swung this around his head and above, onto the deck of the ship. He heard a hollow, ringing sound as the hook met the metal deck, and then caught on the railing. With great difficulty, Rawlings managed to climb up the hull. He saw that it had been pierced by bullet holes, and wondered to himself how the ship had managed to stay afloat with such damage. Still puzzled, he swung himself onto the deck.

The fog was heavy and oppressive, hiding the deck from view. “Hello?” repeated Rawlings, taking a tentative step forward. “Hello? Captain? This is George Rawlings, His Majesty’s Navy. Is anyone on deck? Hello?”

He took another step forward, and his foot touched something. Looking down, Rawlings saw a shape in the fog, but couldn’t make it out. Reaching for the torch at his belt, he withdrew it and flicked it on, and then leapt back with a gasp.

A corpse lay at his feet. The corpse of a man in a British navy uniform, clearly dead for many days. His face was bereft of color, and he had begun to decompose. Dead eyes stared up at him through the fog. Overcoming his initial shock, Rawlings bent down and examined the body further. Bullet holes littered his chest, like those from a machine gun.

“Hello, Rawlings!” shouted a voice from below, startling Rawlings.        

He rushed over to the rail and called, “Is that you, Captain?”

“Who the hell else would it be?” grumbled a stout, bearded man, hauling himself onto the ship. “Nobody else would be out at sea in this blasted weather, at this blasted hour, unless he’d been expressly summoned by his gibbering underling. Now what is so damn important, Ensign?”

“I think you’d better have a look at this, sir,” said Rawlings, leading his captain back toward the body.

The Captain looked from the body to Rawlings. “A dead man isn’t what I’d call an emergency, George, especially in a war. The man was clearly shot, again nothing exceptional in a war. Where’s the Captain?”

“I don’t know, sir,” replied Rawlings. “There doesn’t appear to be anyone here.”

“Nonsense, George,” retorted the Captain. “There has to be someone. The ship couldn’t have steered itself all the way here. And someone had to send out that distress signal, don’t forget. We just need to have a search. Here, scurry back to the life boat and fetch a lantern, will you? I’ll have a look about.”

Rawlings obeyed, and returned to the deck with a large lantern which, when lit, illuminated much of the deck even with the fog. Rawlings could see that the body he had discovered was not the only one on deck; it appeared to be littered with corpses. The Captain was examining one nearby, and Rawlings came over to him.

“Another one shot, sir?” he asked.

The Captain shook his head, slowly. “No, this one’s a bit odd, I’ll give you that, George. This man drowned, you see? He’s still wet and bloated. But if he drowned in the water, I’ll be damned if I know what he’s doing back on deck. Couldn’t have climbed back up, could he?”

“No, sir,” replied Rawlings, but he shivered involuntarily. No doubt he was chilled by the fog.

“We need to see if we can find someone who knows what’s going on,” said the Captain, turning toward the helm. “Let’s search the cabin and see if we can find the Captain. Or at least the radio that sent that signal.”

They made their way across the deck, and Rawlings cast a cursory glance over the rest of the bodies. Some had been shot, others looked like they had drowned. A few had ugly red spots on their bodies, and Rawlings pointed these out to the Captain, whose eyes narrowed. “Something is definitely wrong, George. No crew would keep diseased corpses on board for fear of spreading the contagion. They’d be tossed overboard in an instant…”

A horrible fear shot through Rawlings. He swallowed and murmured, “What if…what if they were, sir? And what if…what if they came back up?”

“Don’t talk nonsense, George,” retorted the Captain. “Mind you, I don’t blame you for being spooked, but there’s no reason to lose your head. There’s going to be a perfectly rational explanation for all of this, you’ll see.”

He opened the door to the Captain’s cabin as he said this. The door opened with a reluctant creak, and Rawlings and the Captain were assaulted by a foul smell of dampness and decay. Rawlings held up the lantern and examined the small room. It was empty, except for a radio placed on a table, which had a man in uniform seated in front of it, his back to them.

“Ahoy there!” cried the Captain. “Ahoy, Captain!”

No response from the figure. The Captain strode forward, and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. He instantly drew it back as terror filled his eyes. “He’s stone cold,” he murmured. “He’s dead, George.”

Rawlings held up the lantern to the man’s face, with shaking hands. “Drowned,” he whispered, revealing the man’s bloated features and glassy, sightless eyes.

“But then how…how could he have sent a distress call?” breathed the Captain.

“I don’t know, sir,” whispered Rawlings. “I just know that there’s no one alive on this ship, sir.”

The two men stood in silence in the damp, oppressive room with the dead figure seated at the radio. Then the Captain whispered, “Come on, George.”

They left the cabin, shutting the door behind them. The Captain stood on deck, surveying the scene. At last he whispered, “George, what does SOS stand for?”

“Save Our Ship, sir,” whispered Rawlings.

“I always learned it as Save Our Souls,” replied the Captain. “Now George, I’m going to try to explain this the only way I can think of. Suppose there is a God, George. You believe there’s a God, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” whispered Rawlings. He did now, whatever he had thought before.

“Now suppose you die, George, say, at sea, in battle, in a storm, of disease, with no one to give you your last rites, no one to absolve you from those sins that God says you mustn’t commit. What happens to you?”

“You go to Purgatory, sir,” replied Rawlings.

“Aye,” agreed the Captain. “And you’ll stay there, in Purgatory, until your sins are absolved, until your soul is saved. And who’s to say, George, that Purgatory isn’t…well…isn’t on earth? Isn’t where you die, and that you don’t haunt that place, that location, until your sins are purged?”

“You mean like ghosts, sir?” asked Rawlings.

“Yes, like ghosts,” replied the Captain. “And suppose those ghosts, or spirits, or souls, or whatever you’d like to call them, try to communicate by any means at their disposal. Who’s to say they wouldn’t try to radio for help? Who’s to say they wouldn’t try to ask someone to save their souls? Someone like us, George.”

Rawlings silently digested all this information. “What can we do, sir?” he whispered, at last.

“Well, I’m no priest,” retorted the Captain. “I can’t forgive them their sins. But here’s what we can do, George. We can return to shore and wake up the vicar, and see what he can do for these poor men. Unless you can think of a better idea.”

Rawlings shook his head, slowly. “Right, then,” said the Captain. “Let’s be off. The sooner we leave this behind, the better.”

They both returned to the life boats, and rowed to shore. Rawlings kept his eye on the ship as long as he could before the fog swallowed it up. He waited with the boat on the beach while the Captain went to wake the vicar. When he returned with the grumbling doctor of divinity in tow, he said, “I’ll take the vicar out to the ship, George. You return to your post.”

Rawlings obeyed gratefully, scaling the path to the cliff again. The fog was beginning to disperse as a light breeze had started up. As the mist began to clear, Rawlings tried to make out the distressed ship in the distance, but he could see nothing. He was just settling back down with his blanket, when the radio began to beep again, that same distress signal. SOS…SOS…SOS. Only this time it seemed to grow farther and farther away, as if the sound was coming from a great distance. It grew fainter and fainter and finally trailed off altogether. Rawlings stared at the radio, wondering what that could possibly mean.

           

He didn’t have to wait long to find out. He heard shouting from below on the beach, and then the Captain shouted, “George, get down here!”

           

Rawlings obeyed, and found the vicar quarreling rather loudly with the Captain. “…absolutely disgraceful that you first rouse me from bed with ludicrous tales of a haunted ship, drag me all the way out to sea in this miserable weather, and then there’s nothing there! It’s a bit much for a practical joke, Captain!”

           

“But it was there!” shouted the Captain. “And Rawlings will verify it, won’t you, George?”

           

Rawlings nodded vigorously. “I swear to you, sir…”

           

“A lot that’s worth!” interrupted the vicar, yawning. “You’re probably both in it together, anyway. Now that’s enough. I’m returning to bed. Ghost ship, indeed! In future, you should fill your head with fewer tales of the supernatural. There are greater things to fear than ghosts in this world.”

           

The vicar turned and left, leaving the two men alone. “Greater things than ghosts,” murmured the Captain. “I should say there are, eh, George?”

           

“Yes, sir,” whispered Rawlings.

           

The Captain was silent for a few moments. “You know, George, first thing tomorrow, I think I’ll go to church,” he murmured. “There are a few things I need to confess, I think.”

           

“Me too, sir,” agreed Rawlings, wondering if his thoughts about Angela counted. Better to be safe than sorry, he supposed.

           

“I’ll go wake up Higgins,” said the Captain, heading for the cliff path. “He can take over the watch tonight. I think we’ve both earned a rest.”

           

“Yes, sir,” agreed Rawlings, following him up.

           

“Very good. I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” said the Captain. “Goodnight, George.”

           

“Goodnight, sir,” replied Rawlings, returning to his post until Higgins arrived. He stared off into the clear, dark night, but there was nothing to see except the empty, unending sea which seemed to stretch to infinity. He thought he heard a soft echo of SOS before it was swallowed up by the darkness, and then he heard nothing but silence.

The Wild Rose

From the Journal of Father Benedict Wright:

I have grown an old man in the service of God, but in the days of my youth, when I had just joined the order, I was sent to hear the confession of one James Reed, who had murdered the daughter of a local man of the parish, a poor farmer named John Day. Her name was Elisa Day, and she was, according to local reports, as pretty as she was innocent, with wide, gentle green eyes, and beautiful red hair. She could not have been more than eighteen when her life was taken from her. And I was more than reluctant to meet the man who had done the deed.

Still, when I entered the jail cell, I had to admit that he did not look like a murderer. He was middle-aged, but well-built and handsome, and clearly a gentleman of some education. His appearance was tidy and neat, or at least as tidy and neat as a man can be in jail. He sat on the wooden bench, and did not look up as I entered, but had his intense eyes fixed on a rose which he twirled slowly between his fingers.

I drew up a stool next to him, and only then did he look up and meet my eyes with his strange, bright ones. He smiled. “So you have come, Father. I am glad. I requested that you come. They didn’t want you to, but I wanted someone to understand. I knew you would. You and I, Father, are servants of God. We know He works in mysterious ways which may not always seem right to us, but nevertheless are right. You know that, don’t you, Father?”

“I do know that, my son,” I replied. “But you must know that God does not wish us to kill. He has expressly forbade it in His commandments. So I cannot understand how you believe yourself to have served God by taking the life of that poor young girl.”
 

He sighed deeply, and rose from the bench, going over to a small wooden table which supported a vase full of roses. He returned the one he had been holding to this, and then picked up the tin cup which contained his water rations, and poured it carefully into the vase. 

“Do you like flowers, Father?” he asked, when he had finished this task. He did not wait for me to respond before he continued. “I do. I love them. I have loved them since I was a boy, and I must always pick them whenever I see them. They are so beautiful, and yet so fragile. So easily destroyed and corrupted, just by a touch…” He delicately reached out a finger and stroked one of the rose buds. “You have to love them while they live, you see. For they will not live long, and they must be happy while they do. As happy as they can be in this world. They will be eternally happy in heaven.” He turned to look at me, with his strange eyes. “Do flowers not go to heaven, Father? That would be a pity. I thought only the most beautiful and pure could enter therein. Surely they must be admitted.”

I had no response to that. The man was clearly mad, and babbling, and so I decided that the best way to prevent him raving further was to be direct. “You do wish to confess your killing of the Day girl, do you not?” I asked, gently. “You wish to purify your own soul from her murder?”

“My soul will never be pure,” he replied, sitting back down. “It is too late for me, Father. I am damned, and I know this. I knew this the moment I was old enough to understand the world and its workings. There is no hope for me. It is for the sake of others that I did what I did, to save their souls, not my own. Elisa Day was not the first one, you see. There were many more women I destroyed, many more beautiful, pure women. I had to. Beauty must die, before it can be corrupted. Just like those flowers.” He nodded to the vase. “I picked them to save them. I am devoting all my attention and love to them while they, and I, live, for we must both die very shortly.”

“You and I both know that this is a naughty world, Father. A sick, diseased, and cursed world, full of sin and corruption. Beauty and innocence cannot survive untarnished in this world – if it lives, it must lose its beauty and innocence. And then it will never enter heaven, you see. We are all flawed and horrible creatures, not fit for heaven. Only the pure and beautiful are fit. And so you see why they have to die now, before they are allowed to be destroyed by the world. Shakespeare said it best, as he usually does: ‘Beauty too rich for use; for earth too dear.’” He understood, you see. He understood me.”

“My son, are you saying you slaughtered Elisa Day, and these other women of whom you speak, to save them?” I murmured.

“Naturally,” he replied. “You do not think I could murder without reason? I do not believe any man can. But I do not see it as murder, even though it is for that that I must die. I am prepared. I have saved so many souls, I do not think I could bear any more. They grow so heavy after a while. Such a burden.”

He shut his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. Opening his eyes again, he fixed them at the wall behind me, and smiled. “You see, there she is, Father. Elisa Day. She haunts me still. Beautiful Elisa Day, with her lips and hair as red as a rose. She was my Wild Rose, that’s what I called her. I loved her.”

“Then why did you murder her?” I asked.

“I murdered her because I loved her,” he replied. “I couldn’t bear to see her corrupted and destroyed by life. I loved her so much, I wanted her to be happy for always. And so I took her life on earth and sped her on her way to eternal bliss. You cannot think I did wrong.”

“You cannot think you did right,” I retorted. “Only God may take life. You know that.”

"I have been told that,” he agreed. “But consider how loosely we obey that particular commandment, Father. Have you ever killed a fly? Have you ever picked a flower? Then you have killed, and done what God has commanded you not to do. I prefer to read the commandment as ‘Thou shalt not murder.’ And I do not consider what I did to be murder. She herself trusted me enough to follow me to the secluded bank of the river where I did the deed. She herself lay down on the bank, ready to give herself, body and soul, to me. I took the latter, to save it. I kissed her gently, purely, the kiss of one child to another, and then killed her. And I planted a rose between her lips, and lay her in the water to help it grow. Many roses grow from those lips now. Her beautiful body is safe in the ground, and her soul is safe in heaven. I have no regrets.”

“Then why did you wish for a confessor?” I asked. 

“Only so you might know,” he replied. “And understand. Although I do not think you do. That is a pity.” He looked carefully at me. “You are young still, Father. Perhaps when you have spent more years in this wicked world you will begin to understand. You will remember me when you are old and gray and will bless me, I promise you.”

“I bless you now, my child,” I replied. “And I will pray for your soul’s salvation at dawn tomorrow.”

“It is useless,” he replied. “But you may, if you wish. I sometimes believe my good deeds may yet save me. Elisa does, or she would not be here, waiting for me.” His eyes had strayed to the far wall again. “Not long now, my Wild Rose,” he whispered, smiling. “You have nothing to fear. I will never let harm come to you. Those were the last words I ever spoke to her, Father. But she knows I speak the truth.”

There was nothing I could do for him. He was clearly insane, and I pitied him greatly, but he did not need a confessor. I would pray for him, as I promised, but I could not help a man who did not believe he needed my help. I rose to leave.

He stood up too, and pressed the rose he had been holding into my hand. “Keep this as a reminder, Father,” he whispered. “It is the soul I have saved. Press it and preserve its beauty forever. Keep it for my Wild Rose and me.”

I found the pressed flower today, still red and beautiful despite the years that have passed. It prompted me to recall and inscribe this memory. I do not bless him, as he predicted, and I still believe him to be mad. But his story was so unusual that I believe it deserves to be shared.

James Reed was hanged on the 8^th of October, 1886. No flowers adorn his grave.

The Wild Rose Introduction

I wrote this story today, so it's still a fairly rough draft, but I'm proud of it. It was inspired by the wonderful Nick Cave song "Where the Wild Roses Grow" and its beautiful video (watch it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lDpnjE1LUvE). I think there's a certain similarity between James and Jack, but maybe that's just the type of character I'm writing now. Their philosophies are certainly similarly interesting, I think, but please let me know what you think too!

This is dedicated as a birthday gift to the wonderful man who introduced me to the song, and so much more. Happy 24th, my love. x

http://reachtheunreachablestar.blogspot.com/2010/10/wild-rose.html