Mark DenHoed writes,
I have decided to open up my heart and share the outpourings of my delicate soul.
Xanthus
The blossom of hope,
That glimmer of youth,
Tumble down the slope
Oh, dear, forsooth!
The blue of the sky,
The wash of the sea,
The fear to soon die,
A shattering plea
Mark DenHoed and John Ahern write (or, rather, transcribe),
A Love Lost and Regained: Installment VI
A Love Lost and Regained: Installment V
At this point, we (John and Mark) came upon a manuscript in a different hand on a different type of stationary. It was, oddly, laminated. The paper inside was crinkled slightly, as if a tiny bit of water had dripped on it. It read as follows.
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Surprise! I’m alive, contrary to popular opinion (and presidential edict). This is a parody (?) of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s poem “The Children’s Hour”, available here.
I’m not quite sure how to explain this. Or how it progresses, if it progresses at all. I think the “conclusion” in particular captures a certain layer of illogical thinking common to my brain during Week Mortis. Enjoy, those of ye who are unafflicted by exams.
Installment III
Adorable Cassandra,
Thou breath of all my being,
Who with suitable candor,
Has turned my soul to wooing,
My soul is in tears,
I like your head, your dears
your eyes!
oh to see you once more before goodbyes!
-Margrave
Chapter 7
That night, I slept a fitful sleep. I was so afraid. Questions raced around and around in my head. Why had my mother died? Where had Jack gone? Was I to trust Antonio? Would it only hurt me in my quest to find my father to keep on refusing the Captain like this? Why was Mrs. Willowbend so set upon evil? But then I remembered what Antonio had taught me. Fear is only another barricade for true love and happiness. Oh, Antonio – my beacon of light!
Suddenly, I heard the key turn in the lock.
“A-A-A-Antonio?” I cautiously asked.
“Only a lowly Captain,” brawled the captain calmly. “Recognize me? I wouldn’t expect you to without my mustache.”
He had shaved. All the happiness and joy and peace and love that welled up on in me for Antonio were brutally dashed.
“Now I’ve had some time to cool down, I realized that you only refused my offer to heighten the passion that you know exists in my heart for your love. Will you marry me? Or is it to the Americas for you?”
“NEVER!”
“Then it’s the plank,” he said, roughly dragging me up the stairs by the hair.
The plank, I soon found out, was a large piece of oak wood stretching off the muddy deck, with nothing underneath but the aqua-blue perse waves frothing sordid colors. “H-H-How does it work?” I pondered.
“Step on it,” ordered the Captain. As I did, he produced from his seaman’s vest a big saw, obviously intended to cut something. And then, slowly, ever so slowly, the Captain knelt down onto the deck and began to saw off the plank. I felt faint. Antonio would not come. He had deserted me. Memories flooded in, of Jack, of Mother, of Father, of Aunt Catherine….
“Look, the girl’s crying!” the Captain guffawed.
The horrid crowd of ruffians laughed and jeered. I searched their dirty, disheveled faces for Antonio’s clean-shaven face. I could not pick it out from the crowd. Why was all this happening? Could it all be part of a plan? Seconds became minutes. And minutes turned to hours. And still the plank stood. The captain hit himself and swore and swore and swore. I hated it. Dam’ him!
“What in the name of St. Peter is wrong with this saw?” cut in the Captain sharply.
“The game is up, Fitzwilliam,” shouted a loud voice near the back.
“Who said that?” roared the Captain.
There was a stir amongst the sailors, and Antonio emerged, with scintillating [usage sic] black hair streaming in the wind, and tan skin shining in the happy streams of sunlight. He wore a leather vest over his red sailor’s shirt. The sea sparkled in his eyes.
“I did.” Antonio’s deep voice seemed to surprise and intimidate the Captain.
“What is the meaning of this, sailor?” raged the Captain infuriated.
“I took Ms. Verbatim’s nail-file and used it to dull the blade of the saw,” explained Antonio in his romantic Spanish accent.
“Curse you,” wailed the Captain.
“Oh, Antonio! ” I yelled, flinging my arms around his neck.
“Oh, dearest Ms. Verbatim!” he screamed. Happiness exuded out of both our hearts. I felt like singing and laughing and running through a field of daises. Just before I was about to step back onto the ship, Antonio said in an urgent voice, “Ms. Verbatim, there’s something I must tell you about your parents -”
There was a loud bang and the sound of splintering wood. A shotgun shell splashed into the already churning waters. I looked through the hole in the plank and there was Mrs. Willowbend. She licked a martini-soaked olive off the end of a toothpick, dropped it back into the glass, and blowing the end of the barrel, aimed the 12-gauge at me and smiled.
I looked deeply into Mrs. Willowbend’s eyes and I saw, for a fleeting moment, a nice old lady like my great Aunt Catherine (I had only met her once back when I was little), trying to break through the hard exterior of painful experiences and give me a hug. Jack’s words from yesterday flooded back – “It’s not what you do that makes you, it’s who you are. Deep down. There in your heart.” All in a flash, as the first rays of sunlight come beaming over the horizon on a cool June morning, or as the first leaves come out in spring on a March full moon, I saw the real Mrs. Willowbend. The real Mrs. Willowbend was really a good person. Deep down.
I smiled. She just needed warmth and understanding.
“Would you like some tea?” I asked.
I flung myself into Antonio’s arms as the plank exploded in the gunfire.
“I’ve got a martini, thanks,” she responded.
“Quick,” cried Antonio, “We must leave!”
“But Mrs. Willowbend – I can help her!”
“Quick, Ms. Verbatim.”
We ran to the other side of the ship. “Into the lifeboat,” said Antonio. I got in.
“Antonio… aren’t you getting in?”
“No, dearest Ms. Verbatim. I must deal justice Mrs. Willowbend and the Captain!”
“Oh, Antonio, you valiant man!” I said it with remorse, for I felt this might be the last time I see Antonio. And then – oh! Hope! – I didn’t know why, for it was almost as if there was another voice speaking through me – “I give you your new name ‘Thrimhas, the Brave’!”
“Thank you, Cantaloupe!”
And he was gone.
My lifeboat drifted away from the ship and into the dense, murky, cobalt fog, lined with the sinister figures of drooping leaves.
Antonio boarded the boat, muscles rippling in the sunset as he swung himself over the side. He stealthily stole down the deck and around the front of the ship. He came up to the Captain’s cabin and hid outside the window. He grimaced and swept his beautiful dark hair out of his eyes. Antonio had a small goatee. From inside the cabin, he heard Mrs. Willowbend talking to the Captain.
“You understand, Fitzwilliam, that while I must disagree with your methods, I do believe that you have fulfilled your contracted function in this matter and that your part is finished. I thank you for the use of your watch and I shall return it when I am done with it. In the meantime, I have some cookies in the oven, which should be ready in.. oooh… five minutes. If you will excuse me, I am going to go clean up.”
She started for the door. Antonio, the strong muscular man he was, climbed atop a nearby barrel and swung himself onto the roof of the cabin. Mrs. Willowbend walked out, slumping over, as she retreated toward her own cabin. She hummed A More Humane Mikado to herself and Antonio heard her singing a small ditty about scuba gear.
Then, the same realization that hit me hit Antonio. Mrs. Willowbend baked cookies. She also liked scuba-diving. She hummed the Mikado. She was just like anyone else, and was a good person, deep down. There could be no justice dealt to the innocent. Antonio saw, as I so fervently wished in my heart that he would, that would never solve anything. He felt through his linen pockets. He only had 5 pence left. He hopped off the top of the cabin and followed Mrs. Willowbend. She darted through passageways on the ship and Antonio began to despair of catching her. At last, he encountered Willowbend coming out of her cabin wearing full scuba gear.
“Willowbend!” he yelled.
“This ought to be interesting,” she muttered to herself as she turned around. “What,” she asked aloud, “do you want from me?”
“I…I just wanted to…to give you this,” he said, holding out the five pence. “Take it. It’s yours. To keep. With this money, Willowbend, you can make a new life for yourself. You can go out and buy a
farm, and, while I realize that most of your life is past you, you still have this chance to get out of this rut that you’re in. You must take it, Willowbend. Happiness is knocking at your door. Will you answer?”
He held out his hand farther, inviting her to take the money.
Mrs. Willowbend looked up at him quizzically.
“What, pray tell, do you expect me to buy with five pence?”
With that, she hit Antonio over the head with an oxygen tank. Antonio’s hair waved in the scintillating twilight as he reeled back. Mrs. Willowbend calmly walked over and delicately pushed him off the deck. Upon hitting the water, Antonio awoke from the shock. He looked in his hand. The five pence were gone. He knew Mrs. Willowbend had reconsidered and would turn her life around.
Antonio swam away with Herculean strides, muscles bulging, from the ship, and, a few minutes later, he came upon the lifeboat, for I had drifted far from the ship.
He climbed aboard and I offered him a towel.
“Oh, Antonio,” I quietly said, “You saved me!”
“I’m afraid not, dearest, sweetest thing, ” spoke Antonio, “These are infested waters and we have no food.”
But he was interrupted by a bang and a loud roar. I looked behind me to see the ship go up in a ball of flame. The heat singed my face and tears.
“Oh, Antonio! Mrs. Willowbend!”
“All will be well.”
“B-b-but… Mrs. Willowbend,” I choked, “She couldn’t have survived that explosion! She’s… she’s… dead…. Oh, is that word so hard to say? Do we yet retain the irrational, inarticulate fear of the end? Could it be that man never really changes no matter which are the pedestals of sophistication upon which he sits? Past all the layers of societal graces and customs, perhaps Man really is still a barbarous savage underneath the facade, terrified of death, fearful of retribution, waiting in mortified expectation for the final stroke to be dealt. It is only when confronted with the reality of and the possibility of life after that the disguise falls apart; it is only then that the man is unmasked, shown as he truly is: no different from men of old. None of us, when confronted with death, are sure of anything. I think we should help save Mrs. Willowbend’s orphanage! She would have wanted it that way. ”
“Yes. She would have.”
“And then we can try to find my father!”
“Of course, dearest Ms. Verbatim.”
“And how many times must I ask you to call me Cantaloupe?”
“At least once more,” said Antonio.
“Will you call me Cantaloupe?”
“Cantaloupe.” I smiled. “That’s a beautiful name.”
“My mother always said so. I miss her so.”
As we sat waiting, I thought of my parents and remembered.
To be continued…
Chapter 4
Love is a flower, love is a tear,
– Lilyroach Elizabeth
Oh Jack…
I made my escape.
I wondered into the street, dazed, wandering how Jack could do something like running up a large bill when he knew very well that I, who loved him as no man ever loved another woman, was depending on him to help me in my quest to pursue my father. Dreams lost; relationships gone afoul; opportunities ruined; friendships cooled; rivalries heated; despair instigated; hope confulgrated.
“Oh, Jack”, I shouted under my breath. “Oh, Jack, the very lace that tied my shoes – how could you? I gave you my heart!”
My heart wept, tears streaming down my face.
Days later, as the last of the salty tear drops was dripping down my freckled check. I met Mrs. Willowbend. She looked up from her brisk trot down the pebbly, pot-holed lane.
“Oh, my dear. The girl’s crying. What’s wrong?” she said, sympathetically.
Her voice was so beautiful even in old age, but in a different way. Her age only made her seem all the better in my eyes. I could see that she had had a much harder life then me.
“Oh, Mrs. Willowbend”, I intoned, “I cannot find my father, and now the one man I love has ran off with my cousin’s sister! I just need love and understanding.”
“There, there, my dear,” she said, patting me comfortingly, “I’m sure your father will turn up sooner or later.” She sighed. “I too have had my share of tribulation. I know how you feel.”
“Nobody knows how I feel!” I wailed. I placed my heavy head in my lap and felt like it would never come up again. Mrs. Willowbend came beside me and patted me on the back. Comfortingly.
“Listen,” said Mrs. Willowbend, after I had had a cry, and she had promised me some freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies which were to die for, “I need your help with the orphanage. We’ve some terribly naughty children that need disciplining.”
Mrs. Willowbend used to have a husband, but he’s dead. No one knows how.
“Oh, I love little children. Can I help?”
“Yes, of course you may, dear.”
Just then, I felt the world go out from under me, and everything went black. I saw Mrs. Willowbend chuckling evilly, and saying, “I’m so sorry, my dear, about your mother and father. Only… we needed some more orphans.” And then everything went dark. She laughed.
The next thing I remembered was the sound of water.
Chapter 5
My life on the boat was not very happy.
They kept her locked up with the rats down in the cellar. I cried very often and made friends with the rats. Her cell was about 4 by 6 feet, with old cinders from a pine tree. She had a little hole big enough to fit you’re pinky through that she could see out of, but it was mostly dark down in the depths of the ship, so she couldn’t see through it anyway. I was given a crust of bread and some water every few months.
The memories flooded over me. I was overwhelmed. I remembered the times when Jack and I would walk in the lush, emerald-green hills with the ochery-buff gold saffron leaves of autumn at the dawn of a bright, new day. And also the times, months later, when we would wander the auburn hills, our feet swooshing in the leaves. We would feel a complete sense of inner peace, an utter joy, and happiness, and peace, and love, and camaraderie.
keep trying, Cantaloupe
fight for happiness and love!
fight for it!
keep trying!
believe in yourself
That day, the Captain came down, and said, “Cantaloupe. I strongly advise you to marry me. I think you’ll find me a fine, charming, handsome, man,” he said, twirling his handlebar mustache.
“Oh, thou, fool,” she said. “My heart is already taken, reserved for a shoulder far finer, more charming, more handsome, more manly -”
“How dare you!” cried he. “You’re going back on the plank tomorrow morning.”
I was not sad. I was glad to be rid of this body, for this world was not for me.
Chapter 6
Meanwhile, I sat in my cell in the bottom of the boat. Tears streamed down my face. I dreamt of my mother, wiping the tears away from my face wit
h her warm palms. When would I be happy again? When would the world be back to normal?
Days past.
Slowly, ever so slowly, I lost all hope of rescue. I had no friends and everything was horrid.
As I sat in the cell, I thought I heard a noise. I looked out into the hall, and saw a dark, handsome, figure approaching me. The cell door opened and Antonio walked into my life. He was a sailor of average farm-stock. And he had lovely burgundy eyes.
“W-w-who are you?” I whispered, terrified.
“Never fear,” he said in a sincere, soft voice.
“I’ve come to break you out of this cell. I’ve come to help you find your father.”Antonio said, “But to get out of the cell, you must connect your soul with Nature.”
“How?” I asked, wailing.
“Try to feel what your father is feeling. Thinking. Right this minute. All around you,” he said, giving a flip of his beautiful black hair.
“But…how? H-h-how?”
“Just the spontaneous thoughts that burst forth from your soul, and the light of peace shining on your spirit. Just be yourself. One with nature.”
“I think…I think…I can see him now.”
“Good. What’s he thinking?”
“Joy!”
“Good. Yes.”
“Peace!”
“Good!”
“Happiness! Global communion from the same cup of love and joy and peace and happiness and love!”
“Good! Good!”
“Oh, Antonio,” I said, “I know! I know how to share the same thoughts with my father! This is wonderful.his is the best day of my life!”
This would be the last time I would be happy.
I felt that at last I had a soul mate. Antonio was my only friend in a grief-striken world. He was my deepest spiritual friend. Oh, Antonio, if only things could have worked out. Our love was so complete, so passionate, so full! Oh, Antonio, these were among the happiest moments of my life.
A step came from outside the cell. Antonio’s stark features looked alarmed, and he blew me a kiss and said, “Dearest thing, I’ll be with you tomorrow. Don’t worry about the plank. I have it all figured out.”
Antonio had dark eyes.
To be continued…
Mark C. DenHoed and John R. Ahern found this manuscript in an old suitcase, abandoned by the roadside on I-80 in Nevada outside Reno. We’re posting it in installments because we’re having trouble deciphering the handwriting.
A Love Lost and Regained – By Russl* ******** (Here, the writing is particularly deplorable)
Like a lily, floating down a river, farther and farther from its origin,
So my love is lost, severed from its root -
Binding snapped that bound us, soul to soul.
It was a daydream, clear and simple.
But a nightmare came to overshadow all, dark and confused.
And when I awoke, my love had reached the ocean floor.
– Rosemary Grace, My Lost Love
To the young at heart.
I was coming in from a walk outside, only to find my mother – oh, she was so beautiful, even in death – lying sprawled on the floor with blood lining her beautiful lips. Her auburn hair looked so beautiful. I couldn’t speak. I didn’t remember anything after that, only waking up weeks later on a warm, cozy couch.
“Hi! I’m Jack.”
He had a freckled nose, a dimpled cheek, and azure eyes. His skin was brown and smooth, and his voice was deep and smooth. His face was not like sand. It was smooth. I knew at once I loved Jack, and would marry him someday.
“Hi. I’m – I’m – Cantaloupe.”
“What happened to your mother?”
“She drank the dregs of death.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Just shut up about it, OK?”
I was sad. My eyes were drenched in tears, and I ran from the room in a fit of rage, ready to tear down the walls, like I was as strong as an ox.
Weeks later, I said to Jack, “I’m sorry about what I said. I just sometimes feel like all this badness and evilness around me is making me bad and evil.”
“No, of course not, my dearest Canty. You’re a good person, deep down. You can’t let your anger get hold of you. Let it out. It’s not what you do that makes you, it’s who you are. Deep down. There in your heart.”
I smiled.
“Jack,” I said. “I have to go find my father. You’ll help me, won’t you?”
“No, Cantaloupe. This is your job. You must do it alone. You alone have the power to find where your father is.”
I nodded. “OK,” I said.
Chapter Two
As I was letting my beautiful auburn hair fall against the mauve and periwinkle pillow, there came a knock on the raven-black door. I fearfully got up from the cyan blankets on my bed and went to the door, unlocked the burly-brown lock, and there were Jack’s beautiful azure eyes, furtive, yet beautiful.
“Cantaloupe, I’ve changed my mind! I’ll help you find your father if I have to die first!”
I smiled. “OK,” I said. “You’ll always be in my heart, Jack!” I exclaimed. “We’ll never truly be separated – always one in spirit. Nothing can separate true love.”
These were among the happiest moments of my life.
“But Cantaloupe, how can we find your father? We don’t know where he is!”
“But I do, Jack… in my heart!”
In my heart, I knew we could find him. All people who love each other are connected throughout the world, I realized.
“You’re right. Oh, Cantaloupe, the world may seem so cruel, but we only need to look past it for love!”
We set off from the hut and soon came to a city. “Oh, Jack,” I exclaimed, “How – how shall we ever find him in th-th-th-this large ss-ss-city?” I felt my spirit falling, and I saw the deep waters of the river as a home to my grief-laden soul.
Jack slipped his strong arm around my shoulder and said in a deep, calm voice, “Let’s talk it over some drinks.”
Chapter 3
We were in the bar drinking – Jack’s dimple was so adorable when he was looking at me (it was only on the left side, and gleamed in the golden barlight) – when, the bartender came up to us and said, “Are you Cantaloupe Verbatim?” I nodded, and he made a terse motion with his head. “You’re father’s upstairs.”
As we went upstairs, I thought that I caught a rock hard glint in the waiter’s eye. Pausing deftly, and yet… suspiciously, at the top of the stairs, the bartender motioned for us to enter, once we did, he slammed the mahogany door, we were left in pitch-black darkness.
“Oh, Jack, we’re tr-tr-tr-tr-apped!
Tears rolled down my cheeks. “Everything is going wrong. We’ll never find my father now! What to do!”
“Cantaloupe, we’re trapped!”, Jack exclaimed.
“I just said that.”
“But it will be OK. Fate must have its course. We should just keep trusting in our hearts!”
Soon, after what seemed like a breathless eternity, I heard steps coming up the steps.
“Jack,” I screamed, clutching his strong, muscular arm, “someone’s coming!”
“Yeah, I’m not deaf,” said Jack in his impeccable wit.
Suddenly the door swung open and in strode the bartender.
“Well, Mr. Jack Collins, I see. You’ve run up quite the bill here, Jack. Did you really think you’d escape?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” exclaimed Jack, with an offended dignity about him.
“$12,000 in unpaid beverages won’t go unnoticed, Mr. Collins,” said the bartender.
“Oh, Jack,” I cried, despairing, “how could you?” I bawled bitterly, throwing my head towards my hopelessly flinging-about arms.
To be continued….
