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The Wood Cutter
He wanted to be gone before she woke. It was another of those dreadful
holidays they’d spend alone. They were used to being alone. Anything left
of family had scattered across the world years ago. Still he remembered the
days when they’d wished for time alone, time to make love. He used to relish
the way she bustled around the kitchen wearing that pinafore style apron and
nothing else. Her firm little ass peeking through the open back usually meant
something in the oven burned black and crispy around the edges. Take care the
wishes you make in youth.
He inched the little blue truck onto the road and headed for
Morningstar Trail. The old road wound through a thickly wooded
section of land where he’d cut enough firewood to keep them cozy
all winter. By the time he got back, the day would be nearly done.
They’d have something easy for supper like scrambled eggs or maybe
a little soup. She’d be wearing one of those long flannel jobs
sprinkled with blue flowers or pink cats that flowed from the chin
over the tops of puffy slippers that looked like small boats. They’d
climb into the big lumpy bed and find the depressions where their old
bodies fit. She’d whisper goodnight and he’d mumble something that
meant I love you.
He loaded the truck and headed home. The first thing he noticed
was the smell. Pumpkin pie and the aroma of slow roasted turkey. Sage
dressing, too, if his nose didn’t lie. She’d dressed the dining room
with candles, the good china and a bottle of wine in a silver ice bucket.
“Lily,” he called.
“In the kitchen,” she replied.
He found her there, her not so firm little ass peeking through the
open back of a pinafore apron.
© M. C. Elam
Gramma's Box
The snow started at dark. The storm came out of the west and my headlights
reflected against each flake that smashed against the windshield. An icy
buildup formed below the wiper blades, and though they worked in earnest,
the mix of road slop and snow persisted.
I gripped the wheel and tried to concentrate on the road. The billboard
announcing Marshall’s Fine Foods, Next Exit, came as a welcome relief, and
I put on the turn signal. A mile further, a neon arrow pointed to a dilapidated
diner and blinked a feeble welcome. The parking lot looked deserted, and
I glanced at my watch. No, I wasn’t late.
Inside, a row of empty booths flanked the front windows. I chose the last in
line, sat facing the door, and ordered a cup of coffee. The waiter stared at me,
pen poised above the meal ticket.
I stared back. “Just coffee.”
He sighed and shuffled away. A minute later, he clanked a chunky, pottery mug
onto the table and poured it to the brim with steaming coffee.
“Cream?”
“I guess not.”
One eyebrow lifted noting my sarcasm, and he set the nearly empty pot on the table.
“You here for the gathering?”
“Gathering?”
“Yep, last day of Jan-ya-airy, aint it? Been closing Marshall’s come
five o’clock every day for ten year. Every day but one, Jan-ya-airy 31st.
Don’t know your face so I got to ask to see your invite. No invite you got to
leave before time.”
“The gathering time, is it nine?”
“You got it.”
I took an envelope from my bag. Beneath a stylized logo in the upper left
corner appeared the name Leroy Consteiner and Associates – Attorneys. “I have this.”
“Yep, Consteiner. He’s the one told me to ask. You Sara Bishop?” He eyed the envelope.
“Yes, I’m Sara.”
“That’s enough invite for me.”
“You know Mr. Consteiner?”
He slid into the booth across from me, swabbed the table with a tea-stained
towel, rearranged the condiments, and nodded.
“Big shot, city lawyer come from over Indianapolis way.
Come blasting through the door a week ago hollering-out for me.
Calls me Donald. Says it real crusty like some kinda boss-man used to giving
orders. Well, I look at him square on. ‘Names Don,’ I tell him. ‘You want Donald
best you get on out to the cemetery back of the Baptist church where my daddy’s
buried.’ As usual he don’t take the hint. Just goes on Donald this and Donald that.
Like I aint got no say at all.” He eyed the coffee cup. “Want a little more?”
“I’m fine. What did he want?”
“You first,” he grinned. He toyed with the saltshaker, sprinkled a
little mound onto the tabletop and tried to balance the shaker on edge.
“I only know what the letter says. I’m supposed to meet him here at nine.
Something about my mother. I tried calling, but he didn’t return my calls.”
“That’s it?” He shook his head.
“My mother died three months ago.”
The shaker toppled, and he made a grab scattering more salt.
“Double damn,” he said. “Ever try this?”
“No,” I said.
“She must’ve been one of them.” He centered the shaker again. “Takes a steady
hand.”
“One of whom?”
“The women.” He raised his hand away from the table. “Don’t breathe, now.
Would you look at that? I did it. Damned if I didn’t.”
The shaker stood balanced in the salt mound.
“What women?”
An old furnace unit suspended from the ceiling behind the counter grumbled to
life, and its blower discharged warm air over the room. The shaker wobbled and
fell. Don sighed, and mopped salt granules over the edge of the table and onto
the floor. I waited for him to answer.
“Well, Sara girl, guess I can tell you since you got the invite and all. Only
don’t let on I did incase Consteiner gets a feather….
I mean incase he wants to tell you first.”
“I won’t breathe a word.”
He rested an elbow on the table and leaned closer as if that made what he
promised to reveal more confidential.
“Started out with four of them about ten years back. They came waltzing in
like they owned the place. Fact is the oldest one, Mrs. Emberly, did. I’d
never laid eyes on her before that night, but she had my pay check and went to
apologizing for not getting it in the post on time. Well that was proof enough
for me who she was.”
“Daisy Emberly? That’s my aunt. She’s dead now.”
“Yep, reckon her name was Daisy. Anyway, she asked if I’d fix up a meeting
space in the back. I did like she told me, and then she said I should lock up
and go home.”
“Who were the others?”
He shrugged. “I never seen a one of them again except Mrs. Emberly for four,
maybe five years, but I knew they came, too, because next morning I’d clean up
four places. Then something must’ve happened cause Consteiner called telling
me to fix the room, and he’d be along to check. Real picky I’d done it right,
too. Four chairs set east, west, north, and south around that table and a green
cloth on top.”
“My Auntie Daisy passed away about six years ago.”
“Might explain why someone else signed my check for a spell. Not long though.”
“Do you remember the name?”
“Lily something, don’t remember the last name. Guess I should.
She gave me a juicy raise. I ‘member Consteiner brought along a box that time
made out of some dark wood all prettied up with fancy carving.”
Something caught around my throat like a cold hand from the past.
“The box, was it ebony?”
“Don’t know wood that well, but the carving popped right out, pretty as you
please, all flowers and leaves, and right in the center a little face peeping out.”
He didn’t have to describe it more. I remembered Gramma’s box. She’d kept it
on her dresser more than forty years ago. The box she forbade me ever to touch,
but one day I caught her gone and stole upstairs. The sweet scent of Emeraude,
Gramma’s scent, like jasmine mixed with a tang of citrus filled the room.
Gramma’s box whispered to me that day in a dry, rustling sort of voice like fall
leaves caught on the wind, and I ran.
I reached for the pot of stale coffee to wash away the bitter taste in my mouth.
“That’ll be cold. Got another in the back.”
“No, just go on. What else do you know?”
“Well, like I said, name on my checks changed right after.”
“Lily Michaels signed your checks. She died six months after Auntie Daisy.”
“Consteiner’s signed them ever since. He’s the one calls to remind me about
the gathering. Like I need reminding. Always the same time, Jan-ja-airy 31st.”
The gleam of headlights reflected against the dirty glass of the diner windows.
The fury of the storm and cascading snow choked off the narrow beams a few feet
from their source. The car inched close to the door, and the engine stopped.
Don slid across the seat and got up.
“I reckon that’ll be Consteiner. You won’t tell him I been talking to you.
Could a got my facts turned round-a-bouts. I expect that’d make him mad.”
“Not a word.”
He nodded and moved behind the counter.
Through the window, I watched Mr. Consteiner open the trunk and retrieve a
bundle wrapped in a red, checkered tablecloth. He held it gingerly with both
hands and backed through the door calling for Donald.
“Ah, there you are. You can be on your way now. Would you mind closing my
trunk as you go?”
Small and wiry with too many sharp corners and a prominent nose that hooked at
the end, Leroy Consteiner looked like a man who expected people to move out of his
way. Still carrying the checkerboard wrapped parcel, he walked behind the counter
and out of sight.
“Come along Mrs. Bishop. Donald will lock up.”
I found him waiting just beyond a partition that hid the kitchen from view.
“This diner belonged to your aunt, Daisy Emberly. Here, come this way, through
the door.”
The breath caught in my chest the minute I entered the room. Gramma’s box, now
free of wrappings, rested in the center of a round table. Mr. Consteiner motioned
me toward one of two chairs and sat down in the other.
“My name is Leroy Consteiner. I acted as Daisy’s attorney while she lived, and
afterward, your mother, Rose, asked me to continue. Your mother is the reason
they formed the tontine.”
“Isn’t that some kind of investment contract?”
Consteiner raised an eyebrow. “You know more than I expected. A tontine is an
investment contract between members of a group. The last surviving member
inherits the investment. Your mother and her sisters agreed to meet on the same
day each year as part of the agreement.”
“What agreement?”
“The nature of the agreement makes being more specific impossible, Mrs. Bishop.
I can tell you simple facts. Iris Sanders died last February. Your mother, Rose,
followed in October. Because she outlived her sisters, the investment belonged to
her. In her personal section of the contract, she names you as her heir.”
“But my father inherited my mother’s estate.”
“The tontine was a private contract between sisters. I doubt your father knows
about it at all.”
“Why?”
He shrugged.
“I am only the administrator, Mrs. Bishop. I don’t know.” He pushed a fat
envelope across the table. “I’ve kept the box and these documents in safety
deposit since Lily Michael’s death. I took the liberty of transferring the
diner’s deed to you. You’ll find a letter and the tontine contract there, too.”
“A letter from whom?”
“From your mother.”
I stared at Gramma’s box for a long time after Consteiner left, and then I
opened Mother’s letter.
My Darling Sara,
I do so hope that what you are about to read will not change the way you feel
about me. No mother ever loved a child more than I love you, but I’ve kept
a secret hidden from you and Daddy for more than forty years. It started when
I fell in love with a student while in college and became pregnant.
I was afraid to tell your grandmother, and the young man never knew.
I prayed for a miracle, and after a few months, my symptoms disappeared, and my
normal cycle resumed. Two years later, I married your father.
You were born at home during a tremendous snowstorm. Daddy was away, and I had
only Gramma to help. I heard you cry, and Gramma put you in my arms. You quieted
right away. Then I heard the other one. I kept asking to see the other baby.
Finally, I was screaming at Gramma to let me see when she turned and held it up.
Sara, darling Sara, the other one had skin the color of yellowed teeth and a
texture like a dried-out, sea sponge. Gramma called it my sin and locked it
inside the box. I guess she thought it would die. I never looked at it again,
but she kept it on her dresser to remind me. When she died, she willed the box
to me. I wanted to throw it away but heard that wretched cry echo in my head.
All those years, and I still heard it cry. I went nearly crazy from the sound.
Finally, I called your Auntie Lily.
I expected revulsion when I told her, but Lily always was a wonder.
She dug around for an explanation. I know I’ll tell this wrong my darling, and
for science you’ll have to look elsewhere, but here is what I know. The thing in
Gramma’s box is a Lithopedion, a rare formation that happens sometimes when a
fetus dies and is not expelled from the womb. But my sweet Sara, dead things
simply do not cry. Somehow, someway, my stone
baby was alive.
Lily gathered the rest of your aunts and we formed the tontine. They kept my
secret and helped me live with what I know dwells inside Gramma’s box. I regret
the burden that falls on your shoulders, but I know your heart. Choose well,
my daughter.
Momma
Whoosh-gush, whoosh-gush, the sound of the furnace blower sprang to life.
I reached for Gramma’s box.
© M. C. Elam
Timberwolf's Quest
A way down past the Blackened Water Swamp and through the valley of Twally Waggles is a little country called
Asmagoria. Now Asmagoria is a land known to be made of magic by folk who can do magic. Some do good magic.
They are mostly the good fairy people who live high up in the highest place above the tallest tree on the Mountain
of Pinions. In fact they make their home among the pinions which in all probability is the reason they almost
always smell a bit like Christmas.
But some naughty goblin type folk, in the dark of the night, widdle and diddle and chant and rant and doodle
and boodle and skitter and fritter around doing all manner of deplorable deeds to all manner of clama-bama-forious
Asmagorian critters. And many there be.... Why there are Bunnies and Mice and Cats and Dogs and Sheep and Goats
and Horses and Gnomes. Oops, did I say Gnomes? Well never mind about them. They are part of another Asmagorian adventure.
This adventure is for wee people who believe in elves and about one special elf in particular named Timberwolf.
Oh, and before I forget, you do believe in magic, don't you? Well of course you do. Otherwise it would be a very
silly thing for you to be listening to this story right now when you could go right straight off to your bed and to sleep.
Ah yes. I knew I was right.
Now Timberwolf lived on the other side of Asmagoria. Far, far on the other side, through the Tumbled Down
Cactus and over the Prickly Pear Hills, and through the Bilogious Bog that everyone knows is the home of the
Cacophonous Croakers. Yes, Timberwolf lived across the Greenish Blue Meadow and straight on into the center
of the Whispering Woods. In fact he lived high in the branches of a tree by the name of Simon.
What is that you ask? Why was the tree named Simon? Well, I really cannot say. Perhaps because when something
is a made-up-along-the-way-story, Simon seems a very good name for a tree. Don't you think so, too? I suppose we
could as soon name it Clyde or Steven or Marshall or Cynthia or Martha or Hildegard. But I like Simon and I think
Timberwolf does, too. If he did not like the name Simon for a tree, I am almost certain he would find another
place to live. Of course, that would be a sad day for Simon since he would have no elf to call his own.
Now actually all of this talk of names is quite interesting since this tale of Asmagoria is about how Timberwolf
got his name. You see since first ever he could remember there was a question in his mind about how he came to be
called Timberwolf. He didn't think about it too often because it was a very difficult puzzle, and solving very
difficult puzzles might give you a headache. He knew it was a very difficult puzzle because he did not know the
answer on the spot. And so he put it away with other difficult things like cleaning up Simon, and polishing his
boots, sharpening his pencil, and learning long division, and let's not forget, washing behind his little, pointed elf ears.
One day when Timberwolf was sitting high in the branches of Simon he started to think. When
he started to think he started to whisper to himself. And what he whispered was this.
"Why do they call me Timberwolf?
I have no paws or tail,
And if I walk around by night,
I give no wolfish wail."
And then he spoke a bit louder to be sure it was exactly what he was thinking in his head so there would be no mistake.
"Why do they call me Timberwolf?
I have no paws or tail,
And if I walk around by night,
I give no wolfish wail."
When he believed it was truly what he was thinking in his head, he gave it a great and true shout so that all would know he was very sure of himself.
"Why do they call me Timberwolf?
I have no paws or tail,
And if I walk around by night,
I give no wolfish wail."
And at long last for no other reason than the fact that elves are very musical and love a good tune, he sang it
over and over again to get just the right feel about it.
Why do they call me Timberwolf?
I have no paws or tail,
And if I walk around by night,
I give no wolfish wail.
Simon, who was not quite so pleased with hearing the same song again and again in Timberwolf's loudest voice,
gave a warning shuttering shake, and then a quivering fluttering quake, both of which resulted in dislodging Angus,
a sleepy, flopcious tree snake, from his nap. Angus grumbled and groaned, and mumbled and moaned at the very idea
of being dethroned as he slithered all the way back to his favorite spot on the east side of Simon where he could
bask in the warm rays of the morning sun.
"And now you see," said Timberwolf to Simon while he eyed Angus with tremendous sympathy, "you see how what
you do affects others."
Simon could only drop a few leaves to the ground and creak a bit in response.
"Never mind," said Timberwolf. "I forgive you Simon. Besides I have decided to set off upon a very
important quest. Would you like to know what my quest shall be?"
Of course, Simon already knew what Timberwolf was questing about. Well perhaps not exactly because elves
decide one thing one minute, and something else the next, and still something else in their spare time.
But Simon was pretty, parsnitty, galoptagritty sure Timberwolf was going on a quest about his name.
Even so, he stood like wood for the common good because he knew that Timberwolf would tell him anyway.
And so, when it came out, he was not a bit surprised though he did manage to creak rather suddenly to show
he was surprised just to be polite.
"I am going on a quest to discover why my name is Timberwolf," said Timberwolf.
"Of course," creaked Simon.
"Absssolutely," hissed Angus.
"Be sure to write," twittered all of the birdies in all of the trees that stood in the grove of the Whispering
Woods and were cousins to Simon.
And so Timberwolf made ready for questing. First he wrote a list containing all manner of monumentally important
items he could not live without. He would need his
Summer clothes,
Winter clothes,
Spring clothes,
And
Fall,
His
Walking sticks,
Card Tricks,
Toothpicks,
And
Ball.
And oh! And my goodness! Golly and Gee! By higgidy, biggidy, snarly tralee! It simply and dimply just could
not be true. He nearly and clearly had almost forgot
His Watch,
And his Sword,
His Arrows and Bow,
His Pencils,
His Pens,
His Crayons and Chalk,
And a very firm sprig of a Celery Stalk.
He packed up his pouch right there on the spot.
He stuffed it and smashed it and bashed it a lot.
Then he hefted it up to his shoulder and smiled,
For he knew he was just the cleverest child.
Now Simon was wise. That much we do know. He looked at the tightly stuffed pouch and then he looked at Timberwolf
straining to hold it all up and still manage to stand. He wondered and wondered before he spoke up. At last he came
forward with some creaks and some groans.
"Timberwolf might I ask you please, something I've been thinking about? When is it, what time, how long will it
be, that you plan to be off on this quest for your name?"
"Well, Simon," said Timberwolf. "I am not really sure. Questing is serious and very hard work.
I think I can promise and hold to it firmly that I should be home by dinner time."
"Then," said Simon, not wishing to seem rude since Timberwolf had indeed finished a fine job of pouch arrangement and
packing, "do you think you will really need everything in your bag?"
And so Timberwolf sat down upon a knot on Simon's limb. He thought and he thought, and he wondered and mused until
finally with a flourishing leap he jumped to his feet.
"Simon you know I’ve been thinking again. I don't think I shall need a single thing in my pouch for just one day's
questing." So he set about working to take it all out.
Summer clothes,
Winter clothes,
Spring clothes,
And
Fall,
His
Walking sticks,
Card Tricks,
Toothpicks,
And
Ball.
And oh! And my goodness! Golly and Gee! By higgidy, biggidy, snarly tralee! They simply and dimply just must be
removed. He nearly and clearly had almost forgot
His Watch,
And his Sword,
His Arrows and Bow,
His Pencils,
His Pens,
His Crayons and Chalk,
And his very firm sprig of a Celery Stalk.
He unpacked his pouch right there on the spot.
Un-stuffed it, un-smashed it, un-bashed it a lot.
Then he hefted it up to its peg and he smiled,
For he knew he was just the cleverest child.
"I think I am ready," said Timberwolf at last. "But it looks like the sun is so high in the sky.
Simon, what do you think? Should I wait until after lunch to go on a quest for my name? You know
it might not be good to stumble and tumble and bumble about in the Whispering Wood, when my stomach
is growling and empty."
Simon, who was nodding his branches in the pleasant noonday breeze roused once more. Lunchtime, indeed that was true.
Trees did not worry about such as that, but elves had to be careful to eat right on time.
"Well, Simon, what say you?"
"Eat hearty, young Timberwolf," Simon creaked and he groaned.
"Yesss, eat hearty,” called Angus from under a leaf.
"Never miss lunch," sang all of the birdies in all of the trees that stood in the grove of the Whispering
Woods and were cousins to Simon.
And so he did.
He ate
Jam
And Bread
And Pickles
And Relish
And Strawberries
And Blueberries
And Spam
And Cheese
And Ice Cream
And Cake
And Green Beans
And Spinach
And Carrots
And Shallots
And Corn on the Cob
All topped off in style
By the biggest
And fullest
And freshest for sure
Icy cold glass
Of his favorite drink.
He ate and he ate until he was stuffed. And while he ate he thought about his name. Timberwolf was certainly a
very nice name. He clapped his hands as he said it.
"Tim - ber - wolf,” clap, clap, clap.
Three giggly, and sniggly, grand, and good claps. More better and more bigger,
more important for sure, than
"Si - mon," clap, clap.
Or, "An - gus," clap, clap.
"What is that," creaked Simon.
"Oh nothing," said Timberwolf. He was ever so, clever to, never seem an impolite elf when it came to his
tree. I am sure you understand how important it can be to be good and polite when you are at home and ten times
more so when you go out and about.
"You know I think it's growing quite late. Too late for quests today, don’t you think?" said Simon.
"Well, yes that is true. I was checking the time, half past the hour for naps I suppose, and everyone
knows right down to his toes that elves must take naps and that's how it goes."
"Then I suppose you should make ready for a nap."
"I suppose so," said Timberwolf.
"I suppose ssso," said Angus.
"We suppose so," sang all of the birdies in all of the trees that stood in the grove of the Whispering
Woods and were cousins to Simon.
Ah what's that you say? What about the quest? Timberwolf is sleeping now, solemn and snug, curled up
tight, safe in the branches high-up from the ground, a way down past the Blackened Water Swamp and through
the valley of Twally Waggles, safe and sound in the magic country called Asmagoria. Simon rocks him gently, and Angus
keeps watch, and all the birdies sing sweet, elfish lullabies. Tomorrow will be time enough for questing.
That is if he wonders about where he got his name and why. And if not that particular quest, then other adventures
are brewing and stewing deep within the Whispering Woods.
© M. C. Elam
