Stormfield: Tales From the Hereafter

STORMFIELD

(Tales from the Hereafter)

G.F. Skipworth

Rosslare Press ♦ Rosslare Arts International

Portland, Oregon

Copyright©2009 by G.F. Skipworth & Rosslare Press. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles, reports and reviews. For information, contact

Rosslare Press, 7660 SW Oleson Ave., Portland, Oregon 97223

First Edition, Jan. 1, 2010

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ISBN-13: 9780982471067 ISBN-10: 0982471068

To Barbara, as always

Samuel Clemens…Mark Twain…arrived at and departed this earthly life aboard the comet known today as Haley (Halley, if you like). His incomplete work Captain Stormfield’s Visit to Heaven clearly suggests that everyone journeys to (and, on occasion, from) Heaven on such comets, each bearing the mark of one’s lifelong passion. At last, Captain Stormfield and Twain return with a new look at the hereafter, and a few new tales to tell since their arrival upon those fair shores…all told through the journey of a young Missoura writer who admired the pair and grieved their earthly loss.

As was mentioned elsewhere, those who are not sons and daughters of the South should remember that there is a decorum essential to such reading. These are deliberate, mannerly southern men of 1910 and beyond, and must be read in that same spirit and dialect - drawl and all. Most important of all, however, is mastery of the Southern pause. Perhaps it would be helpful to smoke a cigar and don a white suit as you read. In any case, may peace of mind attend you as you navigate…the river.

EPISODES

Sullivan’s Island

The Queen of the South

The Colorado High Pass Opera House

The Hanging of Danny Bugel

The Demon Children of Walker Lake

Finnegan and the Elder

Stormfield and the Reverend Phinklee

Miss Bertinelli

Epilogue

STORMFIELD

1910 - Missoura

Sullivan’s Island

Among the few goals that I have held truly dear, one is to look back upon a life lived in the most interesting way possible, and another is to devise a question which has never been asked by anyone. The former is a mere trifle, as eccentricity is a haven of familiarity for one of my ilk, but the latter will likely remain forever out of reach. This will be a pity, to be

sure, as the present year of 1910 is my time for an increase of questions. There is just cause, for I am a writer, an asker of questions…I am a Missouran…and my standard-bearer, my pilot…the brightest lantern on the river…is dead.

As a pragmatic journalist and social commentator in the mold of Mr. Clemens, I took his passing hard. The enduring realist within me is always liable to say Well…dead is dead, regardless of my fondness for him. However, as the traveler who has seen the cultures of many centuries, I am prone to fall prey, on occasion, to the poetry of hopeful speculation and poignant self-ritual, worked out in my own shop and played upon my own stage, which is gaudier than most, and more tolerant of unseemly emoting than many. Yesterday, after all, I was in the company of a Miss Bertinelli…in a Ferrari…on Italy’s west coast, and today I am watching a paddle-wheeler slip by on the Mississippi. Miss Bertinelli must be convinced that I fell in the ocean and was drowned, but Mr. Twain and I both believed that I was here, and that is proof enough for me. Armed with that simple faith (how he would upbraid me for the use of such a term) I, like Huck Finn before me, rowed out to that lonely island in hopes that something that ain’t so just might be this time…just this once.

Nothing was lost in the effort, to be sure. The River itself, unruffled and silent, lay black and bright as the regions through which Mr. Twain’s comet now races. My agitated efforts to row efficiently created the only commotion, and various spokesmen for the birds and amphibians of the shore were quick to let me know it. I had not accounted for the distance implied by my eyes, as the river’s popular surname of Mighty flexed its reality while I pulled myself awkwardly along. At long last, however, I was elated to scrape up onto the sandy shore. It had been my choice that afternoon to wear a crisp white suit in tribute to my fallen champion, a choice I came to regret, as it lost freshness with each stroke of the oars…but I arrived safely nonetheless, and not being entirely helpless as a frontiersman, soon sat before a fire of my own making.

Although the island, river and far shore were in no way frightening, this was the ideal setting for one of the ghost stories Mr. Twain loved so, and the mere thought of that brought a tingling to the air about me, as if something desired to materialize, but dutifully awaited my permission. Such a display of metaphysical decorum is, I believe, a pugnacious maneuver upon the heart of a walking mortal by any passing spirit. They must surely know that we are, in part, aquiver to see evidence of the veil’s far side, but that we are similarly terrified to venture past the back gate of our house of clay. I feel certain that they understand the dilemma in which they place us, and I, for one, do not look kindly upon the custom.

Apparently, whatever was bent on appearing grew weary of my indecision, and emerged slowly out of the night, across from me at the fire. The timid human, despite all his talk and travels, nearly drowned himself in anxiety, and the adventurous aspect of my inner cavalier evaporated before this sparkling apparition, long before its manifestation was complete. A general weakness, accompanied by an undercurrent of quaking, spread throughout my torso and limbs. To run was spiritually impractical, as spirits own the night and can appear in one place as easily as the next. On land, I could only be frightened to death, but I wasn’t about to resort to my rowing skills and be drowned like a bricked dog. Speaking was, likewise, out of the question, as my vocal apparatus seconded the impulse of every other bodily function, and would simply not stand to be counted.

Further, to my way of thinking, he that appeared before me behaved with reckless audacity on several counts, and I am certain that he would have agreed, had he been put in my position. To begin, he was male and, given the circumstances, a female visitor from the beyond might have been less paralyzing. Best of all, in fact, it should have been Aunt Miriam, the gentlest creature ever to reside on the river…but mind you, even she would have caused an extra swallow or two. I will further admit that it could have been worse. It could have been Aunt Cecily…but enough of that.

No, the great bearded gentleman sitting before me (on what, I could not imagine) was of a harsher sort, accustomed to the elements and to the daily wages of rough labor. I could not lightly forgive his habit of staring me straight in the eye, unceremoniously over-pronouncing a dominance already established by the whereabouts of our domiciles. The offense, however, was rendered complete by his decision (whether I liked it or no)…to speak!

Now…whether my destiny on that island on such a night was to hold discourse or to be devoured by demons, I was not, to be sure, his first encounter with an earth-tethered human. This fact heightened the insult, for the excuse of ignorance was not available to him. Undoubtedly, he knew that the voice one uses in the spirit world translates to the human ear in a cavernous, contorted moaning, accompanied by a background similar to that of thudding drums. I do not believe that even Aunt Miriam could have spared me this unavoidable discomfort.

Considering such trauma, wouldn’t one expect a speech, or at least a phrase, worthy of Aristophanes or Milton? Why no, not on an island in the Mississippi in 1910…not if one is a Missouran. Truly, I received as sophomoric a query from my nether-world guest as a Missourian might expect…And so, what is your opinion? Following a considerable pause, in which I adjusted myself to having been spoken to from the dead and considered the odd question, I made an effort to answer…but still could not. As my faculties seized their gear and hastened to form a line from which I could regain control over myself, I felt sure that I would speak normally within a few ticks of the watch. However, that line was, in some fashion, formed out of order, for the response that finally issued from my lips was not of a dialect familiar to Missoura. Perhaps you can translate it…but I cannot, although I shall never forget it…"Buh buh buh buh buh shuh shuh shuh.

My ghost’s eyes started a bit, as my pattern of speech was not apparently known on his side of the isinglass, either. Only then did I notice the second apparition as it commenced to appear, and it occurred to me that my bearded shade had not addressed me at all, rather his colleague. Embarrassment did what mere courage could not, and I felt my old powers returning as I watched the amassing of the second vision, standing by the first, hands in pockets (near as I could tell) and swaying gently from side to side on his…feet.

What is my opinion? Dear Captain, I am not wholly returned. I beg of you, give me a moment to survey my surroundings. It was the voice of the master himself, and he smiled, as if gratified, upon noticing me. Why, my young friend, how splendid it is to know that you answered my…invitation. I was not sure of its success, you know…it’s rather ordinary business in our daily regimen, but with the living…well, one can’t ever tell. How goes it with your mortal aspirations…is your family well? No longer in my stupefied state, I made ready an answer, overjoyed to see Mr. Twain returned, for the sole purpose, it seemed, of speaking with me. As fate would have it, however, my first face-to-face words with the departed were blunted again as the dear old bard of the river cocked his head to the side and put up a finger of pause…Do forgive the interruption, young sir, but Aunt Miriam wondered if you might pick the plums behind the tool shed before they lose their luster, and give them to the poor…and Aunt Cecily…ah yes…Aunt Cecily would like to know if you’re touched with the fever, rowing halfway across the Mighty Miss in a no-good washtub, clad in a clean white suit? I must add her curiosity on that point to my own, I fear…oh, not the rowing. I asked you to do that. The suit…well, if it’s a form of flattery, I thank you kindly…but you know, if we were ladies, we should be chagrined to find one another in identical attire, especially at such a distance. Speaking of that, there’s an answer to one of the hundred questions…seems that regardless of one’s curiosity, you are a man there if you were a man here. Now, it seems to me that part of being in Heaven should include such curiosities being satisfied…but there you have it. With his first pause, he turned away from a breeze I could not sense, and lit his cigar.

The Captain jumped into the moment, again preventing me from speaking…You must forgive the master, young sir! As a rule, we all require several decades, at a prodigious rate of speed, in order to reach the shores of Heaven, but Mr. Twain, through some great gift of his own, no doubt, was brought there almost miraculously in the batting of an eye…but then, with barely enough time for the merest familiarity with his new home, he became dogged by an incomplete task, and returned in an instant…and bade me follow.

The cigar successfully lit, Mr. Twain resumed his monologue…and why not? These two gentlemen seemed to know all the pertinent answers and questions and, thus far, I had failed to seize the initiative…Two such as us…well, we’ll barely be missed…but where are my manners? We’ve come all this way to satisfy your curiosity about the Captain’s journey to Heaven, and haven’t yet permitted you a word…and I’ve brought the genuine, deceased Captain Stormfield…none other! The rough gentleman, who seemed less fierce than he had a moment ago, curtly tipped his round river-faring cap, which I had not spied until that instant…Sir. I nodded shyly in return, and thought again of speaking, until Mr. Twain bent down on one knee and studied me in a great, silent period of concentration…To be entirely truthful, he mused in a resigned manner, we have come to ask questions of you, and of this place, for we are for the first time in eternity, unsure of our status in the grand cycle of the stars and of the aspirations we once held for our…‘after-time’. What I mean to say is that we feel unconvinced of what is real. After another hesitation, which he