The Legend of All Things Unwanted

This is a story that my father told me many times growing up and despite the fact that I am well into my thirties now, I can still remember the first time I heard it. I sat alongside him by the fireplace, on a cold Winter evening, and listened with fascination. It was a tale of an extraordinary adventure that my father, even to the moment of his death, God rest his soul, claimed that he had when he was just a young boy. Much of this story, you will probably think that he made up—but as for me, I will always believe .

It began with a visit from my Great-Uncle Patrick, whom I have never met, but know a great many things about him from my father’s countless stories. He lived in Ireland. Now my grandparents relocated to the United States when my father, Max McKee, was just an infant. They were poor, but generally content, a happily married couple that loved my father very much. He was their only child and they tried to give him everything that he needed.

But one thing that he longed for was to see his aunts and uncles, and cousins and grandparents, more often then he did. Because of their limited income, my grandparents were only able to visit their Irish relatives once every ten years. However, there was one uncle who came to visit them in the States once a year. Uncle Patrick. He was my father’s favorite uncle.

Every time he visited, Great-Uncle Patrick would bring my father a gift. Once, he brought him an Irish good-luck charm. Another time, he brought a hand-made marionette. But on the eve of my father’s ninth birthday, my Great-Uncle Patrick came for his yearly visit and brought with him an extraordinary gift, one that brought an ancient Irish legend to life. This is my father’s story, at least the version that he told me. This is the legend of all things unwanted.

Chapter 1

Quite some time ago, when my father was a child, something extraordinary happened, but not all at once, you see, for it began much like anything else. First there came the boring, ordinary happenings, and then the exciting parts. My father, Max McKee, was a short, slender, boy with red hair and a freckled face. On the eve of his ninth birthday, his Uncle Patrick came for a visit, just as he did once a year from the time my grandparents relocated from Dublin, Ireland to a small fishing village in New England. This began the boring, ordinary part (you have to pay attention to it, mind you, if you ever hope to fully understand the exciting parts) and my father sat outside the bus station, all alone, for several hours waiting for his uncle’s arrival .

No one bothered, or even noticed him. It had been almost four hours and not a single person who entered or exited the station said a word to him. Uncle Patrick was to fly in from Ireland, arriving at Logan International Airport in Winthrop, Massachusetts at 6am. He would then jump on the bus at 7:30, and arrive in Hillford around one o’ clock. Max walked to the station and sat down outside at a quarter after eight that morning. This story begins at roughly twelve-thirty, and Max was tired and hungry.

He shifted on the wooden bench and turned around, leaning against the back, on his elbows. Then he stared through the dirty bus station window. It was difficult to see through, but Max could just make out the shapes of the wooden seats inside, and of one or two people sitting idly. Beyond, there was a square window with no glass, and a man standing behind it. He was plump and balding, and he was bent over a small desktop built into the bottom of the window. There was a pencil in his hand and he made small scratches on a piece of paper. He looked bored, which puzzled Max.

How can he feel that way? Max pondered. For a bus station is a wonderful, magic place where people come from far away. Oh, the places they’ve lived and seen along their travels. It is such a marvelous, adventurous, connecting site that brings visitors together, even if but for a short time during their layover.

Max turned around and sat back down. He let out a deep sigh and leaned forward, resting his head in his hands. He did this for the longest time, until sometime later, an unusual man came round the corner of the station. The man was tall, and bearded, and he wore a long, black, coat. A black hat sat lopsided on the crown of his head.

The black-suited man reached up and tipped his hat at Max, as he turned and casually entered the station. Max jumped to his knees again and turned round, peering curiously through the station window. He watched the black-suited man stroll up the center aisle, between the seats, and then suddenly pause. Then, with a subtle craftiness, the man bent down as if he were tying his shoelaces and snatched something from the seat in front of him.

From this angle, Max couldn’t see what he had apparently stolen. But after the black-suited man quickly pocketed the item, he rose to his feet again and ran his hands down his suit. Then, he spun on his heels and walked briskly to the exit. His mouth moved slowly. It looked as though he were talking to himself, perhaps to draw the attention away from what he had just done, so that if anyone had seen him, they would immediately dismiss it.

Afterwards, he exited and stood outside the door and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath and smiled before glancing down at Max, who had already turned round and dropped down onto the bench again. Max didn’t smile back. Something about him frightened Max.

The man gave a polite nod, then turned and walked around the same corner that he’d come from. Max waited about half a minute before leaping off the bench and sprinting to the edge of the platform. He peered around the corner, but there was no sign of the black-suited man.

He sat down again and another fifteen minutes passed by before anything else of great significance took place. Then, the ticket agent exited the station and walked to the front of the platform. He looked at Max and said, It’s one o’ clock, son. Time for the bus to arrive. Are you waiting for someone? A friend or a relative?

My Uncle, Max said, timidly. Ordinarily, he didn’t speak to strangers; however, he felt an odd connection with the agent, having watched him all morning. It was almost as if they were friends that had not yet been introduced.

A few minutes later, a blue and silver bus rumbled down the road and pulled into the station. It came to a halt near the agent, in front of the platform. Then the bus door opened with a short, grinding sound, and then a squeak, and a thud. The driver—fortyish, with light hair, a mustache, and a warm smile—rose from his seat and stepped off the bus, and onto the platform. He quickly spun around to face the open bus door.

Hillford, Massachusetts! He announced.

Then he walked to his left, threw open the undercarriage door, and pulled out several suitcases and placed them on the platform. A good many people exited the bus and milled about before his Uncle Patrick appeared and stepped down to the platform.

Max, my boy! I’ve missed you terribly, been such a long year! said Uncle Patrick. He walked over and picked up his suitcase. Then he rushed to Max and dropped it, threw his arms around him, and held him tightly for what seemed like an eternity.

Max smiled from ear to ear. Uncle Patrick, I’ve missed you, too, and I have so much to tell you. Oh, I can’t believe it’s been a year. Mother and father will be so pleased to see you.

Uncle Patrick released his grip and stood upright. Then he picked up his suitcase and followed Max home. Along the way, they talked about everything: from how Max was doing in school, to the Irish comforts that Max and his parents were missing. It was a twenty-minute walk.

However, before they arrived, Uncle Patrick asked, I wonder why you’re mother and father didn’t come with you this morning.

Max’s face suddenly grew a pale shade of pink, and he hung his head sheepishly. He hoped that his Uncle hadn’t noticed; but he had, and he cleared his throat loudly to prove it.

I take it they’re unaware of my arrival?

Yes sir, said Max. His words were quiet, filled with guilt and shame.

Uncle Patrick smiled and draped his free hand across Max’s shoulder. It’s okay. They’ll know soon enough, but you should have told them, Max. That’s why I send a letter of announcement before each visit in your parents’ names.

I know, and I’m very sorry, Uncle Patrick. I promise it won’t happen again. From now on, I’ll let them know.

Uncle Patrick tightened his grip on Max’s shoulder and said, I trust that it won’t. Now, let’s go and surprise those parents of yours, hmm?

Max smiled, and then he and Uncle Patrick began to run. The house was only a few hundred yards away—it was a small cottage with a thatched roof, near the edge of a cliff, overlooking the ocean. There was a green automobile, a Pontiac Streamliner Torpedo, parked next to the house on a narrow gravel driveway. Max’s father must have had the day off.

Peter McKee stood in the small kitchen at the back of the cottage with Rebecca. His wife. When Max and Uncle Patrick entered, Peter’s mouth fell agape, and Rebecca nearly dropped the haddock she was readying for dinner. She wiped her hands on the apron round her waist and rushed over to Uncle Patrick, alongside her husband. A warm embrace and a loving smile greeted her. Then Max hurried to a small corner in front of the cottage, where there were several handmade wooden chairs and a cozy fireplace. The others soon joined him.

For the better part of an hour, they talked about a great many things, not waiting for the others to finish before speaking themselves. All of them were far too excited and had a great deal to say. They spoke as if an hourglass was rapidly counting down to Uncle Patrick’s departure, and that he might never be seen again. Between them all, Max said the least, although he certainly did his share of talking.

Sometime later, Uncle Patrick rose from his seat and rubbed his hands together, smiled mischievously. He peered down at Max. I suppose you’re awaiting our annual tradition?

Max nodded feverishly. He always enjoyed his uncle’s presents from the homeland; and every year, his present was more fantastic than the previous. They were not necessarily more expensive, but simply more precious to Max. Perhaps it was due to the fact that he was growing older and cherished things more. There was a memory attached to everything now, from the majestic sunrise, to the striking expanse of nighttime sky with its countless twinkling stars. Even the cottage and the sea beyond the cliff held a dozen memories for Max. But as for Uncle Patrick’s annual gifts from Ireland, all the other memories fell short in comparison.

Uncle Patrick searched the room, and his smile vanished. He now looked anxious. Ugh, he moaned. I can’t seem to find my suitcase.

It was Peter and Rebecca’s turn to smile as they watched Max leap off his chair to scour the cottage. His face conveyed sternness and determination as he went from one place to another. Then it finally brightened; his body stiffened, and he bounded for a closet next to the door.

Here it is! Uncle Patrick, I’ve found it for you! Max struggled to drag the suitcase out, and across the floor. His uncle, and his parents, laughed wildly before Uncle Patrick came over and took it from him. Then he instructed Max to take his seat again.

It took but a brief moment to open the suitcase, then another to shove his hand in, and then Uncle Patrick produced a small cardboard box. He closed the suitcase and slid it beside the chair. Peter and Rebecca appeared just as excited as Max. Uncle Patrick handed over the box.

It was white and unadorned, with a tab fastening the top closed; but Max absolutely loved it already, despite not knowing what was inside. He held it in his hands, noting the slightest weight of its contents. It could be anything, Max thought, and yet nothing at all; but that’s absurd, because Uncle Patrick wouldn’t give me nothing, so it must surely be something. Everyone watched him, impatiently, but he didn’t notice them.

Well, go on then, said Uncle Patrick. Aren’t you excited and curious to know what I’ve brought you this time?

Max nodded, swallowed. Yes, sir. I’m just… He paused, considering how to describe the emotion filling up inside of him. …remembering. That’s all. I’m making a memory.

He gazed at the box a moment longer, before slowly unfastening the tab and opening it. He lifted the lid and reached his hand inside. The box was filled with a lot of paper. Max did not immediately feel his gift.

It must be a small one, he thought, frowning. He continued to feel around until his fingers touched something—it was a small, round, metal object—he wrapped his hand around it and pulled it out. It was a bit heavy for a small present. He opened his hand.

A pocket watch. Uncle Patrick had brought him an exquisite pocket watch. It was made of shiny brass; chain, button clasp, and all. Etched on the front of it was a simple coat of arms and there was a button at the top. Max pressed it gently, and the watch opened. The inside was even more beautiful. The underside indicated that the casing was Swiss made, and the watch face was manufactured in London, in 1856. It was an antique with five hands.

This must have cost a fortune, Max said, barely above a whisper.

Uncle Patrick laughed merrily, and said, Don’t you worry about that. It didn’t break me savings, if that’s what you’re worried about. I found it in the market. They wanted five Irish Pounds, but I talked them down to two.

Wow! said Max.

Wow, indeed, said his father.

Max, take your pocket watch to your room. You don’t want to lose it, said his mother. When Max had gone, she turned to Uncle Patrick. You know we love your visits, Patrick, but you really should not have spent so much on that watch.

Uncle Patrick waved a hand and rose to his feet. He picked up his suitcase and walked it over to the closet, placing it inside again. You worry too much, Rebecca. I see my nephew but once a year, and I want him to have a few nice things. Is that too much to ask?

Well, no, but I really think you ought to have…

Rebecca, let it rest. Peter took his wife’s hand and caressed it lovingly. My brother wanted to spend the money. Who are we to say how he spends it, or what he spends it on?

Absolutely, said Uncle Patrick, sitting down again, just as Max returned.

So, who’s up for a story?

Chapter 2

The following morning, Max awoke early and ate his breakfast. Oatmeal and two slices of buttered toast. Then he ran upstairs, changed from his long johns to a plaid shirt and blue jeans. He snatched his school books, held together with a leather strap, from the floor beside his bed. But before dashing out of the room and down the stairs, Max picked up his pocket watch and shoved it into one of his front pants pockets .

It was a half-mile walk to school down the hill, through a sparse grove of trees, and across a dirt road, a railroad track, and through the forest, before emerging into a large meadow. Along the way, Max considered why his parents hadn’t scolded him for not attending school the previous day. He could only assume that it had been due to his Uncle’s unexpected arrival. Regardless of reason, however, Max decided that he ought to attend class today even though it was his birthday.

After a short time, Max reached the school yard. Hillford, Massachusetts was a small fishing town with less than twenty-five school age children. So, because of this, it had but a one-room schoolhouse. Max trudged closer to the building; wooden, painted red with white trim, and an adjacent wooden outhouse. The teacher, Ms. Kettler, a middle age woman with a childish face, and a slender figure, stood at the top of the steps and rang the school bell.

The first half of the day dragged on quite slowly. Max anxiously fingered the outline of the pocket watch through his jeans nearly the entire time. Lunch was at eleven-thirty, and a half hour of free time in the yard at one o’ clock broke up the day. Afterwards, the children all gathered back in the schoolroom. Ms. Kettler instructed them to read silently for fifteen minutes, and then to write a two-hundred word report on what they had read. There were dozens of books to choose from on a tall bookshelf at the side of the room. Max had chosen Treasure Island written by Robert Louis Stevenson in 1883. Because he was a fast reader, he completed two chapters before writing his report.

When their time expired, Ms. Kettler asked them to set down their pencils while she went from one desk to the next and collected their papers. She returned and sat down, dropped the papers onto the desktop. Then, she announced that it was time for show-and-tell. Many of the students expressed disinterest, but the younger ones, especially Max, bolted upright with excitement gleaming in their eyes.

Who would like to go first? asked Ms. Kettler, showing no surprise when half a dozen hands shot into the air ecstatically.

Several of his peers went before him. One boy named Roland presented his pet mouse. A girl named Emily had an expensive porcelain doll that her mother had purchased in Boston six months prior. There were three others before Max. Then he was called upon. He rose from his desk and walked to the front of the classroom, faced his peers, and thrust his hand in his pocket.

He immediately discovered that something was terribly wrong. Max felt around, removed his hand. Then, he checked the other pocket and removed his hand. His face turned to fear and panic, and his eyes darted from Ms. Kettler to his seated classmates. Some of the older boys, who sat in the back, snickered loudly, and one of them stuck his tongue out at Max.

Is something wrong? asked Ms. Kettler.

I don’t know. I put it in my pocket, and I’ve felt it all day. Max spun around to face the teacher. Ms. Kettler, I’ve lost my watch.

I beg your pardon?

The pocket watch I was going to show the class, Ms. Kettler, it’s gone!

Calm down, Max, I’m sure it couldn’t have gone far. But her face revealed nearly the same panic that Max’s did. Alright everyone, she said, glancing up at the class. Has anyone seen a pocket watch lying around? Anyone at all? It’s very important.

At the back of the class, the older boys’ snickering turned to riotous laughter. Several of them nearly fell out of their chairs. A girl sitting near them rolled her eyes and muttered contemptuous words against them.

Mr. Norton, Mr. Dunfee, and Mr. Gibbons. I want to see the three of you after class. I expect you can use that extra energy to clap erasers.

The three boys groaned and glared scornfully at Max, who swallowed and adverted his eyes. He moved around the room and scanned the floor. Where is it? Oh, where did I drop it? He wondered as his eyes moistened and tears began to roll down his face.

For the next twenty minutes, Ms. Kettler and the rest of the class searched the inside of the classroom. Then the schoolyard. Afterwards, they all concluded, regrettably, that Max’s pocket watch was nowhere to be found. Max burst into a full crying spell, despite Ms. Kettler’s failed attempts to calm him.

"Perhaps you only thought that you had it with you," Ms. Kettler suggested.

Max shook his head, vigorously. No, I had it! It’s been in my pocket all day! I swear it has!

I’m sorry, but we’ve looked all over and it isn’t here, Max. We really need to continue our lessons. Come inside and we’ll talk about this later.

Max didn’t like that. He stamped his feet and ran farther across the yard and away from the schoolhouse. Ms. Kettler sighed heavily; the other children had long grown impatient. Leaning against the schoolhouse wall, beside the stairs, the older boys groaned theatrically.

What a baby, said the oldest, Roy Gibbons.

Mr. Gibbons, that’s quite enough!

When Ms. Kettler turned her back to him, Roy Gibbons made a face at her. Roy was fourteen and the son of a fisherman. His mother worked as a seamstress. Both of them were usually quite tired and rarely gave a lick about him. So Roy didn’t care if he found himself in trouble.

Ms. Kettler ordered everyone to head back inside and return to their desks while she trudged along the yard after Max. When she reached him, she bent down and spoke to him softly. A few of the younger children watched through the window. Max and Ms. Kettler remained outside for another few minutes. When they came back inside, Max gathered his things and left the schoolhouse. Ms. Kettler watched him go with a saddened look on her face. Their talk outside had led nowhere, so she told him to gather his things and go home.

A short time later, Max stood by the forest, near the edge of town. Although he had been instructed to go home, he simply couldn’t do that. He had retraced his steps and taken the exact route that he had that morning on his way to school. But halfway home, he had abandoned his search. He hadn’t lost his uncle’s gift along the way. It had been in his pocket all day. Max was sure that he had lost it in the school yard, but neither he or Ms. Kettler had been able to find it.

So where had it gone? Max paused and stood a ways past the railroad tracks. In fact, he could still see them. He scratched his head and peered about curiously. Then something caught his eye, something that peaked his interest. Sprinting from one side of the woods to the other was the same man in black that he had seen at the station.

Max backtracked to the spot where the man had practically dove into the thicket of trees to the left. The place where he stood was a narrow grass path in the midst of the forest. He bent low, looked in among the thick tree trunks, and wondered how on Earth the man in black had ever managed to wriggle his way between them.

The forest is too dense for anyone to enter, Max thought, rising to