Untitled Composition 4

Mortley Morningside was making the night rounds. It was quite possible to say that night rounds had become the very essence of his life; Mortley had not seen the sun in so long that he had began to doubt it ever existed- a suspicion that aspired its first breath sometime during the last year. Over one shoulder he had rested a shovel, and as he walked his irregular steps resounded in the night, to which a full moon bare witness.

Mortley laughed as a child would, in spite of the quiet, shattering the sleeping silence of the world and staring off past the black-spiked gate into the dreaming fields beyond.

Cryptically, his voice resounded in the gentle winds of darkness, “Haha, moon looks bigger than the world…”

Night rounds (or what he privately called “nice walks”) simply consisted of a stroll around the cemetery to ensure that the dead maintained their good rest in the good earth, a direct stipulation as listed in the job requirements of being the village grave-keeper. Mortley knew better than to buy stock in such silly superstition. He had been a grave-keeper most of his nature life, which was relatively progressed at this point, and the dead had always stayed perpetually inanimate and conversationally reserved.

As he was finishing the rounds, his face slowly tightened to a twisted smile as he, by chance, noticed a smeared reflection of a monster, which was glaring at him in the moonlight. Not daunted in the least, he moved toward it and kneeled down to the cold, green earth. A puddle of filth, nestled behind the bulk of the graves, produced his likeness almost as a silvery, liquid mirror would. His face was as enormously disfigured, as well as his body- parts out of alignment and flesh protruding in bulk at old angles, the entire frame hunched over. Mortley, however, needed no reminder of his stature, and instead he reached past the puddle and into the darkness of a thorny shrub. In his grimey, retreating grip was a crumpled apple, and after making the effort of returning to his feet, he took a bite and proceeded to walk toward his hut, which was situated in the far back corner of the graveyard.

It hadn’t always been that way. At one time, his hut had sat on the outside of the facility. He had entertained the notion that the graveyard was strictly for the dead, and that he’d do well to keep out of it as much as position allowed. This, however, was not to last, as children from the village would often make the few minutes journey at night to ridicule him as he worked, to deface his home and his person. He would ignore them, work around them even, but this only provided for the adverse effect. Suffice to say, when the children burnt the hut down, men from the village rushed to the ashes carrying buckets of water to see if charred lumber would float. They stood conversing, allowing their young to run home, with Mortley watching in wonderous horror, too timid to reprimand even a child.

This one room hut was warm and welcoming- considerably nicer than his last hut. It was unfortunate, to his mind, that the incident had brought attention upon himself. The village had taken pity on him for his loss of home and rebuilt him a new one of the finest quality. He had cared greatly for it, too. Mortley’s hut was the most well kept building in the region. The new hut had pulled him center stage, and village women took pity on him not having a garden and left supper at the cemetery gates almost every night for two weeks. The village blacksmith took pity on him for not having a horse, and left him a small pony, tied to the black rails. Once, only once, Mortley had taken sick and been unable to trim the hedges, and so the mayor took pity on him and left him a sack of money. They posted a sentinel in the distance, in the cover of the darkness, to see if he would concede to their offerings, but all reports were in the negative. It was all to their unreserved horror when, at village meeting one night, tall and lanky Farmer Franson reported that, while coming into town to market his crops, he had witnessed the scene with his very own two eyes. The scent of the offered meals had attracted several wolves, which in turn had feasted upon the pony and had met their demise at the warmer end of Farmer Franson’s noble rifle. He then concluded with the statement that the money was unaccounted for, and that he had given up farming to become an artist.
No further attempts to aid Mortley were made.

The village antics were no concern of Mortley’s, anyhow. His realm was fence to fence to fence to gate. As he entered the enclave of his hut, he breathed easier. The sun would be rising soon, and he could get some rest. Against a wall of the one room building was a desk of sorts. On its top rested a bottle of brandy, a glass, a small portrait, and an itinerary.
He poured himself a helping of brandy and collected the picture and the paperwork. He then hobbled over to the fireplace and claimed a seat in the comfy confines of his warm arm chair, resting his brandy on a well positioned end table.

“Work, work, work,” he chortled, gazing at tomorrow’s schedule.

He sighed when he saw the familiar words ‘evening service’.

The thought of “livey’s” in his graveyard brought him no comfort.

“Hassle me,” he groaned with reproach and threat.

His eyes lit up, however, as he proceeded to read the rest of the parchment. Being nearly illiterate, most of its content was lost in translation to the gravekeeper, but, like a small child, he sounded out the following:

“… survived by loving family (so and so and who and who)…
and the dearly beloved Mr. Perry Darlington, to whom she was betrothed…”

“Betrothed!” He said aloud, and with much ecstasy, kicking his booted, misshapen feet in delight.

A smile stretched upon all the palette of his face. He lifted his glass and drank happily.

Mortley enjoyed this part of the job. Lovers put on the best show. The evening services were events he would often ignore, and instead he would wait for the mayor to tap on his hut door when they were concluded. Never the case with lovers. He would watch with a sort of glorified satisfaction as they performed, weeping uncontrollably and doing something insane like jumping into the earth with the coffin. Mortley wanted to tell those kinds of people two things; first, that he had dug the hole himself (he wanted to know if they enjoyed their time in it, wanted to promise to provide them with one just like it when their time came) and second, that the departed had probably already began to decompose and most assuredly would not hear the implorations of the living world ever again, what with the ears having been chewed into gooey stubs by worms.

“Christmas,” he reflected solemnly, quietly and with glee.

He sat the itinerary aside and could not placate the feeling of anticipation within himself. He took another sip of brandy, and looked at the portrait.
A beautiful woman with auburn hair and deep brown eyes stared back at him. She, at one point, was the village beauty, but to him she was just “Mum.” Now she was buried deep in the earth, and to Mortely’s bitter lamentations, he had not been given the honor himself.

Mortley had her brown eyes (not literally), her portrait, and one of her earrings, triangular and made of diamond, likely a gift from a suitor. That was all.

She had nurtured and cared for him like no other. Needless to say, the entire village was surprised when beauty gave birth to the beast, but it did not restrain her love for her child in the slightest capacity. She never called him monster, and made up pleasant fairytales when he asked why he was not allowed to be schooled with the other children.

Then, one unceremonious day while she was on excursion, Mortley received a lovely, decorated letter through the post, garnished with flowers and pastels of all colors, as well as one earring.

The then-mayor took custody of the hideous boy and put him to work in the graveyard.

“… What’s that smell?” he once asked.

“Decomposing human flesh. There’s a good lad, mind your shovel and you’ll be fine.”

Was it thirty or forty years ago? Mortley couldn’t remember. He didn’t really care, for that matter. He’d work the graveyard gladly, and drink himself into a pleasant sleep, to dream of exhuming his mother from her grave and then reburying her in his own graveyard, with his own bare hands.




(2006)

Not what one normally associates with JoH - but then I noticed the date at the end, which explains all.

The name Mortley Morningside prepared me for this uncomfortable meeting with some decrepit character who might have an unnatural fixation on man's mortal remains - and there were one or two other humorous touches. The farmer's inexplicable career change, being informed Mortley had his mother's brown eyes (but not literally) and that twisted ending worthy of Norman Bates.

You're probably well aware that this contains a number of awkward grammatical expressions, some of the verbs are ill-judged and there's a little too much telling. In other words, it's far from the finished article as it stands.

But I enjoyed the diversion of reading it and no doubt you have new gems to polish rather than spending time on this one.

H

Hi hill. Thanks for reading.

It all seems so long ago. But then, that applies to all works from more than a month ago. Each one, upon re-reading, seems foreign, like a strange conversation or a dream. Like it doesn't belong to anybody, least of all this reader.

If the words 'Jack of Hearts' weren't attached, it would feel a little funny to take credit for the postings. It kind of does anyways.








J

I agree with the previous commentator about the stylistic problems with this, although it should be added that a rewrite could very well whip the story into shape. There are some careless errors as well--"bare witness."

The theme is indisputably morbid; however, the thought of imminent death was an obsession in Europe in the Middle Ages and the early Renaissance. (I seem to recall a famous portrait of John Wilmont, the Duke of Rochester, a notorious rebrobate who hedged his bets. He forced himself to remember the ultimate payback by keeping a human skull on his desk.)This story's setting shares some quite illustrious company in literature -- from the graveyard scene in Hamlet through to Victorian mystery novels full of graverobbing tales, through contemporary horror fiction and movies.

One of the lines in this-- about the moon looking larger than the earth-- made me think of a minor character in Richard Russo's The Bridge of Sighs in which he insists that astronauts landing on the moon would look down--not up--at the earth. That scene was amusing, if a bit patronizing, in a book that (to this reader) packs an emotional wallop.

One problem with this particular story is that it seems to be unable to decide on tone--is it a straight horror story or a humorous character study? (Or maybe he is supposed to be sympathetic, a la Hugo's hunchback.) The aforementioned graveyard scene from the Bard is often hailed as a model of tragiccomedy or comic relief. Combining the two opposite effects in one scene is a pretty tricky achievement. Since neither you nor I are Shakespeare, though, or even Stephen King-- at least not yet --we probably should settle on one or the other and try to keep the tone consistent.