Lest They Be Forgotten

Surrendering Talents

(It is now time to bring this collection to a close. And what better way than with the writer settling accounts and giving it all back to his Maker. Versions of this short piece have been published in numerous e-zines and blogs, among them The Quill, Broowaha and Northumberlandview.ca. Dear readers, I have enjoyed this journey. I hope you will continue to read my other work, details of which can be found on my website at www.shanejoseph.com. All the best with your reading and writing!)

Surrendering Talents

I had a dream. An old man was dropping the contents of a bag into a lake. I seemed to be able to read his mind. The first artifacts to go in the water were a cricket bat and a ball; they eddied and floated away. “Goodbye little friends, and thank you for the joy you once gave me. My limbs are too stiff for you now.” A theatrical mask followed. I recognized it from when I played El Gallo in amateur theatre, years ago during my youth. “And my voice cannot hold that tenor anymore,” the old man said. “But it was a happy time. Thank you.”

I walked closer and there was an odd familiarity to this old man, I had met him somewhere. He took out a guitar and set it adrift in the water. “And this can go along too. My fingers cannot reach the chords fast enough – arthritis.” It was a good Catania, one I had played often but never owned, and therefore, had always desired.

A tear rolled down his cheek as he took out a well-thumbed notebook. He flipped the pages, smiling at some lines, getting angry at others, looking proudly at the horizon. “You are hard to give up,” he said hesitantly. “You are my thoughts, desires, and machinations. You are the messages that came to me from across the water, in the middle of the night, which I recorded; the seeds of the novels and stories I wrote for many years. Until you stopped coming.”

He rose and paced, slowly at first, reaching a furious march, to and fro, scratching his head, gesticulating, pleading with an unseen entity, reluctant to let go of the book. Finally, as if embraced by an invisible but caring hand, he calmed down and turned towards the horizon once again. “What is in here does not belong to me; it was placed in my custody, to be made into lessons for others – my readers. And that I have accomplished. Now, like me, it must return to its source.” He set the book floating out into the middle of the lake, where it weaved and bobbed with his other talents.

Then the spectral figures came over the water and the old man acknowledged each in turn, like they were old friends and relatives. One female, faintly recognizable, lingered after the others had passed; her compassionate look at the old man suggested that everything was going to be all right now and that she would never leave him again. He pointed to the book he had just released into the water. “I put you in the book,” he said. “You are immortal now.” She smiled and faded along with her companions.

He hurried with his preparations. As he removed his clothing and prepared to enter the water, I rushed over, determined to rescue him, yet knowing I was going to be too late. Who was I to save him? I caught a glimpse of his face as he slipped into the inviting lake.

And I finally recognized the old man.