The Recluse Storyteller
Chapter 5 - A Flying Flower Pot
Chapter 7 - Escape from the Margaret Meeting
Chapter 10 - The Tipping Point
Chapter 12 - Cheevers and Red Hat
Chapter 13 - Margaret Branches Out
Chapter 14 - Cheevers Pays a Visit
Chapter 15 - Over the Ridge and Looking Up
Chapter 16 - Mrs. Johnson's Secret
Chapter 17 - Red Hat Unfolding
Chapter 18 - Mrs. Trumble vs. the World
Chapter 19 - Two Revealed, Two Remain
Chapter 20 - Into the Presence
Acclaim for Beauty Rising - Mark W Sasse's Debut Novel
The
Recluse
Storyteller
Mark W. Sasse
Kindle Edition
Copyright
©
2013 Mark W. Sasse
All Rights Reserved
For all my young actors, past, present, and future.
You have helped release the storyteller inside of me.
I am grateful for your inspiration.
Special thanks to:
Karen, Joella L., Brittany H., and Sandy H.,
whose thorough readings, suggestions, and edits were invaluable.
Joyce Da Hui Lee for the drawings and cover design.
I am indebted to your talents.
Prologue
The Stories
Perhaps a word before we begin would help set the stage for what is to come, for the recluse storyteller is not so easily comprehended and frequently misunderstood. People think they know the type and consider her standoffish ways to be nothing more than her being inhospitable, awkwardly social, or even a little off the rails. While each of those descriptions may perfectly depict our storyteller to one degree or another, they fall short in truly understanding who she is.
Margaret. That is her name. She has been bottled up from the world for a number of years. Not by anyone’s choice—not even her own. It just is. A casualty of our age, perhaps. She lives secluded in her second floor apartment 2B, flanked by Michael Cheevers on her right in 2A, Mrs. Trumble directly opposite in 2C, and the Johnson family down the hall in 2D. Mrs. Trumble remains her biggest pest, if a recluse can indeed have a pest. The Johnson family has adorable twin girls named Sam and Pam whom Margaret often peeks at through the keyhole or a discretely cracked door. These are the characters that complete the second floor occupancy in the drab, dimly lit, well-worn apartment building where Margaret weaves her stories. They are the characters—at least to her—that inhabit the four tales she continues to tell as a master craftswoman, constantly chipping and buffing, ever refining and redefining the heart of the stories which have become her only obsession or worthwhile possession.
So who is this storyteller precisely? She is not a writer because she never writes anything down. She is not a raconteur because she speaks to no one but herself. But the stories are real, and they surround her at all moments, so, when the time is right and the familiar feeling comes heavily upon her shoulders, she releases them into the air, and they hang over the apartment like a heavy perfume that cannot be easily whisked away—seeping deep into the furniture, into the walls, entrenching itself inside the very being of the apartment. She can’t escape them, nor, so it seems, would she want to.
“Red Hat.” Cheevers wears this red baseball cap that seems to mesmerize Margaret every time she hears the thud of his door and his heavy plodding steps, which tepidly fade out of earshot only to see him emerge on the street corner below donning the familiar colored hat. Her eyes have followed him for years, scouring the darkened crevices of the hallway, understanding his past all too well. He, too, is somewhat of a recluse—a jovial, cynical one for that matter. But he keeps to himself and tries to forget the past. Margaret cannot forget, and so she tells his story with ever increasing frequency. It is a story that Cheevers needs to hear.
“On the Ridge.” In the bottom right drawer of her computer desk sits a large stack of letters bound with a silver ribbon. They are from Reverend Davies with whom she hasn’t spoken for many years—not since her mother was alive. But he persistently sends her a letter or card from time to time. Margaret cares little for their content, but they serve as a reminder of the horrific tale of war which still hasn’t quite come to its end. What does Margaret know of war? Perhaps more than most recluses. The ridge, overlooking the quiet village of To Hap, has been seared in her mind over the years; the clues, the reminders, the memories, pieced together like a fractured piece of stained glass—each colored shard telling its own story, fracturing the light in its own unique way, making truth elusive. But not to her. She knows the truth and often wonders what would happen if she ever decided to talk with Reverend Davies about the ridge, but that thought never lasts long. A recluse is content with idleness—or so she keeps telling herself.
“The Mark Across the Sky.” Then, of course, there are the sweet twins. If ever there were any two people who might entice Margaret out of her well-barricaded cocoon, it would be the twins. She sees their goodness, and the rare smiles which pass across Margaret’s face are typically brought on by catching a glimpse of the two in the hallway—badgering each other with sisterhood. It reminds her of a lonely tree on a hill that hangs against the canvas of a darkening sky, a warning to all who might pay attention. If only they could hear the story of the single tree and the strange mark that flashed across the sky, perhaps they would understand a little better why certain inexplicable events have to happen. She loves their innocence. She remembers it. She longs for it.
“Blinding.” Finally, the light of morning perhaps speaks the loudest into her solace. It greets her each dawn with such brilliance that Margaret often feels faint and blind in its presence—trapped by some higher purpose or some alternative calling not yet understood. She stands on the brink, dizzy in despair, ready to sacrifice everything, knowing that nothing can save her from the light, and so she thinks of Janice who will give her all for the light. It pains her greatly.
These are her stories. She would sacrifice everything for them. Perhaps she already has. Day in and day out, she watches her muse, the movings of her apartment block, and she tells their story which her eyes can’t help but see—perhaps even better than they see it themselves. For this is, indeed, their story, and they are about to embark on a journey of self-discovery courtesy of the gifted storyteller and her magical stories.
But unbeknownst to Margaret, this is also more than just their stories. It is also her story.
This is the story of the recluse storyteller.
Chapter 1
Stories in Walls
“Red Hat.”
Margaret heard Cheevers shuffling his feet in the hallway, so she quickly scampered to the door, put her ear flush against the wood, and listened intently as he plodded down the steps.
“Ttu, ttu, ttu.”
She mimicked the sound of his footsteps descending the stairwell.
“Out the door, out the door.”
She ran to the window and waited for Red Hat to exit. A few seconds later, he stood on the street corner, computer bag strapped over his shoulder, and hailed a cab. He wore a red baseball cap.
“Red Hat takes flight.”
She placed her face up against the window pane and squinted northward as the cab turned onto Birch about a block down and drove out of sight. She felt the nudge, and the words soon followed. She had become almost a prisoner to them, and so she closed her eyes and imagined the team in place on the roof of the Hetchworth Building ready to take out Red Hat if the team leader would only give the order.
* * *
“‘Red Hat on the move. Delta team. Do you copy?’
“‘Delta copy. From the roof of the Hetchworth Building, we have a clear visual. Do you want us to take the shot?’
“‘No.’
“‘Are you sure? We may never—’
“‘I said “no”.’
“He had never spoken with such conviction. He had to be tough on this one. Every piece of flesh and bone in his body called out for him to give the kill order. It would have solved a lot. Actually, it would have solved everything. But he knew it would have been the wrong thing to do.
“Delta team lowered their weapons and watched as Red Hat traveled the seven blocks of Birch and disappeared into the tunnel. It was over.
“‘What’s going on?’ Delta commander inquired.
“‘Just come back.’
“‘But—’
“‘It’s over. Let him go.’
“Williams stood at the window almost shaking his head, himself slightly confused by his own actions, contradicting the wealth of head knowledge he had accumulated from years of experience on the force. He knew many people wouldn’t understand, but he had his orders. He didn’t care what others thought, except he worried that his wife, an injured teller from the terrorist plot earlier in the day at the Chester Waltz Bank, would not understand why he chose to do what he did. Just as he pondered his wife’s response, Agent Morris walked in with little Meagan. Meagan had taken a liking to Williams and boldly approached as he continued to stare out the window.
“‘Mister Will,’ she pleaded, looking far up at Williams’ face, not unlike a puppy wanting to jump but trained not to.
“‘Yes, sweetheart.’
“‘Was my Daddy a bad man?’
“‘Why do you say that?’
“‘Before he left, he said he was never coming back.’
“‘I suppose that’s true. I don’t think he’ll be back.’
“Williams knelt down on one knee and put his right hand behind her head.
“‘But you are going to be fine.’
“‘I’m scared. I want my Daddy to be here.’
“‘I know. You have to be brave. Do you think you can be brave?’
“Little Meagan swooped her head up, brushing against Williams’ arm. He wanted to hold her tight and comfort her, but heartache beckoned her and would follow the rest of her life. He couldn’t be this close.
“‘Go play in your room. Your mother just needs to be alone for a little while.’”
* * *
Margaret stopped. Her eyes had glossed over, and she sighed deeply. She had spent the last five years in this apartment alone. She watched everything and everyone, knowing their stories well—too well. They had become so personal to her that sometimes they hurt her deeply. But the stories also comforted her and kept her company. Her nose was red from all the window rubbing, and her eyes continued to stare out over the street not looking anywhere in particular. She continued to imagine Williams’ broad shoulders blocking the double-framed window while little Meagan walked solemnly into her room to sit on the purple, upholstered spin chair. Margaret’s eyes grew large as she looked around at her empty apartment. Her face was tired, her hair was graying, and the wrinkles around her eyes dug deeper than before. She stopped at the mirror to admire her mother’s locket, which hung around her neck, fastened to a black woven band. Margaret had always been able to talk to her mother. She missed her terribly.
Her apartment looked sparse but neat. A simple couch with three throw pillows marked the center of the room. The pink pillow had ‘Margaret’ embroidered across the middle, outlined by a heart that was stitched around it using red thread. She sat with it on her lap every time she watched TV. A breakfast bar separated the kitchen area from the living room, and her refrigerator stood tall and wide—a Frigidaire from a previous generation. She had inherited most of her furniture and appliances when her mother passed away five years ago and had lived here by herself ever since, writing technical labor manuals over the Internet when she wasn’t telling her stories—when she didn’t feel the presence. The stories would come at all times and take her in many directions to the most bizarre of places. They were her past, her present, and most definitely her future. They were her friends, her acquaintances, her faith, and her demons. They were her pets, her hobbies, her lovers. They were her family. She held them dear, yet they weighed heavily upon her heart.
