TO INHERIT YOUR OWN PAST

 

Young Richard Blaine learns there are no safe visitors to St. Marok's.

TO INHERIT YOUR OWN PAST

“The Bible tells us to love our neighbors.  Another place to love our enemies... convenient because here at St. Marok's they are usually the same people.”

– Richard Blaine

 

The next few days were odd … even for St. Marok.

Nothing went as usual. Miss Mayfair didn’t notice since she was taken from here when just a tiny infant.

Sister Ameal didn’t care since … well, because she was Sister Ameal.

There was a sudden influx of students checking out books. Make that checking out Miss Mayfair. Even the girls gave her sidelong glances.

I didn’t make judgements on them or why girls would pine for an exotic looking woman. Even with Stearns gone, dreams were few and far between at St. Marok’s.

I prayed they died before their dreams did.

Life without dreams is like a bird with a broken wing – the heart of it has been cut out.

A person without dreams is a person without hope . A person without hope is a boat without a rudder. A boat without a rudder wanders endlessly without meaning.

Hold onto your dreams, for they are what hold you together.

As I replaced books on a shelf, I heard a yelp behind me.

I turned.

Bending over a table, Miss Mayfair had a student by the chin, forcing his head up. “Mr. Romulus, my eyes are six inches higher.”

Headmaster Stearns went through a mythology phase for a time when naming babies dumped on the doorsteps.

I felt sorry for the Negro boy he named Remus. His life was made miserable by Uncle Remus taunts … until Romulus smothered him with a pillow one night. He was fed up with the jokes about him being Remus’ brother.

I had been spending that night in the library. The next night, I painted “Cain” on his forehead in red nail polish while he slept.

It took ten days for the polish to wear off.

Were the police called? Of course not. This was during the tenure of Stearns. Besides, there was no body. Remember the ghouls?

Where life has no meaning, death sometimes takes on a value all its own.

Yeah. It’s strange thinking of me being compassionate, right? It’s a character flaw. I’m working on it, but it stubbornly sticks around … like red nail polish.

The Voice in my head buzzed so loud that I could make out two words: ‘Behind you!”

Having learned the hard way not to ignore the Voice when I could make her out, I ducked and spun, grabbing the knife I kept hidden under every table.

The point of my blade just touched the crotch of the wizened creature who stiffened at my speed.

I would have been mystified at the sight of the strange mannish thing if not for Marie Laveau. She had pointed out a specimen of the being she called a Grunch. It was hiding in an alleyway just beyond the fence that midnight as the Voodoo Queen tried to scare me with fright tales.

As if. I lived a fright tale.

Marie Laveau was not what I expected … but hardly anything or anyone was that.

She was tall. Her face was not white not black nor even the Indian which was part of her heritage. Her skin was … golden … or at least it seemed so under the full moon’s caress.

Her eyes, whose color I could not make out at midnight, were intelligent … but cold, appraising. She looked at me as if I were a piece of meat that was on the verge of turning bad.

Marie was dressed modestly as befit a free woman of color in the early 1800’s … but without the towering head adornment which would have drawn unwanted attention in 1944.

Now, about the Grunch. It is a deadly beast (often compared to a Chupacabra) in some versions of the story.

However, in Marie’s version, the term refers to a group of half-humans living outside New Orleans who have resorted to cannibalism as a result of a deal they made with the Devil.

This was particular one was quite dapper, clad in an all-white suit similar to the one worn by Mark Twain.

I dug the point of my knife a bit into his crotch and gave it my skull smile. “I really don’t think something like you should procreate. Do you?”

Helen murmured low, “Why do you work so hard to make yourself disliked? I should think you'd find it happens enough on its own without putting yourself to any extra trouble.”

There was nothing in that for me, so I kept quiet.

For once.

It had a reedy voice. “Actually, I would like to be able to attempt it should the opportunity arise.”

I rose slowly and ready. “Fair enough. What word do you bring from Mr. Morton?”

His jaw dropped. “How did you know?”

“You smell of brimstone.”

As the students murmured excitedly among themselves, Miss Mayfair hushed them. They grew very quiet.

It might have had something to do with the dainty revolver she held steady, aimed at Dapper Dan.

It’s believed that there was once a real Grunch Road somewhere in the city of New Orleans. And that it was made of shells, some from the Mississippi River, some from the Gulf of Mexico, and dirt from nowhere on this earth.

However, there’s been some dispute about where this legendary road was located. Plus, many believe that it has since been paved over and renamed.

Marie Laveau offered to show me the exact street if only I jumped the fence and accompanied her. I saw how the moonlight struck fire from her filed teeth and politely declined.

In a small, dusty volume in Stearn’s library, I read a passage in crimped handwriting that the creature was actually the child of Marie Laveau and the rest of the tribe are its descendants. I cared little for others’ lineage.

I felt that every man was his own ancestor, and every man his own heir.

He devises his own future, and he inherits his own past.

But why wouldn’t I? I was an orphan.

“My master has rescinded his invitation to Miss Helen Mayfair and Sister Ameal because of their discourtesy to Madame President Abigail Adams.”

I snorted, “And he doesn’t want to get sunburned in the presence of Miss Mayfair.”

“You may infer whatever conclusion you wish, The Blaine. You, however, are still invited … though the night has been changed to next Tuesday.”

I shook my head. “Alone on Halloween, Three Spirit Night? I must respectfully, sanely refuse.”

Dapper Dan worriedly licked his lips. “H-He will grant you your heart’s desire.”

My eyes became Judas and flicked to Miss Mayfair. “Not within his power. Thank him for me … but I must politely, emphatically refuse.”

“But you must!”

I had seen fear often at St. Marok’s. Terror, too, but not as often.

This was terror.

He was terrified of facing Mr. Morton with my refusal.

Helen looked closely at my face. “You owe this one nothing.”

I shook my head.

“I have too good an imagination. I say ‘No’ now, and each night when I close my eyes, I will devise worse and worse fates for Dapper Dan here to unfold before my mind’s eye.”

The Grunch looked at me oddly. “You are being compassionate … to me?”

“Strange I know. I was just chiding myself about that character flaw. I’ve tried shaking it, but it sticks to me like stubborn cellophane wrap.”

“You will go to face my Master … for me?”

“Of course, not. I am going for me. Selfish bugger, aren’t I?”

“No … no, you are not.”

One heartbeat he was there. The next, he was not.

Helen and the other orphans looked at me like the idiot I felt.

They looked surprised. I thought the fact of my idiocy had already been well established.

Goes to show you: nothing is ever as obvious to others as it is to you.