By Richard Eddie
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Richard Eddie quickly weaves mystical worlds that draw the reader into timeless spaces. The following two selections from Eddie’s collections call us to release the boundaries in the ways we think about life, youth and death. Writing because “it is simply a God-given talent and passion,” Eddie has been putting pen to paper/fingers to keyboard in their spare time since 2002 from their home in California.
The Welcoming Cemetery
BY RICHARD EDDIE
©2024. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
It was believed that cemeteries brought a certain amount of charm and myths to villages, and in 1922 Kingston, it was proven right. There were many stories and so-called legends, mainly from the seniors of Jamaica’s capital city, who believed in the charm of cemeteries themselves. Former attorney Kathleen Crowe, who had gone from winning cases to becoming a prominent attorney, had become weary.
With a strange and sudden desire to leave Kingston and go elsewhere in search of peace and quiet from all the notoriety, she found herself at the funeral of someone she did not know. Who could have passed away? Did it really matter, especially if she did not know the person?! Just before the path leading into the forest and a water stream, there was a garden that Kathleen had entered in hopes that she would not be seen by the attendees, and mourners, in particular. “Excuse me, ma’am, but you do not have to leave; there is nothing wrong with you being here,” said a light and friendly voice. Kathleen looked around to see where the voice came from. It was little girl who looked to be about eight or nine years old coming out of a shed in front of the garden. “This cemetery and garden are owned by my family, and I come to here to help tend the garden and provide comfort to the mourners.”
Kathleen suddenly felt comfortable being there and stunned that a child seemed to have dominion over such a place. “Are you here alone … ? I mean you are actually here …” Kathleen did not want to be intrusive nor unkind to the girl, so she carefully chose her words in her mind before she spoke.
“Oh, I am not bothered by you asking me that. My name is Penelope Summers, and I know that you are Kathleen Crowe.” Kathleen liked Penelope, and she no longer seemed like a child to her. She noticed a bicycle leaning against the shed; it must have belonged to Penelope. “Ever since I graduated from college in English Literature, I practically live here all of the time to work and spend time in the garden, where there is lots of poetry, which I like reading and writing. Yes, I graduated from college at the age of twelve, and I simply love it here.”
More of the funeral attendees had arrived, and the weather went from sunshine to clouds. Kathleen was mesmerized with Penelope’s tenacity and the fact that she was running the cemetery and the garden practically alone. A piano was set up near the ruined statues that had now become one of the many legends of Kingston. Kathleen had never noticed the piano, nor the statues until that moment.
“The piano is mine; my parents gave it to me before they died. I love to play the violin, but being out here with my writing brings me happiness, magic and peace. Have you ever spent time in a place like this? I do not think you have ever played the piano or the violin, have you not? My violin is in the shed, but today is not the day to play either instrument.”
Kathleen Crowe could identify with that. On days when the sun did not shine, the clouds, along with the gray and dark sky, somehow provided their very own music. It was best to always listenwhenever the clouds and the dark sky would offer to help at funerals. “You are absolutely right about that, Penelope. I love it when the sky is dark, purple and gray; it has always been fascinating to me, and I love it!”
While the funeral was taking place, the woman and the girl had made themselves scarce by going into the garden. The garden was much larger than the cemetery, and it was preferable for it to be made that way. Kathleen was delighted by the entire scene, and Penelope’s personality and the passion she had shown. Penelope had moved on ahead of Kathleen into the garden, carrying gardening tools.
There is no way that this young girl could keep up this gardening by herself, and she should be doing more with her life! Kathleen said in her mind. Who was she to make such an unjust assumption when she was exhausted from many cases?! She could have asked for forgiveness, but she felt that the garden would see to it that she did.
“I know that you have plenty of money, Ms. Crowe, and we know and believe that money does not matter. You keep working yourself into a whirlpool of worry and simply not enjoying life. Accept that this is the best place for you. This is your true home,” said Penelope as she left the garden to go back to the funeral.
“We are gathered here to honor and remember Ms. Kathleen Crowe, a true and hardworking attorney who left us too soon.”
A Portrait on the Beach
BY RICHARD EDDIE
©2024. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Hilton Ross had spent many hours on the beach, watching the anemones, the pebbles change colors, and the ink squid migrate into their home, and enjoying their time during the low tides. He thought that would inspire him to paint, and he felt that they were all encouraging him to do so.
Any day was a perfect day to be on the beach, regardless of the season, and Hilton had painted many portraits filled with timeless beauty, but the fall of 1930 had somehow compelled him to spend more time on the beach like never before. During the fall of each year in Kingston, some had found the beach more appealing, and was not so worried about the cold air and cold water affirming that it was indeed fall.
Hilton Ross had purposefully left his art paper, paintbrushes, and all of his supplies at his cottage. He would just sit on the sand in his best clothes even when the wind would make the water choppy and pleasant at the same time; the air and the smell of sea salt had awakened him nauseated him at the same time during the late afternoon. He got up from the sand to walk where towards the ink squids loved to be, and they were gone.
The particular part of the beach that everyone in Kingston loved was the ink squids brought beauty, wonder, hope and magic, and they had suddenly disappeared. Where could they have gone? Hilton walked further along the beach, and he saw a little girl filling a basket. Even though he could see far away, he could not tell what the little girl was filling the basket with.
As Hilton got closer to where the little girl was, he was clear to him that it was not a basket, but more like a pot, a that was used for holding gold or treasures. The girl was humming a nice tune, it sounded like it was perfect for the beach, and matching what she was doing. “Good afternoon, sir. You are the artist that everyone is always talking about, and you think that the ink squids can help you paint. They have asked me to tell you that they cannot provide any help with your work, but the sea can.”
Naturally, Hilton was stunned because he did not know the girl nor recognized her. She looked at his feet and saw that he was wearing shoes and shook her head as if he committed a violation. “Have we met before, or do you live around here?” He looked down at his shoes, expensive black and white shoes had sand dust on the tops of them.
“I have lived around here for an exceptionally long time. You know that smart and talented people like you knows that you should not wear shoes while walking on the beach. The ink squids wanted me to rescue them from your shoes. They are not mad at you, but they hope and ask that you do not do that again.” Anyone could or would think that the girl was beyond her years; Hilton liked her.
“Well, I certainly do not want to offend the beach, nor the ocean; the ocean has its own rules, and I respect that.” Hilton did not know how to swim, but he still loved the water and the myths of it. “How would the ink squids know that I was not wearing shoes?” He thought that he should humor the child by being imaginary right along with her.
“Mr. Ross, you work with colors every single day, and they are part of your life. It is just possible that the ink squids want to help to add more color.” The girl was halfway done with putting the ink squids into the pot, but then she stopped and looked at the sea. “I believe that this would be a good time for you to paint, Mr. Ross, and there is no need for you to run to your cottage to get your work supplies.” She had finally finished putting the rest of the ink squids into the pot, with a wishful look that there were more.
“You are right, I do feel like I can paint right now,” said Hilton with excitement and gladness. The little girl had turned her attention to the grassy hill further down the beach. She took Hilton by the hand, and he allowed her to guide him without any questions; he trusted her, and he was open to what she was going to show him.
“My father was just like you, he was an artist, and he painted many, maybe even hundreds of paintings.” The experience and atmosphere was wonderful, and it was as if Hilton was in a dream. He and the girl were the only people who were on the beach. They walked up a precipice to a cottage, and outside the cottage, there were paintings in large portrait frames surrounding the cottage.
“I do not live here, but my father used to come here to paint and work on the beach. These are all of his paintings.” Hilton could not believe his eyes; it was an oasis of paintings with vivid colors, and colors that were rarely seen or heard of. Just when Hilton Ross thought that was no other talented painters in Kington, nor the village, he was astonished and very wrong.
“My father’s name was August Kitner, and he knew and admired your work, Mr. Ross; he has even bought some of your paintings.” Hilton obviously did not know what to say when it came to the wonderful cottage, the magnificent paintings highlighting themselves, the mysterious child and all that she was revealing to him. The secrets or hidden treasures of Kingston is what made it more fabulous and majestical, prompting some to move there permanently.
“Your father was August Kitner?! Talk about surprises! I, too, own some of your father’s work…” Was Hilton too proud to admit that others did inspire him, and admitting that to a young girl, no less? “My father passed away and leaving all of this to me along with plenty of money, not that matters.”
The young girl who refused to tell Hilton her first name, led him to the supply shed, had opened a large glass candy jar, but it was not filled with candy. It was filled with antique paint brushes, some used and unused, and underneath was a jewelry box and it contained watercolors. “My father made his very own watercolors; he said that he produced the colors that reflected his moods and fears… you are welcome to all of this, Mr. Ross. I have no need for any of this.”
The girl acted and portrayed herself as if she were a grown woman living on her own and her own terms. Hilton was relieved to hear people on the beach, but there was no reason for him to feel apprehensive, especially with a child who seemed to hold her own. He heard laughter and happiness, and he liked it. “This is very nice of you, Ms. Kitner. May I call you Ms. Kitner?”
She put on gardening gloves that were two sizes too big for her hands and tended to her plants. Sometimes it gets very lonely being in here all alone, listening to my father’s emotions as well as seeing in his work. My father was a quiet man, and that is fine, because I am quiet, too. Before he passed, he said he believed that the sea could save him if he became too unhappy; he said the same thing about his painting. I could not understand why he left so early when he had me.”
Neither did the girl nor Hilton say another word to each other, and the girl had disappeared. Hilton stepped out of the cottage to look for her; there was no sign of her. He walked back to where the girl was sitting, where the pot of ink squids, and there was a black sheet draped over a portrait of the little girl and her father painting on the beach.