PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Every family has a secret, a great sin committed perhaps generations ago; and every family has a curse, whether known or unknown to the family upon which it rests. My own family is no different, except that I know the very nature of the curse, though I dare not speak it out loud.

The year I turned eighteen I spent a summer under the guardianship of my father’s brother, Matthew. He was quiet man, reserved and reclusive. His demeanor was serious and unwaveringly stern. Though he seldom spoke to anyone in town, all who passed by him showed him the utmost respect. He was always well dressed, owning five identical, pin-striped suits. He donned a black bowler cap and wore a pair of silver bifocals. 

Matthew never worked, yet always seemed to be working at his daily tasks. For whom or what, no one seemed to know, yet everything he did, he did purposefully, and no one, not even strangers impeded him while he went about his business. He awoke every morning at 4 AM, as the church bells began to toll, and slowly made his way to the centuries old church which the town was built around. Every morning he opened the doors of the sanctuary at precisely 5AM, greeted ominously by the tolling of the 5 AM bell. He sat in the back of the church and would quietly pray, for what, I do not know, and to whom, I know less still. At 6 AM he stood to his feet, and as he stood the bells would toll once more, as if waiting for him to stand. Walking to the altar he put some silver coins into collections, made the sign of the cross over his heart and excused himself from the premises. No one looked at him, not even the priest, but all were mindful of his presence all the same: relieved at his departure, yet strangely and inexplicably comforted by his routine.

He breakfasted at the local diner, Maria’s, and his order was always ready for him when he walked through the door. Two scrambled eggs, a piece of wheat toast, one black coffee and a bowl of grits and cheese. He always sat in the northeast corner booth of the diner, his back without care to the window. Sylvia, Maria’s daughter, and current owner of the diner, was always the first person to greet him. He was always polite, though not exactly amiable

“Good morning, Mr. Hutchins,” she would say. 

“Good morning, Sylvia,” he would respond. “I hope everything is tasting good today.” 

“It always does. Is my newspaper ready?”

“Yes, I have it right here,” she said, handing it to him.

Sylvia always waited for Mr. Hutchins to ask for the paper, no one, not even Sylvia, knew why, it was just part of the daily routine. That, also, was a secret. A secret only Matthew had the answer for, and Matthew wasn’t one to share his secrets carelessly.

My uncle would stand at 7AM, and as he stood, the church bells tolled. He paid for the meal, double the price as a tip for Sylvia, thanked her for everything and made his way out the door. From the diner Matthew walked four blocks North, then three blocks East to the town’s park. He never waited at a crosswalk, for whenever he approached them the crosswalk lights would shine Walk. He sat on the same bench, at the same time, every morning, and his seat was never taken. He would read the paper until 8 AM, and at 8, as the church bells tolled, he would stand to his feet and make his rounds about the park. Always the same way and always without interruption. Neither a dog, nor a stranger, nor even a particularly misbehaved child would stand in his way. Everyone knew, without knowing why, that Matthew Hutchins was an important man, and he was not to be bothered as he went about his business.

At 9 AM, he opened the doors to the local bank, and as the doors opened the church bells tolled once more. He deposited a bag full of silver coinage into the vault and was never seen making a withdrawal. At 10 AM he entered the library, as he entered the bells again would toll. He would read until 11 AM, at which time, precisely as the bells made their hourly sound, he would stand to his feet, return the book to its proper shelf and make his way home.

Matthew always arrived at noon, just in time for the midday bell to toll. His household servant would have lunch ready for him at the head of the table, and it was there that he sat until one. Standing, the bell would toll. From his table, he proceeded to the chair beside the hearth where he would rest and ponder quietly until two. As the bell tolled, he stood again. From the hearth to his study, he would sit and write whatever letters needed writing on any given day. And at three, as the church bell tolled, he left his house and headed for the post office. At four, the bells would ring again as he placed the letters and packages he needed to mail on the postage counter, collecting whatever had been sent to him as well. At five he entered the tavern as the bells tolled. He would order a dinner of mashed potatoes, green beans and fried chicken, with a pint of beer and pay his bill, double the price as a tip for the server, rising to his feet at Six O’ Clock sharp, at the sound of the church bell’s toll.

At seven, Matthew arrived home, bells ringing in the distance and he would read until the eight o’ clock toll. After reading, he sat outside under the stars on his balcony, completely silent as he generally was and waited for the nine o’ clock bell. He would then go to his bedroom, kneel before his bedside and pray for the remainder of the hour; to whom or to what he prayed, only Matthew knew. At ten, as the bell struck it’s regular tone, he stood to his feet, laid in bed and fell abruptly into a restful slumber, until his eyes opened at 4 AM, as the church bells began again to toll.

Every day of the summer I spent with my uncle proceeded exactly the same way, as if his entire life had been scripted and set to the tune of an irreproachable metronome. He did not require that I join him on his routine, and most days I did not; but on occasion, out of conflicted curiosity, I was compelled within myself to join him on his walk. We attended 5AM mass, the bells tolled. We prayed in silence and stood to give an offering, the bells tolled. We breakfasted at Maria’s, the bells tolled. We went to the park, the bells tolled. We made a deposit at the bank, the bells tolled. We read at the library, the bells tolled. We stood to leave, the bells tolled. Lunch. Bells. Hearth. Bells. Letters. Bells. Post-office. Bells. Supper at the tavern. Bells. Rising to leave. Bells. Home. Bells. Reading. Bells. Balcony. Bells. Prayer. Bells. Sleep. Bells…

Every day, no matter the weather, no matter the condition of his health, no matter any set of any possible circumstance, Matthew’s days proceeded precisely as I have written them down. There were never any deviations from the routine, not so much as a trivial inconvenience to bar his way, neither an obstacle nor a single missed step to impede even a second of his regular, scheduled routine. And the strangest thing about it all, was how no one ever seemed to question the unflinching precision of his walkabouts. No one ever remarked about the eerie manner in which the bells propelled him from one task to the next, which I had come to believe chimed less for the turn of the hour than for the timing of my uncle.

Every so often, when the curiosity of the bells entangled themselves in my thoughts, I would join him; and nothing about his routine ever changed. Nothing in his demeanor was altered. Nothing at all. It was as though no matter what happened in the world around him, and there were variations in the lives of the other townsfolk, everything in his life was orchestrated by an indeterminable, invisible, providential force. He was an indomitable automaton, and the fabric of reality bent to the will of his mundane daily routine. 

The rhythm of his life, and the seeming meaninglessness of his routine, consumed my every waking thought! “Why?” I wondered. And, “How, could this be possible?” All of creation seemed to hinge on the daily walk of an old, hermit of a man. The impossibility of it all confounded me!  Yet I found myself incapable of broaching the subject, my lips had been sealed against my will.

I wondered about this mystery, pondering incessantly on the nature of it all, incapable of speaking out loud what the voice in my head constantly screamed. And then, near the end of my stay, as Matthew and I were sitting on the balcony quietly at night, he spoke.

“Would you like to know the secret of the bells?”

I was astonished, and briefly unable to breathe, no less speak a word at all. I gasped for want of air, nodding my head vigorously in the affirmative. He smiled, though there was sadness behind the smile, he also nodded his head, sighing. After a moment of silence, he spoke. 

“Then I permit you to ask me the secret of the bells; but be warned, should you know the secret you will be bound to be its keeper. You will be required to take up its call once I have passed on.”

In every man’s life there comes at least one moment that he thinks on with regret until his dying day. Yet no matter how often he replays it in his mind, he is forced to live with the consequences of his decision as long as he happens to live. If I had said no, I would no doubt be a very different man than the man I am today. I perhaps would have married, had children, lived a fruitful and exciting life. I could have had happiness. I could have joy. I could have lived and died with satisfaction over the work of my hands. But, to my perpetual regret, I did not say no. I spoke a instead resounding, “yes!” And, as I spoke, the church bells tolled.

“Very well,” he answered, “join me as I pray.” We both stood, and by compulsion I felt my body plummet to the floor beside my uncle’s bed. Kneeling, I listened to my uncle, who, for the first time in several decades was capable of standing by his bedside at the time of evening prayer. This is the story he recounted to me. This is the secret and the curse which is born upon my family name. This is the story behind the bells.

“Four hundred years ago, near the beginning of the great migration to the New World, our ancestors settled these lands. A man from our homeland had purchased a plot of land which was thought to be worthless. His only desire for it was because it was connected to two adjoining properties which he owned. He was a cowherd, as his father before him was, and good fortune had fallen upon him. So much fortune in fact, that the cattle he owned needed more pasture to feed on than the land he had acquired would provide. This is the reason he purchased the land. Our ancestor, a man by the name of Aaron, was nephew to the cowherd, and was in the employ of his uncle.”

“One day, while Aaron was tending to the herd with his uncle, several cows fell into a crevice which had opened up after a quaking of the earth. The two men were able to see that while most of the cattle had perished in the fall, a yearling calf had managed to survive unharmed. The two men made their way down into the crevice, bringing a torch along with them for light. That was when they noticed the cavern that had opened up was filled from ceiling to floor with richly veined silver ore. Aaron, knowing that the mine rightly belonged to his uncle, was overcome with greed, and as they began to surface, he pushed him into the cave where he fell headlong to his death.”

“Aaron spent the next several months excavating the mine. There was wealth beyond measure all throughout. Being shrewd and resourceful, Aaron made several investments in the trading companies which were arising to prosperity in those days. He amassed a vast fortune, using the mined silver as capital, trading furs, slaves, spices and many other valuable commodities. His wealth grew larger and larger with every passing year; but as his wealth grew, so also did his greed, and the hardness of his heart became impenetrable.”

“Knowing that the future of his wealth depended on the vastness of the New World, he planned an expedition to the land in which we have since lived. His lust for silver drove him on a search for information. He heard rumors of another cache of silver, this one in the New World. The only caveat to this was that the mine on which the land was situated was occupied by natives. He met with the tribesmen, and through use of a translator, began to develop a rapport with them. He offered them of his wealth: gold and silver, spices and merchandise, sugar, coffee and all manner of precious commodities. All this he offered in exchange for a deeded title to the land, but the natives were unwilling to sell. They begged the man to depart, to seek another opportunity elsewhere. They warned him that they were the keepers of this land, that deep beneath them there dwelt an old god, an angry god, one who jealously guarded his treasure. They said that it was only through their appeasement of him, with sacrifices of music, that the old god of silver remained dormant.”

But Aaron despised their warnings, and would not relent from his greed. Being wealthy, he had established myriad connections with the local, Old World magistrates, and formed a conspiracy with them to have the locals massacred. The natives were not a war-faring people, as they had been under the protection of the old, slumbering god for thousands of years. But the old god, sensing the greed in the hearts of the new men, was roused from his sleep into a lust of his own to be spread across the earth. And as the lust grew in him, he began to stir awake in the foreigners, turning against the natives who had appeased him for so long.

A plot was devised and the natives were slaughtered; and Aaron took possession over the land, mining the silver, minting it  into coinage and introduced it into both local and international economies. The wealth of the mine was extravagant, so Aaron prospered in his greed. But this was no ordinary silver. In it was the essence of the old, chthonic god, and wherever the silver went, death and destruction followed. Many other local tribes perished during those greed filled years. Even the old world settlers suffered from the cursed silver. Sickness, death and famine followed it wherever it went, no matter how far from the source. And the evil money mixed in with other currencies, polluting them all. For twenty years, Aaron spread this curse unknowingly and then he suddenly died.

Now Aaron’s son, Jacob, was different than his father. He had seen the effect that the silver and his father’s greed for it had produced. Jacob was a righteous man, pious and unrelenting from the faith of his native land. He had devoted his life restoring the land to the natives who had survived the genocide his father had unleashed. He built a church in the center of town, and, using his remaining capital, built a mission house where the bank now stands. As his mission grew, so did his church and as he was preaching a sermon, when the bell struck at noon, a young native entered the church, walked down the aisle, spat on Jacob’s face and pronounced a curse upon him and his entire family until all the old silver had been restored to the mine. Jacob’s son and Jacob’s daughter passed in a tragic accident that evening. Two weeks later, his wife, Hannah, gave birth prematurely and died from complications during childbirth. She named her son, Jonathan.”

“The line of keepers is as follows: Aaron, Jacob, Jonathan, Marcus, Roland, Terrence, Owen, Martin, Samuel, Patrick, Matthew, and now you, Marshall.”

At the sound of the next bell, you will fall into a deep slumber. As you fall asleep my life’s breath will pass from my body and you will take up this burden. As the bell tolls you will be given instruction on what to do next. Your pattern will be different than mine, and it will change over the course of the ensuing years. Money is no object, that which is our family curse is also our family blessing. You will be wealthy beyond compare until your dying day. The silver must be collected and deposited into the bank. You will know the time that it is right to deposit it. The banker will know what to do with it. It is your duty to listen to whisper of the bells and follow their every command. Remember, you were warned, but be of good courage, your lot in life, while arduous, is of noble purpose, and when the day comes for your eyes to find their rest, a replacement will be provided for you. Now rest, the bell is about to toll.”

I awoke the next morning at 4 AM to the sound of a tolling bell. My uncle’s dead body laid sprawled out before me on the hardwood floor…