Forget-Me-Nots

  Near the post office, the one occupying the lot next to the black opera house, an old, worn wooden bench stood by a lamppost. Its arms were smooth as stone, but for the shallow indents made by nails and dog claws. Wrought iron legs twisted up the back. It was very obviously a bench that had stood there for some time, and seen many people walk busily past it. Its rusted feet molded to imitate a great cat’s paw told of the years spent in harsh weather. The beaten-down grayish colour showed also that the rain had not missed it over the long seasons. The grey sky seemed to scorn all those who walked below. Puddles appeared to reflect all the faults of the poorly peasants who looked into them before rushing along to follow a new master. Parisians brushed by, eager to get away from that unclean part of town. No one spared a second glance at the man who looked nearly as gnarled as the bench he was sitting on. His clothes were worn to a thread; his silk bowler and frilled cravat recalled his aristocratic past. His white blouse, now stained yellow and brown from drinks and the food found on the street, hung limply from his frame, just covered by a red silk overcoat. Underneath the brim of his hat his red eyebrows shifted and twitched, his brown eyes fiercely scanned the page of the paper in his greedy possession, and his dirt-covered fingers fretfully rubbed the edge of the article. The paper in his hands was that morning’s print that he had slipped from a grocer not ten minutes past, and the article of interest read thus:

This paper reports the certain details of the Murdock and Comfrey Case previously undisclosed. Fernand Comfrey, alias Alexadre Despereaux, currently residing in Paris, France, was the reported confidant to the late Charles Murdock, and was revealed to have been the guilty party in turning the latter to Ali Bundini, former Emir of the region Abugaali. M. Comfrey served as an officer aboard the Etoile Blanche under Cpt. Morcerf. This information is from one witness, the victim’s daughter Mlle. Murdock.

        The man’s face turned white. His hands shook as he fumbled with his buttons, rising from his seat. Ardently, he ripped the article out of the paper, quickly concealed it beneath his coat, and walked swiftly out of the city. Fernand Comfrey had decided to run farther from his past than he had before. Knowing he was a dead man, M. Comfrey fled to Mother England as a shrewish deck man, for she was the only refuge now that remained open to him. Unless…Unless by some miracle the young mademoiselle had the pity and the mercy to spare him of a life of misery.

Slime. Muck. Dung. Refuse. Fernand Comfrey had resented his position aboard the ship bearing him to England; who there would guess that he had once been a gentleman of great stature, wealth, and dignity? Now he reeked of swine and rotted carcasses. The crew had not been charitable, to say the least. The attire he had left in now had reached a new level of wretchedness. Cursing Mlle. Murdock and Lord Rector occupied his time trudging from Mullion Cove Harbour. “The cursed bastard! Damn him! He should have gone to the devil then! But instead, it is I—I!—who gets punished. Rector weaseled his way into that family and Mlle. is on his side! Would she, if she knew the truth? If she knew how her father cursed those who cursed him, how he looked down upon humanity like he was God! If she knew, would she have condemned me? What were those stories, those ‘acts of bravery’? They were written in a book, forged by his own hand that people may bow to him. And Elisa… she was deceived, too. He pulled her into his cunning web, and I tried to get her out, but...Rector, oh that bloody bastard! He ruined it, turned what was a good cause into an endless cycle of greed and jealousy. I shouldn’t have been so cruel—Ali had no mercy. But what other way? Oh, I am doomed. Fate has chosen me to bear the consequences of Charles Murdock’s existence. How can it be that such an angel as Elisa bind herself to such a demon as Murdock? Elisa was sweet, innocent… We knew each other, she and I. It’s as if she is dead now—dead! Word has reached my ear that she is failing, and so she may after carrying the burden of his death. One thing I still credit to her though; she loved him. Really loved him. It wasn’t a shallow lust like so many of the other girls here, it was love. She saw the good in him. Did she ever find out? If she did, why keep it from her daughter? She would not lie, she wasn’t capable; she would be too deeply convicted if she dared lie against her own flesh and blood. Elisa…” The tortured man hung his head. He walked on wearily, and distantly, as if he no longer willed anything but his feet still bore him along the tattered, beaten-down roads. For days he wandered, lacking food and clean drink. The contemplation of his past stole from him his light. The flame went out, and it seemed he was just a wandering body, bereft of heart or soul. Yet the soul still lingered, and the heart was bent on one last action. Long seemed the days when he covered miles searching for coins in public fountains, or a scrappy bit of blank, abandoned paper. When he acquired these things, no joy did it bring him, but a little satisfaction that his search was narrowed. Walking by the cemetery, he stood dumbly in place as he watched a man approach a small stone in the ground. The stone wasn’t anything large or grand, but a simple slab with a name carved on it. The man held in his arms a small bundle of forget-me-nots, roots and all. Accompanying them was a hand-spade. Kneeling down at the gravestone, the man began to dig. Steadily, patiently, to a rhythm he dug. Gently he lifted the poor, simple flowers into their new home. But it seemed to Comfrey that something inside the man broke; for the man, as he was filling in the dirt again, began to weep. Not a loud, snuffly kind of weep, but a low, painful one; one that knows every kind of pain a man can bear, and strongly releases it. Tears slowly made their way down his face, and Comfrey felt inside him something go. He didn’t wipe his face, he only acknowledged the tears that perhaps came from a similar situation as the man’s own heart. The tears soon stopped though, for poor food supply and unclean water do not have much to offer, and the man stood up, grasping his spade tightly. Comfrey knew it was this man that he could ask for the one thing he needed. He solemnly approached the man, feeling still the mournful air. 

The man looked up at him, and though not a smile, not a word passed between them, he passed over to Comfrey. This is when Comfrey noticed the man’s attire: A white, rough-textured shirt, a thick brown, earthy looking overcoat, and plain brown work trousers. His hair was not unkempt, but especially curly, and his scarred, calloused hands spoke of years of hard work. His eyes were bright, but they were filled with sorrow. A simple blue ribbon was tied around his wrist, slightly stained perhaps, from tears and dirt. “Sir,” The man asked politely, but solemnly, “is there something I can give you?” Comfrey looked at him, almost disbelieving, yet at the same time understanding this man’s actions; wealthy villagers looked down on him and called him ‘dog’ and ‘beast’. Even men who were in his own station scorned him. But this man here, who had indeed seemed to suffer greatly, was willing to help someone whom he had never seen before, and who could offer no aid of any kind to himself. Comfrey bowed his head and said, “Sir, I ask from you nothing, but a pen and ink, that I may write something before I go.” The man nodded and answered, “I have with me in my pocket a vial of ink and a pen. But do you not need more? Surely you lack food, and your clothes are worn. Is there nothing more I may help you with?” Comfrey hesitated, but the man continued. “I know I cannot offer much, but I will offer what I can. I can give you food; it is harvest season and being a farmer, I have actually more than enough crops this year.” Comfrey bowed his head and spoke. “Lord, you are far above me, for you have offered me more than I ask, when no one has dared ventured toward me. Even as you leave the grave—I see, sir, your wife’s, for I see in your eyes the same sorrow that I have felt—you offer me a place. Alas that I am going where no one in this world has gone, and no one can stop that now. Fate has made an unhappy, ungrateful man of me, and I no longer can be here. That is why I do not accept your generous offer. I have but one wish, that I may write a letter to my beloved’s daughter, who lives across the sea, and tell her the truth of matters that have happened long ago. So I say to you sir, I thank you, and I cannot repay you. For this I am grieved. But I also ask, what gives you your strength? How do you live with this burden and go on?” Comfrey ended his speech with a note of desperation in his voice. The man smiled sadly, and then said gravely, “My good man, do not call me ‘lord’. For I am not so great in that respect as you seem to think. My strength is not my own; it comes from the hand of perfect love. That is why I can offer you all I have in this moment--because though I have suffered--yes, I have suffered much--Christ fills me with His strength and with His love. Here is my pen and ink. You may have it without returning it, but please give it to another before you go. And sir,” the man asked softly, “When you go, remember our Saviour, for He will not have forgotten you; He did not forget Clara.” Comfrey nodded, and received the pen and ink vial from the man. The man nodded sadly, and walked off along the pavement. 

Now left to himself, Comfrey stepped over to the pavement and, getting out his supplies, wrote a long letter, addressed to Mlle. Murdock. For hours he kneeled there, scribbling in a fine hand on soiled paper, pouring out the details of the affairs of Comfrey vs. Murdock. When he was finished, he stood up on wobbly legs, and strode empty, but with a purpose to the postal service. Using the dearly sought-for coins he found trampled in the road and left frivolously in the fountains, he paid for an envelope and for his letter to be mailed. Walking back through the town, a young boy staring nervously at the petite calligraphy shop caught his eye. He offered his pen and ink to the boy, and the boy thankfully accepted it, though he was a little frightened of the strange man who bestowed it upon him. 

Comfrey’s journey grew lonely. Darkness snatched at his thoughts, and the hand of death seemed to be nearer. Every cobblestone on the street was grey and dreary. The cracks in between them were crawling with insects. Mice chattered in their home among the stray straw and horse dung. A lunatic with crooked teeth and large eyes lunged at him, laughing. Comfrey ran away with what little strength he had left, but in no certain direction, for the darkness seemed to be swarming about him. Right when he felt himself falling onto the cold stone, something caught his eye: a simple bunch of forget-me-nots next to a small gravestone, veiled in the sun. There they stood, dignified and proud, despite poor their raiment, and their yellow faces smiled and danced among the blue petals like many suns in a vast sky. Comfrey crawled to the grave where the farmer had kneeled, and he caressed the shining blooms illuminated by the sun’s evening rays, and looked toward the sea on the horizon.

The following morning at dawn, two fishermen walked merrily down to the shore. They laughed and sang together in Italian, enjoying the cheerful weather and greeting their work gratefully. Walking along the sand where their small skiff lay, one of the men stopped suddenly. “Sinbad, look there! A man.” The first man pointed out the body to his companion. “Aye, aye. He is dead. A poor life it seems he had. I wonder that he ever could see what little happinesses there are in life.” 

“Yes, he seems like one of those poor souls who seem to be set aside for torment. But look--he holds those flowers. It makes you wonder what his story was, if he once was a great man. Maybe he could have been a great man just before his death; though his body is scarred and stained, he looks at rest. But what do we know of death? We must be thankful to have the money that we have, and the families that stay with us. Well, the tide will take him in--we are lucky too that it did not take our skiff away--and then his body will be at rest. Come! Help me lift the boat.” So the fishermen heaved their skiff up and into the water, while the sun rose and shone on the corpse of the man that lay there. His red hair was blown by the wind, his bushy eyebrows held grains of sand in them. His tattered clothes were worn down to nearly nothing, and his shoes lacked soles. But there he held something; his dirt-packed fingernails, his filthy hands held onto a little cluster of blue and yellow flowers. His expression was not one of agony, but of peace and submittance. And so Fernand Comfrey had passed not into darkness, but rather into light, forgetting not the words of the farmer who said, “Remember our Saviour, for he will not have forgotten you.”