The Writer

by D. W. Ulsterman

  She’s older. Why is she older?

  Decklan became agitated by Calista’s appearance. There were deep lines under her eyes and around her mouth where he knew none to be. She was thinner, emaciated in fact.

  What kind of heaven would do something like this to someone so beautiful?

  The potential answer to the question caused a lump of panic to form in the writer’s throat as he considered the possibility it wasn’t heaven he found himself having gone to, but rather its alternative. Decklan shut his eyes tightly and then re-opened them, only to find the same smiling, yet older, and seemingly unhealthier version of Calista looking back at him. He could see her opening her mouth and forming words, but there was no sound. He couldn’t hear her.

  Decklan Stone was unable to hear anything.

  He tried to sit up, but lacked the strength to move, as if a great weight had been left upon the entirety of his body. A stranger’s face moved into Decklan’s view to the right of Calista. It was an older man with thinning white hair and thick-lens glasses. His mouth was moving as well, but like with Calista, Decklan couldn’t hear what was being said.

  The panic worsened as Decklan thought he was unable to breath, much like how he felt when he drowned. He tried to scream as he considered that the woman in front of him may not be Calista, but some evil devil who intended to do him harm.

  He watched, horrified, as the Calista-thing leaned down close to his face. He could neither hear nor feel her, but rather sensed her closeness.

  And then came a sound from a distance seemingly greater than anything Decklan could possibly comprehend. So great, in fact, it was more a suggestion of sound. It repeated itself over and over again until finally, Decklan began to recognize a voice.

  It was her voice.

  Soft, confident, loving.

  Calista!

  Decklan tried to force his ears to open up and allow the sound of that voice to enter his mind more fully. It had been twenty-seven years since he had last heard it.

  “It’s OK. It’s OK. It’s OK. I’m here. I love you, and I’m not going anywhere.”

  Though Decklan Stone wasn’t yet aware of it, his eyes were consumed by a torrent of grateful tears even as some part of him feared it was all merely a wonderful dream that would be ripped away from him upon waking.

  And then he felt something for the first time since his medical resurrection nine days earlier. It was Calista holding his left hand inside of her own. He could feel her warmth, realized he had not died, and that by some miraculous intervention, his wife had been returned to him.

  Calista moved even closer to her husband and rested the side of her face against his neck. She could feel his pulse, his strength, his life, and was convinced for the first time since watching him for days as he lay unmoving in the hospital bed, that he intended to find his way back to her, however difficult that journey might prove.

  You’re still the most stubborn man I know.

  To the amazement of the doctor who was still in the room, Decklan Stone somehow found both the ability and the strength to lift his arms and place them around Calista. And though her husband was not yet able to speak the words, she heard them nonetheless.

  I’m never letting you go.

  **EPILOGUE**

  1.

  BELLINGHAM UNIVERSITY GAZETTE

  “The Writer”

  By Adele Plank

  By the time his body was pulled from the cold San Juan waters, the enigmatic figure known by island locals as “The Writer” was very much gone. There was no pulse, no breathing, rather only the absence of life.

  Decklan Stone had succeeded in his final wish to be a dead man.

  Some who read this might judge him harshly for wanting to take his own life, but such people are among those who willfully possess the insufferable quality of all too quick and generalized judgment. They are more than happy to find fault without knowing the conditions which brought about such a state in a man who from superficial appearances, lived a charmed existence most can only dream of.

  Beyond that façade was a man in great pain, faced with having to awaken each time to the fact that it was to be a another day without the woman he loved, taken from him in a tragic drowning he thought to be his fault. Eventually, that pain becomes too much, the days too long, the nights far too lonely.

  Who among us has not faced a similar misery at some point in our own lives?

  And so, the writer decided he had had enough, not knowing that at the very moment he was ending his own life, his long lost love was being given the opportunity to reclaim her own.

  You see, Decklan Stone died just over six months ago, but Calista Stone had been presumed dead for nearly ten thousand days. Two deaths intertwined, one very real, one tragically and wrongfully supposed.

  I do not wish to make the focus of this article about Calista’s time as a prisoner in the cellar of two men who had both descended into madness, or Decklan’s time inside a prison constructed of his once seemingly insurmountable guilt. Most, if not all, who are reading this now, will have already been subjected to the names and related news coverage of Martin and Will Speaks. You know of the terrible crime they committed, and the manner in which two lives were nearly destroyed by that act played out over twenty-seven very long years. No, instead I wish to tell you of a shared recovery, for it is recovery that every one of us needs to believe in, and it is recovery that has become the most important aspect of these two remarkable lives.

  Mr. Stone spent nearly two weeks in the ICU at Bellingham Medical Center before being moved to more familiar surroundings at the small Friday Harbor rehabilitation center in the San Juan Islands. But for the initial seventy-two hours it took her to partially recover from her own horrifying ordeal, Calista Stone never left her husband’s side as they both reacquainted themselves with each other within the resumed blessing that is once again their life together.

  Shortly before Decklan attempted to end his life, he allowed a naïve, star-struck fan, and aspiring journalist, to get a brief glimpse at the real man behind the myth that is the author of Manitoba.

  He has an undeniably charming presence that is quiet, thoughtful, and with an underlying hint of the humor that I’m certain first drew Calista to him some thirty years ago. He remains confused over the ongoing fuss surrounding his only bestseller. He is not so much humble as he is withdrawn. His desire is to live a simple life of comfortable solitude, keeping distractions at arm’s length. He enjoys good wine, strong coffee, and listening to the conversations of others. That is, of course, a common quality of talented writers, the ability to hear, to see, to observe.

  I would be remiss if I did not also admit that he is in this reporter’s all too willing opinion, a remarkably handsome man. There is an affable mystery to him that draws the female eye without any real effort on his part. He exudes a hint of danger that somehow also feels safe, like the hidden cove tucked within the shores of his island home.

  When joined with his wife Calista, Decklan Stone is made that much more attractive, for when together, each is truly greater than the sum of their parts. Calista’s own recovery was both quick and remarkable. Her face softened as she gained weight and strength back, and through the sheer force of her remarkable will, she returned herself to the world of the living. She would later admit to me it was the significant dental work that was necessary to reconstruct her smile that was the worst of all. Apparently being “dead” for so long did nothing to lessen her fear of the dentist. When Decklan complained of the toll his physical rehabilitation was taking on him, it was Calista who demanded he toughen up and to keep pushing himself to improve, regardless of pain and fatigue.

  “I lost you for twenty-seven years, Decklan Stone. I’ll be damned if I’m going to sacrifice any more time with you!”

  Decklan’s speech was the most difficult for him to recover. More than once I saw his frustration as his uncooperative tongue slurred the simplest of words, but he would try again. He had enough of giving up.


  Interestingly, or perhaps predictably, Decklan never lost his ability to write. When the spoken word failed him, he would take hold of one of the many pens he kept near his hospital bed and write in the most beautiful cursive. It was usually a comment, expression, or observation that was perfectly suited to the moment.

  On my first visit he wrote:

  I forgot to hold my breath!

  Even in the throes of a very difficult rehabilitation brought about by nearly four minutes where his brain went without oxygen as his body slowly drifted underwater, Decklan Stone remained the writer.

  The media attention surrounding the events of Mr. Stone’s near death, and Mrs. Stone’s incomprehensible journey out of that hole that was her world for nearly thirty years, has been predictably intense. Neither of them has granted an interview with the exception of yours truly. They have indicated they trust me fully, and owe me entirely for returning their life to them. It is praise I believe myself unworthy of receiving, and I cannot fully express in words the honor I feel in their having given it.

  I have asked Calista if she has any hatred toward the two men who kept her prisoner under their house for so long. She replied that hatred was too strong a word, that sadness would be a more appropriate description. She also stated she never believed she would die in the darkness of that cellar. Calista Stone is the strongest person I will likely ever know, and it was that strength that allowed her to never give up hope that she might one day walk out of that house of horrors, a woman free, and most remarkably, with her soul still intact.

  She did just that.

  I couldn’t have done so, and neither could you.

  The investigation by Washington State authorities was very professional and comprehensive; though, as so often happens when we are confronted by such evil, they never reached a conclusive explanation for why Martin and Will Speaks did what they did. Certainly the loss of his mother hindered Will’s emotional development, but perhaps his limitations would have existed anyway. As for Martin Speaks, the former sheriff of San Juan County, his motivations remain even more difficult to decipher. Was it fear of losing his son? A psychological report dating back to Will’s childhood indicates that was a very real possibility. Perhaps the atrocious crime enacted on Calista Stone was the result of genuine, albeit terribly twisted, love for his troubled child.

  In the end, however, it was Martin Speaks who allowed Calista Stone to walk free. Perhaps in doing so, he secured at least some of the redemption that in the end, he so clearly hoped to find.

  The related death of Decklan Stone’s longtime island neighbor and Orcas Island store owner, Bella Morris, was ruled a murder, one most likely committed by Will Speaks having tampered with the propane tank line that served Bella’s Deer Harbor store. A witness indicated Will had been speaking in a particularly loud and excited manner with Bella earlier that morning, and mentioned to her that he was going to get a new mother to replace the other one because she was, “getting too old.” He went on to exclaim he would save the new one from the writer just like he did the old one. That in turn led to a phone message Bella left for Decklan Stone, the same message authorities took possession of when I gave them my own recorded version of it. The authorities believe Martin Speaks overheard or perhaps later learned of what his son said to Bella Morris, and then warned him that doing so would result in his mother being taken from him. A confused and frightened Will Speaks then enacted his plan to silence Bella, who, upon arriving at her beloved store that morning, turned on the cooking area stove unaware of the gas that was leaking out as she did so.

  My brief time with Bella Stone left me with one certainty regarding the manner of her death. She deserved better.

  Recently, I visited the still burned-out husk of Bella’s store with Calista. She said nothing to me as we looked over the remains of what had been Bella’s later-in-life work. Then Calista gave a knowing smile and declared it would be rebuilt in Bella’s honor. She had already spoken of the plan with Decklan. They intend to buy the space, construct a new store, and call it, Bella’s Deer Harbor. She was especially excited at the prospect of having college kids come to work at the store during the busy summer months and asked me if I might know of anyone at the university who would like to do so.

  I told her I most certainly did. I’m looking forward to being one of her first employees, knowing that Calista will make a wonderful boss.

  Two weeks after that visit, I returned to the islands for a private service for a man I had come to love and respect during the intense and all too brief time I knew him. Delroy Hicks, longtime and loyal-to-the-end friend of Decklan Stone, passed away from cancer shortly having helped to save Decklan’s life. I wondered if Delroy had always known he needed to remain alive long enough for that very purpose. I wouldn’t put it past him. He was a truly remarkable human being. I was told Delroy maintained his wry humor and general fearlessness until nearly the very end. His last few days were spent inside a small room at the Friday Harbor hospital drifting into and out of consciousness. Decklan recalled for me how during the morning before Delroy passed, he took Decklan’s hand and squeezed it with his own and then gave him a quick wink. A moment later he asked Decklan if he would, “…fetch me my fedora from the closet, yeah?” Decklan was happy to oblige him and when he asked Delroy why it was so important he wear his hat, Delroy grunted and then pulled the brim down low over his eyes and declared, “A gentleman should always wear what suits him, Decklan, and this fedora is as much me as I am it. I was wearing it when Old Jack and I managed to pull you out of the water. If that doesn’t qualify it as a good luck hat, I don’t know what would!”

  As always, there was a subtle yet undeniable wisdom to Delroy Hicks’s words.

  Three hours later, Delroy, still wearing his beloved hat, drifted off to sleep again and never woke up.

  Decklan, newly redeemed in the eyes of the island community, spoke at the service, but did not use the occasion as some so often do, to prove himself a man of many words with little meaning, but rather a man of few words and great meaning. He stood up in the little church that overlooks Roche Harbor, and spoke in a way befitting the remembrance of someone he no longer had the opportunity to enjoy. It was a struggle for him to form each word so that it could be understood. Initially he didn’t want to speak out of embarrassment over the slurring that persisted, despite his great effort to overcome it. It was Calista who reminded her husband of his obligation to Delroy, and once that was made clear, Decklan quickly pushed his own embarrassment aside, feeling greater shame for having entertained that embarrassment in the first place.

  “I don’t have the luxury of calling many my friend. Delroy Hicks was that very thing. If not for him, I would have drowned in my own pain a long-long time ago. He was a good mentor, a better man, and I hope to live my life in such a way that I earn the second chance he gave to me. Goodbye, old friend.”

  At the conclusion of Delroy’s service, a still-living ghost of both Calista’s and Decklan’s shared past, made her way to them. Roche Harbor hotel owner Tilda Ashland’s feelings for Calista, and her long-simmering hatred of Decklan for Calista’s supposed death, was, and likely remains, a complicated affair. I don’t know what was said between them, but I do know it ended with a long hug between the two women, and a brief handshake between Tilda and Decklan. I can’t say for certain if all was forgiven, but it did appear that healing was finally underway.

  The now internationally-known story of Decklan and Calista’s tale of love lost and love found has made Decklan Stone a bestselling author for the second time in his life as sales of Manitoba have subsequently skyrocketed. For weeks his publicist urged Decklan to do interviews, book tour signings, and other promotions to more fully take advantage of his newly rediscovered fame.

  The author finally relented, but true to Decklan’s nature, it was on his terms.

  He did just one book signing at Suzanne Blatt’s Island Books in Friday Harbor. Decklan’s publicist shipped a thousand copies of Mani
toba to the bookstore for the signing. They sold out in just four hours.

  Decklan, still undergoing his physical therapy sessions, sat in a chair behind a small wood desk and in his quiet, unassuming way, proceeded to sign every copy. Calista stood near her husband, protective, beautiful, and stunningly dignified. I was amazed by her transformation from the thing that emerged out of that cellar, to the elegant, silver-haired woman who watched over Decklan with glimmering eyes that so clearly communicated the kind of love worth fighting for.

  When the copies of Manitoba ran out, Decklan remained to take photos with fans, like Bill Baldwin. Decklan signed Bill’s old copy and shook his hand, an act that left the restaurant owner stammering with gratitude. And though Decklan’s speech had not fully returned, he was no longer ashamed of his struggle to form words. He didn’t have to be. The words that sprung from his mind were more than enough. When a reader told him how much they loved Manitoba, Decklan would smile, look directly into their eyes, and tell them in his hushed, slightly slurred voice, “Thank you.”

  When the last of the fans finally left the bookstore, Decklan Stone stood up, turned to Suze and gave her a hug. The bookstore owner was both stunned and deeply grateful for the gesture. I had shared with Decklan that Suze had told me she never believed Decklan was responsible for Calista’s death. On that day I was able to see how much those words really meant to Decklan.

  Calista stepped forward with an immaculate, hardcover version of Manitoba. She handed it to her husband who then gave it to Suze.

  He held up his right pointer finger, took a short breath, and then with careful focus, proceeded to say:

  “First copy, first edition—it’s yours.”

  Suze’s mouth fell open. The reaction made Decklan’s face light up with a warm smile. He gently gripped the bookstore owner’s shoulders and reaffirmed just how much he valued her belief in him.