Asphodel: The Second Volume of the Muse Chronicles

by David P. Jacobs

  In his space, which held its unsightly façade from the extinguished fire, Nathaniel gave it his own special touch. The dandelion key was hung on a hook by his office door. He repaired encyclopedias of destinies that had been turned to dust and ash in the blaze. A broom and dustpan were utilized as the broken kerosene lamps were swept into a pile. Instead of repairing them Nathaniel purged the office of those that had been damaged and, more importantly, those that had not. With the same axe that he had used to break apart the cabinet in the Hall of Thunderstorms, Nathaniel took it to the wooden bookcase that held the repaired library books. He didn’t second-guess himself as he tossed the library books in with the kerosene lamps. In short, Nathaniel took leaps to rid his division of anything excess that tenuously referred to his affairs with Evangeline or any of her reincarnations.

  He did, however, restore the paintings of the muses that had been burned. The canvases were kept to serve as an archive for the muses that had inspired within Management’s afterlife asylum. Annette’s picture was intentionally displayed farther back than the others. It was completely hidden by repulsive unremitting occultation. He also kept the kitchen in the firm belief of his skills to feed his hungry employees with the memorized recipes.

  Instinctively, Nathaniel set seven empty canvases on independent easels. They faced inward toward his reception desk. He produced a carved wooden box from within a desk drawer. He removed five tubes of acrylic paint: the three primary colors, white and black. Nathaniel removed a set of brushes: round, flat, bright, filbert, angle, mop, fan and rigger bristles, each in various sizes. The tools were set on the surface of his desk and placed perfectly side by side. He set out a square pallet in knowing that, at any moment, his hand would tingle with the approach of the forthcoming unfamiliar muse candidates.

  He stared at the framed photographs of the Nine Greatest Muses. Suddenly motionless, Nathaniel could feel his emotions. He turned his eyes to Annette Slocum’s snapshot and placed it face-down on his desk. To distract himself, Nathaniel seized the framed developed image of Fiona. But holding her picture reminded him of the Christmas Eve in the snow when he had waved to Annette Redmond. He also set Fiona’s picture face-down.

  He spotted the corner of a used white envelope peeking out from the back of Fiona’s frame. He unfastened the back and took out the envelope which held something weightless inside. Nathaniel opened the flap to find a lone black screw which appeared to have been tossed into a fire at some point in history. When he turned the envelope over to see if it had been addressed, Nathaniel’s hands trembled. There was an image drawn on the front of the envelope: the sketch of a cane’s tip topped with a small pewter brain. Handwritten atop the drawing were two initials: M.J.

  Nathaniel looked with recognition and said the name to whom he believed it belonged: “Mr. Jolly . . .”

  He then focused on an extra easel that he hadn’t placed amidst the group of his studio. On it was the painting that he had created in the attic loft in 1807; the acrylic visage of the Dandelion Sisters’ circus tent. Where the painting had shown three young girls looking at him, he found the front flap was painted closed. There, in the icon, he noticed the sign announcing the cost of admission for fortunes told. Planted beside the sign was an identifiable cane similar to the one Mr. Jolly had brandished on his visits. It was identical to the etched walking stick on the screw’s envelope. He wasn’t sure what it meant, or how it pertained to things related to his Head Muse, but apart from its significance the painting was another slap in the face to remind Nathaniel of his loss. To make matters worse, he wished Annette was there with him to help him find the answers.

  As the normal colored pegs, including Harriet’s final assignment, fell into his inbox, Nathaniel looked away. He tried to ignore the thoughts in his head. Try as hard as he might, Nathaniel couldn’t stop the emotions. He suddenly felt consumed by them entirely. Nathaniel, who until this point had shed one tear in the sum of his employment, began to weep uncontrollably. As his body jerked in constant convulsions, he buried his face in his palms and bawled.

  Yes, history is hectic with haunting mysteries eventually resolved. It is filled with long-forgotten secrets that, over the years, are spoken in due course. It is perverse with poorly-lit backstairs and catacombs of warriors, malefactors, unreciprocated tales of staunch adulation and wrenching anguish, ancient ledgers of ill-meaning agendas and disheartened reverie. It is overrun with the badlands of battles, of inactive hankerings, of unstable first steps and wayfarers in the hunt for ghosts of their explorations to revisit.

  However, anyone can become so sidetracked by these details to notice the most imperative, time-honored inquest that history can educate. It’s a subject that the original muse of times past, Clio, so often invited in her day. It was a three word message of hope that Nathaniel, in his current misery, learned in the following way:

  Looking from his tears, he found Annette standing in front of him in her wedding dress. She regarded him with full recognition, love and devotion which was authenticated as she tossed him the wedding ring smiling playfully.

  Nathaniel fumbled for the wedding ring and held it in his hands. He looked at the wedding band. He turned his eyes to Annette, speechless. His heart pumped heavily, not fully believing that she was standing there. The emotional brick wall of his heart tumbled. For the first time since 1807, Nathaniel sanctioned himself to smile. Much to his amazement, his joy was presented wider with each passing second than he had ever thought it possible.

  And so, it came to pass that with a shrug of her shoulders and explicitly openly perplexed hands, Annette proposed history’s chief captivating enigma in asking Nathaniel, “What happens next?”

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thank you to my editors: Debbie Toalson Jacobs, Susan Hayden and JD Nichols who helped to bring Nathaniel’s words to maturity. A huge amount of gratitude to my “sounding board” officiates: Gary Coffman, Peter Miller, Floyd Burton, Samantha Lee Wallace, Eva Justice, Drew Scholl, Susan Summers, Ashley Hanley and JoAnna Wilkerson. Thank you to Don and Angela Ovens, Susan Baker, Chris Hays, Leslie and Mark Stock, DeeDee Folkerts, Earl Coleman, Erin Kolks, Meg Phillips, Bev Pfeffer, Robin Morrison, Martha Bollinger, Julia Chappelle-Thomas, Jessica Biddle, Brianna McGuire, Damita Kynard, Jaime Cravens, Edie Diel, Adam Espey, Linda Ferris, Van Hawxby, Mila Jam, Alex Kirby, the Knipe family, Lester Parkerson, Mike Morgan, Brian Miller, Kelley Shriner, Tom Skinner, Becky Sterling, Joanie Sorrels, Ashley Stephens, Tracy McCray, Daphne Sias, Jordan Powell and so many others I could name who have always supplied guiding positivity when I needed it the most.

  Love and admiration goes out to both sides of my family for being there to help inspire me through each and every day. I’m also thankful for my church family at First Baptist Church in Columbia, Missouri. Thank you also to the members of the writer’s group circle who still keep in touch: Erika Woehlk and Aaron Young. My love and appreciation goes out to my friends and co-workers at State Farm both in Columbia, Missouri and Richardson, Texas. Also a shout out the managers and crews at both the Barnes and Nobles in Columbus, Georgia and also Columbia, Missouri. Thank you to all of my friends and comrades, both onstage and off, involved with Columbia Entertainment Company. Thank you to all of the friends, family, other random individuals, and coffee houses with outlet plugs in Plano, Texas and Columbia, Missouri and Columbus, Georgia who have helped to make this book a success.

  A personal thanks goes to the random stranger who played the violin to his friends outside of my apartment that long ago night. Thank you to Hasbro for inventing the Lite-Brite along with all the colored pegs that go along with it. Thank you to Mother Nature for all of the inspiring thunderstorms that came my way. I’d like to send gratitude out to my own unrequited “Evangeline” (who shall remain nameless). Finally, in closing, an unconventional “thank you” to those who have passed away during the making of this book: Lisbeth Yasuda, Renee Kite, David Kent Toalson, Barbara Toalson, Everett “Jake” Jacobs and Norene Wood.


  About the Author

  This is David’s second novel.

  When David is not writing, he enjoys ghost hunting and can often be found acting and entertaining audiences on the community stage. He also loves to draw and paint, finding comfort in anything creative.

  David lives in Columbia, Missouri.

  Contact the Author

  https://www.facebook.com/DavidPJacobsAuthor/

  Twitter:

  @DPJMuseAuthor

  www.davidpjacobs.com