by Walter Winch
appearance brought to mind the rare condition of albinism, which I'd heard of but never seen before. He stared straight ahead seemingly unaware or indifferent to his surroundings.
But as I started to look away, he glanced down and saw the red stain on his hand. Without warning he became immediately agitated and, seizing my hat by mistake, hurriedly left the church. At that point I was more curious than anything else. I hesitated for only a second before following him outside.
Not far from the church he was hunched over rubbing his hand vigorously with snow. I must admit, right then, I found him almost unworldly; his pale skin and pure white hair blended in and appeared to be part of nature's environs. But at the same time, an inexplicable sadness came over me as I watched him alone and apart.
I approached slowly so as not to startle him in any way. He glanced up toward me and I held out his hat. "I believe you took my hat by mistake."
For a second I was not certain he understood what I had said, as he merely stared at me while squinting in the bright sun. Then he reached for my hat on his head, seemed surprised to find it was not his, and then held it out to me with a look of discomfort on his face. "I don't know what to say. Will you accept my apology, sir?"
I told him it was not important, and we exchanged hats. I started to leave, but hesitated. "Are you all right?"
"Why of course." He looked away. I nodded and headed back to the church. "Did you notice anything strange about my right hand?" he called out.
I turned around. "Strange? No. Only the reflection of red light from the window—"
"It looked to me like blood for a minute. I tend to be nervous on that subject."
He had my attention. "It was most certainly not blood," I said walking over to where he stood. I was nearly six feet tall, but this man was a good two inches taller than I, and thin as a rail. He was well dressed and did not in any way appear to be without financial resources.
I now realized he was trying, with considerable difficulty, to control his emotions. The muscles in his jaw quivered, and his pale eyes started to tear. "Thank you."
"Is there anything I can do?" I said. He did not answer. "Well, I think I'll return to the church."
"Wait." He held out his hand. "Are you free tomorrow afternoon?" The expression on my face must have shown surprise because he then said, "I mean to say, would you care to call on me tomorrow in the afternoon?"
"Well—"
"Allow me to explain. I need someone to talk to, about something..."
I wanted to tell him that I was busy, and did not wish to involve myself in his problems, but his countenance was one of near desperation I thought. "I am not certain, I could be of any assistance," I said.
"Perhaps. But if you could spare me no more than one hour, I will be grateful." For whatever reason, I told him I could see him in the late afternoon for one hour. He gave me his address and we parted.
I was at the bottom of the church steps, thinking why I had agreed to meet with a total stranger, especially one who had demonstrated somewhat unusual behavior, when I remembered I had not asked his name, nor had he divulged it. I had given mine.
The following afternoon, close to four o'clock and feeling some slight trepidation, I arrived at his residence. When he opened the door, I addressed him as "Mr. Carlton," that being the name on the doorplate. I entered the foyer, and it was there he informed me his name was not Carlton, but "wished" it was. Mr. Carlton and he kept bachelor quarters he said.
Escorting me into the parlor he offered, "We are considered somewhat eccentric, maintaining certain radical notions, and are attracted to many of the 'isms' of the day."
He asked me if I cared for some wine and left the parlor. I sat down in a comfortable armchair and let my gaze move around the semi-dark room, until I noticed a black urn in a far corner of the sitting room. I thought it resembled a funerary vessel used by the ancients for the ashes of the dead. There was a painting on its side of some mythological creature and a blank space for an inscription below the painting.
Upon returning he said, "May I call you David?" Of course I told him. He handed me a glass of red wine. "I mentioned my interest in the 'isms' of the day. Do you believe in any of them?"
"Well," I responded slowly, "I suppose in general, I can not say I do. Spiritualism, for example, I consider absolute nonsense. Even though it has become at the present time almost a religion in Europe and America."
My host seemed to reflect on my view for a minute. Finally, he said, "And you consider most popular superstitions in much the same light?"
"Yes. Black cats passing under a ladder, or iron hoops coming off around an ale cask do not hold much interest for me."
My host then gulped down the rest of his wine. "David, I wish to God they were all as frivolous as the ones you just mentioned." There was now a discernible tremor in his voice. "Have you heard of the deadliness that names might possess?"
"Yes, I think so. A child should not be given the same name as a pet, because then both the child and the pet will meet with some grave misfortune. Or anyone named Agnes will go mad. That sort of thing?"
"My name is Esmond Esmond. Do you see anything unusual about that?"
I watched him for a moment. "Only that the Christian name and surname are identical."
He cleared his throat. "Did you know that some believe the holder of such a name is foreordained to be hanged?" I told him I might have heard such a thing. But I considered the belief plainly absurd. He fixed those disturbing pale eyes on me. "Regardless, I believe there are events beyond my control as clearly as the daily rising and setting of the sun."
I did not know what I might say to dissuade him of—what I considered—pure nonsense. "I see." I put down my glass of wine. "You are not considering murder, are you?" It was a rather pathetic attempt on my part to introduce some levity into an increasingly odd conversation.
My host did not smile. "I have taken everything into consideration," he replied solemnly, "but innocent people are more often than you can imagine, victims of circumstantial evidence."
"Perhaps you need to get away for a while. A change in scenery might be helpful."
"I have never derived any benefit from travel. Go to Spain? The home of the garrote. Or France? The country of the guillotine. Or anywhere for that matter."
Promptly at five o'clock he thanked me for coming to his home and listening to him. I handed him my address, and told him to call on me in the city whenever he needed to talk to someone. The last thing I said to him was that I did not expect to read about him being placed on trial for his life. I smiled, grasped his arm, and told him all would work out satisfactorily. I of course, at the moment, never really expected to hear from him again.
It was five days later in the early evening when I had an unexpected visitor. My conversation with Mr. Esmond had been nearly forgotten. I recognized my caller as the pastor of the church I had attended the previous Sunday. He informed me that he was the spiritual adviser of Mr. Esmond Esmond.
We no sooner sat down than he told me that Mr. Esmond had murdered Mr. Carlton under circumstances of exceptional barbarity, and there were now threats of lynching in the town. For the moment I was too stunned to say a thing. I eventually related my strange conversation with Mr. Esmond the Monday before.
"It seems," he said, "several residents of our community were returning home late at night this past Tuesday from a meeting, when they observed a great deal of smoke and flames shooting from the chimney of the house where Mr. Esmond and Mr. Carlton lived.
"As they saw no signs of life, three of the residents went to inspect. Because there was no response from inside the house, they broke down the front door. At the head of the cellar stairs they were met by Mr. Esmond who tried to prevent them from going into the cellar. There was, however, an odor of what they thought was burning flesh.
"In the cellar they discovered a furnace of unusual design which had cracked with the heat. But what was exposed were the remains of Mr. Carlton. Mr. Esmond fled up
the stairs, but was soon captured in the nearby woods." Here the pastor paused. "He was attempting to bury a bloody razor and a will which stated that the victim had left everything to Mr. Esmond."
"And, he is where now?"
"In jail. With the gallows waiting for him I'm afraid."
"I simply do not believe he murdered Mr. Carlton—or anyone," I said. But of course I had no reason to think that he did not murder Carlton. "Well ... there must be some logical explanation for—"
"He confessed to the crime," the pastor said matter-of-factly.
"Did he?" I was at a loss for words. "What, er, was the exact language of this confession?"
"When I asked him who he wished for counsel, he said it was unnecessary, because it was 'inescapable' he must hang. Therefore, any defense was meaningless, he informed me."
Hearing that, I felt a modicum of optimism. "I believe, sir, Esmond is restating his strongly-held belief in the inevitability of his death. He did not necessarily confess to committing the actual crime." The pastor seemed not to be quite as sanguine. "Was it he that asked you to come to me?"
"No." The pastor pulled out a long envelope from his inside coat pocket. "I was Mr. Carlton's spiritual adviser as well. Shortly before his murder, he gave me this sealed envelope, and told me I was to open it not less than four days after his death."
"And today is the fourth day," I said. The pastor nodded. "But how did you know to come to me?"
"Early Tuesday morning I spoke with Mr. Esmond. He mentioned you had called on him Monday afternoon. All he said was that you had 'listened' to him. As well, your card was on a table in the parlor. He has no relations that I know of." With that, he unsealed the envelope and pulled out a document, which he placed on the table between us:
.
"December 1874
To Whom it May Concern—Cremation is now an accomplished fact. And fortunately so. No longer must death force one into the dank, dark ground to be consumed by the ceaseless greed of worms. In addition, this scientific advancement has finally put an end to the fear of premature internment. The cremation furnace has been tested and approved by the National Science Congress in Germany, and the Bishop of Manchester has given his approval for cremation from the religious point of view. All this relates to the fact that three different medical specialists have stated that my heart disease will bring about my death in a matter of days. A furnace has been constructed in the cellar, following the latest principles. Mr. Esmond Esmond has consented to perform the necessary services when the time comes, and he has acted with full authority from me. It is also my final request that the facts of my case be made known in order that the cremation movement in America be given the widest publicity possible.
Jeremy Carlton"
.
We both finished reading at almost the same time. "Well, there you have it," I said. "And thank God. There was no murder. All is well."
But all was not well, and murder in fact nearly occurred. Fortunately, the clergyman's concern that the mob might take matters into their own hands, caused us to catch the next train. We arrived not a moment too soon.
A mob had overpowered the one town constable and broken into the local jail. When we arrived, this rabble was dragging poor Esmond Esmond to a nearby oak tree not far from the town green. Through intense negotiation, explanation, and the reading of Jeremy Carlton's document, the pastor and I finally convinced the majority that Mr. Esmond Esmond did not murder anyone.
"But what about the bloody razor and the will!" a leather-lunged loafer screamed out. It was then that Esmond found some inner strength and explained that Carlton had made him promise to cut his jugular before his body was committed to the flames, so as to prevent the possibility of his being burned in a trance. He went on to say that he panicked when he realized he was being accused of murder.
Within a year Esmond Esmond left the town and moved to Chicago. Of particular interest is that Carlton's estate was left to Esmond on the condition that his name be legally changed. This he did, and for the remainder of his life his name was Carlton Esmond. Over the next twenty years we maintained a correspondence, but never did see one another again.
His death was a shock to me as it was totally unexpected. Getting rid of his "fatal name" had apparently brought him health, happiness, and prosperity over the twenty years since I first met him. How he died was both tragic and bizarre.
For no discernible reason, he was about to take an urn of ashes to the cellar—whether or not they were Jeremy Carlton's, his business partner did not know—but he tripped at the top of the stairs and tumbled to the cellar floor breaking his neck. Somehow the urn of ashes remained intact and rolled along the cellar floor, coming to rest beside a newly installed cremation furnace.
Absence of Rain
The larger of the two male elephants wrapped his trunk around the four foot long ivory tusk lying on the dusty ground and deposited it in some nearby bushes. The tusk was all that remained of their dead comrade. He then turned to his companion, who nodded his massive head three or four times.
They lingered for no more than a minute and then the two bulls moved off across the barren, dry landscape of Etosha National Park in Namibia. A man and a woman waited quietly in their Land Rover until the elephants had nearly vanished from sight.
"I was nine years old when I saw that the first time," the woman said.
"I only saw it once before, in Botswana." The man put his binoculars under the seat.
"They know their tusks are a danger to them. They've learned from—" The woman hunched over, coughed, and pressed her hand against her chest. The skin around the corners of her mouth tightened for an instant.
"Let's go back," the man said placing his hand on the back of her neck.
The woman looked at him. "I love you, Robert," she said finally.
Robert Zimmer started the vehicle. They had not gone quite a quarter of a mile when the woman asked him to stop. They gazed toward the far horizon; the two elephants were gone. "They'll all be back in four or five weeks," he said.
"And I'll be here then."
Etosha National Park was about the size of the state of New Jersey. The central feature of the park was a huge salt pan surrounded by flat bush land. The minerals in the water that evaporated away completely killed the soil, giving the entire area a scorched earth look, devoid of life. But when the rains came, the pan provided water for all the wildlife that gathered in the area.
The woman and the man had been coming to this part of the huge national park for the past seven months, in order to complete their study of the shrinking, desert-dwelling elephant herds. It was about sound. It was about silence.
Their small cabin was more than an hour drive from this parched desert region. By the time they reached their destination, the late afternoon sun had touched the horizon.
Inside, the woman collapsed in a chair and stretched out her long legs. She closed her eyes and took shallow breaths. The man squatted down, untied her boots, and pulled them off. "Thank you," she said, her eyes still closed.
"Want something to drink?"
"Is there a Coke?" The man studied the woman for a moment. She had gotten thinner in just a week he thought. She opened her eyes. "What?" The man shook his head and went to the small refrigerator.
Perhaps two hours later, as they sorted through some field notes, the woman said, "Did you get a letter from the university this week?"
The man glanced over at her. "Uh ,huh." He looked down at his papers.
"And?"
"Jack wants to know my plans."
"And?"
"Well ... I'll let him know."
"You'll let the head of the zoology department know what?"
"Do we need to talk about this right now?"
The woman sat up in her chair and dropped her papers on the floor. "Yeah, Robert, I'd like to. Communication is good for humans as well."
"Kam, I'm going to write him, when I decide what I'm doing."
"Decide what
? Your sabbatical is over in three months, the research will be finished. And you go back to America."
"Maybe I'll stay in Namibia."
"Stay in Namibia? And do what?"
"I don't know yet." He stood up.
"Robert, I won't be here."
"You don't know—"
"I'll be dead."
"Shit!" He hurled his folder against the wall. The rage washed over him and then slipped away. Robert turned when he heard her cough. He knelt down and held her in his arms. Kamaria Grellmann, the woman he'd met fourteen months before, who now meant more to him than any living person in the world, was being consumed by ovarian cancer. "Kam, do you want your medicine?"
"Just hold me."
He watched his fingers slide across the back of her neck. When he had first met her at a cocktail party at the American Embassy in Windhoek, the capital of Namibia, the first thing that caught his attention was the perfection of her cafe au lait complexion. Robert Zimmer was certain he'd never seen a woman so beautiful in his life.
He learned later that her mother had come from the Ovambo tribe and her father, Volker Grellmann, whose ancestors had arrived in what was then called Southwest Africa in 1900, was of German descent. Her mother had died when she was fifteen and her father was killed by elephant poachers while she was attending Cambridge University in England. She had just turned twenty-one when she learned of her father's murder.
On the day of her forty-first birthday, Kamaria learned she had inoperable cancer. "I sent letters to Cornell and Cambridge last week."
Robert sat back. "Why?"
"I told them you would be handling everything from now on."
"Our research is nearly completed," Robert said.
"Robert, as long as there are elephants here..."
"Kam, I'm not a bioacoustics expert."
"No, but you're one exceptional zoologist. You can find other good people. And the training of Namibians must never stop."
"Kam, please—"
"Promise me."
Robert had all he could do to hold back his emotions at that moment. He nodded slowly. "Promise."
A smile spread across her face, the same smile that he had fallen in love with immediately. "Come here you."
It was midnight when they went to bed. Kam told Robert that she seemed to need less sleep lately. He knew that was not the reason.
"Do you know what the San people call Namibia?" Shadows from the moonlight skipped along the wall. Robert said he did not. "They call this country the land that God made in anger."
"Do you agree?"
"I don't know anything about God's state of mind. But I do know I wouldn't want to live anywhere else.
"You'd miss your elephants."
"Yes. Would you miss them now?"
"My answer is important isn't it?" he said.
"Very."
"The truth is I would miss them as well. I couldn't have said that even two months ago."
"When did you know?"
"When Zita's baby died five weeks ago, and we spent the day watching them all grieve. I experienced something I never felt before."
There was a long silence until Kam