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Prose
I was walking through the savannah, out for a
morning stroll before the sun got too hot and forced me inside to contemplate
my situation over a well-iced mojito. I sauntered over the rolling hill that I
have always referred to as Merewether’s Hill after an old school chum. My normal route took me down to the eastern
slopes, but I decided on the fly to wander over in the opposite direction,
taking a small, bare path that went into a slightly marshy area. The trees were beginning to get taller and
the slight breeze felt delicious through my light linen shirt. The path soon widened and I found the
walking pleasant in the shade of the trees, privately resolving that the
stroll should be longer than normal. My mind naturally began to wander as I hiked
through the increasingly thick underbrush.
My thoughts went back to Sheffield and the woman I had left
behind. Lucy had been small and fair
with porcelain skin and we had been in certain love for years. Even as infants we had planned our
wedding. How I longed for the return
of those lost days! For tuberculosis
had removed the rose from Lucy's cheeks while she was but a child of 16. In despair I had fled from my home country,
joining the navy and seeing the world.
In my older age (naturally still a confirmed bachelor) I became
relatively settled in a small remote house out in the savannah of the great
dark continent. I lived off the land,
completely on my own. The nearest
person was at least thirty miles off.
There had once been a small diamond mine within ten miles of my humble
cottage, but it had been played out and abandoned years before. My sad ruminations were stunted by a ghastly yell
no more than a quarter mile off. I
came suddenly back to my senses and looked around, trying to find my
bearings. During my daydream the
terrain had became wetter and almost swampy in places. The call came again and there was no
mistaking it; it was certainly a human voice.
I hadn't the slightest idea who could possibly be responsible for the
noises. I started walking briskly in
the direction of the call. I heard the scream once more and broke into a fast
trot. It was certainly coming from the
other side of a small knoll. As I
crossed its top I saw at the bottom a deep quagmire with the familiar strong
black sucking mud that is scattered throughout the darker valleys in the
area. I had personally lost a pair of
boots and a fully loaded pack within a year of moving to my landlocked
home. At one end of the mud pit was an
elderly white man sunk to the belly button in the mud. He was flailing his arms and grabbing at
the edge, trying desperately to remove himself from his dangerous
predicament. I noticed immediately the
strangeness of his attire, considering our surroundings. His clothing brought to my mind that of a
city banker. He was wearing a sharp
black frockcoat with ash waistcoat and silver ascot. In spite of his flailings
his head was still covered by a black silk top hat and a monocle was still
screwed into his left eye. In spite of
the perilous situation, I nearly laughed at how absurd he looked in his
finery, half sunk in the mud and splattered copiously on the other half. I removed a knife from my belt and hacked off a
long branch from a tree at the top of the hill. Slinging it over my shoulder, I raced down
into the valley and carefully edged towards the discombobulated
gentleman. I thrust the branch towards
him and sternly yelled for him to grab hold, informing him I would no doubt
soon have him out of his predicament.
Imagine my shock, my extreme surprise when the man promptly refused my
aid! “No,” he said plainly, “I will not take hold.” |
