Entry of 18th July

Entry of 18th July

What is a mystery but a lack of information? Who stole the last piece of pecan pie? Who murdered the rector before dawn? Who sent me a package today? Where do I begin?

I was late to bed, having struggled until dawn with a poem which, to date, appears as if a woman standing behind an exquisite silk sheet. Not a phantom, only a shape, which I cannot perceive clearly. Night and day I slave until exhaustion overcomes me and I fall asleep at my desk, pen in hand and inky blotches my only reward. Like some beast I am pursuing through a vast and dark forest with not even moonlight to show its trail, I follow it without capture. It remains elusive and occult.

The rap on my door was so loud I startled awake without my usual muddy head as if salts had been thrust upon me at the moment of wakefulness. I rose and went to enquire of my caller. I could not discern the time as my fob watch had been broken in an unfortunate mishap at the tavern. Still, the hour could not have been later than of the seven or the eight. Cautiously I opened the door and beheld a package of brown paper and tied with twine. I looked about and saw a man some hundred yards away striding down the street with some purpose to him. Perhaps he had delivered the package.

I stared at this uninvited guest a long time before picking it up and examining it. The wrapping had been done skilfully and at leisure. There were no marks on the package indicating it had been stored or carried carelessly. From its pristine appearance I deduced it was likely the contents were of some value. Satisfied, I turned but my egress was blocked by my wife.

“What have you there?” she asked as I edged past her and closed the door behind us.

“A package as you see.”

“How delightful! Who is the sender?” she continued as we walked together into the drawing room.

“I do not know,” I replied and placed the package on a small table. I stood and looked at the package for some time until my wife interrupted my meditation.

“Will you not open it? I do love a surprise.”

“Yes. Yes. In time.”

“Why do you tarry like this? It is but a package, perhaps a gift from an admirer.” Her tone was ever so mocking for one so young. I stepped back and turned to her.

“Admirer, eh? You are indeed innocent of this world my dear. A package comes unwilled and I am to assume at the moment it is a gift. By its size it could contain any number of dreadful things: a snake, a scorpion….a head!” Given its size of a mere six or seven inches these were unlikely contents but my love of exaggeration was upon me.

“My beloved”, my wife retorted immediately, “I am indeed of tender and innocent years, but I do not see the world as you do. It is not full of evil and dread as you delight in telling all who will listen. Man was formed in the image of our Divine Creator, but with free will to choose between Good and Evil. True, some of our brethren follow a path not towards God, but they are the few. Even you, my dear, with your pessimism and misanthropy, have a decent and good heart. Why then should not the same be said of admirers who wish you only the best in your endeavours.”

I was taken aback by my wife’s unbridled faith in what Leibnitz has philosophised, that this is the best of all possible worlds. Indeed, my sour temperament has deepened over the years and turned me from acknowledging the best in men. My heart was pierced by her purity and love of God. Chastised by her virtue and wisdom I stepped forward and held the box between my hands.

“You have spoken straight and cleverly. I am preoccupied with the turpitude of this world and forget its beauty and kindness. Bring me a knife and we will discover the contents together.”

With this she withdrew to the kitchen and returned with a paring knife. Still holding the package, I motioned for her to cut the twine, which she did, and it fell to the table. My fingers tightened as I found the seam of overlapping paper and I broke it apart. It took but a few moments for the package’s contents to be seen: a black box, lacquered with delicate designs in mother of pearl. It was a superb piece of intarsia.

We examined the box together, turning it over to apprise ourselves of its construction and purpose. Suddenly my wife exclaimed, “Wait! A card has dropped to the floor. It must have been entangled within the paper.” After retrieving and reading the card, she handed it to me, saying, “How quaint!” The trade card was smaller than a social card or what one might use for invitations. The paper was stiff and smooth to the touch. On one side only there was a lithograph of a bee and beneath it the words, “For the Discerning Gentleman”. There was no address to be found.

“What does this mean?” I asked, to which my beloved replied delightedly, “Do you not see? Such whimsy! The bee!”

I stared at the image and looked to her for illumination.

“Why, it is worker bee! A drone! It seems whoever delivered the package has a specific sense of humour. It is their way of telling us their trade. They deliver items to people.” I grimaced noticeably and immediately felt aggrieved, “Is this reference to me? That I am just a worker bee, a drone, slaving away in thrall to the Queen Bee? And what might that be? Art?” My blood began to inflame and my hands began to tremble at the thought of such mockery. What gelid foe had the awful temerity to taunt me so?

My wife gently took me to the chesterfield, where I collapsed. “Oh husband! You have misconstrued the intention. It is but a merchant’s notice. The drone works on behalf of others. The package has been delivered to you by some minion, a boy most likely who has little in the way of skills or learning. I am sure if you contacted this merchant he would smile at your insinuation.” Though chided, I knew she was right, for I had made the blackest interpretation of the most mundane act. Surely, this merchant had a profitable enterprise in the discreet service of others. No doubt deliveries of the most intimate nature, amorous and financial, were completed every day in this manner so as to mitigate the arousal of suspicion and division of kith and kin. Assured I had made a hasty deduction, my heart eased and my head cleared.

“Once again, your wisdom is so much greater than your years. You are right of course.”

“And so, are we to proceed with the revelation or are we to leave it mysterious?”

“Indeed! We must do away with the mystery and declare the truth of the box. I confess, my nerves have unsettled me so that I have forgotten to secure a means of opening the box. Hand it to me so we can rest this matter!” My wife dutifully handed the box to me and then sat herself down beside me.

The box was not large, perhaps six inches in cube, so whatever it contained could not itself be larger. We turned the box over searching for a latch or button. None could be found.

“I do not know its creator but whoever is responsible has remarkable skill in concealment. I see no way to open it”, I declared and turned to my wife. “Are my eyes so corrupted from my hours of toil that I cannot see what is in plain sight?” My wife took the box from me and placed it on her lap. Silently she turned it from side to side before raising her eyes and reporting, “These designs are of the finest workmanship and done with care and precision. Do you not find them so?” I returned my gaze to the unasked gift and nodded affirmatively.

“And do these designs look decorative only?”

“Are not all designs decorative? Otherwise, they serve no purpose, but to entrance the eye with their ornate beauty.”

“True. Still, a craftsman of the highest mind can conceal meaning where the dullest mind cannot find it. Decoration might itself have function if we clever enough to discern it.” I frowned at this perspicacious observation and picked up the box.

“What is it then that you have intuited that I have not?”

My wife smiled broadly and deeply, a smile brought forth with the taste of salt toffee or when holding my arm as we walked in the park with Nature’s abundance as our witnesses.

“What do you discern from the markings?”

“They are indeed ornate and artfully carved in the wood into which the mother of pearl has been set.”

“What do you see?” she stressed, and I held the box closer to my eyes for finer perception.

“There are apples. Fruit. Corn. And grapes. Birds. Is my task satisfied now?” At this presumption my wife exhaled a squeal and grabbed the box back.

“How delicious it is to play with you as you play with us, your poor readers!”

“That is an unworthy snipe my darling. You have obviously unravelled this Gordian’s Knot of a mystery and are now set on punishing me for my imbecility. What have you found?”

My wife held the box up to level with our eyes and silently rotated the box in her right hand as if to demand I fathom the key.

“You have discerned correctly that there are a variety of designs. I will give you one last clue and your learning should save your pride from further abuse. For a scholar such as yourself does the name John Heywood prick your memory?”

“Of course, a learned Catholic man of England who published a collection of proverbs in the time of Charles II. The book is ancient but with merit for his scrupulous store of epigrams much used since.”

“Enough, always the teacher! Thank you, husband. And one such proverb is, “from him who sees no wood for trees,” she began before the next line came to me and I blurted, “And yet is busy as the bees!” With this I grabbed the box and feverishly scoured the sides until the image was found. I held the box towards her with the nail beneath the bee. She grinned.

Before continuing I held the box as closely to my poor eyes as I could manage and I scrutinised that the bee appeared as a button might be made, to open the box. Though certain the box held no malevolence, I held it out from me as if was a noxious smell and pressed the bee. We heard a click and the box appeared to break in twain with a gap as small as the breadth of piece of paper. Taking the box by these two sides I opened it as one might see a flower in bloom. There, resting in the cavity was something black. I placed the box on my lap and took from the cavity my uncalled gift. A feather, a black feather. I picked it up between my fingers and held it between us for inspection.

“I am as ignorant of this matter as I was before”, I said despondently, and my wife drew the feather to her. Twirling it she asked, “What bird is this feather from?”

Shrugging I offered, “A black bird? Ornithology is not a pastime of mine.”

“It looks like the feather of a raven. My father had a keen eye for birds and would aways educate me as to the species and genus as we walked. Yes, I am certain this is the feather of a raven,” she declared and then stopped. “But a small one, a chick most likely. The adults are large and fearsome. I doubt one gave up a feather willingly.”

“The chick died then?”

“I would think so. Your mysterious gifter came across a chick and plucked a feather as keepsake.”

“A bizarre act, you would agree?”

“I am inclined to that opinion. As to why it has been sent to you I cannot, we cannot, say,” my wife concluded and handed the feather to me. “And having solved one part of this mystery the day is racing away from me. Mother and I have work to do. I bid you adieu, dearest Eddy and trust this diversion has not disturbed you such that you cannot find time to work.” With that my wife leaned to me and kissed my cheek, grasping my hands tightly, and then stood. The rustle of her dress lingered in my brain as she went to find her Mother.

It has now been several hours since the events of this morning and I have committed these facts to my journal as best I can recall. Despite our valiant attempt to solve this mystery, my wife is correct as she so often is, in that only part of the puzzle is set right. Destiny, Providence or some other universal force, called God by some, deigned to deliver this feather to me for a reason yet unknown. Perhaps it is beyond my ken to know the reason. Perhaps the reason cannot be revealed. I am loathe to go to my grave unsettled by the mystery. For now I am weary and require a deep sleep before supper. I pray my sleep will be untroubled and I shall not be plagued by the mystery of the black box and the raven’s feather. Yes, cast out of my mind. Nevermore.