By David Gallup
I endeavor with this tale to raise the ghost of an idea,
which shall not put my readers out of humor with themselves, with each other,
with the season, or with me. May it raise your spirit pleasantly.
Your faithful friend and fellow human,
D.G.
December
2016
The waning moon rises high above
his skyscraper as Hugh puts his “Best regards” on his final email of the evening.
A winter chill slinks up his fingers from the cold of the laptop keyboard. The screen’s light flickers as he presses the
power off and leans back in his large mahogany desk chair.
What report to shareholders is
due in the morning? How many conferences calls are scheduled for later that
week? What is all the commotion coming from the street below, breaking his
train of thought? He walks over to one of the windows of his 3rd
story downtown condo and looks out.
“Oh,” he mutters to himself, “just some holiday partygoers singing a bit
too loud after one too many drinks.”
“Don’t they know I still have
work to do?” he thinks. He opens the window a crack and yells, “Damn revelers.
Keep it down!” In typical city fashion, the partygoers yell back, “No, you keep
it down!” They all laugh in unison and keep on walking and singing.
Hugh slams the window shut. He tidies all the papers on his study desk,
reviews his phone calendar, and jots a few more notes. “Well, that’s almost it
for tonight,” Hugh furrows his brow. “Roberta can take care of the rest of the
planning for this week’s meetings,” Hugh says aloud to the bookshelves and wood
paneling that quietly keep him company. His voice slightly echoes.
Though it is New Year’s Eve,
Hugh picks up his cell phone and texts his personal assistant Roberta for the
seventh time that evening, with directives, points for research, speech edits,
etc. Always a polite return text from Roberta, “Yes, sir, Mr. Mann. Right
away.”
Immediately after he sends the
text, a call comes in from a local charity requesting an end of the year
donation. “Absolutely, not!” Hugh shouts
into the phone. “Disturbing me when I’ve told you every year prior that charity
begins at home! Bug someone else.” He pokes the hang-up button forcefully.
Head still down toward his cell,
he paces from his study across the long hallway lined with empty rooms and
perfect photos of his perfect vacations to Paris, Milan, London, Geneva, though
most of his memories are the heated arguments in the boardrooms, not the
magical waters of fountains or the mischievous gargoyles mocking cathedral
visitors.
Making his way into the dimly
lit living room, he pulls out a Waterford glass from the wet bar and pours
himself a finger of cognac to calm his mind and muddle his concerns. He sits in
the oversized leather armchair, kicking off his hand-made Italian shoes and
resting his feet on the ottoman. His voice command turns on the gas flames in
the wall mounted fireplace. The cognac warms his tongue and burns his throat as
he sips.
The orange-blue flames are
mesmerizing as they flicker, jump and crackle, now the only sounds in his
otherwise silent condo. The cognac and the fire seem to mix as if he is sipping
the flames.
Hugh picks up the glass to take
another sip. Staring at him from within the crystal is the face of Mr.
Mortimer, his partner in his energy and armaments consulting firm, who had died
seven years prior. Hugh squints at the glass, shuts his eyes, and slowly
reopens them. Only the viscous amber
liquid clinging to the sides of the glass is now visible.
He pulls the heavy down
comforter off the side of the armchair and covers himself from head to foot.
Must be all the figures in his head and the cognac making him see things. “I’ll
just rest here a bit,” Hugh decides, retreating under the comforter with his
glass of liquor rather than walking through the cold, empty condo to his master
suite. Some repose from the long hours that have taken their toll would be
welcome – a respite from checking his financials, making deals, and persuading
business and government leaders to follow his advice.
Yet the cognac, the fireplace
and the heavy down comforter can’t seem to relieve him of the winter
chill. He buries himself further into
the armchair and shuts his eyes, drifting off to sleep.
From the fireplace, a clang,
loud bangs and clanking of chains startle Hugh from his cognac-induced
sleep. The crystal glass slips from his
hand over the armchair and shatters across the marble tile. Before him a
bulking translucent body, wrapped in chains and in what was once a fancy suit,
now tattered and stained, drifts out of the fireplace toward Hugh. It is the
ghost of his former partner Mortimer.
The Ghost of Tristan Mortimer
A resounding deep voice from the
ghost of Mortimer calls his name, “Mann!”
Hugh is silent in astonishment.
“Mann!” shouts the spirit.
With no where to hide, Hugh
squeaks out a “yes?”
Hugh had spoken at Tristan
Mortimer’s funeral. He lauded Mortimer for all his cunning in business. But he
hadn’t thought of him hardly since. Why was he showing up now?
The ghostly Mortimer rattles his
chains, oily chains that Hugh can see are interspersed with yellowing
spreadsheets, invoices, business cards, and a once glossy prospectus.
The spirit groans, “You must
listen to me, Hugh. It…is…important.”
“Why are you so pained?” Hugh
asks. “You never had a worry about another when you were alive.”
“These chains weigh me down. My
spirit is shackled,” Mortimer moans. “Don’t you recognize the links of this
chain? Don’t you see the indifference, the ingratitude, the selfishness?”
Hugh could not fathom what the
phantom was implying. Hugh was proud to have his name engraved in gold next to
Mortimer’s on their company’s signage: Mortimer & Mann. Mortimer, like
Mann, was a business man’s business man. For Hugh, business, or rather, success
in business is all that really matters.
“If you don’t want to end up like me, doomed to wander the
earth as an apparition, unable to change anything I see, unable to interact
with those in need, then I suggest you take heed about what will happen next.”
Hugh knew Mortimer to be gruff, but the seven years since his passing had made
him forget how much.
The chains and tattered suit
begin to flutter and rise as the ghost begins to drift back into the fireplace.
Before he disappears, Mortimer wails to Hugh, “You will be visited by three spirits
over the next three nights -- when the bell tolls one. You have no choice in
this matter. Your money and influence cannot stop this journey. I suggest you
listen closely, pay attention and heed their warnings….” With one loud whooping
sound and a large flash of orange flames, the ghost completely disappears.
Hugh jumps up out of the
armchair with the comforter under his arms, bounds over the broken glass, down
the hall to his bedroom, where he proceeds to lock the door, places a chair
under the door knob, and climbs into bed. On his nightstand, he finds a
sleeping pill and bottle of water which he has trouble opening with his
trembling hands. He closes the bed curtains that block any stray light.
“That cannot have been real. It
must be the take-out food from dinner upsetting my stomach. Maybe too much
cognac?” Hugh surmises to himself. Though still anxious, he cannot stop the feeling
of overwhelming exhaustion. “I’m sure I’ll feel better in the morning. A good
night’s sleep will make me forget this nightmare.” Hugh falls into a deep
sleep.
Twelve slow clangs from the
church bell across from Hugh’s condo waken him for a moment. He opens the bed
curtains and all is dark and quiet. Good! Now back to sleep. An hour later, or
perhaps a day later, a long, deep clang, as if time has slowed to a crawl,
reverberates from the church bell. Then comes a scraping at the window. It is
an eerie, wind-howling sound like an axe scraping against the glass pane. Hugh,
though still groggy, cannot ignore the scraping sound. “What could be
scratching at my bedroom window three floors up and at this ungodly hour?”
Hugh slowly opens the bed
curtains a half inch and peaks out. A ghost, in what he recognizes as tribal
clothing and kufi cap with only faint reminiscence of color remaining, swoops
clear through the window and up to the bed curtain. The ghost is more a boy,
not yet a man. In the face of the ghost, Hugh sees the faces of all of the
tribespeople he had encountered many years ago. These are the people who were
protesting the spoiling of their homeland by their government and the
multinational oil company that Hugh’s firm represented.
The Spirit of New Year’s Past
“Can a whole day have passed?”
Hugh wonders more to himself than to the ghost. “Did I forget to turn in the
financial report to investors?” But his musings are quickly halted by the child-ghost
who takes hold of Hugh’s hand.
At that moment, they are no
longer in his bedroom, they are in a lively village with people going about
their daily, happy lives, not knowing that a few miles away bulldozers, trucks,
drill riggings, cranes, workmen, and armed guards are approaching.
“Are you one of the spirits that
Mortimer foretold to me?” Hugh whispers.
“Yes. I am the ghost of New
Year’s past.”
“Long past?” asks Hugh.
“No,” says the child sadly,
“Your past.” “Take a look around. See all these happy people going about their
daily lives?” The child-ghost leads Hugh through the village. It is a village
he had visited many years before, as a young adult. It had oil-rich deposits, a
place that the then-new firm of Mortimer & Mann could easily exploit,
lobbying and convincing the government to continue to allow drilling for their powerful
client. Hugh recalls that he had had a youthful twinge of guilt for selling out
tribal resources without consulting the tribespeople, themselves. Mortimer had
convinced him to ignore this feeling, and focus only on unemotional thoughts of
what was best for business.
In one home, Hugh can see the
family gathering for lunch, family members singing and setting the table. In
another, a mother swaddles her child and puts him the bassinet for a nap while
the baby’s older siblings play games during the lunch break from school. Having
a laugh or two while tending to crops and herding animals, the adults seem
content, self-sufficient and without want. In the village square, the elders
discuss their plans for their community over the next few years.
Hugh does not know how these
contented people have anything to do with him.
The ghost takes hold of Hugh’s
hand, more forcefully than before. And again, they are transported, though not
in place, but in time. “Twenty years have passed,” the child-ghost explains.
“Look around and what do you see?”
The fields lay barren of crops.
Most of the homes are empty and in disrepair.
“Where is everyone?” asks Hugh
with trepidation.
“If they are not dead, they have
gone.” The ghost child shakes his head and wipes away tears. “Your work, or those for whom you lobbied, poisoned our land and drinking
water. We protested but the government arrested us, tortured us, and hanged us.
Even if they hadn’t, we would have died of cancer from the oil spills and waste
discharged without thought of us who lived here.”
“These people are, were, my
family, my tribe. This was my home. But your work destroyed it, destroyed me.”
Hugh cannot help but feel
remorse for this child. But what is worse for Hugh is that the child feels remorse
for him. “I bring you here for your welfare, Mr. Mann,” admonishes the
ghost-child. “Your wealth and power is no use to you or anyone if you don’t do
anything good with it…”
“Spirit,” Hugh beseeches,
“Remove me from this place…Please no more. Why do you torture me like this?”
Hugh begs the ghost-child to bring him back home.
The spirit of New Year’s past
replies, “I show you what you have accomplished. These are shadows of what has
been. Do not blame me for what has passed.”
Now, Hugh grabs the spirit’s
hand, thinking that he can force him, being only a child, to listen to his
plea. Upon touching the ghost’s hand, Hugh is thrown into darkness. As his eyes
adjust, he finds himself clinging to the fringe of the bed curtain in his
apartment.
Hugh is overwhelmed with
drowsiness, whether due to the journey to his past or the sleeping pill, he cannot
be sure. He falls fast asleep, until the slow clang of the 1 a.m. church bell
wakes him with a start. He looks around his room with the flash light from his
cell phone, but sees and hears nothing.
No sooner does he fasten the bed
curtains closed then he feels clammy hands reaching in through the curtains and
pulling him out of bed by his wrists. He does not immediately get a look at the
apparition as he is whisked away.
The Spirit of New Year’s Present
Hugh finds himself in a low-rise
apartment building staring at a family who is scurrying to collect personal
belongings. He is standing next to the ghost of a young woman, perhaps 17 or
18, wearing a disheveled head scarf, with specks of ash and blood on her dress.
“Who are you? Where are we?”
Hugh does not recall ever having visited this locale.
“This is my family. You must
look!”
She proceeds to show him her family, her apartment, as mortars and rapid gunfire explode near by. Hugh covers his ears and ducks. “Why do you crouch? These bombs cannot hurt you. This is your present, but you are not presently here, not really. You are not here when the bombs fall from the sky, are you? But see, they do affect my family.”
She proceeds to show him her family, her apartment, as mortars and rapid gunfire explode near by. Hugh covers his ears and ducks. “Why do you crouch? These bombs cannot hurt you. This is your present, but you are not presently here, not really. You are not here when the bombs fall from the sky, are you? But see, they do affect my family.”
The ghost’s mother, father, two
sisters and brother gather a few pairs of clothes, some food, whatever they can
fit into back packs, even the four-year old brother carries one. The family
stares blankly, frowning as they take one last look at their apartment for any
important item they might need. The children sob softly as they needlessly shut
the apartment door and make their way down the back stairs into the hidden
alley.
The ghost takes Hugh by the
collar, dragging him along behind the family as they make a long trek at dusk
to the outskirts of the city where they plan to meet another family and leave
the country. All the while, to avoid stray bullets, they stop intermittently to
hide behind whatever concrete walls remain of neighboring buildings.
A moment later, the ghost pulls
Hugh through the back of a delivery truck. Inside, Hugh sees the families
hidden under tarps, quietly whispering. One mother sings softly to calm her
baby. The road is bumpy with debris from bombed out buildings. Through the
truck window, Hugh sees bodies strewn on the ground and attempts to turn his
head away, but the spirit grabs his head by each ear and forces him to look at
the destruction.
“This is what you are doing to
my family and to my city,” the spirit says to Hugh, pointing to those in the
truck and the devastation outside the window.
“I did not cause this,” Hugh
retorts. “This has nothing to do with me…”
The spirit puts her hands to her
hips, then lifts her left arm with hand extended gesturing to everything around
her. “You think that your lobbying has nothing to do with this?” the spirit
raises her voice incredulously.
“Your work allows the rebels and
the government alike to be armed, to have an unending supply of artillery,
guns, bombs, and war planes.”
“It’s not my fault,” Hugh
protests, “that there’s an arms industry. This is just part of the business.”
“Well, your business,” the
spirit scoffs, “and one of its bombs got me killed.”
The family begins to say prayers
and hold hands. Despite the artillery fire outside, the mother, father and
children gain a resolve in their expressions.
They muster the will to press on and find a new home elsewhere in the
world.
For Hugh, though, the spirit
jerks him from the truck and drops him back at the city’s center. Hugh
instinctively runs for cover behind a concrete wall. He is not alone. Two
trembling children, or rather the ghosts of two children, are crouched by his
side.
“Those are my cousins” the
spirit starts, then continues with emphasis, “and your cousins.”
“The boy is named Selfishness
and the girl is named Oppression,” the spirit states. “And although these two
are dead, they have many twins amongst the living.”
Hugh asks, “They could not find
refuge or resource?”
The spirit replies, “Are there
no camps, no jungles for the persecuted and the displaced? Are there no
factories of hard labor? No prisons for dissidents?”
The ear-piercing shelling
intensifies, and a bomb explodes next to Hugh. Then, complete silence. He
slowly opens his eyes to find himself in his bed, covered with sweat on his
brow and above his lip. He shivers and pulls the covers over himself. Could
this be a delusion from fever? Before he can think further, the church bell
rings 1 a.m. once more.
Before the bell completes its
ring, Hugh is no longer in his bed. He is clinging with all his might to a
large piece of plastic in a rough sea. Hugh’s ears are deafened by the
thundering waves crashing and thrashing all around him.
The Spirit of New Year’s Future
“What are we doing here? There
is no land as far as the eye can see,” Hugh attempts to shout at the ghost
floating in the air above the waves. The ghost of New Year’s future has
withered, wrinkled and burnt skin with boils oozing a putrid green liquid. Its
bloodshot eyes have no lids to protect Hugh from the phantom’s fixed gaze. Its
only clothing is red flames that rise from its body in rings around its legs,
midsection and chest.
As Hugh pulls the plastic sheet
closer to his chest, the ghost hovers above the waves whose waters only seem to
stoke the fires on the ghost’s skin.
“Our world is no longer livable.
This is the future that you are creating.”
A tsunami approaches in the
distance. Hugh is swept away, carried atop the waves where all he can see is
water for miles. The salty, oily water burns his eyes, and he gags as some
water forces its way into his nostrils. He shuts his eyes tight, and the next
thing he notices is a feeling of extreme heat as he lands upon a sand dune in a
desert.
The spirit howls, “This used to
be the northern plains. Look what your handiwork has done! Men think that they
can control nature. We don’t own the earth. We belong to the earth.”
Hugh considers all he has seen
from the three spirits. He thinks aloud, “One’s actions will foreshadow certain
ends, to which if persevered, they must lead. But if one departs from those
actions, the ends will change.”
“Please, say that it is thus
with what you show me,” Hugh implores the ghost.
Hugh begins to sink as a sand
storm piles fine grains all around him.
Hugh cries, “I will honor the
new year in my heart and will try to make each day of the year a new beginning.
I will live the past, present and future now with the spirits of all three in
me. I welcome the lessons they teach. Please remove me from this desert.”
Reaching up for the hand of the
ghost, despite the flames all around it, Hugh attempts to pull himself free of
this desert grave. The ghost floats away, out of Hugh’s reach. But Hugh holds
up his right arm as if to make an oath before a judge that he will change.
Suddenly, the winds stop and the
sand transforms into his comforter on his bed. Light shines through the bed
curtains. He runs over to the window, swings it open and yells down to a kid on
the street. “Hey, what day is it?”
The kid shouts, “New Year’s day,
of course.”
Hugh jumps for joy, not having
missed New Year’s Day, for the spirits visited him all in one night. He throws
on some clothes and runs out of his apartment building down to the street. With
the bright sun above, he does not notice the chill in the air. Grinning, he
hops on the subway. When he exits the subway, he looks around at the city, with
a new sense of appreciation. On the subway ride, he thought about what he could
do and what he would do. Having a little lunch first couldn’t hurt.
As he walks down the street a
bit more, he finds himself at the doorway to the apartment where his assistant
Roberta lives. He rings the buzzer.
“Who is it?” asks Roberta.
“It’s me… Mr. Mann… Uh…Hugh.
Sorry to bother you on this day off, but I brought a little lunch, actually a
big lunch and I have some good tidings I’d like to share.”
Roberta sighs to herself; but
surprised by her boss’s energetic enthusiasm, and, well, the offer of a hearty
lunch, it would be impolite to refuse. She and her young son Tim would not have
to trudge out to the grocery. She buzzes him in.
Hugh hands bags of warm and savory
food to Roberta as she opens the door to her modest apartment. Seeing the big
smile on his mother’s boss’s face, Tim, who usually hides behind his mother’s
legs whenever he sees Mr. Mann, gives a little wave and a soft hello.
They sit at the kitchen table
and begin to eat. Hugh tells Roberta that he wants, needs, to draft an entirely
new business plan for the firm. Fossil fuels and armaments will be phased out.
Solar and renewables, repurposing weapons factories, and manufacturing for
infrastructure would be their new focus. Between bites of sandwich, Roberta
expresses her surprise and delight.
Hugh continues, “Tomorrow, I am
calling the local refugee agency and will sponsor a family to stay with me. My
condo is plenty big and I could use some company. And while I’m at it (he looks
at his cell phone), I’ve got to call that fellow back from the charity and send
in my annual donation.”
Roberta’s jaw just about drops.
If it hadn’t been for the yummy food in her mouth, it would have.
The End of the Chant
Hugh was better than his word.
He did it all and became a good friend and mentor to Roberta and Tim, as good a
person as the good city knew, or any other good city in the whole world.
Some people laughed at Hugh to
see the alterations he had made in his life, in his work, in his life’s work.
But he did not mind this laughter for he was wise enough to know that nothing
ever happened in this world, for good, at which some people did not have their
fill of laughter at the outset.
Knowing that people such as
these would think his moral advocacy to be nothing more than utopian folly, he
thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle their eyes in grins, than try
to dissuade him in unattractive ways.
His own heart laughed. And that
was quite enough for him…and for the world.