Beetlesmith's

And all my days are trances, and all my nightly dreams are where thy grey eye glances and where thy footstep gleams--In what ethereal dances, by what eternal streams.

--To One in Paradise; Edgar Allan Poe

___________________________________

I saw them enter my shop--or should I say, Beetlesmith's former shop--each pushing a stroller.

Funny how they didn't recognize it as the last place they saw Will Henry among the living. Yet, everything was such a blur that fateful night, and it was so very dark. I suspect the trauma of those events was so deep for them that I shouldn't expect them to recognize such details.

As for me, my outward appearance had taken on the form of old Beetlesmith--short, pudgy, gray hair balding, with rounded spectacles resting on the end of my nose. The only telltale sign that I used to be Will Henry was the long and deep, scimitar-shaped scar along the left side of my face, given to me by the creature when he slashed at me. Hardy enough of an identifying feature for them to recognize me, particularly since it occurred the last time they saw me.

I stayed behind the counter and watched them. They seemed happy together, Karen and Gloria, as they looked at the various items on the shelves. Occasionally laughing at some cute item they had found or gently touching each other in that familiar way so the other would look at her new discovery and then putting their heads together as they admired the small piece of art, or book, or statuette.

The aisles between the shelves were narrow, and they were having difficulties maneuvering the strollers about the shop. Karen asked permission if they could leave them up by my counter while they walked about.

I was able to look down at the two siblings as they sat gurgling in contentment. One dark haired, the other fairer, both with large blue eyes--gifts from their mothers. I saw each sported the faintest of a cleft chin whenever they smiled--my gift to them. They looked up at me in wide-eyed wonderment as babies often do. When I smiled down at them, they both broke out in wild, infectious laughter. They were happy and whole--my sons.

Hearing their laughter, Karen came over to me, and said, "I hope they're not bothering you."

"Not at all, we're getting along splendidly," I said.

I came out from around the counter. I needed to be close to her one last time.

"Is there something in particular you're looking for?"

She smiled and shook her head as if embarrassed, "Not really. We're just window shopping."

I smiled back, "Do you like to read?"

"Yes, very much so."

"Then I might have just the thing for you."

I went over to one of the shelves and found what I was looking for. I gave her the book, saying, "It's a first edition Charles Dickens, signed by the author."

I saw large tears forming in her eyes as she looked down at 'A Tale of Two Cities.' She stood there for the longest time, just holding the book. Her chin trembled ever so slightly as the tears began to flow freely down her cheeks.

"I'm sorry my dear, did I say something wrong?"

She wiped the tears away before answering, "I'm sorry, it's just that my late husband asked me to read it. It reminds me of him...and...and what I..."

Her tears began to flow again.

I smiled at her, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times."

She nodded her head again, and said without looking up at me, "It's a far, far better thing I do..."

She couldn't finish the famous line uttered by Carton before tears gushed from her eyes and she visibly sobbed. I'm so glad she said that line. It was the one I always hoped she would remember. The one line that I hoped would give her some understanding for my actions.

I handed her a handkerchief, and said, "I can see this book has great significance to you. I think you should have it."

Still sobbing, all she could do was shake her head.

"I meant as a gift."

She stopped her crying and looked up at me, "Oh but this is too valuable to just give away. I couldn't accept..."

"Please, I insist. Make an old man happy and take it. I would rather give it to someone who can appreciate it, than have it sit, forgotten on my shelves, gathering dust. But I do this with one provision, that you always read it in memory of your late husband."

She clutched the book to her chest as if it was the most precious of things to her. I knew then that she still loved me and always will.

Smiling, and still with her eyes full of tears, she bent over and kissed me a 'thank you' on my cheek.

I will always remember that moment--the briefest of moments--but one where I found myself again in paradise. I can still feel the softness of her lips, and her warm, sweet breath on my cheek. A lock of her hair haphazardly draped down close to my face--a kindly offering to me from fate. I inhaled deeply. She had recently washed her hair--honeysuckle--and was wearing that body lotion that I always found intoxicating--the subtle aroma of cherry blossom with a hint of almond. Most of all, I felt the warm glow of her body as she stood near me--and again, and for the last time, she lay on my chest in sated bliss, warming me against the chill night air, kissing me sweetly until finally drifting into slumber.

When she straightened up, her eyes were wide, still full of moisture, and they smiled at me. I was taken again--breathless.

I had to turn away from her, less I show too much emotion, and walked back behind my counter. There, I continued to watch them. Karen showed the book to Gloria. They hugged each other. I think even Gloria cried at the significance of the gift, because when she looked over at me to give me a smile I saw tears.

They made a pretense of walking around the shop a bit longer. Their way of making an old man happy, I suppose, but they weren't really interested in anything and soon left.

As they pushed the strollers through the door, both turned and waved goodbye to me. I waved back. It was the last time I would ever see them--in this life, anyway.

Some of you are wondering why I didn't reveal myself. Even with my altered, outward appearance I could have convinced them of my true identity, given that I know things only Will Henry could have known.

Ah, but there's the rub, for I am not Will Henry, not anymore. I am neither man nor spirit, but something else altogether that I cannot explain, and Karen and Gloria represent my former life that is beyond my ability to ever touch again. Oh, I can still see them, dimly, in my daily trances and in my nightly dreams, but that's as close as I'll ever come. Such is my fate.

And how did I come to this fate, to be the new proprietor of old Beetlesmith's shop? A deal was struck between the two warring factions--the 'Bright Ones' with the 'Cruel Ones.'

Old Beetlesmith once said that there are rules governing everything, rules beyond mortal comprehension. He spoke the truth, for once. They are there, chiseled deep into the foundation of the universe--inviolable by all. And the law pertaining to the self-sacrifice of a free will, even a will belonging to a sinful man, can, at times, purify the world.

It was my single act of selfless, self-sacrifice that bought me a reprieve from my pending fate, and landed me here as a form of purgatory. And here, in Beetlesmith's shop, along with the small apartment above, I am bound to stay--until that time when my jailer, Asmodeus, tires of me and finally relieves me of existence. When he does, I will thank him.

Part of what is expected of me, at least by my jailer, is to distribute the elixir to the unsuspecting--but I refuse. And that refusal is what is expected of me by the 'Others.'

The war still wages between them. Asmodeus continues to gather wayward souls, by hook, crook, trick, or trade, but none of them will be put into his grasp by my helpful hand. That, I refuse, and as such, this avenue of corruption is closed to him...forever.

My decision does not go by without severe retribution. Every so often I am visited at night by one of his minions, or by Asmodeus himself, and they torture me unmercifully. They rip the flesh from my bones with agonizingly slow deliberation. They skin me alive, and shred muscles, sinew, and limp from body, all the while taunting my mind with evil murmurings. Asking me why my benefactors allow the torturing to continue without giving me aid. Each morning, after one of these visits, I'm rendered whole again, although the searing pain of the ordeal lingers for weeks thereafter. It is all done to get me to administer the elixir, you see. Yet...I...still...refuse!

You might ask why I put up with the suffering--that continual suffering, alone, and for how long cannot be said? The answer to that is easy, because there is a far better resting place waiting for me at journey's end, if only I stay on this course. That should be reason enough.

Yet, there is an even more important and personal reason--one in which I take great solace and joy in knowing. I have looked deep into the faces of my wife, my lover, and my sons, and saw no mark upon their brow. And I've seen no sign written on any of the miscreants--Beetlesmith's former customers -- who still come around looking for the elixir, though I've none to give.

The curse of Asmodeus has been lifted.

I won.