Note: This post is an excerpt from my book, A House Named Haven. Copyright © 2021 Alex Brown. All rights reserved.
Foreword
Here is a small, but noteworthy note before you read any further, Dear Reader. I first heard the stories that you are about to read when I was but a young boy. My sisters and I would climb into our grandparents’ bed late at night and sit with the eager anticipation of children who were supposed to be sleeping and yet were not, choosing instead to listen to bedtime stories. It was from our grandmother that we heard the often tragic and wildly fantastical tales of two children being chased by villains, and a plot, deeper and more sinister than we could ever have imagined.
Throughout the years that followed, our grandmother told us more and more of the children, each part more incredible than the last. However, as we sat in that cozy bed, listening to those stories, never in our wildest dreams did we pause to consider that these accounts were not simply the creation of a skilled storyteller. Perhaps if we had, the three of us would have paid closer attention to our grandmother’s words and taken down notes so that not one word was lost.
But as it so often happens in life, many of those late-night stories were lost. We have a way of letting matters of importance slip through our fingers without noticing until much later the importance of what we lost. Hindsight is the cruelest of conditions.
I often wonder what would have happened if we had paid closer attention and not forgotten what we thought were simply stories. But wonderings and ruminations do little unless they are followed by action. Those wonderings and ruminations kept me awake into the early hours of the morning for many years as I sought after the truth, staring at the notes I’ve since painstakingly collected. It has been my solemn task, this quest for the truth, which has led to the typing up of this book, which, Dear Reader, is in your hands at this moment.
It is said that ignorance is bliss. I, for one, do not agree with such an absurd statement. If one were ignorant of the fact that a hired gunman was lying in wait for them around the corner in some dimly lit alleyway, through which they were about to walk, only the most foolish of folks would continue to insist that ignorance is bliss. The result would be gruesome, grisly, and not even remotely blissful. They would, however, no longer be in a state of ignorance, blissful or otherwise. The only state they’d be in is dead. And by then, it would be far too late for them to do anything with their newfound knowledge.
I suppose, like all expressions and shoes, “Ignorance is bliss” is only useful so long as it fits. In my experience, ignorance is no longer blissful when you learn the truth. For once you learn the truth, you can no longer claim to be ignorant, no matter how much you may want to do so. It would be like a blind man who received the ability to see, and after seeing what everything looked like, preferred to close his eyes and pretend to be blind once more. It wouldn’t change anything, no matter how preferable it might be.
I set out, years ago, to discover the truth about the stories I was once told. While I was successful in my search, I also came to the awful realization that the truth concerning these two children is ugly, disheartening, and downright dreadful.
The truth can be a dangerous thing, Dear Reader, and so, I urge you. Be cautious. I know to what lengths those who oppose the truth will go. They wish to see it remain buried under the many layers of lies, deceit, and treachery, hidden in the shadowy darkness of the past forevermore.
I have experienced much danger and hardship in my attempt to uncover the truth. I pray that you, Dear Reader, do not suffer as I have suffered in its pursuit. No matter the danger, though, no matter how ugly and tragic it may be, the truth always comes to light, just as surely as night eventually gives way to day and the sun shines once more upon the earth.
If you wish to remain blissfully ignorant, what is written here in the following pages of this book will not be to your liking. I understand quite well your desire to remain safe from danger and in relative comfort, though I hope you eventually read this book before it’s too late. You will find that in your attempt to remain in a state of ignorant bliss, you are quite like the person about to be waylaid and killed in a dark, dimly lit alleyway. Your ignorance of their existence does not make them non-existent.
If, however, you have chosen to continue reading despite this extensive note warning you of what might follow, I have a different warning for you. Once you read what is written here, do not be like the aforementioned blind man. You will be tempted to return to the way things were before you ever picked up this book. However, to do so would be as foolish as pretending to be blind again after receiving your sight.
Forgive me for the vagueness of it all, but for my safety in writing this, for the safety of those about whom I have written, and for your safety, Dear Reader, certain steps have been taken. Thus, names, places, and dates have been changed drastically and even omitted entirely. It is far simpler—and far safer. However, what is written truly happened, none of that has been altered. And so, I implore you, do not turn from the truth once you have learned it. You have been warned, Dear Reader.
Chapter One: A Beginning of Sorts
Our story starts where all stories that want comprehension do. It starts at the beginning. Of course, for the purposes of this story, “beginning” means a time and place before the story’s main events. You, Dear Reader, are given the benefit of knowing that this is indeed the beginning. Those involved had no way of knowing that their lives were about to be turned upside-down starting at this time and place. They thought nothing of such things.
But then again, people rarely do. For one does not usually wake in the morning, sit up in their bed, and say to themselves, “I think today marks the starting point of a dreadful time in my life upon which I will look back in the coming years and reference as the beginning of all my problems.” Nor does one say, “I believe something terrible will happen today,” unless, of course, that person is woefully pessimistic.
As I mentioned in the Foreword, hindsight is a rather troublesome ailment. In the moment, you might not realize something’s significance. But afterwards, when you look back on what happened, all is made as clear as if you had perfect vision. If you already have perfect vision, understand that this is a common expression which still applies to you. Though it might not have as much meaning to you as it does to one who is more visually impaired than yourself.
A rather contrived example of hindsight is someone lying in a hospital bed covered in bandages, having been mauled by a bear. They were mauled because they went into the bear’s den and poked it with a stick while it was sleeping. Looking back on the incident, the person would point to that foolish action as the reason they were lying in a hospital bed. That is hindsight.
Thus, in hindsight, for years to come, as I also confirmed in my extensive research, the protagonists of our story would look to the events about to unfold as the reason for all their troubles. When everything they once considered “normal” ended, and everything else began. The problem with hindsight, as I’m sure that you, Dear Reader, are aware, is that it does not change what has happened. It may give you clarity for an event, but it cannot do much else.
I have seen and experienced many things as I researched this tale, and in hindsight, I certainly wish none of them had happened. But that does not change the fact that they did happen, and so it is with a heavy heart that I write the beginning of this account.
Everything ended and began in the late summer as an old, somewhat rusty vehicle turned onto a country road in a state of disrepair. This could symbolize the turn that the lives of the vehicle’s occupants would take in a few chapters. Or perhaps, some things are not meant to be taken as symbols, and an uneven, bumpy road in a deteriorated state is just a road.
The vehicle travelled along the gravel road at a leisurely pace. The rear tires churned up dirt, pebbles, and dust in its wake. The car itself was the distinct color of dawn, just before the sun peeks over the horizon. But that distinct color was dulled and disguised by the dust and dirt from the road.
Still, its bespattered appearance did not affect the automobile’s ability to sputter down the road, nor did it bother the driver of the vehicle in any way. In fact, it had been dirtied for quite some time—long before it first rolled onto the country highway. However, the interior of the automobile was in a cleaner condition, though it was presently packed past the proposed capacity. This did not diminish the comfortability of the vehicle’s occupants. Rather, it gave the automobile a feel of comfort and warmth; a closeness that could still be replicated even in an empty space.
Allow me to explain. This is comparable to the condition of one’s home. If it is empty, barren, and devoid of people who love and care for each other, then even if it is full of a multitude of possessions, it will still feel cold, lonely, and downright depressing. If, however, it is empty of said possessions, but its occupants are full of good cheer, care, and love, then it is rather difficult not to feel comfortable and warm. If a home is both full and love abounds within, what more can one ask for?
The vehicle belonged to a Mr. and Mrs. Marvin and Evelyn Bode—half of those seated inside the dawn-colored automobile. The other two were their children, Roselyn and Edward. Though, most everyone called them Rose and Ed, their parents included. The Bode family was on vacation, and were travelling to visit Marvin’s father.
Some description about each member of the family is in order before we get any further in the story than we already are. I’ve often found that when telling a story, it is best to let the listener form their own picture and idea of what someone in the story looks like. It would not do, though, to go without any description whatsoever. Otherwise, who knows what picture will form in your head of the Bode family? You might go the whole time believing them to be a family of talking animals, only to find at the end of it all that they most certainly were a family of talking humans.
Marvin Bode, or Father, as his children called him, sat in the front seat next to Evelyn Bode, or Mother, as her children called her, who was driving the car. Now, Marvin was in his early forties, forty-one to be exact. Despite nearing half a century of life, he still had the appearance of a typical man in his thirties, meaning he was healthy and had no grey hairs hidden among either his short brown hair or his bushy mustache. Though he was not presently standing, when he did so, he towered over most people. He was as tall as he was thin. As such, the family car had him in a humorous position, sitting with his bony knees near his chin.
This cramped seating arrangement did not seem to bother Marvin at all. He looked out the slightly dusty window of the car, watching as the scenery went past. Or, more accurately, the car went past the scenery. The only problem this arrangement caused was a further wrinkling of Marvin’s already quite wrinkled suit. Still, Marvin did not seem bothered, for his mind was on other, more important matters than a wrinkled suit.
In later years, as the Bode children reminisced, they noted that Father had never particularly cared about the state of his appearance. He was an author, not that one’s occupation should be determinate of one’s appearance, but it was his excuse. His attention was usually on his typewriter and not the state of his clothing. When a spark of inspiration would strike him, he’d often sit for hours in front of that old typewriter, and the children grew used to the comforting sound of the clack of the keyboard being struck by his permanently ink-smudged fingertips.
It was from Father that the children had first heard bedtime stories, and his were always filled with the fantastical—myth and magic, knights and dragons, kings and queens, heroes and villains. Much of what he told them found its way onto a piece of paper later that night or early the next morning.
I have searched high and low, far and wide for Marvin Bode’s books. Public records attribute multiple novels and many short stories to his name, and in all my travels, trials, and tribulations, I have managed to find partial remnants, scraps of stories, and many incomplete works. But I’ve managed painstakingly to find stories told in their entirety as well. I have not found each and every one, but I have found some. And when all is said and done, some is better than none.
Evelyn Bode was younger than her husband by several years, four to be exact. Though, one should never ask for the exact age of a lady. She sat behind the wheel of the old car, as Marvin was often too distracted with his thoughts to be trusted as a safe and reliable driver. Evelyn was as short as her husband was tall, short enough that without moving the seat forward, she would be unable to reach the pedals.
Her dark, slightly curly brown hair, which the children inherited, was pushed back with a brightly colored, multi-spotted handkerchief. She hummed a jaunty tune softly to herself as she drove. Her dress was the color of a forest in autumn. She was not as skinny as her husband, but her figure was slender. She moved through life with a confident, yet quiet grace.
Evelyn taught literature at the collegiate level. She lectured all over the country at a number of institutions, though it was at the University of Cognition that she held tenure. It was from her that the children learned to love books of all genres. While Father focused with a near sole dedication on fantasy and fairy tales, Mother saw the practicality of a more well-rounded reading selection. She would also lend her expertise to Marvin’s novels. A word changed here, a question of practicality and element of reason raised there. No doubt without Evelyn’s loving care, Marvin’s works would have been all fiction and no fact. Which makes for an interesting, yet highly unmanageable mess of words that can in no way be called a story of any kind. Sometimes a second set of eyes makes all the difference.
Marvin and Evelyn’s children sat in the back seat. Rose was the elder of the two Bode children, at the wonderful age of twelve, two years her brother’s senior. Her hair was shoulder length and rested upon the faded green sweater she wore over a simple, yellow dress. She was taller than Ed for the moment, but as anyone with a younger brother knows, that won’t necessarily always be the case.
Rose took after their father more than their mother. Though she had inherited her mother’s physical features, it was from Father that her way of thinking came. Whenever Father was stuck at a place in the story he was currently working on, and Mother could not help him, Father turned to Rose. Her imaginative ability to tell a story rivaled even his own, which for some might be a sore point, but for Father was a point of pride.
The younger, and currently shorter of the two Bode children, Ed, was ten. His hair was short, yet still an unruly mess of curls. His attire was like his father’s—function over fashion. Ed wore dark colored pants, a buttoned up white shirt, and a grey sweater.
If Rose took after their father, Ed took after their mother. He enjoyed listening to stories his father and sister spun, of course, and he loved to imagine and pretend he was a part of such tales. He would even go so far as to write down the stories his sister told him. However, the time he enjoyed the most was when he could sit and listen to his mother’s lectures. It didn’t matter what the topic was, he would listen all the same, and would often understand the subject matter better than the lecture’s intended recipients.
Marvin and Evelyn recognized the importance of literature and stories in a way that few do nowadays. If more people read books, I daresay this world would be quite different indeed. But I don’t need to tell that to you, Dear Reader. Rather, it is the people who never opened a book past the first page for lack of interest, or fear of what they might find, that need to know the importance of stories the most.
That, I am happy to say, was not the case for the Bode children. Both Rose and Ed were avid readers, and whenever they did not understand a word or the subject matter, they would go to their parents, who in turn would direct them to yet another book to answer their questions. This cyclical form of study, though considered cruel by those who hate books and learning, was adored by the Bode children, who frankly loved books and learning. It led to many hours spent with noses in books.
Seeing as Evelyn taught literature all over the country, and Marvin’s job was wherever his mind and typewriter were, it was not often that the Bodes were in the same place at the same time. But the family owned a small house near the University of Cognition.
It was the place to which Evelyn would always return after travelling on her lecture tours. It was the place in which Marvin would sit at the kitchen table in the late nights and early mornings, typing away at his novels. It was the place that Rose and Ed would come running back to after school, eager to return to their own pursuits of knowledge, in books of their choosing. And it was the place to which they wished so desperately to return when these horrendous events began first to unfold.
I have visited the place they once called home, years after the final chapter in their story ended. It was once as a home should be, full of life and love. Of course, when I visited, it was full of neither. But while their home is not where this story has its beginning, nor is it the present focus, it will make an appearance before all is said and done. Where they were, was in their family car, travelling down a gravel road at a leisurely pace, on vacation in the late summertime, on their way to visit Grandfather.
Grandfather lived a great distance from the major cities and urbanized communities. Rose and Ed had never gone to visit him before this vacation. He had always come to stay at their house in years past, as it was much more convenient for him to visit them than for all of them to visit him. Regardless, Mother and Father had decided, quite unexpectedly to Rose and Ed, that it was high time they went out to visit Grandfather at his home.
As they travelled, the children began to silently agree with Grandfather’s reasoning. It was indeed much more convenient for him to visit them. Grandfather practically lived in the middle of nowhere.
To entertain the family, Rose began telling a story, much to the captivation of all listening. She titled her tale The Forgetful Knight. I have since found a firsthand copy in its entirety, written down by Ed after the first and consecutive installments of the tale. It remains to this day one of my most treasured possessions.
This story is a heartwarming tale, albeit with a dash of danger and a splash of sorrow, that focuses on the illogical antics of a knight, for whom the story is titled, who can never seem to remember his status in the realm as a knight. As you can imagine, this leads to many misadventures for the poor, forgetful fellow. But these misadventures had a purpose to them, even if the doleful knight could not see their reason in the moment.
This being the first time Rose told The Forgetful Knight, she did not have the entirety of her story mapped out, nor did she have any idea how long it would be. Rose was of the mind that some of the best stories are told when even the storyteller has no idea where the story will take them. She did, however, know where to start her tale. She started at the beginning.
“Once,” began Rose, “There lived a knight in a far-off land, in a time far distant from our own.”
Father settled deeper into his seat, his knees going up even closer to his chin, though he still did not seem to mind the uncomfortable position. He smiled faintly at how his daughter began her story and listened with focused attention. Mother ceased her humming and kept her eyes on the road, as any good driver should, but she listened as well. Ed hastily pulled a small notebook from his pocket along with a pencil. He opened the notebook, already full of notations from Rose’s past stories, to a fresh, unmarked page and began furiously scribbling as his sister spoke.
“What the knight’s real name was,” said Rose, “no one in the kingdom rightly knew. Even the knight himself could not remember. By all, far and wide, he was simply known as “The Forgetful Knight”.”
Here, Father snorted with amusement and his mustache seemed to bounce on his upper lip. Mother glanced in the rear-view mirror to see her daughter grin at his interruption, and her mouth twitched with the beginnings of a smile as well.
“He was named such, because he was always forgetting that he was a knight,” Rose exclaimed, speaking a little louder as she became more comfortable telling her story. “Despite the fact that he wore shining armor and carried a sword, The Forgetful Knight could never seem to remember that he was, in fact, a knight of the realm.”
The scratch of Ed’s pencil was faint, but it seemed to keep in step with Rose’s words, a rhythm and harmony found in music. He did not falter, but wrote the words down in a steady flow, his face a picture of concentration as he went about his work.
“As you can imagine, this got him into all sorts of perilous situations,” Rose smiled, knowingly. “The misadventures are numerous, but perhaps the one of most repute is the one that earned him his name and erased the one he had before.”
She paused in a true, dramatic storyteller’s fashion. This same approach is used when one is fishing. The fisherman can tell he has a fish on his hook, and that it’s taken the bait, but he doesn’t reel it in, not right away. No, he pauses before he continues, the last moment of quiet before both fish and fisherman take action. Then, it becomes abundantly clear to both that the fish has been hooked.
Rose looked around the packed and cramped car at her family, took a deep breath, and continued.
“It was early spring when the knight first rode toward the desolate town. The morning sun glinted dazzlingly off his armor, blinding anyone looking, if indeed there was anyone to look at his passing by. The knight held a long spear of hewn and hardened ash, its steel point razor-sharp and deadly. In his right hand he held a massive shield, the symbols that were imprinted upon the metal known only to him, the crest of his family. His great sword was sheathed at his right side, the hilt unimpressive, but the sword no less deadly. His helmet was full, and the visor was lowered, obscuring his features. Yet within the helmet, his face was a mask of grim determination. He rode upon his impressive war horse, the creature’s hooves stomping and clomping even more impressively on the earthen path.
The knight trotted his war horse with a purpose, leading him on toward the desolate town. He had received a message of distress in the village he’d last been in, a message sent for aid from this isolated place. The note said that the town was being held captive by an evil wizard, forcing the townspeople to do his vile bidding. It begged for someone to come and vanquish this foe, to free them from his tyranny.
As a knight of the realm, he had not hesitated. He had made vows and taken oaths to do what was right and fair in the eyes of the law. He had become a knight to protect people from harm and danger, he couldn’t just sit back and let this terrible thing continue to happen.
And so here he was, riding into this forsaken place to do battle with the evil wizard. He made quite the entrance, with his armor clanking, metal on metal. There was no doubt as to his intent.
Faces peered out from behind drawn shades and shuttered windows as he rode past. No one dared to leave the safety of their homes, whatever small amount of safety and comfort they provided. But that was better for the knight. There would be no innocent bystanders to be caught in the crossfire. It was only him and the wizard.
And there, at the end of the street, the rising sun at his back, stood his foe. He had foreseen the knight’s arrival and had heard him from a long way off, due to the ruckus his armor had made. His eyesight and hearing were just as sharp as they were the day he had been born, nearly two hundred years previous. Magic had preserved his health for the most part. It couldn’t do everything, though. His face was pale, wrinkled, and weathered, like a sheet once stretched tightly over a mattress but now loosened and slackened. His head was bald, by choice, or so he claimed. A scraggly beard of whitened hairs hanging from his face swayed in the morning breeze.
The wizard’s robe was long and tattered, black as pitch, and quite stuffy in the morning sun if he was being honest with himself. But as an evil wizard, he had to keep up appearances, even if that meant sacrificing some of his comfort to do so. He clutched his gnarled wizard’s staff in even more gnarled fingers.
He was irritated by this bothersome knight who was trying to keep him from subjugating these townspeople. He was providing them with work, wasn’t he? The kingdom was in a time of economic downturn. They should be thanking him for giving them tasks to do! After all, small towns and businesses suffer the most during a period of financial depression.
The knight reined in his horse, pulling up short of the wizard, and dismounted. It would not do for the creature to get caught in the crossfire either. The horse was not exactly an innocent bystander, but more innocent than the knight, and the knight did not intend to stand by. Anyways, the horse did not have a problem with the wizard. He simply went where the knight directed him. Now, the knight directed him off to the side of the street, out of harm’s way.
The knight stood across from the wicked wizard, his spear and shield in hand. No words needed to be spoken. The intent of both was clear enough. All that remained was for the fight to ensue.
And ensue it did. The wizard acted first, his ancient bones springing into action moments before the knight’s considerably more youthful ones. He leveled his gnarled wizard’s staff at the knight and let loose a roaring fireball. It rocketed toward him with infernal glee.
The knight danced to the side, narrowly avoiding the ball of flame. He could feel the heat from it, scorching and scalding as it passed by. Then, he threw his spear at his foe with a grunt. His aim was true. His throw was fast and well-practiced from years spent honing his craft.
The spear caught the vile wizard in his voluminous cloak and passed through, poking a hole in it like a needle punching its way through a piece of cloth. The wizard’s eyes widened, and he fell backwards to the earthen path. But on the ground, his eyes gleamed with malicious intent. He was not as beaten as he would have the knight believe.
The knight knew naught of his deception. But he was still a knight and knights are wary of their foes, especially of evil wizards. He drew his sword from its sheath and advanced upon his fallen foe, intent on making sure the deed was done.
It was then that the wizard acted once more, one final trick up his sleeve. He sat up quickly, surprising the advancing knight, and pulled a vial from his sleeve. It was a bothersome concoction of his own devising. It was this that he threw at the knight’s feet. The vial cracked and then shattered, the contents billowing forth.
It enveloped the knight in a cloud of greenish gas. He coughed and coughed, tears streaming from his face, his helmet doing nothing to prevent the exposure to the scent. Finally, he staggered free from the mist and ripped off his helmet, searching with watery gaze for the wizard.
But the wizard had vanished like smoke. He was nowhere to be seen. He had taken the opportunity to flee, to cut his losses and try his luck in another town at another time and place. For now, though, he decided it was better to hide his weathered and aged face, especially if the concoction did not work.
The knight stood alone in the street, dazed and befuddled, as the sinister fumes took their toll upon him. By all outward appearances, he was fine. But inwardly, that was not the case, as the townspeople were soon to find. They came out hesitantly from within their shuttered and boarded up homes, trickling out like water dripping from a tap, slowly out onto the street.
They crowded around the knight, congratulating him on his bravery, for running the wicked wizard out of town. They thanked him profusely, saying he had saved their lives. But the knight simply looked confusedly at the gathered crowd. He stared blankly down at the sword in his hand, and at the armor clad upon his skin.
“Excuse me,” he asked hoarsely, his voice dry from not being used in a long while, “But could you tell me what’s going on? Who am I and what am I doing here?”
The townspeople stared at him in horror, at a loss for words. Even though the knight had won the battle, he had still lost. The wizard had gotten the final laugh. His poisonous concoction had taken the knight’s memory from him. And now he stood, dazed and confused, with no knowledge of who he was or what he had done for them.
Finally, a young townswoman stepped forward from among the dumbstruck crowd. She spoke gently to the knight, explaining his predicament as best she could. They did not know his name any more than he did, but they knew he was indeed a knight. If his arms and armor were not enough to convince him of his status, the townswoman carefully unwound the white handkerchief from around her throat. She reached up and tied it around his left wrist as a reminder of what he had done for them.
It was there in that desolate town that The Forgetful Knight earned his name, losing more than he gained. It wouldn’t be the last time he was called such before his tale would end. But the continuation of that tale is for another time.”
Rose fell silent; the only noise in the family automobile came from the scratch of Ed’s pencil, until that too died out when he finished his transcription. Ed slowly put down his pencil atop the page and closed the small notebook around it.
Mother glanced back in the rear-view mirror to see Rose, slightly breathless, looking forward at her and Father anxiously. Father turned in his seat to look back at their daughter. A warm smile was upon his face, his eyes shone with pride.
“I think I speak for all of us when I say I look forward to hearing more about the misadventures of The Forgetful Knight,” he said in his gentle way of speech.
Mother smiled back at Rose, and Ed nodded in agreement wholeheartedly.
I do not know for certain if Marvin or Evelyn Bode ever listened to another one of Rose’s stories of The Forgetful Knight. There is much I do not know concerning the Bode family, even with the extensive research I have undertaken in pursuit of their story. I can only hope that Marvin and Evelyn did indeed hear at least once more the creative tales told by their daughter.
“It sounds as if this poor soul is at the peak of a precipice,” observed Mother, “and that after this first tale, he will plummet into disaster after disaster.”
Rose nodded in agreement. “I wanted to tell a story that makes it clear right from the start that it is a tragedy of sorts.”
Father commented lightly, “The real challenge, then, will be pacing his plummet, or else his tale will end too quickly.”
Mother’s mouth twitched with the beginnings of a smile as she thought to comment upon the mathematically fixed equation that said just how fast a rate one would fall off a precipice. She leaned over slightly towards her husband and whispered, “Nine point eight meters per second squared, dear.”
Father paused and looked over at her before snorting with laughter, a bemused look upon his face. In the back seat, Rose and Ed laughed quietly, while Mother adopted an innocent expression upon her face.
“What I meant by what I said,” articulated Father slowly as he turned towards Rose and momentarily ignored the playful look his wife gave him, “was that you will want to offset your protagonist’s tragedies with moments of favor. Otherwise, your listeners will soon become numb to The Forgetful Knight’s misfortunes.”
Rose accepted her father’s advice graciously. She had considered the same herself but had not decided how best to go about it.
“Is that similar to how you approach writing a tragedy, Father?” asked Ed curiously.
Father nodded with an approving smile at his son. “Indeed, it is, Ed,” he said. “Though,” Father added, “I haven’t written a “tragedy”, so to speak, in quite a while.”
“Your father uses elements of tragedy in his books,” explained Mother, glancing back at Ed in the rear-view mirror.
“What does that mean?” Ed queried with a frown forming upon his face.
“A tragedy is different than a story that uses elements of tragedy,” Mother began, settling comfortably into the role of teacher as she shifted in her seat, and Ed sat forward, listening with intent.
“A tragedy is identified in form by a style of writing that focuses on the actions of the protagonist, which usually end poorly for them or other people,” Mother said.
“An example would be a story about a knight who kills a dragon to rescue a princess, but that wouldn’t be how the story would end. It would be how the story begins. All throughout the tale, the author would leave hints about the tragedy to come. Sometimes the hints would be plain to the reader, other times not, but the result would be the same, disaster and sorrow. Perhaps the knight would be arrested for murdering the dragon, or the dragon’s relatives would attack the kingdom in retribution. Either way, the ending would be catastrophic.”
Mother paused to take a breath before continuing, “A story that uses elements of tragedy is a story that uses tragic devices and themes within the plot but doesn’t necessarily end in tragedy.”
Ed’s eyes widened slightly with understanding. “Oh, so, using your example of a tragedy, the kingdom may be attacked by the dragon’s relatives, but the knight would still defeat them and have a happy ending with the princess?”
Mother nodded as Father spoke up. “It’s the same way with my writing. I’ll use tragic themes, but I don’t like to give my books tragic endings. Some writers do, but I don’t.”
“But you used to?” asked Rose.
Father grunted affirmatively. “I wrote a few tragedies when I was younger.”
“Why’d you stop?” Rose frowned. She couldn’t recall reading any of Father’s tragedies, and she’d read most of his writing.
Father tilted his head to the right at a slight angle as he thought about it. This was a tell-tale sign that Father was deep in thought. Whenever asked a question that he was not prepared to answer, Father would frown slightly and then tilt his head to the right ever so slightly more than the frown. His eyes would stare out at some fixed point on the horizon and he would sit silently until he found his answer.
“I stopped writing tragedies,” Father began softly, “because I realized such tales don’t have the intended effect I want to bring about with my writing.”
“What effect do you want to achieve?” Ed asked as he put his notebook back in his pocket.
“I want my readers to remember that even in the most tragic of situations, there is always some small moment of joy to grab hold of, however fleeting it may be.” Father scratched his mustache with his thumb and index finger before he spoke again. “That there is hope of a good and happy ending for my characters. That is what I want my readers to feel.”
He turned around to face his children in the back seat, his expression curiously serious. “Does that make sense?”
Rose and Ed both nodded mutely, and Father seemed satisfied, as did Mother, who nodded in an almost relieved manner.
“Good,” Father said under his breath and then repeated it once more. “Good.”
Oh, my Dear Reader… If I could assure you that this is but a story with tragic elements and not a tragedy, I would. But I promised you the truth in the writing of these pages, and if you cannot trust what you read to be true, what can you trust? So, here is the truth, Dear Reader. At least, the truest words I can presently write. Whether the tale of the Bodes is a tragedy or merely has tragic elements, I will not say. You must read on.
