Spunky (standard:drama, 3242 words)
Author: Wax	Added: Mar 10 2005	Views/Reads: 2986/2309	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
More or less a sequel to "The Monkey's Paw'" from the turn of the century era. The "Paw" has been passed on.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

particularly difficult to speak about himself. What he did emphasize to 
me was the strange transformation he recognized in his grandfather upon 
his return. He seemed to have regained long lost vigor and had acquired 
an unaccountable new wealth. He had a stride that seemed revitalized. 
This being the situation, it surprisingly drew little attention. For 
many years to come it was not spoken of. 

The time came for the young Mr. Morris to head off to university. It was
a good school, only the best was suitable for the young lad, and his 
grandfather showed he was prepared to spend whatever it took. Nothing 
out of the ordinary touched the young man until his third year, his 
last year. By his own estimates he'd been doing quite well. There was 
nothing special or untoward in his relationships with his schoolmates, 
or his professors even. He recalls the day he was accepted to play the 
part of Romeo for the Bard Theatre Festival. He said he'd never been 
happier in his life. That happiness would not last for very long 
unfortunately. It started with what he mistook as a flirtation with his 
Juliet. During a rehearsal he committed an indiscretion and was 
humiliated by it. The adolescent misstep became exaggerated and spread 
throughout the school, which only compounded the awkwardness they both 
felt in performing their parts. Even before the production faced an 
audience the situation came to an explosive end. It appears the young 
lady had a discreet young man in the wings, so to speak, a hooligan by 
the name of Baskerville. At the mention of his girl friend's name from 
whispering lips, he figured enough was enough. During the final 
rehearsal, one of Shakespeare's finest endearments was implied the 
wrong way and poor Mr. Morris found himself ass over tea kettle on the 
stage with blood trickling from his nose. It was a degradation he never 
recovered from. No coaxing or cajoling could get him back on the stage. 
To make matters worse, a sonnet, or rhyme if you prefer, that told of 
the event, found its way into the school corridors that shamed him even 
more. Surprisingly, when telling me his story he felt no embarrassment 
in repeating it to me. I can still recall how it went. 

A dashing lad of grace and charm 

A toss of wit and strength of arm 

Yet so the heart should rule his nog 

For brash and spunk, plunked by the dog 

I'm certain the dog was in reference to the hooligan's name,
Baskerville. One last act of debasement was the nickname he derived 
from the affair. In the months that followed he was teased with the 
name Spunky. It was all he could bear, walking out one day and he never 
went back. 

He returned to his grandparent's home, braving his grandfather's
displeasure. Surprisingly, he developed a new closeness with the old 
man. It was the last meaningful relationship he ever had.  There really 
isn't much to tell after that until the old soldier passed away. It 
seems to me he took his grandfather's death in stride, similar to other 
comparable incidents later in life. But this began the phase that 
ultimately would define the man. He took over his grandfather's estate. 
Young Mr. Morris was now a very wealthy man. His holdings included many 
valuable parcels of land spread over the breadth of England, funds that 
he knew he probably could never spend, the countryside cottage, and the 
old man's personal things. There was one particular article of 
significance that I must tell you about, but I'll save that for the 
moment. 

I never understood completely why P.D. Morris left his life in England,
but he showed up in New York City in the 1920's. It could be assumed he 
was looking for newer horizons; that's as good a guess as any. Be that 
as it may, I only know that our paths were now closer. It wasn't long 
before he built an empire in North America that rivaled what he still 
he held in Europe. He maintained a low profile that most people were 
suspicious of, but he cared little for what people thought. From his 
homeland he brought with him the beginnings and the manpower to start 
up the tool industry that made his name famous. Systematically he 
bought into the airline industry and became a pioneer in its growth. To 
this day his own airline rates amongst the most preferred and 
respected. When he lost the fever for managing his corporations he 
turned his attention to aviation research. That was when your father 
and I made this amazing man's acquaintance. Your father became his most 
trusted pilot, and I, his financial advisor. The following 10 years 
were the most active and frenzied either of us would ever know. But, as 
all things ultimately come to an end, the innovations and 
accomplishments being fewer and farther between, he lost interest. To 
his credit, the last moment of glory was shared with your father. 
Together they created an aircraft that the world had never seen before, 
or since. It was simply the largest cargo plane in the world. Its 
aerodynamics were close to perfection and the predicted cargo capacity 
assured its success. It was entirely constructed with lumber. Your 
father flew it just the one time and it passed every test. Why it never 
went into production he would not talk about. As far as I know it is 
still in its original hangar. 

Now, P.D. Morris didn't just ride off into the sunset. He wasn't the
type, not then. He disappeared from the map for a while, but that was 
only to recharge his batteries. This I know, because from that point on 
I knew everything. If this man ever confided in anybody I guess you'd 
have to say it was me. So, we took off for California in the 40's. He 
spoke to me about a resurfaced interest in acting. I asked him if he 
was foolishly intent on beginning an acting career, although it 
wouldn't have surprised me. He said he just wanted to make movies, a 
complex man stating the obvious. Now many people wondered many things 
about this man. This time of his life served to perplex all of them. I 
wish it had humoured him, it was worth a laugh. As with everything else 
he touched, he turned Hollywood on its head. He made bigger movies, 
used bigger stars, paid higher salaries, and made more money than 
anyone ever had. To confuse things even more, it was the only time in 
his life that he was even remotely linked to romance. There was not an 
ounce of truth in any of the stories that were circulated in that 
regard. He lived a solitary life, always. I never felt sad for the man, 
he seemed just so in control. Some people may think of him as being 
cold or emotionless, but he was neither of those. When asked by a 
journalist one time to describe himself, surprisingly he answered. He 
said matter of factly that he felt adrift. That was a very significant 
statement. 

I've spent all this time talking about the man so that you'd understand
the last and most important part of what I have to tell you. His 
grandfather had retrieved something from his grieving friend near the 
start of the 20th century. James, think of how long ago that was. It 
had been a horrific experience, more so for the friend, but 
considerable for the old soldier also. It was, as he claimed, an 
artifact of some potent superstitious ability. The details, as told to 
the young Mr. Morris years later, were terribly distressing. The 
artifact was a monkey's paw and it was supposed to be charmed. In some 
manner, it, and his grandfather were directly responsible for the death 
of his friend's son. The legend it carried related from ancient India, 
where an old fakir, a holy man, had put a spell on it. He'd wanted to 
show that fate ruled people's lives, and those who interfered with it 
did so to their sorrow. Because of the spell, three men supposedly 
could make three wishes each and they would all come true. The 
circumstances regarding the death of his friend's son, and the eventual 
madness in both his friend and the friend's wife were more than he 
could bear. His conscience was assaulting him every waking moment. His 
retirement was an unendurable hell. Returning to India was his last 
hope. If he could understand the purpose of such loss more clearly 
maybe he could salvage his own sanity. Through long hardships he found 
the fakir in a remote and inhospitable location in mountainous India. 
The fakir received him welcomely, putting on a great show for the old 
soldier. They spoke for many hours and many nights. Always, the fakir 
explained to the old soldier, that it was the nonbelievers who were in 
peril. Nonbelievers of what, asked the old soldier. Those without the 
faith in the fate of their lives, was his reply. Those who do not trust 
in an ultimate destiny. The old soldier told him that not everyone 
could share in his belief. Most people were just simple in their 
expectations of life. The fakir would not consider this. Without 
respect for the fates that we are all bound to we should not expect 
anything but hardship and misery. And deserving of suffering and death. 
The old soldier described his part in the death of his friend's son and 
wept. The fakir's eyes flamed red with rage. He looked down on the old 
soldier with contempt and mocked him for a fool. The old soldier now 
knew the fool he had become. He felt the pain for the death he'd 
caused, pain for the loss of human feeling in this man who stood before 
him. But he did not feel the pain at the moment he struck him down, 
struck him as many times before he breathed his last. It was then that 
he breathed easier himself, breathed fresh air unlike any he'd known 
for so many months of anguish. Strength returned to his limbs, alive 
again in every ounce of his being. He left the fakir lying there 
without a look back. The old soldier steered a straight course to his 
birth land, home to make amends if possible. Nothing could be saved of 
his friends; it was folly to hope that their sanity could ever be 
regained. He continued his visitations with them, but the level of 
their sorrow was unreachable. He must stand by them; it was the least 
he could do. He felt better about himself somehow; perhaps time would 
heal their wounds, and his. 

The years raced by, and one day he lay breathing his last. No doubt he
recalled the dying breathes of the old fakir. Sitting beside him was 
the grandson he loved. With many tears between the two the story of the 
monkey's paw was retold. The old soldier told his grandson, as he 
removed the monkey's paw from beneath the sheets, that this was his 
legacy. Cherish it. The spell was as potent as ever, he should never 
forget that. It can turn on the selfish; it would certainly bring you 
suffering, but only if you were deserving of suffering. It was then 
that the young man understood his grandfather's wealth, and his earlier 
vitality. He had defied the charm and its peril once again, and 
vanquished any of the tragic consequences. His grandson assured him 
that he understood his grandfather's warnings, the blame for his 
friend's son, the death of the holy man, and the warmth and love he'd 
given to him all his life. He understood and loved him as only a man 
can love another man, for P.D. Morris was a man now. He buried his 
grandfather, purchased his first business suit, and sat down with 
lawyers. 

P.D. Morris was truly a man of ambition. When I think of how he faded
near the end it was like the fuse of a candle slowly flickering, only 
to eventually extinguish. I was the closest to being a friend that he 
ever had. Did I love Him? That's a hard question to ask of myself. But 
I respected the man from the bottom of my soul. He was always very 
civil to me. When your father died he spoke fondly of him, a manner 
that was entirely unfamiliar with him, for anybody. You were too young 
to remember, but he did attend your father's funeral. There were many 
benefits your mothers received; I made all the arrangements. 

And now, you're here because I asked to see you. You're special to me,
James. You've always been straight with me. I love you for that, and 
especially for your tenacity to experience as much of life as the laws 
of nature permit. Earlier, it seemed impossible that I could tell you 
all of this, but somehow I have, and you haven't disappointed me in 
your reaction. You've probably guessed that I buried the man. He 
appointed me as executor of his estate. I had spent many of his last 
hours with him, spellbound by the believability of it all. He was as 
sharp as a tack right to the end. When the end did come, he showed no 
fear. I thank him for that. Without his strength I could not have been 
party to the inevitable transference I knew he expected of me. With 
only a whisper he passed on the paw to me. He closed his eyes 
peacefully and I wept. 

Mr. Post left here with a brief case, James. It contains the artifact, a
truly magical leftover from the past that will challenge you in the 
future. Soon, I expect he will carry out my own last wishes, and of 
most importance is that you become custodian of the Monkey's Paw. Don't 
let me down James. Don't let the old soldier down, and don't let P.D. 
Morris down." 

The love for his uncle would not allow James to disbelieve a word that
he'd heard. Naturally, he sat motionless until the full impact settled 
in. When he felt stable enough to stand, he rose and approached his 
uncle. With the loving care that only the devoted can exhibit he helped 
his uncle from his chair and led him into the beach house. When he was 
content that the old man was comfortable in his bed he returned to the 
deck overlooking the ocean. He stared out to the horizon. He didn't see 
the trendsetters, or the sleek imposing yachts, or even the golden 
tanned. He listened to echoed voices far away. The voices were not from 
some time he'd only imagined before. These voices were as real, as 
cruel, and as frightening as he'd ever known. They raced down a 
corridor in a cold gust of wind. James whispered under his breath, "I 
won't let you down, Spunky." 


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