We had a storm last night. I couldn't sleep, I'm thinking the captain in me. By 1am my tired mind began to wonder, and soon a story snuck into the moments between the windy gusts. By 2 I knew I couldn't sleep until i took some notes. It was the end of a story really, and I had no idea how it started.
This is what developed and I have no idea why. I hope you enjoy it as much as it has disturbed me to write it.
It is offered with a guarded smile, because sometimes the writer has no control over what he writes.
Please enjoy The Bells of Otter Bay
This is what developed and I have no idea why. I hope you enjoy it as much as it has disturbed me to write it.
It is offered with a guarded smile, because sometimes the writer has no control over what he writes.
Please enjoy The Bells of Otter Bay
So many years from childhood, time has added color to my memories of this place, of sunlit summer days filled with endless pirate adventures, and nights around the beach fire, eating two helpings of whatever my parents offered, falling asleep, delightfully tired all the way down to my toes.
Tonight finds me by my father’s bedside, the light low, a window open to the cool November breeze.
His eyes are as warm as I remember, yet the color of life has faded from him, more today then ever.
He see’s in my face a sadness. “The Bells my son”.
“Father”? I look to him from my chair, holding his hand, cool skin. I look down at brown splotches and not much more.
With a quiet, unhurried voice he asks. “Do you hear them? Listen, they will sound, tonight I think”.
Tonight finds me by my father’s bedside, the light low, a window open to the cool November breeze.
His eyes are as warm as I remember, yet the color of life has faded from him, more today then ever.
He see’s in my face a sadness. “The Bells my son”.
“Father”? I look to him from my chair, holding his hand, cool skin. I look down at brown splotches and not much more.
With a quiet, unhurried voice he asks. “Do you hear them? Listen, they will sound, tonight I think”.
I know the tale, told each year around this time, and often around the campfire. The bells of Otter Bay. A call, a guide if you believe it, for those leaving this life for the next. This had been my father’s, father’s story, passed down again and again.
I try to smile, a slight shake of my head. “Not tonight Father.”
His eyes close in respite, and again that slow purposeful voice. “Let me know when you hear them. Yes, tonight, don’t keep it from me, let me know.”
I need not answer, he has drifted off, as he does frequently now. But I wonder, as the days shorten and the nights get colder, about the tome he obviously waits for. This child’s story keeps him from peace I think, and I wonder how long the man can endure.
An hour, maybe two, and I’m roused from slumber by something, maybe a memory of this place, now fading.
Standing, stretching, I look to see my father there in his bed, chest gently rising up and down, a peaceful face hiding all the suffering he has had to endure these last few months.
I move to the window and drink in the night air. Oh, it is quiet here, unique and untouched by the world, even tonight hidden by a dark moonless sky. I wonder what awoke me?
I listen to the southeast wind, and out beyond the house comes the chirping of otters down by the docks, and here and there the grunts of cormorants complaining about their neighbors.
But on my next breath, the world quiets. There against the distant hill comes the sound of a bell, clear, without echo.
Again and again.
An unworldly sound too perfect for this night or any other.
Again and again.
The air is so cold.
It rings closer now, up the bay towards the eastern hill.
Again and again.
Again and again.
The bells of Otter Bay!
With moist eyes and a grim smile I turn and sit at my father’s side.
Holding his hand, I need to tell him, tell him I’ve heard the bells, and he can now rest.
But his face is calm, eyes closed. This night’s sleep holds him forever, he carries whatever dreams as they may be off into the night.
Weeping as a man, quiet in my grief, I hear the bells once more.
Again and again.
Again and again.
I look to the window, understanding at last.
The bells of Otter Bay toll when another Island man is coming home.
I try to smile, a slight shake of my head. “Not tonight Father.”
His eyes close in respite, and again that slow purposeful voice. “Let me know when you hear them. Yes, tonight, don’t keep it from me, let me know.”
I need not answer, he has drifted off, as he does frequently now. But I wonder, as the days shorten and the nights get colder, about the tome he obviously waits for. This child’s story keeps him from peace I think, and I wonder how long the man can endure.
An hour, maybe two, and I’m roused from slumber by something, maybe a memory of this place, now fading.
Standing, stretching, I look to see my father there in his bed, chest gently rising up and down, a peaceful face hiding all the suffering he has had to endure these last few months.
I move to the window and drink in the night air. Oh, it is quiet here, unique and untouched by the world, even tonight hidden by a dark moonless sky. I wonder what awoke me?
I listen to the southeast wind, and out beyond the house comes the chirping of otters down by the docks, and here and there the grunts of cormorants complaining about their neighbors.
But on my next breath, the world quiets. There against the distant hill comes the sound of a bell, clear, without echo.
Again and again.
An unworldly sound too perfect for this night or any other.
Again and again.
The air is so cold.
It rings closer now, up the bay towards the eastern hill.
Again and again.
Again and again.
The bells of Otter Bay!
With moist eyes and a grim smile I turn and sit at my father’s side.
Holding his hand, I need to tell him, tell him I’ve heard the bells, and he can now rest.
But his face is calm, eyes closed. This night’s sleep holds him forever, he carries whatever dreams as they may be off into the night.
Weeping as a man, quiet in my grief, I hear the bells once more.
Again and again.
Again and again.
I look to the window, understanding at last.
The bells of Otter Bay toll when another Island man is coming home.
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