The alley was empty when the coach arrived, save for The Sorrower and the girl.
The Coachmaster jumped down from his post and opened the door. Inside, the black dog sat at attention, waiting patiently.
“Hello, Anastasia,” The Coachmaster said to the girl, rousing her from her slumber.
The Sorrower beckoned the girl, Anastasia, to stand, guiding her to the coach and offering a steadying hand to help her up the steps.
She sat next to the dog, throwing her arms around its neck as though it was an old friend. “When I get to the station,” she said to The Sorrower, “I’ll send you a postcard from the place I choose to go to.”
“I’ll await it eagerly,” he told her. He meant it sincerely.
“How long will it take you to teach everyone?” She asked.
“I don’t have to teach everyone,” The Sorrower said. “When I find someone truly willing to open themselves to the truths, then they go on to teach the next, and so on. Just as The Joyous has lived in you, so too will I live in the people who read the whole book.”
“So how many people do you need to teach?"
The Sorrower contemplated one long moment. “That question has no answer more precise than ‘just enough’.”
The girl fell asleep against the black hound. The Coachmaster closed the carriage door and faced The Sorrower. From his head, The Sorrower removed his crown of paper and twigs. He placed it carefully in his bag. “Hello, Mr. Amber,” he said to The Coachmaster.
“Hello again, Sorrower,” said Jonah Amber. “Ordinarily, it would be a pleasure to make your acquaintance once again; I’m sorry our meetings have been under such circumstances.”
“Indeed,” The Sorrower said. “How did you come to be the new Coachmaster? I suppose I was aware a new one was needed, but that it should be you is a surprise to me.”
“You have met Eloise Sunday; it should be no surprise to you that it’s the sort of a thing she would know about.”
“A fair point,” The Sorrower conceded.
“It seemed… fitting, in a way. My story has always been one of death, and I have been its agent. As The Coachmaster, I still am.
“But now,” The Sorrower said, “It is something you guide others through, and not toward. A commendable endeavor; Eloise Sunday certainly picked the right man for the job.”
“I couldn’t help but overhear the last bit of your conversation with your associate,” The Coachmaster said, “And while I personally wouldn’t know either way, there is someone who disagrees with the prospect of your duties being unending.” The Coachmaster reached into his coat pocket, and withdrew a letter.
The Sorrower took it with a furrowed, skeptical brow. “What is this?” He asked.
“An invitation,” The Coachmaster said. “I was told not to spoil the surprise, but I rather think it’s the sort of surprise you’d like to be forewarned of: You, Sorrower, have been cordially invited to your own retirement party.”
The Sorrower opened the letter, grey eyes flicking across the page of tidy handwriting. It was an invitation, certainly, but the invitation neglected to say for what purpose it had been extended. “Ordinarily I would frown on a breach of trust,” The Sorrower said, “but on this occasion I must thank you for it.”
“Would you like a ride?” The Coachmaster asked amiably.
“Thank you,” The Sorrower said earnestly, “But it would be out of your way. Besides that, I already know the way to Number Twenty-Six, Pleasant Crest Lane. You could say that Mrs. Lillian Evangelista is something of an old friend.”
The Coachmaster nodded but once. The Sorrower returned the gesture.
The Coachmaster took his seat on the coach. The Sorrower turned his back before he could watch it leave.
***
Twilight was setting upon the quiet street, though it was difficult to tell: Clouds, dark and heavy, covered the sky-
No, The Sorrower thought: Clouds, dark and heavy, became the sky.
He passed under the hawthorne tree in Mrs. Lillian Evangelista’s garden as he walked up the path to politely rap the doorknocker thrice.
Mrs. Lillian Evangelista was a quiet, comforting presence; subdued in both posture and demeanor in a way that could quite easily be seen as demure, or perhaps even meek. This assumption of her demeanor lasted very briefly, though, only until one saw Mrs. Evangelista in action. Mrs. Lillian Evangelista was quite sure of who she was, thank you, and what she ought to be doing, and what was right and what was wrong. She had no qualms about sharing her opinions, nor in directing others to take action; Mrs. Evangelista did not subscribe to the philosophy that she was solely to bear moral responsibility, or that her convictions should be played out quietly or privately. Mrs. Lillian Evangelista valued her work far too much to conduct it in the background.
“Hello again, Sorrower,” she said with a warm little smile as she opened the door.
“Mrs. Evangelista,” The Sorrower said with a humble bow. “A pleasure to make your reacquaintance.”
“Do come in,” Mrs. Evangelista said, stepping aside to make room for him. “I’ve put the kettle on.”
“Will Mr. Evangelista be joining us this evening?” The Sorrower asked as he remarked at the quiet and stillness of her tidy home.
“I’ve sent him and the boys away,” Mrs. Evangelista said, guiding The Sorrower to the study. “To visit his mother. You noticed it’s quiet around here for once, have you?”
“It certainly makes for a change of pace. Not to say your sons are ill-behaved, mind you-”
“But boys are boys no matter how behaved, Sorrower, you don’t have to tell me, I know it all.”
The Sorrower sat in the same chair he’d sat in before. “How is Mr. Montgomery?”
Mrs. Evangelista’s response could be heard, but not seen, due to her calling amicably across the house while she herself was in the kitchen preparing tea. “Oh, he’s right as rain, he is. You should pop in and see him. The funny little man’s heard from somewhere that ferns ward off thunderstorms, and you’d think he’s turned his lounge into a greenhouse, you can hardly move for all the foliage.”
“For what it’s worth,” The Sorrower said, “he isn’t wrong.”
“Oh, of course not, I’d trust a well-read man like him to know these things.” Mrs. Evangelista bustled back into the room smoothly carrying two large mugs of tea; she had not the time nor the patience for tedious fineries like delicate china cups. “Here you are, dear. No milk, touch of sugar. And besides that,” she went on to say as she took a seat across from The Sorrower, “he does get such joy from the things. Having something to care for sits well with him.”
The Sorrower took a long sip of his tea, prepared exactly as he’d requested on his previous visit. As they lapsed into a silence, The Sorrower asked “If not for him, then why have you called me here? Have you a situation in need of attending?”
“Oh, me? No, not at all,” she replied. “But it occurred to me, Sorrower, that you might.”
“Hm?” The Sorrower politely feigned ignorance, so as not to let on that The Coachmaster clandestinely revealed the nature behind his invitation.
“Oh yes, don’t try to deny it to me. I dare reckon that not once have you bothered to wonder who Sorrows for The Sorrower. Long existence, you’ve had, poor dear, long and I imagine not altogether pleasant.”
“It has not been without hardship,” The Sorrower admitted.
“And I’ve had Mr. Montgomery help me do a bit of reading about you,” Mrs. Evangelista said after a little sip of tea, “and the others like you. We think it’s about you, of course, just little anecdotes and fables, told from a hundred lives over a hundred years, ones that made us say ‘well, that sounds familiar enough.’ And it’s occurred to me, Sorrower, that you aren’t like the rest of us. You’re an idea, I do believe, Sorrower. A way of behaving, of acting, of thinking. You’re the lesson just as much as you are the teacher. And just like I taught my boys to mind their manners just like my mother taught me, I imagine someone who’s learned from The Sorrower can teach all that The Sorrower has to teach.”
The Sorrower, pulled into the tide of Mrs. Evangelista’s manifest will, was beckoned over to a window. He was standing obediently before he could even process that it was happening. Through it, he saw into Mr. Montgomery’s lounge. Through the ferns flanking his side of the window, The Sorrower saw that it was full. And more, that flash of greying hair was altogether familiar.
Eloise Sunday was in Mr. Theodore Montgomery’s lounge.
Nor was she alone: On a sofa, on the far wall, The Sorrower saw the tailor, Drusilla. In another window -pointed out by Mrs. Evangelista- The Sorrower saw into the kitchen, where Asa Greeves and Sheriff Malcolm seemed to be walking an excitedly-nervous Mr. Montgomery through the finer points of carving a ham.
As The Sorrower watched the home and its goings-on, another carriage pulled up. The Hotelier emerged, and strode up to the house. Before she could knock, the door was opened and she was beckoned inside by Marc.
“You’ve gathered them,” The Sorrower said. “Why?”
“Ostensibly,” she replied, “to see you. Convince you they can carry on your good work here, let you retire. But I wasn’t going to make you wade into a party, Sorrower, you don’t seem the sort. Besides, it’s not really for you.”
“And who is it for?”
“In reality,” Mrs. Evangelista mused, “it’s for them. You’re already in the room with them, the way I see it. Your latest batch of students. Your latest batch of lessons well-taught. They’ve all got something to share with each other, now, and just like none of them was quite the same after meeting you, I doubt they’ll be quite the same for having met each other. They’ll teach each other all they have to know, and then they’ll all go off to their corners of the world and spread the good word.”
The Sorrower was silent.
“And really,” Mrs. Evangelista went on, “not a one of them has had it terribly easy, from what I can tell.”
“You aren’t wrong.”
“But there you are,” Mrs. Evangelista went on. “They were good students to you, one and all, and I imagine they’ll make good teachers now, too. Good enough to give you some rest. Especially that Eloise Sunday, I do like her; what she does for her city isn’t a far cry off what you do for the rest of us, I reckon. If we’re in her hands, we’re in good ones, I say.
“I understand I ask a lot of you, Sorrower, and so suddenly, too.” Mrs. Evangelista finished her tea. “So you just go on and think about what I’ve said, and what all those people in that house have to offer the world, and you decide what’s best for you. Even you need to think about what’s best for yourself, Sorrower, and I imagine you need someone like me to tell you that from time to time.”
The Sorrower finished his tea, and Mrs. Evangelista gestured for him to hand her the empty mug. Her hand gently cupped his, just for a second, as he passed it over.
The Sorrower bid his thanks to Mrs. Evangelista.
The Sorrower left.
Comments (0)
See all