Candle in the Attic Window(8)

On the small end table beside my chair was a lamp, an ashtray and a small cameo portrait of my mother. I sank down into the seat and stared at it in wonder, for her face, though altered by age, was discernibly the same as that of my young visitor.




I have no idea how much time has passed since my last entry. I have been too preoccupied to add to this history. No, that’s not entirely true. On several occasions, I have attempted to record what has been happening, but in every instance, I have been unable to do so. The ability to fashion words into these abstract symbols seems to have become as transient as everything else in my environment. That may be just as well, as there are only a few blank pages left.

But at the moment, the old skill has returned, although it takes me much longer to form each word than it did in the past and when I glance back at what I have already written, it seems an incomprehensible jumble.

It was a tedious process, but I have made contact with the tribe. There are six adults and four children, two of each sex. The three adult males vary in age from late adolescence to elderly; the three women are tiered similarly, although each is noticeably younger than her respective mate. The oldest couple has a son who is nearly grown; the middle pair has a son and daughter, both in their mid-teens, and the youngest has a daughter, the one who visited my bedside. They speak, but no language that I recognize; nor do they respond to mine. Some of their clothing has been fashioned from towels or draperies; the rest consists of animal skins. The women forage for food in the kitchen and pantry, the men hunt the occasional doe. I have seen no evidence of any other animal life, although berry-bearing vines have sprung up in the pantry.

The males all bear my father’s face, altered only to reflect their apparent age. The females are variations of my mother. I cannot explain this. They are not close relatives; they are the same.

Although they have a spoken language, it is nothing I can comprehend and they don’t understand my words any better than I do theirs. At first, they were wary. The women ran off when I approached; the men warned me off by brandishing their weapons and shouting. Eventually, I managed to win a measure of their trust. They will not share their food with me, but if I bring my own, I am allowed to sit by their fire and eat with them. There is considerably less furniture in the house now, and a permanent burn mark in the centre of the foyer, but they have not touched anything in my bedroom and none of them seems to have entered it since my first encounter with the child.

Until today, I was merely tolerated, but my patience has finally borne fruit. The oldest of the three males approached and I stood before him, eyes respectfully downcast. He muttered another incomprehensible speech then thrust his spear forward, offering it to me. Tentatively, I accepted it, raising my eyes to try to determine what else was wanted.

He nodded toward the cooking fire then rubbed his bare, protruding belly with slow, exaggerated motions. His meaning was self-evident. He wanted me to find food for the tribe. Instinctively, I knew that this was a test, that if I succeeded, I would have proven myself one of them. I smiled and nodded, indicating that I understood, then turned and left them.

There is no apparent pattern to the appearance, or disappearance, of the does. Sometimes, I see several in one day, or perhaps the same one several times; sometimes, I see none at all. I prowled the upper floors at first, reasoning that the presence of the tribe below would scare them off. Room after room proved empty, emptier than ever before. I now wonder what will happen once all the flammable materials in the house have been exhausted. Will we be reduced to eating everything uncooked? Will the house grow cold when winter comes, if it hasn’t, already? I have no idea what the date might be.

A familiar fear assails me. What happens if I fail this test? Will I have another opportunity to prove myself or will I be forever disenfranchised? As this possibility grows more prominent in my thoughts, I find my early confidence giving way to nearly paralytic anxiety. What if I cannot measure up to the tribe’s standards? What if I am not man enough?




It is much later now. I have failed. It would have been bitterly disappointing to have tried and fallen short; it is immeasurably more devastating to have faltered even before making the attempt.

I had nearly despaired of finding my prey before fatigue forced me to sleep. A dozen or more visits to every room had been unproductive. Exhausted, I sank into one of the few remaining armchairs, in what used to be one of the guest bedrooms. I must have dozed off, because I woke with a start, having slipped partway down, banging my elbow painfully against the carved wooden arm.





Eyes stared into mine from only a meter away. It was a doe, head raised from where she had been grazing on one of mother’s rugs. She watched me closely but without evident alarm. My spear was resting against the wall, near my right hand, and I reached for it very slowly, not wanting to frighten the animal off. She seemed oblivious to her danger and my heart raced with the prospect of making the kill, winning my admission into the tribe. I closed my fingers around the shaft and slowly raised it over one shoulder. My legs were stiff and sore, but I couldn’t strike while sitting, so I pushed up, ever so slowly, until I was fully erect, the spear poised for the strike.

At the last moment, as the muscles in my arm tightened for the final blow, the doe raised its head and looked at me and there was something familiar and almost human about its face. In that moment, I hesitated and lowered my arm. The doe took one last bite of the carpet then wandered off, unconcerned. I never saw her again.