The original version of the story: https://duryee.net/calizonasotan/dylan-dead
Listen to version 2 of the story...
One
Rain fell from gloomy clouds that loomed over the island's verdant, rolling hills. Far below the cliffs, the churning sea crashed against the rocks as foam sprayed wildly. Seagulls cried out overhead while Dylan braced against the fierce wind and gazed out at the turbulent water. Shielding his eyes from the salty spray and rain, he stared out at the vast ocean. The powerful northern wind signaled this storm was just beginning. After all, volatile weather was common in the Foggy Islands during spring. A clear, cloudless day was a rarity this time of year. His small breakfast fire of dry peat moss sputtered pitifully against the rain, slowly losing its battle to stay lit. Dylan didn't notice the dying fire, nor did he seem to care about anything except searching the sea. He was looking for something specific, but was uncertain where to find it.
Roger, Dylan's horse, stamped the ground impatiently, anxious to go somewhere less wet and gloomy than their current surroundings. The horse exhaled forcefully, spraying spit that the wind plastered onto the back of Dylan's exposed neck.
"What the..." Dylan wiped the back of his neck and examined his hand, which was covered in slime. Strands of grass and bits of apple revealed the culprit - the horse he had recently fed. "Thanks a lot," Dylan said sarcastically. "I'm trying to work here, and you're blowing snot all over me. Bloody wreck of a horse!"
Roger shook his head and stamped his hoof forcefully into the grass, then theatrically stretched his neck, lifted his head, and rolled his eyes toward Dylan. He snorted, spraying Dylan, who cursed and grabbed the dangling lead. “Fine, let’s go if that’s what you want,” Dylan growled, stamping out the fire he had cooked breakfast over before setting off with the impatient horse.
After trudging northward for several miles against the wind and rain, Dylan stopped, cursed as he wiped his eyes, and stamped his foot in frustration, splashing mud everywhere. "What am I doing?" he wondered aloud before climbing onto Roger's back and urging the horse into a trot. By mid-afternoon, they arrived at a small seaside village nestled at the base of the cliffs, the crashing waves just beyond.
Dylan and Roger had been traveling together for weeks since leaving Dylan's home on the family farm in search of three necessities: first, seeds for the crops they would plant back home; second, bolts of linen, which Dylan's mother, sister, and grandmother would sew into tablecloths, clothes, and other items to sell at market.
Dylan had successfully found all the seeds needed, but he struggled to find linen. The flax plants that linen is made from had suffered from poor weather lately. Additionally, wealthy merchants from nearby lands had recently bought all the linen fabric and thread they could find.
Oh, and in addition to the other items on his list, Dylan was also looking for a wife.
Two
During his long trek from the farm, Dylan had spent most of the money his father had given him. Seeds were relatively inexpensive, but lodging and food added up quickly. While he was not prone to gambling away his funds like some travelers, he did indulge in a bit of gambling here and there. Similarly, Dylan avoided wasting much money in pubs, though he would occasionally treat himself to a drink.
The word "pub" is short for "public house" and a pub is typically attached to an inn where travelers lodge and sleep while dining in the pub. In the Foggy Islands, pubs have always served as community hubs where locals mingle with visitors, quietly chatting over ale or other fermented drinks.
Sometimes this discussion and drinking can turn quite lively, however. In fact, finding a “quiet pub” had been another of Dylan’s goals for quite some time as he and Roger walked through the rain. By the time they actually reached the town, however, Dylan had decided that even a very noisy pub would do, and that was a good thing because science has yet to discover the existence of a “quiet pub”.
A strange effect comes over people when they enter a pub. Most often, they involuntarily shout, "Pints for the house!" This cry always sparks a noisy hustle and bustle as drinks are passed around, lasting until the next person enters and shouts the same. Then the cycle repeats. Amid the excitement, someone may take offense at another's remark, igniting a brawl amid the cheer. Between the clamor, those who entered hours ago try leaving, spurring raucous goodbyes and triggering more shouts for drinks, renewing the ruckus. Few people actually depart the pub.
Dylan only spent a small amount of his money at pubs; usually others bought him drinks during his travels, whether they were entering or leaving the pub.
Roger and Dylan arrived in town on that rainy, stormy afternoon, following the muddy road through the town center to the stables. The stables appeared clean and cheery, made more inviting by the aroma of fresh hay wafting from the open doors and the occasional happy snort of a horse enjoying the dry warmth inside. As they stopped outside, Roger perked up his ears. Dylan spoke to the stablemaster, then reached into his pocket for his coin purse. Counting his dwindling funds, Dylan realized he had even less than expected. Soon he would need to find work or head home without the linen and, most frustratingly, without meeting his future wife.
Dylan had been searching eagerly at sea for his one true love earlier that day, not yet realizing that finding a future spouse rarely happens through deliberate seeking alone. For most people, discovering their life partner involves at least some mystery and surprise, rather than simply going out and accomplishing it as a task.
Dylan was bright, having inherited his mother's quick wit and his father's aptitude for numbers. However, like many of us, he struggled to understand love, though he yearned to find his true love.
Having paid someone else to watch Roger for a while, Dylan made his way to the pub, which not only offered company, but a meal, a bath, and a dry bed to sleep in. Dylan had been sleeping outside under his woolen blanket for five nights now, and not only was he soaked through to his bones, he also desperately needed a bath, and was so hungry he could eat a horse. (But not Roger. For all his cursing, Dylan loved his horse.) The pub offered all four of the things Dylan craved at the moment, and so he hurried off across the street in search of what the stableman had informed him was the Boar’s Head Pub.
Just then, a man suddenly crashed through a door and landed face-first in the mud at Dylan’s feet. Raucous laughter erupted from inside, and the mud-covered man rolled over with a groan. "Pints for the house!" he announced feebly. The victor of the brawl emerged to help him up and offer a congratulatory hug and towel. Dylan had found the pub.
Three
Inside, all was warm with a huge fire in the fireplace. The massive timbers framing the building glowed a deep brown and the candles lighting the room gave a golden sheen to everything their light struck. Dylan navigated through the room to the long wooden bar in the back, where he asked the young woman tending bar for a room, bath, meal, and song in order of priority. After paying her requested price in gold coins, he turned to climb the stairs to his assigned room.
At that moment, a man entered the pub and roared “Pints for the house!” as was the custom, and Dylan found himself suddenly confronted by the appearance of a pewter mug of ale in his hand. Knowing that to turn down the hospitality of a stranger in such a case was asking to get his head dipped in the mud rather roughly, he raised the mug, toasted the newcomer and drained a good portion of the beverage. Foam on his lip, he lowered the mug and glanced around the room. No one was obviously staring at him, so he quietly climbed the stairs, taking pains not to make a creak or squeak, arriving at the upper landing without being noticed by the crowd below.
The young lady working behind the bar who had just given him the key to his room, watched Dylan leave with a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, giving a subtle hint as to her thoughts.
Exhausted after sleeping on wet ground for five days, he trudged to his room and went inside. The ale quenched his thirst, so he gulped down the rest, put the mug and his meager belongings on the table by the window, and searched for a washbasin and bed. As the sun hid behind thick clouds, the light grew dim in the dusky room. He squinted to see through the gloom.
As Dylan entered the room, he noticed that in addition to the empty bed under the window and table, there was another bed against the far wall. Slowly it became clear that someone was sleeping in that bed. Dylan made some noises to alert the person to his presence, but they did not stir or greet him.
Dylan politely coughed once, twice, three times, but the sleeping figure didn't stir. Getting no response, he moved to another table set against the far wall and gave it a firm nudge, scraping its legs loudly against the wooden floor. A tense quiet filled the room.
Dylan looked again and saw the sleeping figure was completely still. He cautiously approached the bed and peered at the motionless form. He coughed, cleared his throat, and stomped loudly, but the sleeper did not stir. As Dylan shook the person's shoulder, the body felt rigid, as if the muscles had frozen. With a shock, Dylan realized the figure was not asleep, but dead. This was something that Dylan hadn’t expected, and he recoiled at the touch of the cold, lifeless body.
What was Dylan supposed to do in the position he found himself in? He could have alerted the others downstairs to his plight. He could also have straight-headedly gone directly to the authorities, for there are always those about, and reported the presence of a body in the room he wished to sleep in. He could have also bundled the lifeless form out into the hallway and let someone else deal with the unpleasantries. What crossed his mind at the moment, however, was that this body was really in his way, so he pulled the body out of the bed and plopped it onto the floor.
The consequences of his actions dawned on him only after the deed was done. The foul odor now permeating the room made it clear the unfortunate soul had been dead for quite some time.
At this point, Dylan altered his plans and decided to get help after all. He trudged downstairs and found the young lady who had taken his payment for the room.
Four
Dylan excused himself, and she turned around. When she saw him, the corners of her mouth curled up again, and her eyes seemed to grow larger and shine a little brighter, but Dylan didn’t notice this, worried as he was about the issue of the corpse in his bedroom. He told her of his plight, and the little smile and bright eyes extinguished themselves, although they did extinguish rather slowly.
When Dylan described the deceased, she realized it was Greely, a kindly old gentleman who had fallen on hard times in his later years. Though her father, the innkeeper, would disapprove due to Greely's debts, she had compassionately allowed him to stay in a room on cold, wet nights, unable to bear the thought of the old man sleeping outside alone. Greely was shunned by many townspeople to whom he owed money from failed business ventures, but she quietly looked past his flaws and saw his humanity.
She did not tell Dylan the complex details of the man's life. However, since she found the young man attractive, she decided to ask Dylan to help her remove the man from the inn after closing. Her goal was to conceal that she had permitted the man inside in the first place.
“Would you be so kind…er…I mean…well, I know that you probably don’t care, but I was hoping that you’d help me remove him later,” and she went on to tell him about her father, who was a decent man but simply wouldn’t understand the whole affair.
Dylan listened intently as she told her story, feeling something stir inside him. He noticed for the first time her flaxen hair and deep blue eyes. When she finished explaining why she needed his help, Dylan was utterly and hopelessly in love. If she had asked him to swim across the ocean, he would have eagerly obliged.
After she finished her tale, an awkward silence fell, and Dylan realized it was his turn to speak. Striving for eloquence, he stammered, "W-w-w-what is your n-n-name?"
She narrowed her eyes and furrowed her brow in a manner that was both cute yet serious. "What did you say?" she asked.
Dylan tried speaking again, slowly asking, "What is your name?"
Her eyes brightened, and she smiled at him like people do when they finally understand what a two-year-old is saying to them. “My name’s Anya, what’s yours?”
Dylan felt the ground tremble and blood rush to his face as his mind raced. "Dyanalalallnnn," he garbled.
"Pardon?" Anya replied, her eyebrows scrunching together adorably in confusion.
Dylan's knees weakened. He cleared his throat and tried again, dragging out the "n" in "Dylannn." Though elongated, it was clear enough for Anya to grasp his name.
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Dylan. Let me get you the key to another room so you can freshen up."
Dylan had forgotten he was covered in mud and horse snot. Blushing once more, he felt like a glowing beacon. Yet Anya simply smiled her slight smile and handed him a key and all the coins he'd paid for his room.
"You stay free if you find anything wrong with your room," she shrugged, "and finding a dead body would certainly qualify as 'wrong' under the Boar's Head Inn's policy. So I'll just tell my father you saw a rat in there or something," she whispered.
Dylan slurred his words in appreciation of the girl's quick understanding, "Thankkkkk yououuuu." She smiled, beautifully again, in response. "No sir, thank you". Dylan stared blankly back at her as time seemed to slow down. "Go! Get cleaned up and come back down; it's supper time!"
The happy twisting, vibrating, and frolicking in Dylan's brain lurched to a stop as he remembered where he was and what he was supposed to do. With a smile, he climbed back up the stairs, transformed from the young man who had descended them just minutes before.
Dylan quickly cleaned himself in his new, mercifully unoccupied room, skipping the lengthy, soothing bath he had been longing for. His heart could not bear it, as his mind was racing in countless directions simultaneously.
On the one hand, he was consumed with how to remove the poor dead man's body from the inn without raising suspicions and what to do with it if they succeeded. On the other hand, he was enraptured just by the sound of the young lady's name, "Anya." He turned her name over in his mind, letting the syllables roll off his tongue - "aaaahn-ya" - and pictured her standing in the candlelight, her hair and eyes glowing. Then his thoughts would dart back to the corpse in the other room. He would ponder that, then Anya's name, her hair, her eyes, would fill his mind again. He tried in vain to stop thinking completely, but she was so breathtakingly beautiful that his thoughts cycled endlessly between her and the body.
After finishing the chore of cleaning himself, he put on his least dirty set of clothes, quickly ran his hand through his hair, and descended the stairs. Anya was scurrying from table to table, serving piping hot plates of food. All Dylan noticed was her radiant smile. He sat at a table and she promptly brought him a bowl of the inn's specialty - hot, savory lamb stew. Having composed himself, he thanked her without stammering. As he ate the delicious stew, he watched her bustle around the dining area.
Watching her, he wondered: Could this be the young lady he'd been searching for? She certainly seemed to match his hopes. But did she share his interest? Did she find him appealing at all? In short, was he the type of person she was attracted to? Was he, in short, interesting to her at all?
Dylan obviously hadn’t been paying enough attention to Anya.
The pub gradually grew quiet as closing time neared and the last of the guests trickled out. Dylan smiled at the rare stillness that settled in; “For once, a quiet pub” he thought. Anya began tidying the empty tables, then made her way over to Dylan's and flashed him a warm smile. His heart fluttered at the sight of her.
"Why don't you go up to your room? I'll be up in a while after father goes to sleep," she whispered to him.
Whispering, Dylan said, "Right, good idea. What are we going to do with him?"
"I don't know," she whispered back. "Normally we could just take him to the undertaker down the street, but he owed so many debts that the law says he can't be buried in the cemetery. So the undertaker won't do anything unless we pay off the debts. I thought we might get him down to the ocean. He was a fisherman once and always loved the sea."
Dylan thought about this. Then he thought some more.
Anya whispered, “Go upstairs and we can figure it out tonight.”
“Yes, right! Ok, I’ll see you then.”
This strange turn of events prompted him to rise and head upstairs. But then he had an idea: They would need transportation to avoid parading a corpse through town late at night. So he went outside, crossed the muddy street to the stables, and fetched Roger.
Five
The moon peeked through a break in the storm, casting dim light on the muddy streets and low buildings of the town. Late at night, he knocked on the stable keeper's door, apologizing for the hour before asking to take his horse out. Led around the corner, Roger had an unmistakably perturbed look in his eye. Being pulled from the warm stable, companionship, dry straw, and fresh oats to run an unknown errand in the rain would perturb anyone. He shook his head, snorted, and rolled his eyes in protest.
On his way to the stable, Dylan had decided to visit the town undertaker, to learn more about the law preventing debtor burials. He disliked the idea of discarding the body at sea. He asked for directions to the undertaker’s from the stable keeper, who looked at him with questioning eyes, but Dylan offered no explanations. He thanked the keeper for the information and apologized for the late hour. Then Dylan and Roger headed to the undertaker's office together.
Rapping on an undertaker's door in the dead of night brings its own peculiar sensations. Dylan found none of them agreeable, yet he was resolved to learn what could be accomplished. So he knocked and waited. At last the cadaverous mortician answered, looking so gaunt and sepulchral in his black robe that Dylan pictured him as his own next client. The old man was skeletal - all protruding bones and pallid, sagging skin. In short, he was ideally matched to his line of work.
In a gravelly, raven-like rasp, the Undertaker wheezed, "Yes, may I help you?"
"Yes," Dylan said courageously, "I seem to have a problem. A man has passed away, and unfortunately, since he was in debt when alive, you cannot bury him in the cemetery. This is truly disheartening. Is there any way we could help give this poor man a proper burial?"
“Ah, Greely must have passed on. I knew he was sick and talked with him just days ago to find out what he could do. At this point young man, I can tell you that he owed money to nearly every businessman in town. For my part, I loaned him the money to bury his wife when she died many years ago, and he still owes me that sum. I think that if that debt were repaid, I could take care of him. But then I won’t be the most popular man in town. Not that I am anyway.”
This last remark was followed by a wheezing laugh from deep in the undertaker’s lungs that sent shivers up and down Dylan’s spine and made him want to run away screaming into the night while pulling out his hair. But he stood his ground and asked how much the debt was.
Dylan was astounded when the man told him the amount owed was the exact amount of money left in his purse. Acting on impulse, he grabbed his pouch, paid the undertaker, and promised to retrieve the body later. Dylan then hurried back to Roger, hopped on his bare back and galloped away through the moonlight, relieved to escape the situation.
While returning to the pub, Dylan began wondering what exactly he had done to end up penniless and far from home. Roger shook his head and snorted in disapproval.
Back at the pub, Dylan took Roger behind the building and found an empty, unused roof extension hidden in some overgrown shrubs; it likely once sheltered firewood but now provided a covered spot for Roger to take shelter from the rain. Leaving Roger there, Dylan returned to the pub's front entrance, relieved to find the door unlocked. For the second time that day, he quietly crept upstairs, listening to the sounds of Anya and her father talking and tidying up the kitchen.
Exhausted, Dylan opened the door to his bedroom, collapsed onto the bed, and fell asleep instantly. Two hours later, Anya tapped gently on his door. When Dylan opened it, he gazed silently at her striking beauty, his heart melting with affection once again.
“What shall we do?” he asked.
“First let’s put him in this” and she held up a large canvas bag. “My laundry bag can help us avoid suspicion. I told my father I was washing sheets from the empty rooms, so he won't think twice if he sees me carrying it full. You, on the other hand, need to stay out of sight.”
Dylan suddenly announced, "I went to see the undertaker earlier."
Anya looked at him...”What?”
“I visited the undertaker earlier tonight after retrieving my horse from the stable. I paid the debt Greely owed to him and he agreed to accept the body.”
Anya stared at Dylan, awestruck. "What you did was the most wonderful, generous thing I've ever heard of. You are very generous and kind. Or you have no mind for money."
Dylan laughed and replied, "Maybe it's both. We had to choose between that or tossing the poor guy into the ocean. I couldn't bear doing that, and I wouldn't want that weighing on your conscience either."
Another silence grew between them, but unlike before, this one was comfortable. They simply gazed at each other, and for that moment, no words were needed, it was absolutely the perfect thing to do.
"Let's get started," Anya said, and they proceeded down the hall to the room where the man's body lay. As she opened the door, a foul odor billowed out, forcing Anya to pause and collect herself. "Quite unpleasant that," she said. With care, they maneuvered the corpse into a canvas bag, a delicate and distinctly disagreeable task, then cinched the top closed. Though muted, the stench remained overpowering. Exchanging glances, they recognized the formidable undertaking that awaited them.
“Ok, I tied my horse around back. Is there a back stairway?”
“Yes, it’s just at the other end of the hallway. Ready?”
“Yes” said Dylan.
Working as a team, they lifted the heavy burden off the floor and maneuvered it to the door. Meanwhile, Anya listened closely for any sounds from her father. Hearing no movement, she could only assume he was asleep.
Next, they faced the challenge of descending the stairs without making any noise. Dylan wondered how many times he had to sneak up or down stairs in just one day.
Half way down the stairs, Anya lost her grip on the bag and there was a loud thump. Dylan instinctively whispered "Shhhh!", though he realized a moment later that cautioning silence was pointless, if not counterproductive. Of course Anya grasped the need for stealth right now.
Anya said nothing in response. They reclaimed their hold on the bag and proceeded down the stairwell to the bottom floor.
Anya decided now was the time to tell Dylan that her father's bedroom window overlooked the back of the building. So they would need to be extremely quiet while loading the cargo onto the horse. The rain continued as they lugged the gruesome load across the open space and around the bushes. Anya peeked back at her father's dark window and exhaled in relief.
Roger waited patiently in his shelter, knowing Dylan and Anya approached regardless of their stealth. As a horse, his sharp sense of hearing likely detected them huffing upstairs. An intelligent horse, Roger understood now wasn't the time to show frustration over being tied up outside for hours while the others stayed comfortable inside. Unaware of their plan to place a corpse on his back, he may have responded differently. Despite difficulty positioning Mr. Greely's body across him, Dylan and Anya eventually succeeded in leading Roger and the remains into the dark, wet streets.
For many years, it had been Anya's father's nightly ritual to sit quietly in his darkened room, alone with his thoughts and memories after a long day's work. As he sat on his bed gazing out the window, he wondered about the secretive contents of the young couple's bag, and their bashfulness about their blossoming love. With a smile and a shake of his head, he chuckled to himself about the follies of youth, then finished the last sip of brandy in his glass. That night, he reminisced about his own midnight walks in the rain with Anya's mother, whose untimely death still pained him. Yet she visited him nightly in his dreams, so the ache of loss and separation was endurable. Most nights, at least.
When Anya and Dylan arrived at the undertaker's, they knocked and the undertaker answered as he had before: "Yes, may I help you?" Then he recognized Anya, and remarked that the young man accompanying her was quite generous, having paid off the debt of a stranger who would clearly never be able to return the favor.
Looking at Dylan, she said with a smile, "Yes, he told me he paid you a visit. I'm quite impressed. Where shall we take the body?"
"Could you please bring the deceased to the table on wheels behind the building? I can handle the rest from there. Pardon my nightclothes - I forgot I still had them on."
Though his frightening appearance suggested otherwise, The undertaker was not unkind; he was simply looking out for his own interests, though they primarily revolved around money and personal gain.
These nuances were lost on Dylan at the moment. He was convinced the undertaker was a hound straight from the underworld. Many young people fear aging, but as will be seen, age has much to teach youth.
Dylan apologized again for the late hour, remarking that a man answering the door in his nightclothes was understandable. However, Dylan was actually thinking that the undertaker's skeletal frame would look better with more clothes draping it. They led Roger with Mr. Greely to the back of the building and helped the undertaker lay the body on the table.
They thanked the undertaker and quickly walked away, Dylan moving a bit faster than Anya. He disliked the undertaker and being behind the mortuary, so he wanted to put distance between them and the undertaker's unsettling environment as soon as possible.
Six
After they had quietly slipped away from the undertaker’s dreary place, Dylan turned to face Anya, suddenly aware that he was now alone with the most stunning woman he had ever laid eyes on. Though they had just shared a grueling task, Dylan found himself at a complete loss for words, literally struck speechless in her presence.
Anya looked at him and kindly inquired, "Where are you from?"
With relief, he told her that he lived on his family's farm in Woodshire in the southern part of the island.
“You’re a long way from home. What are you doing here in the north?”
Dylan thanked whatever force had intervened to provide a topic of conversation. To begin with, minding his manners, he formally introduced Roger to her. Roger blew his nose because he truly liked Anya and wholeheartedly approved of her. As Anya delicately wiped the grass-speckled snot from her neck and chest, the corners of her mouth turned down slightly as Dylan told her about buying seeds and looking for linen.
Dylan described to her the fine needlework his sister, mother, and grandmother did with linen, the day-to-day boredom of farm life, and asked what living in a pub was like. She listed the good and bad of pub life, and they realized they had much in common. Both loved long horseback rides and disliked horseradish.
The subject of horseradish arose in an unimportant way, but what mattered was their mutual, intense dislike of the condiment. This shared aversion entertained them, given their fondness for horses.
When two people first start getting to know each other, they talk and laugh as they make discoveries. Dylan and Anya chatted lightheartedly as they walked Roger back to the stable. Then they crossed the short distance to the pub, though Dylan wished for more time with Anya. He wanted their time together to unfold endlessly like a long bolt of shimmering linen. But time rarely complies with one's wishes.
As they approached the door, Anya said, "I have to get to bed; morning comes early around here."
“I suppose it does. I’ll have to be leaving tomorrow. I gave my last cent to the undertaker.”
She stopped and turned toward Dylan, her words trailing off as she pleaded, "You can't go. We just met! There's so much more..." After a pause, she added more resolutely, "There must be something we can do."
“Yes. It was wonderful meeting you. You’re nothing if not an adventure; do you always live like this, or was tonight a rarity?”
“Definitely a rarity. Usually, I get up, cook, serve and clean, then go to bed so I can get up and do it again the next day.”
Dylan smiled, “Alright, if you think of anything, have any brainstorms, let me know. I don’t want to leave.”
He looked at her, and she returned his gaze. After giving him a quick kiss on the cheek and bidding him goodnight again, she walked to her room off the kitchen. Pausing at her door, she glanced back to see Dylan still standing there, watching her departure. She smiled, waving her fingers in a parting gesture before slipping inside. She smiled and waved her small fingers at him, opened the door and went inside, taking the halo of her beauty with her behind the door.
Dylan shook his head, sighed, and made his way, quietly, up the stairs one more time.
Seven
The next morning dawned early at the inn. Dylan and Anya's late-night adventure had continued until nearly 4:00 a.m., so when the first hungry customers arrived at eight, the commotion downstairs roused Dylan from sleep. After washing and donning his slightly dirty clothes, Dylan headed downstairs to see about gathering some money.
At the top of the stairs, an old man was ascending to the rooms. Dylan greeted him, and the man stopped and smiled. "Young man," the old man said, "I find myself with an abundance of several hundred bolts of linen, the finest available in these islands - the 'Foggies,' as we locals say. I'm eager to be rid of them. Do you know where I could unload these bolts?" His use of the local term for the islands reassured Dylan that he was likely telling the truth. Dylan was penniless, and his father would be furious.
Though I would love to buy your bolts, sadly I lack the funds. My family does fine needlework, so I've been searching the island for fine linen to purchase, but I haven't found any for sale in weeks. Unfortunately, without money, I cannot buy your bolts.
The old man squinted at Dylan. “You look like a smart young lad. How’s your reading?”
“Pardon me, sir, my reading?”
“Yes, my boy, do you read and write?”
“Oh, why yes of course. My mother schooled my brother and sister and I in the classics while we were growing up.”
"Very well, my boy. Don't fret over your current lack of money. I'm staying at this inn for the next few weeks and require assistance with writing, as my eyes and hands fail me now. I've lived an intriguing life, and before I depart this world, I wish to document it. Would listening to an old man's tales and transcribing them earn you room and board here at the inn for two weeks? At the end, I'll include the bolts of cloth as your bonus. Do we have an agreement?"
Dylan smiled and sighed. “I have my horse across the street at the stables.”
“Can’t let the horse go hungry, can we boy? Of course, he’ll be taken care of as well. Is it a deal then?”
“Yes, sir! When do we start?”
“After you have eaten and satisfied your hunger, come up to my room so we can begin.” As he spoke, he opened the door to the very room where Anya had sent Dylan the previous day, launching his recent adventures - the dead man's room.
Dylan called after the man, feeling compelled to ask, "When did you come in, sir, if you don't mind me asking?" He had experienced a significant event in his life in that very room.
“To the inn? Oh, why I just paid up with the owner of the place a few minutes ago. By the way, what’s your name?”
“Dylan, sir. Dylan.”
“A fine strong name that. Mine’s Alistair. Go have some food now and come up whenever you’re ready.” As he entered the room, Dylan heard the man say to himself, “Gawds it smells like someone died in here…where’s the window?”
Dylan sensed something was off, but he could not pinpoint exactly what. However, he knew for sure that over the next two weeks, he would be near Anya and events would unfold naturally.
Bounding down the stairs without his usual care for quiet, Dylan relished his newfound freedom. From across the room, Anya saw him and smiled her radiant smile. Despite hardly any sleep, she was a vision to Dylan, her beauty shining all around her.
While preparing a meal in the kitchen, Anya's father noticed Dylan gazing at Anya. He smiled, though he was still curious about the contents of the big bag from the previous night. Deciding it was better left unsaid, Anya's father continued watching Dylan admire his daughter. Glancing at Anya, he saw her radiant beauty and knew exactly what captivated Dylan's attention.
While eating breakfast, Dylan recounted to Anya his conversation with the man upstairs, who had offered to pay for Dylan's stay at the inn. Anya smiled happily at the news, further warming Dylan's heart.
After finishing his hearty breakfast, Dylan headed back upstairs to the man's room.
Alistair had laid out paper and a pen with ink by the time Dylan knocked. He opened the door and greeted Dylan, ushered him inside, and asked him to have a seat at the table near the open window.
Thus began an odyssey for Dylan that chronicled the twists and turns of one man's life. Dylan meticulously recorded the man's triumphs and mistakes, successes and failures, in Dylan’s neat handwriting on the pages the old man supplied. The old man held nothing back, ensuring every decision and consequence was documented.
Every day Dylan wrote until his hand cramped. Then the old man would make his way to bed and lie down to sleep, ending the day's writing but knowing it would start again the next morning. This became his daily rhythm.
By the end of the first week, Dylan had written up nearly half of the old man's life story. Dylan's mind was flooded with thoughts about the complexities of the man's life and love. On the seventh day, the old man said he was tired, so they both took a day to rest.
That afternoon, one of the late days of spring, the silver sunlight danced across the misty sea air. Dylan and Anya strolled hand-in-hand along the beach, waves crashing against the rocks while seagulls cried overhead. In this romantic, seaside moment, they shared their first real kiss.
During the second week, the old man's story saddened. He lost his wife in an accident, his business declined, and he became a lonely, withdrawn fisherman. Painful memories from his past resurfaced unexpectedly, compounding his sorrow.
As night fell, Dylan would sit silently at a table in the pub, watching Anya and contemplating the elderly man's remarkable life story. Yet it was a rather ordinary tale, Dylan mused, much like anyone else's life journey. The man wasn't renowned or prosperous; his unassuming life was noteworthy only because he took the time to record it. Dylan realized that this humble account represented the culmination of one man's adventure, and he valued the wisdom and insights it imparted. Though seemingly unexceptional, this chronicle of an everyday life contained universal truths.
On the thirteenth day, the old man completed his tale. "Yes Dylan, that concludes my story. Afterward, I met you at the top of the stairs, and the rest is history, as they say. I appreciate your help in writing this memoir, and I hope I haven't bored you with it. Your bolts of linen are stored at the stables across the street with your horse. Here's some pocket change, but now I really must sleep. Recounting my life seems to have tired me out," he said with a twinkle in his eye, handing Dylan a leather purse. Dylan agreed rest would be good and closed his notebook for the final time.
“Thank you for sharing your life with me,” he said earnestly to the old man.
“And thank you for sharing your youth with me, my boy. You will grow into a fine man, I have no doubt.”
Alistair rose and put his hand on Dylan’s shoulder, “Thank you again, my boy.”
They embraced each other as old friends, and Dylan wandered downstairs to the pub, the knowledge heavy in his heart that he had been given a great gift by the old man. Now if only he knew what to do with it.
Eight
Dylan sat down at a table near a window and opened the purse the old man had given him. Inside was a sum over one hundred times the amount he had when he left the farm. Also inside was a note with the simple words “Thank you, I am grateful” handwritten by the old man on a tattered sheet of paper.
Dylan hurried back to the room to ask the old man if he was crazy to give away such a large sum of money. He knocked on the door, but there was no response. He turned the handle, and the unlocked door opened when he pushed. There was no sign of the old man anywhere. Since they had said goodbye less than a minute ago, Dylan wondered where he could have gone so quickly.
Dylan’s manuscript was still on the table, and he went over to look at it. Written in the same hand as the words on the paper in the purse was a title for the manuscript: “My Life, by Alistair Greely”, and another small note, placed with care on top of the manuscript pages: “Thank you, Dylan. Your actions in the past weeks have been extraordinary. I hope the ramblings of an old man might be of some use to you, and I trust you and Anya will live long and happily together. Yours, Alistair Greely.”
Dylan muttered "Greely..." aloud, finally realizing he had truly encountered a ghost and this was his repayment from Mr. Greely, now a member of the grateful dead.
He went to the window and pushed it open. A breeze ruffled his hair and he noticed the rain had ceased and sunlight now brightly lit the verdant grasses of the island. Inhaling the fresh air deeply, he heard a familiar snort from the stables across the street. Then a noise came from behind him. Turning, he saw Anya standing in the doorway, the corners of her mouth upturned and her eyes brimming with unspoken questions: What happened? What will become of you, me, us, time, life itself? Though not easily voiced, Dylan quickly grasped the meaning behind her wordless inquiries.
His eyes softened and he took her hands in his.
Nine
And so concludes the tale of Dylan of the Foggy Islands, but Dylan, Roger, and Anya's story is just beginning. Life is an endless chain of endings and new beginnings. Good deeds bring rewards if we open ourselves to receive them. These gifts often come from unexpected sources through unforeseen events, guided by forces beyond our control. The mysteries of life and love astound those with open hearts and minds who embrace life and love wholeheartedly.
May love flower in your life, and may you always live in peace and freedom and be willing to risk everything for the sake of love itself.
Notes
1. The mp3 sound file was created on Narakeet: https://www.narakeet.com Since the story is on the long side, it cost $12.00 to create the file.
2. The AI file was created for free on Copy.ai: https://www.copy.ai/tools/paragraph-rewriter