Evermore

Mac filled his lungs with the fresh, clean air of the countryside. He held his breath as he took in the panorama of snow-covered fields, trees, and hills before him and exhaled a steamy veneer of satisfaction at the wonder of it all. He inhaled deeply again and expelled the last of the city he had abandoned only this morning, now fervently hoping his would become an extended assignment here. Maybe he could talk his editor into a few extra days with the promise of a really lurid expose. Maybe this would be a legitimate story with all the stirring elements of a blockbuster. Maybe… maybe he would never have to return to the metropolis again.

The rustic, living portrait before him featured a winding footpath that emerged enticingly from the cover of a grove of trees and snaked across the landscape toward the young journalist, coming to a rest just before his feet. He took his cue and blissfully stepped into the scene, avidly anticipating the mysteries that lay beyond the bend in the path and the grove of trees that sheltered it. This was the delightful sense of adventure that only a city boy could experience when confronted with the bucolic splendor of the mother of us all, the earth, and all that it engenders. Mac wondered if one could ever become inured to the beauty, the exhilaration, the utter reverence that this spectacle inspired. He confidently strode to the grove and yielded himself completely to the marvels it promised to reveal.

Immortality. That was his theme. This was the setting. How perfectly it was all falling into place. He didn’t believe a bit of it, of course. No one was immortal. He was about to meet a man who claimed to be just that and his head was racing with angles and spins that would set this story apart and maybe raise it a level or two beyond the gaudy grasp of his editor’s imagination. Maybe. ‘The Scoop’ was not a tabloid that endured layered accounts of any substance. Make it loud, in bold print, and accompanied by photographs begging to be retouched with any number of aliens, two-headed babies and mini-clad seductresses. ‘The Scoop’ did not go in for hoary vistas.

Upon achieving the grove, the path continued through an arbor of trees with interweaving branches overhead that filtered the sunlight and reminded Mac of a warm, inviting tunnel; even though it was December and the snow flurries, gentle as they were, suggested otherwise. The Great Womb, thought Mac. It held all the elements of life and the cycle of birth and rebirth, with the promise of inevitability as its destination. I am walking into my destiny, reflected the insurgent author in rebellion of the hardcore journalist. I am going home.

The cottage appeared just after the first crook in the path, a sudden, delightful apparition that was at once startling and glazed with genial charm. In the doorway, standing casually erect and attired in a blue wool pullover was a tall, bearded man who looked to be in his early fifties. His posture, though informal, was not unconscious and his bearing was one of temperate authority. This must be Captain Porteous, thought Mac, the object of my visit and the subject of my commentary. His presence is undeniable; if I could just translate it to the written word and infect the readership with enough curiosity about his exploits and their incredible consequences upon our monotonous lives, I might just have the makings of a legend on my hands.

“Mr. Dewart, I presume,” he greeted gracefully as Mac maneuvered the gate open, shut it diligently, and approached the occupied portal of the cottage. “You’re just in time for a little supper.”

“Call me Mac and you’ve got a deal,” was all the scribe could come up with, but it seemed to please his host and Mac accepted a generous outstretched hand in welcome. “Sorry if I’m a bit late, but you’re pretty well out here and it took some time to find the place. Not that I’m complaining. This undertaking is a revelation for me. To see the country landscape in pictures is one thing, to feel it and breath it is quite another. Very stimulating. I’m assuming, of course, that you are Captain John Porteous and that you were expecting me.”

“I am indeed. And I am delighted that your excursion proved engaging. Come, I have a cozy fire going inside, just the thing to complete your first pastoral adventure.” The interior proved just as warm and inviting as the surrounding venue had promised and Mac was immediately met with the promised fire, a mug of hot coffee, and the aroma of the impending supper to anticipate. Idyllic.

Mac surveyed the simple, but essentially configured interior; a generous, functioning fireplace in the center, a mid-sized old sofa before it that beckoned enticingly, a small kitchenette where the captain was now occupied off to the right and separated from the living room proper by a wood block counter, and a large wooden door to the left that was probably a bedroom. The walls were rife with framed sketched and photographic portraits of assorted sizes and human images, all of adults and children dressed in a variety of costumes and period evocations. Mac dropped his shoulder bag and pouch, the former with a change of attire and some toiletries, the latter containing notebooks, pens, pencils, a dictionary, a thesaurus, and a laptop computer. He sank onto and into the couch with a curious familiarity, the better to view the vast collage before him with an element of comfort, and didn’t record another conscious thought until Porteous gently advised him that dinner was ready.

The room was much darker than before, with several small lamps now lit to highlight certain areas in a subdued manner. Before him lay two plates of sautéed salmon and russet potatoes, a sliced loaf of French bread, two wine glasses and a bottle of soave. These on a long, low table bracketed by two lighted tapers. Porteus placed himself on the couch to Macs left and preceded to pour a sample of the vintage grape into his wineglass.

“Is that all I get?” he winked. He sniffed. He sipped. He swallowed the remains. “I could make a habit of this. Sensational.”

“I’m pleased it’s to your liking.” Porteus decanted for both of them while Mac refocused on the bountiful wall before them.

“This is some photo gallery. Who are all these people?”

“That is my family” Porteus replied, a slight gesture of salute preceding his maiden encounter with the contents of his glass.

“All of them?” Mac was stunned, his glass frozen in mid arc to his lips.

“No ... there’s more, too numerous to display at one time. Actually there are quite a few I haven’t been able to keep track of.”

Mac completed his action, savoring the taste of his wine as his incredulity alit on less rarified ground. “That must be disconcerting.”

“To put it mildly,” responded Porteus, anticipating this retreat into conventional cynicism and surprisingly at ease with it.

“You mean you have cousins running around that you don’t know about?”

“I have grandchildren I don’t know about.”

Mac turned his attention to the salmon and potatoes as the conversation became more casual. This tale was getting taller by the question and he was back in his element.

“So ... how big is your family?”

“Let’s see ... I’ve walked this earth for more than 300 years. You tell me.”

“No disrespect, but you’ve been doing more than walking, my friend.”

“Touché, Mr. Dewart. I have loved many times in my life.”

“Lucky man.”

“That is a judgment that depends on your point of view. As many times as I have loved, I have lost that love. My life is one of loss, Mr. Dewart. I suppose you thought immortality a romantic prospect, a fulfillment of every man and woman’s dream. The
ultimate goal of all the sciences we can apply and manipulate. The Holy Grail of human endeavor.”

“It beats the alternative.”

“I’m afraid it becomes more sophisticated than that when actually involved in the prospect. You see, I am alone. The more people I embrace in each succeeding generation, the more aware I am of my aloneness. You may say that I have outlived my time, several times over, and I have borne witness to the results, not only of my actions, but also of the totality of my influence over that span. I have seen my issue carry my legacy, both agreeable and offensive, at turns inspiring and infecting, unconsciously to every area of existence that one can experience, and … it weighs on me, Mr. Dewart. It is a constant reminder of my infinitely frivolous choices and their eternal consequences. Over the generations I can trace their effects like a virus. This perspective becomes more scientific over the decades, and the predominant emotional impression is one of futility and defeat. I am discovering that in defeating death, you must first defeat life.” He took a long swallow that drained his glass. “My heart is worn out, Mr. Dewart, and it will not die. ”

Mac took his cue and reached for the wine bottle to replenish for both. “How, then, do you deal with it?”

“Day by day, as with any crisis,” he answered while accepting the refill. “I deal with it because I have no choice.”

“Well,” Mac began carefully, “without waxing dramatic, I can think of one.”

Porteous smiled as he raised his glass to his lips and just before connecting murmured, “A rather morbid thought on your first day in Eden, I should think.”

Mac returned the smile. “I’m not the one complaining. I’m sorry to put it so bluntly, but all I’ve heard so far is some vague disenchantment with your aging process. We haven’t established a cause or dates or corroboration as yet. Maybe we should start at the beginning.”

Porteous leaned back against the arm of the couch and seemed to unravel into a tranquil state of being. “Ah, yes, Mr. Dewart. You supply the framework and apply the editing; I have only to relate my tale with fact and detail to ensure your consideration."

“It helps,” Mac grinned. “If you can see your way to calling me Mac, that would also help. Believe me, you’ll think of worse names to address me by before we’re finished.”

The captain finished his wine, laid the glass on a sideboard at the rear of the couch, and clasped his hands behind his head in a manner altogether disarming. “Alright Mac, and what do you suppose I’ll be calling you after the article is published?”

Mac also discharged his wineglass to the sideboard and reached for his pen and notebook. “At that point I don’t expect you’ll be speaking to me at all. Ready?”

“I am in your hands. Do not endeavor to spare me, I will have none of it.”

“Good.” Mac was poised to faithfully record. “When and where were you born? You were born in the traditional sense, I’m assuming.”

“Your assumption is correct. I was delivered in every manner a normal bairn in the parish of Lamington in Lanarkshire, South Scotland, in 1696. I took the liberty of printing up a family history for you, so I wouldn’t worry about the spelling. The parish records can confirm this information.”

“I’ll be checking,” Mac drawled perfunctorily as he scribbled his outline on the notebook. “Now, your parents. They were … butchers, bakers, seamen … what?”

“They were farmers.”

“No royal blood in the line, then”

“Not a Thane in the lot, I’m afraid. Does this make your story somewhat less compelling?”

“Its one approach,” Mac answered casually. “You know, the gloomy prince sort of aspect. Farmers aren’t usually the meat that romance feasts on … no offense. Hamlet wanders the castle corridors bemoaning his fate and somehow it’s sexy. Apply the same condition to a farm boy walking off the lower forty and he’s a drab dullard.”

“Ah,” Porteous affirmed, “we must give them a rousing yarn.”

“We will,” Mac winked. “Lets go in that direction. Where does the captain part come in?”

“I was, for a time,” the captain replied evenly, “the captain of a small, commercial sailing vessel. That was in … lets see …”

“We can hassle the details later,” Mac shot in. “During this time, did you encounter any pirates, undergo any mutinies … something in that area?”

“Nothing so dramatic, I’m afraid,” Porteous mused flippantly. “We transported food products, mostly fruit. Our most formidable foe was spoilage. Not a sexy scenario, I’m afraid.”

Mac grunted agreement. “Any rotters in the family? You know, horse thieves, insurrectionists … anybody hanged?”

“We had a country parson involved in a land dispute once. His wife was rumored to have run away, even though he claimed she had died and maintained a plot for her in the cemetery. Since no one could recall her death, my cousin, a few friends and I went out to the graveyard one night and dug it up. We were sure the coffin was empty.”

“Was it?”

“No, she was there. I didn’t sleep for weeks afterwards.”

Mac looked up, then down again to his notebook. He frowned. “That might cut it if we were turning out Huckleberry Finn or something, but I’m afraid our readers need it to be more …I don’t know.”

“Sensational? Are you after a cheap thrill, Mac?”

Mac looked up again. The captain wasn’t kidding. “Listen Captain, I just know my audience. Its part of my business. Its their story.”

“No, Mr. Dewart. Its my story.”

“Yes it is, Sir. Exclusively.” Mac placed the notebook on his lap as he adjusted his posture to a more agreeable alignment. “And it will remain exclusively yours unless we can convince someone to publish it. To do that, we have to make concessions. I am sure you understand.”

“I understand that you are a journalist,” Porteous replied politely. “Tell me Mac, where do you draw the line regarding these concessions?”

Mac smiled genially. “You are not a naïve man, Captain Porteous. I was under the impression you knew the conditions from the outset. I am not a representative of the New York Times, after all.”

“Understood.” Porteous gently placed his hand on Mac’s arm. “I was mislead by your innate sense of integrity, I would imagine. I confess to being an innocent in that regard. You have your professional responsibilities of course.”

Mac became aware of a bizarre sensation in his own reaction to this manner of approach, more acutely in the physical encounter than in the wry deference tendered. When Porteous removed his hand, abrupt relief was followed by an ancient longing that negated the former caution and brought back to him a faint perception of timeless desertion. Where did it come from? It was new to him, but he felt as if he had always known it was there.

“You look somewhat disconcerted,” Porteous observed after an awkward pause. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah … no, I was just thinking,” Mac answered uneasily. “I was just wondering why I was put on this story. I had been working on something else and they just pulled me. Its not like I was the only one available.”

“I requested your assignment expressly,” the captain offered evenly. “Does that surprise you?”

Mac responded as if emerging from a dream state. “Why? What do you know about me?”

Porteous smiled. “More than you know about me, it would seem.”

“I’m beginning to realize that. What … a common ancestry? A reporter with Scottish blood would be more conducive to the formation of a grand Scottish myth? Is that the deal?”

“It doesn’t hurt.”

“I know nothing about it. I have no connection over there. My name, my father’s blood, that’s all I have.”

Porteous touched his arm again. “Don’t discount the blood. Blood has a language all its own and defies conversion to our culture of academic rationale. It speaks in ancient tongues.”

Mac pulled his arm away impulsively. “Not to me it doesn’t. Why did you request me?” He immediately regretted the impulse.

“Quite frankly,” Porteous began in a sober tone, “because you are an exquisite writer when you are in your element.”

This caught Mac cold. “How …how do you know my work? Other than the magazine, I mean?”

“I came across a small book of poetry in which your work occupied several pages and was quite impressed. I must add, although the wordplay was astonishing in its own right, what touched me deepest was that other language you claim to know nothing about. You speak it eloquently, if not consciously.”

Mac felt more perturbed than flattered and didn’t know why. “That’s an obscure book. I don’t remember a second printing,” he offered cautiously. “Where did you come across it?”

“In the local public library, Mac,” Porteous returned plausibly.

Mac was to the point focused now and his instinct bade pursuit. “And on the basis of this book you chose to sell your story to The Scoop and requested my participation?”

“Precisely.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t buy it.” Mac felt another element at work now and firmly held the line. “We go no further until I know exactly why I’m here.”

“You are a kinsman and you are gifted. I considered if anyone in the realm of tabloid journalism could do me justice, it would be you.”

“Okay, justice … I see. And to do you justice, and maintain my integrity as a gifted writer, I must believe your story entirely, is that the deal?” Mac was becoming intractable and he didn’t know why. It was this gut feeling growing inside him that he was somehow being ambushed.

“Mac,” Porteous began, choosing his words carefully, “I pose no threat to you. I am prepared to answer any question you put to me forthrightly. I do not intend to deceive or ensnare you. I would just rather you not treat my story with the derision reserved for vampire fables.”

No offense, Captain,” Mac returned candidly, “but that was the direction we were heading in. I’ve got to tell you, I’m getting a funny feeling.”

“I understand. I’m afraid I can’t help you with that, but I can answer your questions if you care to continue. Or would you care to rest now and we can take this up in the morning?”

Mac thought a moment. “Okay, before anything else, let’s get this out of the way. This condition … the immortality you are experiencing, how did it come about?”

Captain Porteous allowed his head to fall back against a rear cushion and closed his eyes. “I don’t know,” he said simply. “I never aged past a certain point and I never expired. I just continued. People around me died, the world around me changed, and I continued. I have out-lived everyone that was ever dear to me.”

“Medical check-ups?

“Normal.”

“Illnesses?”

“Yes. Never anything life threatening. I seemed immune to diseases that killed my neighbors.”

Mac was picking up speed. “War. Did you ever fight a war?”

Porteous opened his eyes without moving his head. “Yes.”

“Ever wounded? Shot?”

His eyes now shifted to Mac’s steady gaze. “No. Never wounded, or shot. I fell out of a tree once when I was … well, I was young. My entire body hurt for two or three days. I never told anyone. I never suffered a consequence.”

“Okay,” supposed Mac, “lets try this. Do you think you are susceptible to life threatening injuries? Or have you just been lucky for three hundred years?”

“I can’t answer that.” Porteous sat up straight. “I’m sorry, Mac. This is a phenomenon that is happening to me. It doesn’t necessarily follow that I am an expert on the condition. I was fortunate enough to survive my youth, a not uncommon occurrence. My experience since has increased in wisdom to the degree where I can see misfortune coming and avoid the undue ramifications. As for disease, all I can tell you is I’ve never succumbed.”

“Okay!” Mac tossed his notebook on the sideboard. “The situation is this. You claim immortality. You have no proof to speak of. You’ve lived a fairly unexciting three hundred years. No battles. No scars. No miracle recoveries. No drama. What have you been doing for three centuries? Where are the significant contributions to society? What have I got to sell here, Captain?”

Porteous smiled. “You are right, of course. All I have is my story, a series of commonplace incidents over the course of several lifetimes, but really a quite ordinary assemblage of lives. The only remarkable thing about it is the length. I do not assert the ability to sell it. That is your department. I have had many occupations and am fairly accomplished in one or two of them, but I have never been an ad man. If there is drama in any of it, I have confidence in you to ferret it out. I can tell you of my families, my countries, my eras, my wives, my professions, but I am at a loss …”

Mac shot up. “Hold it, hold on … your wives. That’s it. Many loves, many lifetimes … the saga of an immortal Casanova. A kiss and tell through the centuries. Captain, it’s the only way to go.” He was revitalized.

“The memories are very dear to me. I will think it over, if you don’t mind.” The captain rose from the couch. “Make yourself completely at home, Mac. Through that door is a bedroom, all prepared for your stay.”

Mac was disturbed by this sudden turn. “We can work this out, make it tasteful. It’s an idea. Lets just play with it.”

“I will think about it. We can discuss it in the morning.”

Mac looked toward the bedroom door. “Where will you sleep tonight?”

Porteous displayed a patient smile. “I have a place to stay not far from here. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Mac.” They shook hands.

After Porteous had cleared the dinner plates and left, Mac had an opportunity to take in the events of the day and clear his mind somewhat. He sat for a long time digesting what had essentially taken place here, trying to assess what hard information he had actually acquired, and find a frame of reference for it all. He started from the beginning.

This morning he was a disenchanted poet who resented his job and his profession as a whole. He earned his money as a rag journalist set against the backdrop of a teeming city steeped in a coarse environment of noise and tough talk. He hurriedly boarded a train to Connecticut and discovered a world that spoke to his innermost voice and confirmed his passion for all things beautiful. And in this idyllic setting he heard, a few minutes ago, his own voice, his poets voice, advising deception and misrepresentation. He had become his enemy.

He was becoming restless. He had to move about and find something active to engage in. He wasn’t about to find an answer, to anything, foraging around for it in the elaborate straits of his mind. He looked about the room for inspiration. Maybe there was something here that would illuminate his search for meaning in this vacant enterprise, something that would explain why he was suddenly obsessed with significance, anything that might reveal the nature of this internal disquiet.

There it was, right in front of him. The wall. The gallery. The photographs. A visual alternative to his cerebral meanderings. He stood up from the coach, scanned the room for the overhead light switch, found it, flicked it and lit up the room. He moved closer to the wall and began taking in the lower photographs intently, one by one, along the length of it. They were family photos, all of them, some seeming to date back to the beginning of the century. They appeared to be real people, in different modes of dress per photograph, and different time periods represented. He began to pick out Porteous in several of them, fitting in seamlessly with his environment, his dress, and his assemblage. A colossal job of photo retouching, perfect in all aspects of dimension, alignment, and detail, would have been needed to reproduce these examples of familial imagery, far too ambitious for the meager fee offered by the magazine to justify its undertaking.

Unable to clearly distinguish the higher photographs, Mac began to search the room for a ladder, a stool; something he could stand on to take a closer look. Frustrated in this attempt, he remembered the bedroom; a closet with a stepladder would not be an unusual proposition. He walked to the door and opened into a cozy chamber lit by a kerosene lamp on the bed table. It was a rustic vision of a clean and pleasing character, if somewhat spare; table, lamp, quilt covered single bed, curtained window, chair, wood paneled walls. Across the room he spied the closet door. A search did not detect a ladder, stool, or adequate substitute. The plain wooden chair wasn’t high enough. His eyes were scanning the room once again when they noticed a framed picture on the night table, under the lamp. He stretched across the bed to inspect the contents of the gilt edged casing and discovered a simple photograph of the captain and another man who appeared to be holding an infant in his arms. The other man looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties and had the radiant grin of a proud father spread across his robust features. The mode of dress was fairly modern and the setting was suggestive of a backyard location. Porteous had his left arm draped familiarly around the younger mans’ shoulder. The photograph was similar to the others on the living room wall except in one respect; the proud father was recognizable to Mac. He had pictures of the man in his own collection, which he rarely looked at these days. He removed the photograph from its frame and turned it over. There was an inscription: ‘The future looks hopeful and I am encouraged – Me, Thomas, and wee Mac – May, 1976’.


Copyright 2002 by John Cannatella