Last Will and Testament of J Creighton

That there even is a will, might come as a surprise to those who plan to get rich.

        I sit with a book in hand, reading at an old oak desk that once belonged to my Grandfather's Grandfather.  Sleep often eludes me, so night finds me settled in my comfortable chair close to the fireplace, traveling the world in my imagination.  Sleep, when it does come, is in short snatches punctuated with accusatory dreams that ask "what if?" questions.  Proteus Syndrome has transformed my entire being into a misshapen thing of horror.  It is a source of pain, both physical and mental; crushing the air from my lungs should I brave a supine position and something as banal as the slumber of an ordinary man. I spend most of my tortured nights semi-reclining in my chair, rather than in a bed. I know I have lived much longer than anyone could have imagined.
           This cold stone room defines the limits of my physical world.  I spend most of my time in this room for good reason. The heavy drapes on the windows are kept open except at night.  Sometimes I spend hours looking out at the gardens of my ancestral estate, Rolling Wood, wondering why I'm still here. I know I have very little time left, but something needs to be done before I go. At night, I look at the oil-painted portraits of my male ancestors hanging on the walls.  Their eyes seem to keep constant watch over me and on the ever-growing collection of books within their sight.
           I have read all the books on the tall racks of dark hardwood shelves many times each. The thirty thousand-plus books are all dog-eared and finger-worn, but they are my only gateway to the world, quite literally.  As a recluse, my life is as two-dimensional as the pages of my books.  Now that my companion Rosalie is gone, I go outside infrequently, always hiding under the black silk hood my father had made for me in London many years ago.
             I remember a woman who saw me as a child in the Village on an unusually hot afternoon. My father was bringing me home after a particularly discouraging visit with a doctor in London. I sat waiting in the Doctor's inner office while they talked.  I knew Father was upset. On the way back, he sat tight-lipped and silent behind the wheel of his shiny green Sunbeam sedan.  I wondered why he was so angry at me.  I could think of nothing I had done to upset him so.  We stopped at a Shop I  could smell the aroma of tobacco through the open window. Father did not need to tell me to wait; I would never venture out of our car, alone.  It was so hot that afternoon that any six-year-old boy could hardly be expected not to want the feel of a cool breeze on his face I took my black silk hood off.  A shocked, heavy-set matron walked her little terrier on a light leash close by the open window of our car.  Her dog barked loudly, and she looked at me through the open window and started screaming.  I am over eighty years old now, and the sound of her screams still echoes in the caverns of my mind.  I still vividly see the look on Father’s face when he ran out of the tobacco shop to see what was happening. 
           After that, I confined my only sojourns outside to the limits of Rolling Wood’s gardens in the company of dear sweet Rosalie.  She is the only person I can ever remember who looked directly into my face when she talked to me. When in her company, I sometimes almost forget who I am.
           Now my long gray and white hair and my bushy beard helps to cover my ugliness. There are no mirrors in any of the areas that I frequent at Rolling Wood because no one could loathe me more than I do myself.
           Standing by the eight-foot-tall, metal-framed lead-glazed window, I look out at the cold winter landscape outside.  Jack Frost has been busily painting delicate ferns on the inside surface of the glass.  I have not been outside in winter for twenty years.
           I remember my very last winter excursion outside was to the burial of my late companion, Rosalie.  The old Vicar came from the village and held the service in our private chapel.  Rosalie was the only friend I ever had. Even as a child, I knew that she must have been well paid to spend time with the likes of me.  Even so, at times I miss her so much that pains run through my body, much like I imagine being stuck with a sword would feel.
           I look out at the snow-covered, well-manicured gardens that comprise Rolling Wood. There was snow on the ground for every funeral that I ever attended.  I guess it is a Creighton family tradition to pass on in winter.  I can still hear the gravediggers' complaints about the frozen ground in our cemetery.  My great-great-grandfather, great-grandfather, grandfather, father, mother, and dear sweet Rosalie are all buried in our private cemetery along with a few other close family relatives.  The cemetery exit is near a stand of old Lombardy Poplars, which mark the junction of Rolling Wood Road and the public right-of-way just beyond.  I, as the last family survivor, will take my place at the end of the bottom row of neat marble markers that commemorate the beginning and the ending of the House of Creighton at Rolling Wood.  I feel a shiver run up my spine when I consider my mortality.
           My back protests with a creak when I bend over to put another log on the waning fire.  A shower of sparkling cinders rises as the log settles into place.  A small, fragrant yellow flame rises toward the chimney, consuming the newly released gases from the heated oak log.  Soon, the fire is burning merrily.  It soon warms the room enough so that I can no longer see my breath.  Drawing my heavy gray woolen sweater around my crooked old frame, I snuggle happily into the soft warmth and familiar smell of my chair.  An odor of oak smoke clings to it, along with a hint of mint from my favorite hot tea.
           There is a gentle tap on the tall oak door that leads to the great hall beyond.  "Come in,” I say, looking up from an anthology of poetry, opened to "Windmills of your mind."
           Elma, a tall, steel-gray-haired woman in a somber, long black dress, stands in the doorway, holding a tray with a fresh pot of Darjeeling heavily enhanced with sprigs of dry mint from her herb garden. Elma is my caretaker.  She is over 60 and has lived at Rolling Wood for 40+ years.  I do not allow myself to think about what I will do if she leaves.  She is the only human alive who has seen my face without my hood since Rosalie passed on twenty years ago.  Elma avoids looking directly at me, choosing a less startling image of a hardwood floor instead.
           She places the tray on my desk. "Sir, a solicitor called this morning. He needs to come by and get your signature on some papers." I am sure she does not know how I long for her to call me by my given name, John, if only once. I can’t imagine what it would feel like if her constantly moving eyes were to rest on my face, even for a few seconds. That thought stokes the first fires of irritation.
           "Oh, bother, what can he want?" I grumble, "I suppose he will want to stay for tea."
           “I suppose," says Elma, who nods in my general direction and then disappears through the massive, solid carved oak door.  I look at the relief carving of two symbolic lions, forever part of the doors, a gift from the Queen, and a reminder of the House of Creighton’s importance to the realm at that time.  Elma’s mention of a solicitor starts an avalanche of thoughts, and a roaring worthy of lions in my memory. I realize that the time has come for me to deal with the solicitor myself I have no one to protect me.
           I remember the last time a solicitor came to Rolling Wood. I was ten years old.  Hearing voices raised to shouting volume in Father's office made me afraid, as I had never heard Father yell at anyone. His voice echoed through the great hall. "Out, Get out!  Now!  If I ever hear another word about putting my son away, I will use every avenue at my disposal to get you disbarred!"  Father took the startled solicitor by the arm of his coat and pushed him out the front door of our home.  The solicitor G Pennington Witt Esquire blustered and fumed, but he left Rolling Wood without looking back at my furious father. 
           After he left, I spent the rest of the afternoon hiding behind one of the newest racks of books, aimed at the interests of a child.  I left the real world and found solace in my 1937 first edition of J. R. R. Tolkien's "The Hobbit."  My interests widened as I aged.
           That evening at dinner, my Father spoke directly to me, "Son, you must always be vigilant to keep the lawyers from stealing your heritage.  I have taken steps to protect you as far into the future as I possibly can.  I have been assured by several members of the "House of Lords" that any attempts to remove you from this house and seize control of lands and fortunes belonging to the House of Creighton will incur direct action from the Crown. Remember this: I will not always be here to protect you. Lawyers are like snakes in the grass; they wait until you are distracted, then move in for the kill.  There will come a time, however, when you must deal with them yourself!"
           Whatever mechanism he put in place had long been the only protection needed for me from the world out there.  I have lived my life peacefully as a privileged outcast.  I cannot imagine any other life since I have spent my entire life at Rolling Wood.  I did not go off to school as most other children do.  My mother taught me to read at four years old.  I remember sitting for hours on a hard oak chair beside her at a table in her parlor, while she introduced me to the wonderful world of words without ever looking directly at me.  As a constant reader, I have contacts in London who keep me well supplied with new books that meet my discerning tastes.  I had tutors who lived inside Rollingwood when I was growing up. The last was Snively, who taught me advanced Mathematics and Engineering, kindling an interest in how everything works.  Once, when he first came, he brought me a breakdown lorry, and three little steel cars with genuine rubber wheels.  I still have them in the hand-carved English walnut treasure chest Father gave me. 
           I spent many happy hours wondering what it would be like to help drivers who had a breakdown.  How would it feel to haul their disabled autos back for repairs? Snively also brought me a model of an eight-cylinder Rolls-Royce engine.  I learned what each part did and dreamed of a day when I might see the inside of a real engine.  I regret that even after all this time, I have not.
           At fourteen, all of the books in my Father's Library were firmly imprinted in my memory. I was fluent in several languages and had pen pals on the Continent and in America.  I wished aloud once at dinner that I could go to the places which I read about. I remember the pained looks on my parents' faces.
           My mother said, "You know that leaving Rolling Wood is not an option for you, son. I truly wish it weren't so!"
        I am so repugnant that having her look directly at me was a rare occurrence.  I have no memory of my mother touching me, clear up to the time she died.  Father occasionally would touch my shoulder when he wished to emphasize a point.
           From that day forward, I traveled daily in my imagination, stimulated by a constant new supply of books that met my criteria.  I still have contacts with booksellers scattered across the world.
           All my reading has never revealed my real face to me. Recently, I discovered a book that describes Proteus Syndrome.  I can only imagine how I must look. There were no mirrors in the part of the house that was open to me when I was growing up.  Old habits die hard, so I had all the mirrors removed from anywhere in the house when my mother passed two years after Father.  Even with the hood on my head, I know my misshapen body is visible no matter what I wear over it.
           I remember once asking Rosalie, "What is wrong with me?"
           "You have a genetic defect, John." I loved to hear her say my name. It made me feel real. 
           "Am I ugly," I asked? I knew the full answer well from what I could see of my lower body when I bathed. I am hideous. Her answer touched me like never before.
           "You are beautiful to me," she said. " You have the most wonderful soul I have ever encountered hidden beneath your surface.”  Her voice was soft and resonated.  My heart filled with love for her. I sometimes wish that I had touched her. I was always so afraid she would recoil in fear or loathing that I refrained from the slightest touch. The time for such things is long past, and no one can ever touch her now.
         I open the top-left-hand drawer of my desk and take out the black silk hood; I give it a shake to remove imaginary dust, then lay it where it will be handy for my meeting with the solicitor.
           Sipping my tea, enjoying the potent blend of tea and herbs, I find myself wondering what the result would be if I were to remove the mask in front of G. Pennington Witt III Esq., the grandson of my father's old enemy.  I am pretty sure there would be a strong reaction. Sometimes the temptation to show my face is strong, but my better judgment has always prevailed.
           I open another book on the desk before me. I reread the poetry of Francis Thompson for the thirtieth time. With "The Hound of Heaven" resonating in my mind, I empty the last of the tea in my cup.  As I hold the pot up, I see it is empty.
           A slight tap on the door interrupts my thoughts.  There is a pause long enough for me to put my mask on; Elma opens the door and hesitantly steps into my library.  "The solicitor is here, Sir," she says, showing him in after verifying that I have the hood over my face. She pulls the chair from its usual spot close to the fire and places it next to the desk.  He removes his raglan-sleeved, Harris-Tweed greatcoat.  Elma hangs the coat on a rarely used hook at the end of the rack of shelves nearest the door. Then, holding the tray with the empty pot, she asks, "Tea, Sir?" The florid-faced, heavy-set man with the metal briefcase takes a seat in my favorite chair. Elma headed for the kitchen.
           "Please," he says in a gravelly voice and clears his throat. "Umm, beastly weather out there; I'll be glad to get back to London."  The air filled with his alien smell, a mix of expensive shaving lotion, Scots Whiskey, Cuban Cigars, and damp wool.
           I look out the window at the chauffeur-driven Bentley idling in the semicircular drive by the front door of my manor house.  Its exhaust is making a cloud of steam in the cold winter air.  I can see the poor driver, left alone inside the car, waiting for the return of G. Pennington Witt III, Esq.
           A cloud of snowflakes spirals down off the slate shingles on the roof, propelled by the stiff north wind. I thought about how it might feel to sail through the air like that.  The unwelcome sound of his voice interrupts my thoughts.
           "I should explain, Sir," he begins, "that a man of your age needs a last will."  He digs around in his briefcase and extracts two manila folders. "There is no need to let your estate go to the courts for disposition. I cannot for the life of me understand why my father did not do this long ago."
           I said, "Why bother? I will be dead and gone. Oh, I know that you lawyers lie in wait like hungry jackals waiting to tear the flesh from my bones before I have even breathed my last breath." I stare hard at the suddenly nervous man who squirms in his chair when I meet his eyes with mine. I am very tempted at that moment to remove my mask and let him see who he is dealing with.  Perhaps he will have a heart attack. How very fitting, I think.
           "There is no need that this meeting should be adversarial, Sir. I only want you to decide how you want the estate handled when you are gone." He begins to perspire; beads of sweat cover his brow, even though I can see my breath in the chilly air of the old library.
           I rise rapidly from my chair.  The solicitor flinches as if expecting me to be violent. "Another log for the fire," I say. My back cracks and creaks as I put another log onto the fire in a shower of sparks. When I stand close to his chair, I am just barely taller than he is, seated in the chair. I like this position; we are almost eye to eye. "What is it that you want, sir?" My voice drips sarcasm.
           "I had hoped to execute your will, Sir."
           "What do you have in mind for Rolling Wood, a housing development? Perhaps a Disney Theme Park would be better. A House of Horrors unequaled in the world today would be more appropriate." I can no longer resist my impulse to unmask myself to this man. With one smooth movement, I grab the hood's top and draw it over my head. I turn toward him, so he has a full view of my face. "I will see you in Hell first, Sir, now get out and take this shite with you!" My voice is much louder than my diminutive stature would indicate. I gather the documents and throw them onto his lap.
           He looks startled, and more than a bit horrified, as he sucks a huge breath through his clenched teeth.  His eyes almost pop out of his head.  He gathers the folders into his briefcase in one swoop, snaps it shut, and takes his coat off the hook.  He still looks to be in a state of shock as he reaches for the knob on the large oak door, the only egress from this room.
           "Elma, see this man out before I hit him with the poker from the fireplace," I almost shout at her, something I never do.  My heart is rapidly pounding as I watch the scene outside through the window. The chauffeur hops out and opens the door of the waiting car for a most disconcerted G. Pennington Witt III, Esq., who leaps in a single bound into the back seat. His Bentley disappears up the drive to the road just past the poplars in a cloud of swirling snow.
           A very startled Elma brings the pot of tea, she made for the solicitor, to the Library. Her lips are pressed together into a thin line. "Sir?" she asks, unsure of what to expect.
           "Honey for my tea, please," I say as if nothing happened. "Oh, and by the way, call and ask the Vicar to stop by, as soon as possible." My heartbeat is slowly returning to normal.
           Elma's jaw drops. My asking for the Vicar is the very last thing in the world she would ever expect.
I spent the next two days and nights in the library, seated at the desk.  I use several reference books as a basis for the yellow legal pad sheets covered with my handwriting, which accumulate in a stack in the second drawer of my desk.
           Two days later, Elma appears in the doorway with a pot of tea and some freshly baked biscuits.  "The Vicar is on his way, I expect him in about fifteen minutes."
           Soon, a small blue Ford is sitting in the drive. It is shut down, not left idling as the Bentley had been.
           "Frugal," I say aloud.  I do not reach for the hood when I hear Elma tap on the door. "Come in."  I know that I have worn the hood for the last time.
           The Vicar is younger than I expected, perhaps thirty-five at the most.  He does not recoil in shock, but a look of sincere concern crosses his face.  "How may I be of service to you?"
           From the second desk drawer, I pull out the sheaf of handwritten papers that I have labored over for the past two days, "Please read this carefully and then tell me what else I need to do."
           The Vicar takes his glasses from his pocket and puts them on. He obviously has trouble reading my writing.  His hands shake as he tries to decipher the pages he holds close in front of his face.  After carefully reading all of the cursive script I had painstakingly written on the yellow sheets, the Vicar asks, "Are you sure that this is what you want to do?"  His face filled with genuine concern.
           "There are well over ten million pounds sterling in the main bank account; I want to change this manor house into a school for orphans, second to none in England. This huge empty house has not echoed with happy voices for over a century.  I want to fill a stable with horses and people to train the orphans how to ride.  I want them to receive the best education possible in preparation for life in the great world out there, one that I was never able to enjoy. The money has done no good for anyone in decades.  I had lived sixty years beyond what anyone expected when I was born. My Father believed that I would be an old man at twenty. The only way I will ever experience the world out there is through others."
           The Vicar's eyes fill with tears, "I have never encountered such generosity, and God bless you!"
           "You have never seen anyone quite like me, either; I'll wager."  I feel the corners of my distorted mouth curl into a partial smile for the first time in twenty years. "Set aside one hundred thousand pounds to keep Elma comfortable for the rest of her life."
           The next several hours were spent signing the handwritten papers.  Elma was called to witness my signature, and she was flabbergasted to learn that I had generously provided for her retirement.  When the Vicar left with the papers and responsibility for the execution of my will, I felt a feeling of accomplishment.  It is strange and wonderful, somewhat like a new blend of spicy tea that spreads warmth throughout my body.
           That night, I put two logs on the fire and sat down in my favorite chair.  I have a new book that my special bookseller in London sent me: a first edition of Thomas Merton's "The Seven Storey Mountain."  I am thankful for the opportunity to read it.  When I turn the last page, I close my eyes and fill my nostrils with the familiar smell of burning oak and musty old books.  My life-long imprisonment is over.  I slip quietly into a peaceful sleep and dream that I walked right through the window.
           "Wow, I never realized that winter could be so beautiful, Rosalie!"  She smiles, takes my hand, and leads me toward a bright light.  I look down at my long, sturdy legs, noting that we have left no tracks in the snow.

                                                  The Beginning