Fairytale -The Magic House

This is a very interesting piece of writing. As well as the work itself, I have included the Notes Jeff gave me to go with the finished story. I have decided to publish both the story and the Notes so that people can enjoy both. As a fellow writer I am always interested in seeing how other writer's work. The Notes give a lot of insight into how well planned Jeff's stories are. I have to confess I usually get half an idea, start writing and go on from there. It is only with my non-fiction 'commercial' writing that I use a fairly comprehensive template and writing plan.

Read the story, then study the Notes and then read the story again. It will prove insightful as well as offering a pleasant interlude while you read the story.


FAIRYTALE
(The Magic House)

Once there was a man named Olen, who was traveling to a far land. He was a poor man, having only a small purse with barely enough for his journey. And he was alone.

Olen had left his own land to search for something, but he wasn't sure what it was that he sought. In Mare he had never felt comfortable. The things which were important to his countrymen did not seem of very great importance to Olen. Perhaps in Icafar he would find a way of life which appealed to him.

But the new land was strange to him. Everything was unfamiliar, he could barely understand the language of the people, and things were constantly happening which he couldn't explain. There was a sense of expectancy in the air, as if something important was about to occur.

Olen came to a large river, which was uncrossable without a boat of some kind. On the bank was an old woman, gazing across the waters and wringing her hands in anguish. Summoning the few words of Knaa which he had learned, and trying for pronunciation which would be understandable, he approached her and spoke.

"Fine morning, Mother! What is the trouble which has you so upset?"

As the form turned toward him, Olen was unable to clearly see the woman's face, for she was wrapped in a robe with a cowl-like hood. But his impression was that she was very old, being bent and stooped.

"I must cross this river, and the ferry is coming now. But I haven't the money for the fare.", she answered in a wavering, cracking voice. "What am I to do? There is no one to help me."

Looking across the water himself, he saw a small boat - a raft, actually - which was pulled across the turbulent river by ropes. As it neared the shore, the ferryman called out.

"Begone, crone! I have told you these last three trips: change yourself into a crow and fly across, but you'll not ride my ferry without paying me two deci for the fare. Your magic does not scare me at all, old one!"

With that, the raft ground to the shore where the old woman and Olen stood.

"Ah! A paying customer, perhaps. Here, Gentleman, let me help you aboard. Away, hag! Leave the gentleman alone."

"The lady is my guest, ferryman. Please assist her." Olen had not even thought before uttering these words. The despair of the old woman had touched him, and the ferryman's harsh words to her had brought forth his defense. Reaching into his purse he brought forth his last coin. "Will this cover our fares, boatman?"

The ferryman took Olen's coin, bit it, weighed the unfamiliar foreign piece in his hand, and pronounced "Just the right amount, it seems. Aboard! Aboard!"

Both men helped load the few baskets and bags that the old woman had standing on the ground with her. And then the barge began its journey back across the river, pulled by the muscular arms of the ferryman. The trip was not long, but the river was deep and fast. It took all the strength and concentration of the boatman to manage his craft and he said not a word on the traverse. Olen and the old woman likewise maintained silence until the other side was reached.

After they disembarked the old woman thanked Olen for her fare. She sat on the ground surrounded by small parcels. Laboriously she slung a bag over each sloped shoulder, and grasped the two baskets. Struggling to gain her feet, wheezing with effort, she finally stood after a fashion.

"Are you traveling this road ahead, Mother? Perhaps I can help you with your load." Olen had lifted the packages from the barge, and their weight was considerable. How the woman could have managed them alone was beyond his understanding, but many things here in Icafar were strange.

She handed him a heavy basket. With his own small pack on his back, there was enough of a load for him. But the woman asked him to put one of her bags into the basket he carried. When he did so, the load became lighter by half. Then the other bag, which further lightened the whole. Finally, the last basket fit inside the first, and the accumulated baggage of the old woman was of no more weight than his purse, which now was totally empty. Even his own pack seemed lighter. And so they progressed along the road toward what destination Olen only barely knew.

"I don't know very much about magic," Olen stated, "for in my land of Mare there is no such thing. But you certainly seem to have some uncanny ability. Why did you not simply lighten your load? It is clear that you were struggling under it."

Still from under the hood, with wavering tones, the old woman answered. "It is not permitted to me to perform magic for my own benefit. But when it was to lighten your load, which you took upon yourself, then it was permitted. You have a good heart, Olen, to assist me so."

He marvelled that she knew his name. Olen was sure that he had not spoken it in her presence. This was truly a different and strange land.

They continued down the road, with little conversation. It was almost fully dark when finally they reached the side of a small stream where they stopped to rest.

"And where will you go now, Olen? It is late, but there is a village ahead about an hour's walk. There you may find a place to spend the night.

"But I have nothing with which to pay, for I gave my last coin to the ferryman. I shall stay here tonight, and in the light of a new day I will seek out some form of work in this new land. For now I will stay by the streamside and sleep. What of you, Mother?"

"I must go on. But you are a very kind man, Olen, to have spent your last coin on my fare across the river. But perhaps you are mistaken, and it was not your last. I think there may be another in your purse."

Olen felt the purse around his neck, and showed a look of surprise as he felt the coin within. He loosened the drawstring, and took out an identical coin to the one he had given the ferryman - completely alike, even to the tooth marks. "How is this here, Mother?" he asked.

The greedy man must have taken it out to admire how he robbed you on the way back across the river. That coin is worth at least 10 deci, but he told you it was just enough to cover our two fares. He must have dropped it into the river, I would think. He will not suspect that his greed made it fly back to you."



And here are the Notes:

NOTES - Fairytale - The Magic House

Target length: 1500 - 2000 words

Action:
* Olen helps witch; what does he want most?
* Given hut to live in instead
* Finds small pot of gold
* Finds wife; house grows for Olen, shrinks for Orme
* Hires helper for wife - Ovel
* Wife takes back the wages of Ovel
* Hut too small for Orme
* Orme leaves; Olen gives her what remains of gold
* Can't pay Ovel
* Ovel stays anyway
* House grows
* Ovel finds pot of gold
* Witch returns?


Names:
* Lone - olen; ealon; aelon
* Solo - loos; ools; sloo; olos; osol
* Love - evol; ovel; olve; elvo; vorel; rovel
* Heart - thear; thare; ather; athre; ethar; retha; rathe; erath; arthe
* Africa - Icafar
* Akan - Knaa
* Amer - Mare
* Cedi - deci
* More - Orme; erom; remo
* Greed - dreeg; drege; gedre
* Life - Laef; lief; leif; fael; feal; fale; fela; lafe; efla; afel

Point of view:
* Omniscient narrator; past tense

Characters:
* Old woman (witch?)
* Olen - old man, poor, good heart, loving, lonely, generous
* Orme - Olen's wife, greedy, selfish, never satisfied
* Vole - Servant girl, giver

Ideas:
* pots of gold in yard
* bequest? w/mystery
* analogy: growing hut/Olen's heart
* magic house/hut - expands/contracts w/ love within



I like the 'voice' of the story, it really is a fairytale style of narrative. You know the moral issues being pushed and you can guess the outcome will be a positive one for the hero, but all the same it flows along and keeps you reading to make sure all's well that ends well. The mark of a gifted story teller, methinks.

Green Eyes

Jeff wrote this essay several times over, I have five versions on file as well as the one he labeled 'final'. Be warned, there is sexually explicit prose in the narrative, almost soft porn like. There is a 'Lolita' like angle to the story also, as he describes the girl as 'twelve or thirteen'. Don't judge the writer, judge the story if you have to judge anything at all. Read it and think about it.

What struck me as I read all of the versions, was how similar they were. I have actually changed one word in the last paragraph but that was a word Jeff had included in one of the other versions and I did this merely to keep the rating for this blog site no worse than MA. I don't find the prose obscene or even profane but it is erotic writing. It is also descriptive, romantic, sensual and seductive and if one were to be honest, I find it very real.

Many men reading this will have similar memories of females who have hit all our hot buttons but for whatever reason we never pursued a more definite outcome. In the case of one so young, that is a proper and healthy road to follow. But just because the subject of the story is so young does not, to my mind, make this sick or pornographic. It makes it honest. Decide for yourselves and feel free to post comments.



Green-Eyes
by
Kwadwo

I remember a young, part-black girl with green eyes on a bus in Kingston, Jamaica, back in 1966. She made such an impression on me that the memory is still vivid. I have carried the vision of her all these years, and the dream of what we might have experienced together.

She was of a dark cinnamon colour, and of very comely features. Her hair was sort of blonde with some red highlights, but her lips were pleasingly thick, and her nose acceptably broad. She was only a budding woman, probably no more than twelve or thirteen. But the look in those startlingly beautiful green eyes said that she was ready to learn of love, and I was more than ready to teach her.

She kept gazing at me for the entire trip into town. When I boarded the bus and walked back to an empty seat I couldn't miss her youthful beauty nor her steady stare. Those green eyes, shining out from her beautiful brown face, seemed to smile of their own accord. I chose a seat directly across from her, and drank in her beauty with thirsty eyes.

Her breasts were the size of small, hard tangerines, and through her simple shift of thin cloth her nipples poked out erect - from the heat of my gaze, I like to think, and in anticipation of my mouth gently closing over them.

Her legs protruding from the bottom of her skirt were of the same fine colouring as her face - thin, little-girl legs. But as much as I could see of her exposed thighs told me that she was beginning - just beginning - to fill out into a sensual young woman. And I was certain that between those delightful young-woman thighs I would find a delicious morsel, covered with the first downy growth of pubescence.

Aware of my interest, and not the least embarrassed by it, she shifted in her seat and recrossed her legs, exposing a bit more tempting thigh and causing her enticing young breasts to jut out to their best advantage. She continued to gaze at me, green eyes smiling brightly, with a mixture of girlish coquetry and womanly invitation.

I was too dumbstruck by her youthful sensuality, and too busy with my hands in my lap trying to cover the evidence of her effect upon me, to correctly read the invitation there until it was too late. She arose from her seat with a toss of her pert, round bottom - Ah! Such delights to be experienced there! An impatient glance at me, a final glance with the smiling green eyes, and she left the bus before my destination. I was on my way to an important appointment and did not follow her as I should have.

Over the years since I have forgotten what was so important about that appointment. But I have never forgotten that sweet, young, green-eyed girl who was so ready to give herself to me. I still dream of being the first to part her tender lips with my tongue and drink deep of the first-fruit juices of her newly awakened womanhood, to eat that special meal from her virgin pussy. I still wish I had left the bus with her, and undertaken the beautiful and sacred honor of being her teacher in the arts of love - to initiate her to the ecstasy of release for the first time with my thick hard manhood thrusting inside her, bringing her to the heights of passion and spurting the juices of love deep within her, satisfying her completely in her initial sexual encounter.

Oh God! Why didn't I? I wonder if she ever thinks of me.

Mother, Charmin and Dr. Kevorkian

Editor's Note: This is a poignant and very moving short story. It gives dignity to the characters along with respect and clearly... love.


Copyright 2004 by Jeff Lassen


It was like every day. The help-line phone rang constantly. One call after another, claimants wanting to know where their benefit checks were. Look up their account in the computer. Give them the answers they didn’t want to hear. Their claim card was not received, not signed, no benefits left in their account. Their check had been mailed on the usual day. Each expected that his call would magically cause his check to issue from his phone right then. Eight hours of unhappy callers one after another.

“Jason, you have a call on Connie’s line.”

I almost never got personal calls at work. But I knew what this one must be. I went into the boss’s office.

“Jason?”

“Yes, Creigh, it’s me.”

“Jason. Mom died this morning, about an hour ago. They just called me from the nursing home a little while ago. They said she just went quietly in her sleep after breakfast. She’s at peace now, Jase!”

“Thanks, Creigh. Bye.”

There didn’t seem to be anything else to say. It was not unexpected. She had been starving herself to death for the past three weeks, refusing to take any food at all. She had been tired of fighting.

I quietly returned to my desk. I stared at and through my computer screen. The phone continued to ring unheard, the calls answered by my many co-workers.

She’d had fifteen good years after she had first been diagnosed. She’d had a double radical mastectomy, radiation and chemo-therapy, and had remained cancer-free for fifteen years.

Then the cancer had returned. She had fought valiantly for about five years. Then she had given up. At the end her body was riddled with cancer. She had just had her seventieth birthday a month and a half ago.

I was sitting quietly at my desk with tears streaming down my face.

“Jason, are you alright?” asked my supervisor, Bob. “Was it your mother?”

“Yes. I’ll be alright.”

“Why don’t you go home, Jason?”

“No! I think I need to be here right now. I just need a little time, Bob. Life goes on.”

We had both lived in Carson City, Nevada. I visited her often, especially on Friday nights. She was still working, in Reno, and drove the 30 miles each way. On Friday she would do her food shopping on the way home from work. But she was too exhausted to carry her few bags of groceries upstairs to her apartment. She would bring the frozen stuff, leaving the rest in the trunk of her car. No matter how many times I offered, she would not call me for help. Fiercely independent to the end! So I just showed up on Friday evenings, took her keys and checked her trunk, bringing up whatever remained.

About four months ago on a Friday night we were playing Yahtze. Mother and I had always played games. She was a ruthless competitor. But not very good at most of the games she had taught me. I was beating her at gin rummy by the time I was eight years old. Still, she enjoyed our games.

But she couldn’t seem to concentrate that night. I asked her what was the matter. She told me that she had had an accident on the way home that night. She had run over a curb and bent the rim of her tire, deflating it. She had to wait for AAA to come fix it so she could come home. I talked to her a bit about the circumstance and she couldn’t remember how it happened.

This was the third little accident in the past couple of months. I had been increasingly worried by her driving. I told her that it wasn’t good for her to be driving anymore if she couldn’t remember things. It wasn’t safe. She said what did it matter, she was going to die soon anyway. But there are other people to consider. You can’t endanger everyone else on the road just because you are going to die soon. Oh yeah, she responded.

I called my brother in Reno. I told him what had happened, that I was going to take Mother’s car keys, and he should come down the next day and we should all talk it over.

She was furious! How was she going to get to work? I told her that we would get things worked out between all of us.


Mother moved in with Creigh and his family that weekend. We all had a few visits with her various doctors in the next week. We hadn’t realized just how bad things really were. She had so many little tumors in her brain that it was amazing that she functioned as well as she did. Most of her organs were involved. But, strangely enough, nothing in her lungs. A heavy smoker for fifty years, and no cancer in the lungs.

A week later she quit her job. Her doctors had advised her to give up work six months before. She said it was just too much of a problem for Creigh and Emma to drive her there and back.

I saw more of my brother in the next few months than I had in the past several years. I visited one day every weekend. Mother and I continued to play games, when she was able to concentrate. But that became less and less possible to her. I watched her steadily decline.

One day we were playing Uno. She kept putting the wrong cards down. When I corrected her, she looked ashamed of herself. Mother, it’s alright. We don’t have to play. But she wanted to continue. And she concentrated fiercely. You could see the strain on her face through the wrinkles.

Let me have a puff of your pipe, she asked. She loved the smell of my pipe. But you’re not supposed to be smoking, I said. What’s the difference, she replied. I’ll be dead of the brain tumors before the tobacco can get me. Oh how she savored that single puff of smoke!

A few weeks before her birthday I was there when my brother and his wife returned from the shopping. He walked in with a huge package of toilet tissue.

Mother looked pleadingly at my brother. Please can't I have Charmin in my bathroom? Her body seemed to sag nearer to her impending death when he said that he'd just bought 24 rolls of toilet tissue at a wonderful bargain. The creases and folds around her eyes seemed to deepen until she seemed almost to disappear within them. With a deep sigh - either of despair or resignation - she croaked But that is so rough! Waiting to die, having to live in her son's home for her final days, could she not have one part of her body which was not painful? Slowly turning to gaze at me her eyes rolled upwards and I feared she was going to die at that instant.


Mother, I said, if you want Charmin you shall have it. Glaring defiantly at my overly frugal brother, I added If you won't buy it for her, I shall!

Mother's eyes slowly rolled down again, and the creases and folds of her face smoothed somewhat as she beamed at me with a broad smile, vacant of teeth but no less bright, and her eyes sparkled with glee.

The week of her birthday she was too ill to accompany me to dinner. I had always taken my mother out for a lobster dinner to celebrate her birthday, and for mine a week before. We had both been looking forward to it. But she had been getting more chemo and was not able to eat anything. We already had reservations, so my brother went with me. When we returned, Mother demanded to sniff my beard and mustache as that was as close as she was ever going to get to lobster again. She sniffed and smiled with joy as she nuzzled into my beard.

A few weeks later she had to be hospitalized to stabilize some of her medication. I think this was the point at which she really gave up. She had a living will which forbid any extraordinary measures. She made sure everybody knew it. Now she refused to take any medication except that for relieving pain. My brother, his wife - who was a nurse - and I were all there in her room with her major attending physician and her cancer doctor. They were trying to explain why it was important that she should continue to take her medication. She said that she didn’t want any more medication. She was going to die, and they couldn’t stop it. They said that they would have to administer it through the IV if she wouldn’t take it willingly. At this mother ripped the IV feed from her arm and told them she wanted her other doctor. What other doctor was that, they wanted to know. She had so many different doctors. Dr. Kevorkian, she replied. I had to laugh in spite of the situation.

Since she wouldn’t take medication they couldn’t justify keeping her in the hospital. She was moved to a nursing home, an intensive care sort of terminal facility. She went downhill very fast. She refused to eat. She took only water and a little fruit juice.

I visited every other day for the month she was there. At first she would ask me to not let them force her to eat. I talked with the staff, and they did bring her a tray three times a day, but nobody forced her to do anything. As if anyone could! She was not getting any medication except for pain. And she was in more and more pain as time went on.

Gradually she communicated less and less. When she did speak, it was often garbled, but sometimes an extremely forceful and lucid sentence would ensue. I tended to communicate more with her. I would hold her feeble hand and tell her that I loved her. I would assure her that her wishes were being followed. And I gradually came to accept that she had a right to die rather than to continue to fight this terrible battle.

Mother had long made known her wishes that she have no funeral, no memorial, nothing like that. She didn’t want anybody visiting her grave or keeping her ashes on their mantle. She had donated her body to the local medical college. She had often said there was so much wrong with her that the good medical students could make better use of her body than any undertaker. And it would save us the cost of a trash bag. Her words!

Two days before I had sat at her bedside holding her hand. She had not responded at all in the half hour I was there. At first she appeared asleep. Then her eyes opened, but still she didn’t move or try to speak. As I was prating on about nothing she suddenly squeezed my hand strongly. She said very clearly, No funeral! She looked at me with the clearest eyes I had seen in her face for months. No, Mother, no funeral. Just as you have always wished. With that she smiled, and closed her eyes again. She slept, and I left.

Goodbye, mother! May God bless you.

The help-line phone was ringing. Automatically, I reached for it. “Benefits. May I help you?”

KWABENA'S HUNT

The young man glowed with pride as he stood beside the antelope hanging outside his house. He was clad only in cutoffs and sandals. Young muscles rippling, he aimed his rifle at his prize and snarled fiercely. I took his picture and he grinned.

I was visiting the village of my wife's uncle. When the young man had returned from his hunt I was called to record the event on film. Everyone always wanted his picture taken.

Kwabena stood beside me now, eyes downcast, brow furrowed with thought. His wife Ama was speaking to the boy's mother and plainly envious of her. There would be red meat in that family's pot tonight while we had eaten only chicken and fish since my arrival. When I looked around again Kwabena had slunk away.

We were the same age but Kwabena appeared older. We had become friends at once although we were not able to communicate except through an interpreter. He had no English at all and my Twi was limited to "Good morning" and "Thank you".

My young nephew Kwaku appeared as we were on the path back. "Uncle Kwabena says to get ready. You are going to the forest." I hurried to the house to put on boots and get the rest of my camera equipment. I had been looking forward to this opportunity.

Carrying the heavy camera bag, I was drenched with sweat long before we reached the forest. The heat and high humidity were oppressive even though the path through the cocoa plantation was shaded. The sweet odor of cocoa in flower and rotting vegetation was almost overpowering.

Beside me strode Kwabena. He was dressed in sneakers, a pair of slacks which were more patches and tears than anything else, and a short-sleeved shirt which had lost its buttons and collar. Over his shoulder was an ancient percussion-cap muzzle-loader and around his neck hung a pouch with packets of powder, shot and caps. At his belt hung a large knife. A small, sinewy man, his stride was shorter than mine and I had to slow my pace to remain beside him.

Finally we reached the edge of the forest and a path leading into it but Kwabena began to turn aside. By hand signals to supplement the English which I knew he didn't understand, I made known that I wanted to enter the forest to take pictures. Reluctantly he led the way.

The path was more of a tunnel with vegetation close on both sides and overhead. I had to stoop to walk along behind Uncle Kwabena. He gazed apprehensively in all directions, rifle held at the ready. Twice he halted and motioned to return along the path the way he had come. The third time he refused to continue, edged around me in the narrow passage and began retracing our steps. I was disappointed. It was too dark for photography, even if I could have seen anything in the dense growth. But I could see clearly that Kwabena was uncomfortable in the forest.


A cocoa farmer, not a hunter, he was more at ease when we regained the edge of the plantation. Walking along the border between the forest and the groves, Kwabena constantly looked up into the forest canopy. What could he be watching for, I wondered. Panther, I guessed, but I had no idea of the local wildlife.

Suddenly he stopped and pointed into a tree with a finger to his lips. He raised and aimed his rifle in a most unusual manner. Rather than hold the stock against his shoulder he braced it against the heel of his left hand and held the grip with his right. As he squeezed the trigger there was a resounding boom and a billow of smoke.

It was plain he had missed. His smile disappeared and his head hung. Again, by signs, I asked what he had shot at, and he managed to convey a squirrel. The way he pantomimed the bushy tail would have made me laugh if he had not been looking so dejected.

We had come quite a distance from the path so Kwabena cut through the groves towards home. I felt sad for my usually happy friend as I followed him between the trees. His shoulders slumped and his eyes were on the ground. The rifle trailed casually from his hand. I would have liked to console him, but without a common language it was impossible.

Suddenly he was happy again, grinning and pointing, and talking rapidly in Twi. There under a cocoa tree was the largest mushroom I had ever seen. The crown, fluted like a fancy parasol, was about a foot in diameter. Kwabena seemed overjoyed although I couldn't understand why. First he used his knife to cut a forked branch, then carefully cut through the mushroom's stalk which was as thick as my ankle. Handing me the rifle, he mounted the huge fungus on his stick and hoisted it to his shoulder. Of course he wanted his picture taken.

We returned to the village in a triumphal procession, Kwabena striding proudly with his find. As we neared his house the children joined us. One ran ahead to tell Ama. As we entered the compound she came forward and accepted it from him, smiling broadly. Young Kwaku informed me that this species of mushroom was prized for its good flavor and its medicinal qualities. One this large was extremely rare. Our soup would be flavored with a portion of it this evening.

It was amazing to see the change in Kwabena. He seemed as happy and proud as the boy with the antelope. Everyone in the village had to come see the mushroom and congratulate him. And Ama was soon seen returning with a shoulder of antelope received in trade for half of the mushroom.

That evening around the fire Kwabena recounted the tale of his hunt for one and all and Kwaku translated for me. I did not dispute the many differences from the trip I had experienced. It was enough that my friend had no shame now, and that we would have red meat in our pot tomorrow.

HE, SHE, IT and THEY

HE loved SHE, SHE loved HE;
Both were happy as can be.
IT was a love so very grand;
HE offered SHE a wedding band.

Then THEY began to speak -
IT was over in a week.

HE and SHE are now apart,
Each one guarding an injured heart.
THEY, it seems, are satisfied:
THEY succeeded at what THEY tried.

Jeff Lassen, July 1969

Commentary: As I start to orate my way through the many poems Jeff has left with me, this one really hit the spot. I say 'orate' because in correspondence with Jeff I mentioned how well it read and he replied how "all poetry is meant to be read aloud". I totally agree. If you can't read it aloud without tripping over the rhyme and meter then is it really a poem?

I like this poem's simple message. It is succinct and yet very prescient. It has humour yet, as all good humour has, there is a tragic element casually clothed in the wit of the thing. If you deconstruct this ten line gem you can glean a deeper understanding of human relationships in general and male-female ones in particular.

Read it aloud with a twinkle in your eye and a smile on your face, then let it sink in and sit around in your head for a while. This is truly a case of there being more to this than meets the eye.

Perry Gamsby 2009

I Will Be The One

I first published this in my online newsletter "Philippine Dreams" in 2005. It was very well received by my readers and gave a hint to the writerly skill of this bearded expat living in Cebu. It shows a very clear appreciation of Filipino culture and the often paradoxical relationship of these fine people with those foreigners who choose to call the Philippines, 'home'.

Perry Gamsby 2009



I Will Be the One

 2005 by Jeff Lassen


I had never been happier in my life! Living a comfortable life on a pension which would have had me in poverty back home; sunshine, usually; balmy ocean breezes; the beach; friendly people; beautiful young women everywhere: retirement in the Philippines was my idea of paradise!

I had rented a little house on the beach on the outskirts of a small town near Ormoc, Leyte. It was an idyllic setting! Palms were all around and the water was almost at my door. Peaceful in the extreme. What more could I want?

Well, someone to take care of me and the house. I let it be known to my friend in town that I would like to hire a helper.

The next morning I awakened to a gentle tapping. When I had managed to throw on a pair of shorts and opened the gate, there was a delightful young woman looking shyly at her toes.

“Good morning, Sir! I am Angelisa. Uncle says I will be the one to take care of you.”

I invited her in to conduct an interview. She wouldn’t perch anywhere, just wandered around the kitchen area opening cupboards, getting the lay of the place. I kept asking her to come sit so we could talk but she seemed to not understand at all. Soon she presented me with a cup of tea and some crackers - all she had been able to find in my poorly stocked kitchen.

She stood shyly by until I finally convinced her to sit down.

“I do need a helper, Angelisa,” I said.

“I will be the one!” she replied.

It seemed that the interview was over! Short of being very rude to her, I had found my helper.

We did manage to communicate a little: set her salary; discovered who Uncle was - a neighbor and acquaintance of mine already. We had a small disagreement about where she should sleep. She had started to unpack her few things in my bedroom. It took some time to convince her that she was to have her own room. After a little insecurity and pouting, she seemed to finally get the idea that I truly wanted a house helper - a maid.

That first day she took care of everything! I hardly had to ask and the house was cleaned. The meals were prepared. The laundry was done. She was pleasant but unobtrusive, most of the time. In the evening she sat and we tried to talk a little.

Her English wasn’t as bad as it seemed, once she got past the shyness of speaking it with a foreigner. She said that she had graduated from high school but had not worked since. There were no jobs locally and the family didn’t have the money to send her to Manila or overseas for employment. She was a good girl. She respected her Uncle who raised her after her father died.

Shortly after I retired to my bed I heard the door open and saw a shadow slip into my room.

“No, Angelisa!” I said. “Go to sleep in your room. Please!”

The next morning I awoke to the sounds of a conversation at my gate. Even though I didn’t understand the Bisayan words, I could tell from the tone that it was an argument. Although it wasn’t actually loud, it did awaken me.

Slipping on my shorts, I went out to see. Angelisa was peering through the little trap-door in the gate. She struck a stubborn pose like a security guard. Nobody was going to come in, nobody was to have access to me, without her approval. I did not want to be protected like this!

“Angelisa, who is there?”

She glanced around, startled at my presence, then looked like she had been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

“Oh! Sir! Just some girl who wants to be your helper,” she answered.

From outside I heard a pleasant voice, in reasonable English, refute that. “I certainly do not want to be anybody’s helper.”

“Let her come in, Angelisa. Let’s find out what this is about.”

Through my gate walked a truly beautiful young woman! The brazenness she had shown while arguing with Angelisa was now replaced by shyness. I said hello. She briefly touched my hand in greeting, all the time admiring her toes.

“I am Chuchi. Uncle says that you need to make friends, and learn Bisayan. I will be the one to be your guide and tutor.”

We went inside to discuss my lack of desire for a guide and tutor. She was a charming person. Her English was very good. I enjoyed talking with her. Her desired wage was quite reasonable: she wanted nothing except a place to sleep and her meals. She just would not understand that there was no job available.

That afternoon she brought her things, and was settled in my other spare bedroom. If I wound up hiring any more help, I would have to build a nipa hut in the yard to live in.

There was a marked change in Angelisa. She became still more demure and shy, but even more helpful. She deferred to Chuchi, who happened also to be a distant cousin. For her part, Chuchi always treated Angelisa with respect, although she maintained a certain detachment.

I didn’t do very well with learning Bisayan. I did meet quite a few more local people with Chuchi as my guide and translator. I enjoyed her company. Soon she was a friend.

One night as I was going to bed, my door opened. Chuchi entered, shyly looking at her toes.

“Chuchi, what are you doing here?”

“Uncle says that you are lonely. I will be the one to be your girlfriend.” She smiled shyly. “I will make you happy, and not alone anymore.”

“But I don’t want a girlfriend, Chuchi,” I said. “And if I did, I would choose her myself.”

“Okay! You choose me then!”

She was in my arms. I suddenly realized that I had been lonely. She moved her things into my room the next morning.

Chuchi pleased me in every way. I was wildly happy, ecstatic! A beautiful young woman wanted to be with me!

Angelisa became completely self-effacing. As she went about her tasks with quiet efficiency you hardly knew she was there. From time to time a shy smile might have shown, but I could never be sure.

The next couple of weeks are a blur. How did we ever begin talking about marriage? I felt myself being moved along by events. Since I had come here everything had been taken care of for me, but I thought I had made all the choices myself.

“Jason,” Chuchi said one morning, “I have to go visit my grandmother to help me plan the wedding.”

“Okay, honey-ko.”

“I will try to come home tonight, but you know the mountain is far and the jeepney takes so long.”

“Aw! I miss you already!”

That night Chuchi had not returned when I went to bed after drowning my loneliness in a few San Miguels.

I had a nightmare. Chuchi came home late, crawled into bed, and began to play.

“I will make you happier!”

Then she began to change into Angelisa, because in the dream Chuchi was standing in the door of our room shouting. I don’t know where the bolo came from. Now screaming. Soon there was blood everywhere.

Then I woke up. Covered in blood. Angelisa lay on the floor. Covered in blood. I heard the gate slamming shut.

First the barangay tanod showed up. Then Uncle. My friend. Neighbors. Then the Philippine National Police. I told the story so many times that night. Everyone seemed so understanding. Both my friend and Uncle helped with the authorities.

Chuchi was nowhere to be found. It was thought that she had run to the mountain. Angelisa’s body was taken away.

At last I was able to get cleaned up. I finally got back to sleep, with the help of some Tanduay.

The next day, a bit bleary-eyed, I awakened to a tapping on the gate. There stood an adorable young lady looking shyly down at her toes.

“Good morning, Sir! I am Cristina. Uncle says I will be the one to take care of you now!”