Garden of Eden Stories and Poems

GARDEN OF EDEN

Stories and Poems

Paul and Helena Morrison

Published by Kemetpharaonics Publishing House at Smashwords

Copyright Paul and Helena Morrison

ISBN: 978-1-925074-03-1

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If you woud like more information on other books, short stories and poems written by Paul and Helena Morrison, please visit our website: kemetpharaonics.com

Table of Contents

PASSION PLAY

FULFILLING MOMENTS *

FIRST FOOTPRINTS

MISS YOU… *

THE PHILOSOPHER AND LOVE

THE PHILOSOPHER IN LOVE *

THE WOMAN IN THE BEAUTIFUL DRESS…

THE HOPE WHICH IS A CERTAINTY *

IN THE GARDEN OF LOVE

WHAT IS THERE IN YOU *

A WEDDING TO REMEMBER…

WEDDING REHEASAL *

THE SEDUCTION

ONE MORE TIME*

THE FRENCH MIRROR

THE SINGULAR FACE OF LOVE *

THE STORY OF THE BLUE FLOWER

COLOURS *

PARADISE FOUND, PARADISE LOST

IN THE DEPTHS OF LOVE *

THE QUEEN OF THE NILE

YESTERDAY, TODAY AND TOMORROW *

THE BOARD OF DIRECTORS…

OH! LOVE *

THE WOMAN FROM POMPEII

LIKE A FLOWER *

SOULS AND MINDS

A SINGULAR STORY *

COSMIC ETERNITY

LOVE IS A UNIQUE INSTANCE *

THE STORY OF TWO LOVERS *

(poems *)

PASSION PLAY

It is surprising how one single word can have so much meaning or so much emotion. And to make it even more surprising, the word we are discussing is a short word in that it has only seven letters (in English). Words are used as a means of verbal or written communication; you can’t really feel if someone is angry by merely saying they are angry, but if they are screaming abuse at you or punching you with their fist then by these actions you know they are indeed angry. Anger is an action word as is its opposite, the word, kindness. But our story is about yet another word, a stronger word which dominates our inner souls and makes us strive for something far higher than a moment of anger or of kindness – this word dominates the story I am about to tell and this word is passion, or in the context of this story, Paixão……

MY KNOWLEDGE of spoken Spanish is extremely poor and my knowledge of spoken Portugese even poorer. It was not surprising then that I found myself in the trouble I was in – my car had broken down on the road leading from Barra do Garcas to General Cariero, the two towns being located or perhaps sandwiched would be a better word, between the Central Highlands and the Matto Grosso in a remote region of Brazil. I am a writer (or at least like to think so), and I was travelling through South America to find new material for short stories and possibly a novel or two. Several cars and trucks had already passed my broken-down car and two had even stopped to offer assistance. Could it have been what I said to these good samaritans in my poor Portugese rather than how I said it, for they simply looked at me as if I was mad, before quickly driving off. Perhaps, instead of asking for assistance could I have mistakenly asked instead for directions to the nearest beach (the coast was more than a thousand kilometres away), or even sillier, asked them to sing me a love song! As I have already said, my spoken Portugese is extremely poor, far poorer than my Spanish, although both languages do have certain similarities, that is, I speak them poorly.

It was late in the morning when a man appeared on the road and he was leading a pair of oxen which in turn were pulling a wagon full of vegetables. There was a small boy sitting on top of the wagon. They stopped beside my broken car and the man spoke excitedly to me but I could only shrug my shoulders in confusion at his words. He was after all only a poor peasant and would be unable to help. I was in a desperate situation, however, and found myself asking the question, Do you speak any English? He looked at me with interest and then with a smile.

Of course senhor (mister). I speak English very well.

My car is broken and I need some assistance, Before I could finish these words he was sitting in the driver’s seat and had started the engine. There was a high-pitched whirling sound; the engine was not completely dead but the car certainly was not going anywhere.

It’s a busted arse! I called out to him above the whirling engine.

I think your car is indeed dead, senhor. The engine was turned off and he climbed out. He then ordered his son to come down from where he was sitting on top of the nearby wagon. I must get my vegetables to market, senhor. I expected him to continue on his way but instead, he talked hurriedly to his son before turning to me.

I will have my son take the wagon to the town which is about ten kilometres away. There is a garage there and he will come back with the mechanic.

You don’t have to do that, I told him. I can walk to the town myself.

It is no problem, senhor. Why should the three of us have to travel to the town? He glanced up at the cloudless sky. And besides, it is a very hot day. My son will take the wagon into town and I will wait here with you. There is a tree on the side of the hill where we can sit in its shade. I did not want to inconvenience him and told him so but he would hear none of this, although the explanation for his actions was a strange one.

I wish to speak some English. We do not have many English speaking people come by on this road and it will be a good chance for me to practice – I am sure you are a good teacher of English. I felt flattered by his comments but I was just a bit curious as to how he had learned to speak the language because he was after all, only a poor peasant. What he told me completely surprised me.

I was once a teacher in the town, he said as he sat down beside the tree a short time later and proceeded to stretch his legs, reaching out with his arms as he did so and yawning. But that was a very long time ago when we had a school in the town. Now I am a farmer.

Did the school burn down? I enquired. I was suddenly curious. He smiled faintly and then looked in the direction of the distant wagon as it made its way down the road towards the town where his school had once been.

The very opposite, senhor. It was washed away in a flood more than fifteen years ago. The government always says it will build another school but we are still waiting.

And what about the children? How do they learn?

Nothing, senhor. They learn nothing. What would it matter anyway? Learning is of no use to them. They are born in the town, they live in the town, and they will die in the town. If they had all the knowledge in the world and could speak English as well as you could senhor, it would still be of no good to them.

It sounds so terribly sad, was all I could say. There was a brief silence and then he spoke again.

It was not always like that, senhor.

Oh, in what way?

Let me tell you a story, senhor. It happened a long time ago when I was a very, very young man and now I am nearly ninety, or I will be in three months time. I have nearly forgotten about this story. You are the first person outside the town I have told it to. He paused and his mind was suddenly searching the dark cob-web filled passages, the regions of the brain where distant and unused memories linger forgotten in the dimmer shadows of our conscience. Paixão, he said suddenly. Yes, I remember now. He drew up the stretched legs closer to his body before wrapping his spindly arms round them. He laughed aloud as if suddenly remembering pleasant memories. Paixão, he repeated again, but this time his voice sounded more distant, as though he were indeed reliving what had happened in the town all those years before when he was a very, very young man.

This is the story my friend now told me……

HE WAS SURPRISED by just how poor the town was. He had seen the advertisement in the paper when he was working as a teacher in Campinas and the advertisement read: Teacher wanted for school in large and prosperous country town with a growing economic future. The town though was anything but this. It was neither large nor was it prosperous, being surrounded by poor and impoverished farms – but there was some truth in the advertisement, for it said also that the name of the town was Infortúnio (Misfortune). This could not have been a better name for the town and its people who were indeed misfortunate.

The school in which he was to teach was not in the real sense a school at all. There was no proper building, and the lessons were taught beneath a grove of trees beside the river and on the edge of the town. Paulo of course did not mind this, for there was something very refreshing about learning and teaching outside the confines of four walls – in a sense he felt like Plato, Socrates and the other great teachers who themselves had taught their students beneath the open sky, the roof of their own schools. But there was of course a negative side to all of this. When it rained, and it did often rain, there were no lessons and sometimes this rain would last a week.

Why is the town so poor? Paulo asked this question to several of the town’s citizens but they remained silent as though resigned to the impoverishment about which they could do nothing. In their silence there was also a fear and Paulo noticed this fear in their eyes as they looked away from him and then simply shrugged their shoulders.

It was a woman, a very old woman who one day told the teacher what he wished to know. The town is poor, but it is not us you should be asking as to why it is poor, but Senhor Campbell.

Who is this Senhor Campbell? Paulo asked. I have not heard of him before. It sounds a Scottish name. Whereabouts in Infortúnio does he live?

He does not live in the town but watches over us from outside.

Then he lives in the nearby provincial city, replied Paulo which surprised him for this city was more than two hundred kilometres away and separated from Infortúnio by several rivers and a jungle.

The old woman smiled, exposing the gap where her front teeth were missing and explained a little further. He lives there, and she pointed towards the mountain which overlooked the sweeping valley where Infortúnio and its surrounding farms were located. He lives in a very big house, a house which is larger than our town. Paulo followed her pointing finger.

High on a ridge and many kilometres away he could see a house, more a castle than a house. Its walls followed the contours of the ridge, rising up above the jungle which crept like a green carpet from the valley far below before stopping suddenly at the foot of the high walls of Senhor Campbell’s estate. And behind these walls? Paulo could see a tower, a large and round tower made of stone, its grey stonework broken here and there by windows which reflected the sunlight of the late afternoon.

I have never noticed this house before, Paulo told the old woman. Is this where Senhor Campbell lives? The woman nodded and then picked up the jug of water, a jug she had just filled from the town’s only well. She turned to go but the teacher had yet another question for her. But who is this Senhor Campbell?"

He is our master and we are his servants.

He owns the town? enquired Paulo in surprise. The teacher had been working in the town for two months and had never heard any mention, not even a whisper of this mysterious Senhor Campbell.

And all the lands for one hundred kilometres in each direction, replied the old woman...

It was a few days later, a wet day when once more there was no school, that Paulo climbed the steep ridge. The jungle tore at his shirt and trousers, scratching his hands and his face, and his torn clothes were muddied by the soil washing down from the top of the ridge. About halfway up the ridge he stopped to rest. It would be pointless to go any further. It was then that he noticed the track, more a road than a track which led down from the hill near where he was resting. With his footsteps now much quicker, Paulo followed the road which led to an iron gate, the only opening in the stone wall. The gate was of course shut and locked by a huge and rusted lock but there was a tarnished and green bronze bell, a ship’s bell bolted