My Bones And My Flute

Dec 27, 2009 Features / Columnists, The Creative Corner

By Edgar Mittelholzer

Part Four

Mr. Nevinson dabbed at his forehead. “it’s like some—some unpleasant dream. I still can’t believe that it’s happening. He looked at me and gave a short uncomfortable laugh. “If this gets around, people won’t pronounce me out of my mind—and I won’t blame them.”
After another silence he smiled at me in that quiet, grave manner of his, which goes a long way to contribute to the confidence he inspires in the people who know him.
“I’m afraid I wasn’t very honest with you, youngster. The firm does want you to do those pictures—the commission still holds. But it was really I who maneuvered it so that you could come up here with us. I need someone like you to help me find a way out of this situation Milton. You’re the only fellow I could think of who would be interested in this affair in a really serious and sensible spirit. Despite your reputation for being an eccentric, I happen to know you as you really are. The opinions I hear expressed about you don’t affect me one bit. I know I can depend upon you, knell and Jessie I’ve brought along to keep us both with company. In many respects I’m far more chicken-hearted than you may imagine. Somehow I couldn’t stand the thought of going up there without company while this mysterious ghost-play was happening around me.”
Anyone but Mr. Nevinson might have been surprised at m rigid and unbroken silence all the while, but Mr. Nevinson was accustomed to me. We understood each other perfectly, and I knew from experienced that once he set out to narrate any happening or any set of circumstances he was thorough about it and left out nothing that was vital , hence obviating the necessary for his listeners to interpose questions. I was aware, to, that he considered me a first-class listener, and I was in no way eager to damage my reputation. That was why I waited until I thought he was finished before uttering even as much as a grunt.
The first question I asked him concerned the second part of the manuscript, for I was curious to know what these “instructions” could be. He smiled and nodded, withdrawing the parchment from the dictionary again.
“I intend to read you the translation I’ve made,” he said, “but it’s a dull, rather rambling affair, not particularly interesting—and I can’t see that it’s going to be of much help to us. I think we’d better leave it for another time. This evening, perhaps, after dinner, we’ll go through it carefully. But, Milton, tell me, what do you think of this thing? Can you suggest any explanation?”
“I’m afraid I’m just as baffles as you, sir. I’ve never heard of anything like it. I know that there are such things as poltergeists, but from what I can gather, such phenomenon usually occur in a haphazard and unpredictable fashion. Bricks and vases sail through a room, furniture gets shifted around, live coals spring out of fireplaces—all without seeming rational cause. But this affair of a flute is something new—and it seems so deliberate and studied.”
“Just what struck me, nodded Mr. Nevinson. “I’ve read about poltergeists myself, but this thing doesn’t seem to fit in with poltergeist phenomenon. And another thing why should merely touching this parchment cause a manifestation of the kind Jessie and I are experiencing?”
“Well, as for that,” I said, “I did read somewhere that certain physical objects can retain a sort of physic effluvium. Not much is known about it, of course, and it’s all guess-work, but there is a theory that buildings in which people have died under violent circumstances and under great emotional stress can retain certain physic vibrations. In other words, let us suppose that this Dutchman had left some strongly psychic emanations of his personality within the fibres of this manuscript. Isn’t it possible that touching it could bring you into tune with the physic stuff and so produce the manifestation of flute music? When you think of it, an exposed wire with electric current in it looks a harmless, but touch it and the result can be sensational. Similarly, we cannot see the physic force in the manuscript, but that is not to say that it might not be only too real.”
We were silent for a moment and I was on the point of asking him a question when Mrs. Nevinson appeared at the door of the dining-saloon.
Her husband glanced at her with a frown.
“What is it, Nell? What is it?” asked Mr. Nevinson testily.
Mrs., Lunsden and Mrs. Lunsden are getting ready to go ashore, Ralph. Don’t you think it would be police to see them off?”
“Are we at Brave Lands already?”
“Look outside and see for yourself. Haven’t you noticed that the steamer has slowed down?”
She uttered another of her magnificent sighs and went off, and Mr. Nevinson looked at me and smiled. “It looks like we will have to adjourn until another convenient occasion, Milton. He rose slowly—and then uttered a soft exclamation and stared at me, consternation and slight annoyance in his manner.
For, deliberately and before he could anticipate my intention, I had stretched out my hand and laid it on the manuscript.
(To be continued)