For Whom the Bell Tolls

This is not the story of Page.

This is not the story of Dad.

Nor the story of Sandy, or

A.J., or Christy.



It’s not the story of Mummy.

It’s not the story of the House.

Nor the story of the Cavern.

It’s about the Bell.



You see, the Bell is the Power.

The Power of fear and of pain.

If you were to look at the Bell,

It would just be there.



There would be no interaction.

(An interaction with a Bell?)

The brass Bell would stare back blankly,

You would turn away.



The Bell admittedly had pitch,

And depth, and glow, and engravings.

It was brought back to Page on a

plane from India.



The sound was pure and loud and true.

Its engravings were simple and

True. (Truth being more important

here in its story.)



Great-Aunt Eliza brought it back

She earned her Great-Aunt title, thought

Page, when it was placed in her hands.

It was placed on her shelf.



Shelf was no ordinary shelf.

Shelf was full of trinkets and coins

from places Page would never be.

Postcards slid off it,



When Bell found its new spot amongst

The ashtrays and statuettes all

brandishing places far away.

Sandy and Christy



giggled and picked up the cards as

sweet sisters do. The meanness and

shadows scurried and hid behind

their innocent eyes.



Laying on their bed, the three girls

stared up at the walls filled up with

posters of places never seen,

wondering who would



see them. They filled up a roll of

papyrus, listing all that they

would do and see and hear and taste.

Thundering footsteps



wandered down the hallway, stopping

at their door. Dad said, I’m going

out, so go sit with the Mummy.

Page got up and went



into the Caverns, lighting fresh

candles along the way down (deep).

New candles were made on Wednesday.

Colors had meaning.



Page only chose (healing) grass green.

She spent her hours on Wednesday

making the candles for people.

Yellow was for Thor.



Everyone needed yellow for

the next day's life divination.

Page only needed healing green.

(Nehalennia)



Nights were too long to use for candles,

but the Mummy still moaned for light.

(Page mentally noted which ones

would need replacing.)



Upon arriving at the foot

of the bed, Page ticked off the list:

foul smell: check; eyes closed: check; groans:

check; more bleeding: check.



Sliding her hand up the bed, she

went up and smiled at the face

showing through the bandages, in

case Mummy woke up.



Which Mummy promptly did. Thumping

her claw on the bed, waving her

hand in the air, she motioned for

sheets of papyrus.



Page scurried about appeasing

the Skeleton swaddled in white

bandages, hoping the message

would be legible.



The Swaddled Skeleton brandished

the etchings when she/it was done.

And the first line said, to our friend,

“I want to go home.”



Page panicked and assured Mummy

that Mummy was home, but Mummy

would only groan and thrash about.

“I want Demerol,”



was the next message. Page shook

her head no. Too much Demerol

and Tylox would kill the Mummy

before healing came.



Page had faithfully tended the

altar of Nehalennia

every day bringing baskets of

food and young flowers.



She had cast the runes that foretold

of the healing of the Mummy.

She kept her faith as others gave

up in dark defeat.



Alas, the Swaddling was to

have its way. It moaned, and it thumped.

The bandages swelled up in

red (deep). Page ran out



and tripped over stones in the path

and deep darkness swam over Page.

As she climbed out of the darkness,

voices swam by her.



“…she’s only fifteen…far too young”

“will kill your wife” “Who’s to know if”

“If you weren’t out on the sea so

much” Get out, roared Dad.



A fluttering of cloaks ensued.

Neighbors and relatives muttered

their farewells and left. Silence fell.

Page sat up. Dad left.



Page wandered down to A.J.’s room.

She stood in his doorway until

he motioned for her to come in.

He was working on his



ritual hammer. In less than

a year, he would join the village

Assembly. He would partake in

the Festivals as



a man. He was almost done with

the familial history

of Sabine’s long dead and not so

long dead or not dead.



The other side of the hammer

handle was to trace his story,

his life. He had been tracing his

Dad’s handle for years.



The same way that Page traced over

the etchings in her Bell, he traced

over his Dad’s hammer, thinking

about Dad’s life on



the sea, fetching items from strange

countries. He looked over at Page

and said, “You worry too damn much.

Sitting down there hour



after hour isn’t good for

you. Why not give her the Bell and

she can give a ring if she needs

you.” Page just nodded



and went out thinking and plotting.

She gathered up some fresh candles

and descended into (madness)

the Cavern, lighting



up fresh candles and offering

apologies to the Mummy,

who needed fresh clean bandages;

new IV’s; bedpans



and bedsores cleaned. Page was very

methodical and soon the chores

were done. She relaxed upon a

pillow and gazed in.



She wondered why the sickness killed

off the host. When you looked over

the body, there was skin in some

places and not in



others. Just gaping holes, looking

down into muscles (raw, red meat)

strings, connecting material.

Page had quit eating



meat, from any source. She wouldn’t

even prepare, handle raw meat

for the family. She had seen

that humans were meat.



Leaving the Bell with the Mummy,

Page went upstairs to cook dinner.

She prepared a chilled, herbed carrot

concoction for the



Swaddled One. She prepared a group

of vegetables and salad for

an evening repast to be

consumed by the rest.



When the family was seated and

the blessing was said, green leaves and

spring annuals were enjoyed by

all, until the ding,



ding, ding floated up and about.

Dad said, “I’ll get it this time, you

get it next.” He pushed back his chair

and winked at young Page.



And this set the routine. Dinners

were shared and turns were taken to

please the decaying Swaddled One.

One evening after



another meal, held on a

different day, or was it the

same day? They all blended into

one long memory,



one long meal. So after this

(real? false?) dinner, Dad and Page went

out to the cliffs, the whitened cliffs,

watching the ocean



roar up and down without knowing.

Dad simply said, “I have to go out there.

I have to travel the waters

for more trading goods.”



Page nodded, knowing her role, and

knew that Bell and her would become

good friends. The Wednesday after Dad

left, she made candles.



Solid colors and bright layered

ones adorned the area from

which she sold her wares. John-Michael

walked in that same day



and stood around chatting of this,

and chatting of that. He ordered

his yellow candle for Thursday’s

Assembly meeting.



He talked of his meager role in

the Assembly as if he were

the one to call upon Thor and

ask for a blessing.



Then he got around to talking

of his role in the Saga at

the Spring Festival to be held

that weekend, with food



and wrestling and drinking and

races and, oh, dancing. Would Page

be there to dance? Yes, she would and

Young Vitality



started spouting off his new role:

“I make an oath on the ring,

a law oath, so help me Freyr

and Njord and Thor.”



Those were all of his lines, but he talked

as if the play wouldn’t exist

without him. And when the play came

that Saturday, for



Page, no one else existed on

the stage. And this brief reprieve danced

in her mind while sitting next

to the Swaddling.



For the Bell was good for sometimes,

but the Mummy felt better when

someone was there. And after Page

packed fresh salve in the



gaping holes (not two new ones!) and

wrapped fresh gauze around and around

and around and around, she liked

to sit there and just think



until the Mummy was sleeping

again. Page thought about nothing

and everything, sometimes at the

same time. The routine



went on until one night, there

was a break. The spring rain had turned

into a thundershower, and

Sandy and Christy



woke Young Page up. Then, (wouldn’t you

know it?) Child/Man, Only Son, the

Killer of Icky Insects peeped

in the doorway and,



uninvited, leaped on the bed.

More thunder screeched overhead and

four young siblings jumped with a start.

Page gathered her thoughts



and said, “Wait, you know this story.

This is the story of thunder.

This is the story of Thor and

his bowling hobby.”



“We forget,” echoed three perky kids.

“Tell us, tell us, tell us,” they sang.

So Page began, “Every spring,

about this time, Thor



challenges all the other gods

to a bowling championship.

When there’s lightening, you know a

strike was made. Thor wins



every time. Sometimes, there are rains

with thunder and no lightening;

those are just practice sessions and

nobody wins.” Page



snuggled up under the blanket

with three shivering siblings, and

they all fell asleep amongst the

raindrops and thunder.



Later that spring, amongst the rain

and candles and routines and ships

sailing and rituals, came yet

another dinner.



Page had switched from old vegetables

hidden in the earth to the new

vegetables popping out on top.

Sandy and Christy



and A.J. and John-Michael and

young Page and Dad were eating and

laughing and chatting away when

the Bell rang once more.



Page and Dad started to get up.

But the Bell tolled for no one since

The Mummy had been buried, just

one fortnight before.