The Amazing Mr. Melanson
The town of Mudfield
may be most notorious for being notorious for nothing at all. It is so
completely nondescript that it’s possible, if an award or worldly acclimation
were bequeathed to the small municipally, it would likely be given for being
the most boring place on earth.
On three sides the town is
surrounded by cornfields that dawdle across the horizon until they meet
mountains that are nearly visible from Mudfield—however they remain just beyond
the limits of the human eye. And while images of towering peaks that reach into
the heavens may sound slightly interesting, they are less mountains and more diminutive hills that were slightly too rocky to
grow crops upon. But, not only is the town boring, but the people who inhabit
it are boring too. Of the nearly 2,000 inhabitants, less than a quarter of them
have ever thought to venture to the ring of hills beyond. And so, the term mountain was adopted, in a legendary
sense.
The fourth side of the town
borders the ocean which logically leads one to believe that there must be a
pier, some type of harbour, wharf, dock, or at the very least, a length of rope
to keep a boat from drifting off to sea. But none of these things exist in
Mudfield, the tide dribbles onto a sandbar which is covered with large rocks and
kelp. It’s not that it would be difficult to construct a method to allow ships
to port, but it’s as if nobody ever thought of leaving so they never bothered
to try. Perhaps they didn’t believe anybody would ever want to visit either.
The most colorful house is a
drab yellow with the paint starting to chip off and with a fence that used to
be red (but is now an odd shade of grey). Most of the other homes in the town
are painted white or are faded to the extreme that, for all intents and
purposes, have no colour of their own. Town hall is built from stone and serves
as a centerpiece that the rest of the buildings sprouted around. There is a
large plaza adjacent to it where lifelong housewives often gather on the
weekend to sell crafts and other knickknacks. They don’t often sell, since
everyone is too concerned with their own sales to buy from their neighbours.
Life within the town is much
like that of any other community—there is a school, post office, community
center, gym, swimming pool, several bars, and a hotel (for whatever reason).
There’s no one part of the town which makes it boring, but the sum of its parts
lead to a very dreary lifestyle. Perhaps the only redeeming quality, and only
object that causes any joy, is a large oak tree in the middle of the plaza. The
lower branches have grown downwards, and nearly scrape the ground which allows
for easy climbing. The tree is by far the largest structure within the ring of
hills, miles off. This tree must be so old that it seems possible that the
community came into being solely to be near this magnificent sight.
The villagers are so affixed
into routine that, when something interesting and unusual finally does happen,
there isn’t a man, woman, or child who doesn’t stop what they are doing and
immediately head to the plaza. A man with a walking stick and thick black hair
has come to town, looking for a place to stay. As odd as it is that somebody
may actually visit Mudfield, this man
is not only looking for a room but a home to move into so that he may live here
permently.
After being poked at by every
child in town and answering an affluence of question from the young and old, he
is eventually handed the keys to a small home at the edge of town.
“Well thank you muchly,
Ma’am,” he says with a sly wink while kissing the hand of the woman who sold
him the house. She blushes and smiles, feeling insecure in this stranger’s
attention.
While much remains a mystery
about this man, like his first name for instance, he does eventually become
accustomed to the community and reveals his last name to be Melanson, which is
what he tells the villagers to call him. He is an odd man, always dressed in a
black suit with a matching bowtie. He also wears a bowler on most occasions,
which makes him appear as if he has stepped out of period of time a hundred
years prior. The golden pocket watch that dangles from his trouser pocket only
farther epitomizes this appearance.
He is friendly however, if not
more than a little secretive, never hesitating to lend a helping hand at every
opportunity—let it be helping change a flat tire or helping a boy retrieve a
lost baseball from beneath a fence. Still, there is a general feeling of
distrust towards him and nobody ever stops to talk to him, unless they need
something. He is an outsider, and is viewed as such.
Nobody knows where he came
from, or why he decided to come here, a place that many of them would give
anything to leave. He appears to be a man in his mid-forties and lives alone, with
no wife or kids. He doesn’t appear to have a job either, at least not one in
the town. Rumors begin to circulate that he is a renowned bank robber, hiding
out from the law. Once, a child worked up the nerve to ask him if it was true,
and he responded with a smile and a nod of his head. He certainly doesn’t seem like a criminal, but still, there
is something unusual about him.
He goes through the same
routines as anyone else: he goes to the grocery store once a week, to the post
office when he desires to mail a letter and to the barber to get his hair cut
(he even gets it cut much the same way as most of the men). But even though
there isn’t one single attribute that stands out as obviously out of place,
when his traits are added together they sum to a character who certainly does
not belong.
It takes over two years before
the mystery is debunked of why he came. Melvin Woodsworth (the town
undertaker)—who inherited the position from his father, and his father’s
father—is sitting in the front of his shop when Mr. Melanson strolls in
silently. If it wasn’t for the jingle of two bells above the doorway, it’s
likely that that Melvin wouldn’t have heard him at all. His footsteps are so
eerily silent that, for a split second, the undertaker thinks that this man may
be the spirit of one of his former… Clients.
“Mr. Melanson, how are you
this evening, sir?” I’m actually closing for up for the night and about to head
home for—”
“Yes, good ev’ning, Melvin. I
am quite aware that you probably want to get home to your family, but on this
night, may I implore you for five minutes of your time?”
The undertaker pauses, truly
wishing to lay his feet up on his coffee table while chatting to his wife, to
unload the stress that has accumulated through the day, but he has sympathy for
this man who has come to see him so late—and even more curiosity. Melvin is
still a young man, in his early thirties, and one of the many in the community
who hasn’t dared venture past the mountains.
“Yes, certainly Mr. Melanson.
Take a seat,” he says while pointing to two chairs opposite a round wooden
table in the corner of the room. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“If you feel so obliged, water
would be divine,” he responds. With a sigh Melvin momentarily steps out of the
room to leave Melanson alone to assess his surroundings. The room itself is
nearly empty, besides the table he currently sits at. There is a counter and a cash
register, which seems oddly out of place, and several more wooden chairs lined
up by the far window which peers out into the only graveyard in the community.
He’s eyes linger on the rows of graves as Melvin walks back in with two glasses
of water.
“Here you are,” Melvin says,
startling the other man, who didn’t see him come in.
“Ahh yes! Spendid, a thousand
thank yous, good man.”
“So, I must ask Mr. Melanson,
what brings you in tonight?”
“If you must know…” He pauses
for effect. “I am not well.”
“Not well? How so?” He asks,
shocked.
“It’s difficult to explain,
and I will not bother to bore you with the trivial details of my affliction,
just know that I am sickly. And that’s why I am here tonight.”
“I’m still not quite sure if I
understand what you want from me…”
An inappropriately odd grin
appears on the face of the dying man.
“I am so glad you asked! See, I know there is some mystery surrounding me—I
hear the children speak, saying I am on the lam for some heinous crime that I
dare not even imagine. Others say that I am a ghost come to bring the plague
and wipe the town out. Why I am so disliked I’ll never understand.”
“I wouldn’t take it too
personally, sir, people in Mudfield just don’t like change is all, see? I mean
you’re different to them, and they’re afraid of losing their way of life.”
“I suppose I can empathize
with them. I definitely haven’t helped my own cause, remaining shrouded in
mystery. But I’m afraid to admit, that the truth is almost as curious as the
fables and gossip going about.”
Melvin takes a long sip from
his glass, before asking the question that has been bugging him ever since
Melanson’s odd appearance nearly two years prior. “Well sir, what is the
truth?”
“Do you want to know what my name
is, what I went by before I came here?”
“Yes… Yes I would.”
Melanson reaches into his
jacket pocket, and then with a sly grin, claps his hands together to create a
puff of smoke and a sound like a gunshot. Melvin nearly jumps halfway across
the room in his attempt to keep from getting shot by the lunatic across from
him. His chair goes tumbling after him in his mad scramble.
“What in sweet heavens was
that?!” he exclaims, still shaking. Melanson just looks at him with the same
innocent smile he always wears and holds up both his hands to reveal the name
scribbled across his palms.
“The Amazing?” Melvin asks,
confused”
“The Amazing!” Melanson
exclaims. “The Amazing Mr. Melanson.”
Melvin stares at him, his jaw
agape. “What… What are you? Are you some kind of magician?”
“Now you’re getting it!”
“Well, that still doesn’t
explain what you’re doing here in Mudfield.”
“I can’t tell you that, but
what I can tell you is that I need your help, Mr. Woodsworth. You see, as it is
my current understanding, you have control over the graveyard out back.” He
points out the window.
“Yes, are you saying you would
like a burial plot because, if you would be so kind to come back in the morning
I—”
“Not just a burial plot, my
good man! But the monument to end all monuments! A trophy to trump all others!
Imagine now, if you will, a statue forty feet high, with the words Home of the Amazing Mr. Melanson etched
into the stone for all to read.”
“I’m sorry sir… I don’t think
we have room for that, and even if we did I don’t know how we could possibly
build something like that. I, myself, have no experience in building lifelike
replicates of humans and I highly doubt that anybody here does.”
“Hmm…”
Melanson stares off to space blankly. “Well I truly appreciate you taking the
time to humour me, and if you ever change your mind, here is my card.” Melvin
accepts the token, looks at it earnestly, then puts it into his front pocket.
“I thank
you, but I highly doubt I will.”
“We’ll see,”
Melanson responds with a wink before slipping out the door. Melvin is taken
aback by the occurrence, but decides to let it slip from his mind so that he
may enjoy the evening he already had planned at home.
When word
gets out that Melanson is a magician the town’s outlook on him lightens and the
children—who before were afraid of him—begin to knock at his door, begging him
to perform tricks for their amusement. He happily obliges, overjoyed by the
sudden influx of attention and shows off his talents, from sleight of hand to
disappearing acts. Before long he even decides to set up a weekly show on
Thursday nights at the town plaza, in front of the great oak tree. Oddly
enough, his show seems to do much more than provide two hours of entertainment.
The overall mood of the town seems to elate greatly, every day of the week. The
streets begin to bustle with activity as people begin to take pride in their
community, opposed to shuttering themselves inside their own homes.
Whereas
before, Melanson was met with silent animosity even when he would provide nods
of acknowledge and polite greetings, now there isn’t a single person who
doesn’t greet him with a overjoyed hello, or even a bear hug every time they
see him. A year passes before he visits Melvin again, although Melvin has
watched him from afar at every opportunity. He can’t help but think it odd,
that this man who said he was dying, shows no symptoms of any illness or signs
of suffering. If anything he seems to grow happier with each day, now that he’s
actually being acknowledge for his art.
It’s another
late night when Melanson returns back to the funeral home, and again, Melvin is
just about to leave for home when Melanson intrudes unannounced. When the
undertaker hears the sound of the bells above the door, he knows who it is even
before he turns around to be met with the same preoccupied stare he was last
year.
“Mr.
Woodsworth, may I have another word with you?”
With a sigh,
Melvin turns around. “Yes, what is it Melanson?”
“May I first
have another glass of that splendid tepid drink that you last served to me? I
haven’t stop thinking about it since out last fortuitous acquaintance,” he
adds, with a playful smile.
“Certainly…”
When Melvin returns with the glass of water he’s surprised to see that Melanson
has vanished, although the sack he brought with him lies on the table. Assuming
that it’s a bag filled with magician things, he places the glass down and gives
into his inquisitive nature. When he pulls back the strap of the bag he gasps
when he discovers what he has stumbled upon.
“Ah, there’s
the magical libation I’ve been waiting so long for,” Melanson says with a
smile, while stepping back into the store. “Sorry, I got distracted and thought
it fit to take a trot through your graveyard out back. Very nice, as far as
graveyards go, I could definitely see myself buried there.”
“T-t-t-t-that’s a bag of money!” exclaims Melvin while pointing at the
open sack.
“Why yes it
is, thanks for noticing,” the magician says with a smile.
“How much is
that?”
“Oh, about
20,000 dollars, I’d reckon. Is that not enough?” He asks, concerned.
“20,000
dollars? What could that possibly not be enough for?”
“Oh, where
are my manners, indeed, I need your help again. And this is yours if you decide
to offer your assistance. I dear say that’s plenty for a young man, like
yourself, to get a head start out of town, wouldn’t you say? Haven’t you always
wanted to see the city, Mr. Woodsworth?”
“Well I… I
mean…”
Melanson
begins to describe his plan to Melvin, and captivates the undertaker with the
idea that has been brewing in his head. Melvin can’t help but feel guilty for
even considering this man’s proposition, but at the same time, the bag of money
remains on the table. He can’t help but think of the good he could do with it,
what it would mean for him and his family. They could finally start a new life,
the life that they’ve always wanted.
At last he
responds, “What would I have to do?”
For a week
afterwards, Melvin walks around town with a look of exasperation as he avoids
contact with as many people as possible. His guilt eats away at him—twice
during the week he calls Melanson to try to turn back on the deal but both
times he is unable to get a hold of him. He knows when it’s too late because
there is a loud rumbling through the town that sounds like an earthquake. He
runs out of his shop to be met with 2,000 people all doing the same. They all
look around, confused. Never in the town’s existence has there ever been an
earthquake before.
When the
true source of the racket is located it makes even the children, who are too young
to understand the importance of what’s occurring, cringe. In the middle of the
town, by the plaza and town hall, a construction team are sawing the mighty oak
tree that reaches out in 50 feet in either direction.
“What are
you doing?!” Shout the villagers, and some of them even get brave enough to shove
at the workers who brush them aside without uttering a word.
Melvin walks
solemnly into the forefronts of the crowd to witness the same dastardly sight
he has seen in his dreams for the entire week previous. It takes less than an
hour for the once sturdy tree to topple.
If that
wasn’t shocking enough, while all the people are left staring in awe at the
spot their once beloved monument stood, they are met with a loud metallic
ringing sound. At first it’s impossible to tell where the noise is coming from
but it appears to be getting closer with each passing second, until, a huge flatbed
truck appears from behind the town hall building, carrying the largest statue
anyone standing witness has ever seen. It’s so tall in fact that it dwarfs most
of the homes on the street. The madness hasn’t reached a pinnacle yet however,
as behind the truck is a crane preparing to lower the statue to the ground.
Looking on
proudly, is Melanson. He wears a grin cheek to cheek, that’s partially covered
by his thick mustache, as he watches his replica get positioned into place.
When it does finally settle, and the construct workers leave as quickly as they
came, Melanson walks to the base of the forty foot tall version of himself and
turns to the crowd.
“What is
this? What’s going on? How dare you! This is an outrage!” Various townsfolk
shout at him in confusion and anger.
“I thank you
all for coming to my final performance! It means so much to me to spend this
special moment with you all. Melvin! Will you please join me? Come on man,
don’t be shy! Up and at ‘em, there you go,” Melvin slinks through the crowd, his
head bowed in shame as he makes he’s way next to Melanson.
“How dare
you!” Shouts a random villager. “You can’t just—”
“It saddens
me deeply to tell you all this,” starts Melanson. “But I have fallen ill, and
I’m afraid this is my crescendo. For when I disappear this time, I will not
reappear anymore. This is the end, my friends, and a thousand thank yous to
each of you good people.”
To farther
the madness, Melanson turns his back on the swarm, and pulls himself onto the
top of the base of the statue, which is about six feet high. He opens up a trap
door and calls Melvin to stage with
him. Melvin, tries to pull himself up with the same dexterity as Melanson
showed, but nearly falls on his behind twice before managing to get onto the ledge.
“Are you
ready to fulfill your half of the bargain?” asks Melanson, gently enough so
that only Melvin can hear him.
With a heavy
sigh, he responds, “Yes, I’m ready.”
Walking to
the precipice of the ledge, Melanson spreads both of his arms wide and takes a
bow before the befuddled audience. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I will
miss you all so very much!”
He walks
towards the trap door he opened, which leads to a staircase. He places a foot
on the edge and prepares his descent, but he hesitates as Melvin calls after
him.
“Wait! I
have to ask… Why here, why did you come here
of all places?”
Melanson
turns and gives him a solemn look for what feels like an eternity before
placing a hand on his shoulder. “You told me once that you’ve never been to the
city.”
“You are
correct, sir.”
“Well, I
guess like anybody, I just want to be remembered. This seemed like… As good a
place as any to be remembered.” And with his final words, he trudges down the
stairs into the darkness.
Melvin
fulfils his promise, taking a large padlock from his backpack, which must weigh
close to ten pounds, and clamps it shut around the trapdoor. It is a lock built
without a key. Before a single one of the 2,000 witnesses regain their senses (and
think to run after him) Melvin is long gone, chasing the mountains he has seen
every night for over thirty years in his dreams.
DannYetman
August 67 2013, all rights reserved by Canadian Copy
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