1 – June 28th

Dear Ewan,

I hope this letter finds you at home and in good health. Word has reached me about your recent stint in the hospital. You will say you’ve suffered worse, but still I worry. We’re not young like we once were. The only comfort I have is in knowing that you’re in good hands: Jamie is a fine, strong woman, and more importantly she has an excellent sense of humour. She’s always struck me as the kind to laugh off all the little tragedies of the world. Maybe I’m wrong about that. I hope you’re both still laughing.

I suppose it’s been a while since I’ve written you, and for that I am deeply sorry. John wrote me and tried to put the shame on me something fierce. He said I was isolating myself from my family. Imagine that! He’s never tried to understand how it is with us.

But I shouldn’t be harsh. You taught me that. I find it funny sometimes, how much I’ve learned from my younger brother. You were always the smart one – out of all of us. Maybe I ought to be embarrassed, but I can’t find it in me, especially what with us all being grown men and women now. What’s left of us, anyway.

Damn! There I go! I didn’t want to write about sad things. John says I’m too sombre, too melancholy, and he might be right about that, but he says it’s on account of my isolation. Well – let’s forget about that for now.

I am sorry it took me so long to write. You know how time just gets away from you. Mary was like that, always just letting the world pass by without her, never had a care, that girl. God I miss... That isn’t to say I haven’t been productive! Actually, as it happens, I’ve been busy with the house and my carving, and in my spare time I’ve been reading a lot more. I picked up this book on writing letters, ironically enough. Apparently, in the traditions of certain cultures, it’s customary to begin a letter by writing about the weather. That makes enough sense, I suppose. When you haven’t talked to a person in a while there’s always that shyness at the beginning – you talk about neutral things like the weather and inoffensive mutual acquaintances, until the old feelings start to come back and you’re jabbering away like you’d never been apart. It seems incredibly silly that this kind of pattern should exist even in the writing of letters, at least if you expect to get to the meaty stuff within a single letter, as I generally do. But you know I am a strong believer in tradition. So, though it’s late, I hope you’ll let me fill you in on the recent weather, up here in Diver, Ontario. I’m sure you’d like to hear how the old homestead is withstanding the elements, at any rate.

Summer has come to the valley in full force, and Grovesend is thankful for it, after the bitter winter and dreary spring we’ve had. I’ve had my work cut out for me, repairing the house. We had leaks all through April, and I’ve only just managed to get the roof fixed up. But now the sun is shining, even despite the massive, drifting summer clouds which cast cool shadows against the trees and the fields that never stay for long. It is not too hot yet, nor too dry. There is a moisture in the air which allows you to taste the life that seems to grow without restraint all around – the vivid mosses and the blooming fruit trees. I’ve tried my best to funnel a bit of that life by resurrecting ma’s old garden, and by God I think I may have the old lady’s green thumb after all! The roses have come in well, a deep blood red which seems to brighten that old brick wall.

There’s been some rain, but nothing like we had in spring. There are sun showers, occasionally – beautiful and eerie. Rainbows leap from one end of the valley to the other. On days like that, the big clouds seem to be hurrying everything along, as though the rain disturbs their leisure, for on other days they hang lazily in the sky, sharply white and huge against that lovely blue vault.

Today, as I write, is a bit of an outlier. It’s the first overcast day we’ve had in weeks, and perhaps that’s why I’ve sat down to write at last. There’s nothing to do outside, and inside…

I think we’ve gotten over the little shyness by now, haven’t we? I might as well come to the meat of this letter. I’m sure John has written to you about me, just as he has written to me about you. I don’t approve of that. He doesn’t really understand what he’s been told, and passing along what he thinks he knows is bound only to do more harm than good. I don’t want you to worry about me, whatever he’s told you. I’m guessing Old George wrote him (crossed out) that bastard – the worst male gossip you ever heard! (end cross out), but what does George know? I can only imagine what he must have said: “That Colin! What a mess, wasting away in his folks’ home, a man in his thirties! They say he won’t ever get his act together. They say he’s hearing voices again.” You can bet I have a pretty good idea on who “they” are as well – those old cronies of his. Good Lord! Sometimes I think the men in our town are worse gossips than the women.

And you know how John is –weak to shame, always on the defensive. I wonder where he gets that from. Maybe it was a bad mix of Grandpa Asheworth’s sensitivity and pops’ stubbornness. That’s bound to happen, I suppose. I feel for him, that brother of ours. He’s so busy, he shouldn’t have to worry about me. I’m just fine. Like I said, I’ve been keeping busy, and business is picking up again. I’ve hardly spent any time at the house, other than to fix it.

I guess you’ll understand me when I say that it’s only outside of the house that I feel the sense of isolation John tries to project on me, but unlike John I’ve always enjoyed my space. I’ve fixed up the old sun room and turned it into my studio. Of course, Grandma still uses it as her reading room, but you know how she is – always so absorbed in her books. She doesn’t mind my presence, and I don’t mind hers one bit. While I carve my pieces, I can listen to the sound of her turning the pages. Rarely she’ll speak up and without provocation recite a line from a poem, or a scene from a novel in that high voice of her, turned hoarse, it seems to me, by the years and years of easy laughter.

Voices. It seems cruel to me to call them that – our family, reduced to “voices”; so called by George and his ilk.

You probably don’t want to hear about all of this. My point is only that I am doing well, and the things which John worries about, the things that he, against my wishes, tries to worry you about, regarding me, are not worthy of concern – but you probably already figured that. We’re the same, you and I. You know I’m not mad. Or maybe you worry I'm like Uncle Gawain? John, though I love him to death, has always been the odd one out. Maybe that’s why he’s so sensitive about this stuff.

Though I hate to ask anything of you, especially given your health, I feel I don’t have a choice. Please, if you can, write to John, if you haven’t already, and tell him I’m well. I’ve already done so, but I don’t think he’ll take my claims seriously. It’s hard to describe, but I’m concerned that he’ll try to do something about me. I feel as though his patience with me is slipping. Maybe it’s all in my head, he is my brother, after all, and I know he would never do anything to hurt me, on purpose anyway, but you know what Grandpa used to say about the blindness of the self-righteous (more and more often the blinder he himself got, Ha! Ha!).

I will say no more harm against our brother – only that I wish he’d stop worrying about me so. Hopefully you can help, though of course your health comes first. I hope to hear back from you as soon as you’re well.

With Love,

Colin Skinner

2 – July 15th

Dear Ewan,

I was thrilled to hear back from you so soon. It seems you’re in better shape than I gave you credit for! You’re still young after all, in spirit if not in body (Ha! Ha!). I do hope you’ll continue to take care of yourself – goodness knows Jamie can’t do it by herself (or maybe she can?).

Well – let me come right out and address the big concern from your letter: It boils down to a bit of a misunderstanding, but all is well now. I was not aware that George knew about my little project, nor that he had informed John. To answer your first question: No, Uncle Gawain did not come back. I haven’t heard him in years at this point, and you can be sure that I have not, and will not, do anything to beckon his spirit. As for your second question, no better, no worse. Take it as you will, but things are the same as they ever are here. As for that project of mine, I will disclose the full details presently, if only to spare you any concern. Perhaps you will even be able to find a way to make it palatable to our brother, though I doubt it.

It was Mary, you see, it was her spirit I was trying to beckon – not Uncle Gawain’s. You should understand as well as anyone just how much I miss her – she was the best of all of us! You’ve said it yourself, and no one would ever contradict it. She inherited every Asheworth treasure, and not a few belonging to the Skinner family tree. She had Grandpa’s gift of the gab, and Grandma’s easy laugh, Ma’s sense of wonder, and Pops’ deep, abiding self-certainty. But that’s just it, isn’t it? She had too many treasures. She was never meant for this world. Those qualities she possessed which drew everyone to her were the threads of light which yanked her so quickly heavenward. Fair enough, let her sing with the angels, I say, and yet, knowing her, she must miss her family, no?

So I wrote to her, just as I’m writing to you, and I burned the letters, just as I had with Uncle Gawain’s those years ago. When she didn’t answer, Grandpa suggested I go out to the edge of the property and carve signs into the trees, beckoning her, welcoming her. I set up lanterns until Grovesend was alive with light, and the whole family gathered out and called to her.

In the end she never came – still hasn’t. We tried a couple more times. You know how the family is, always optimistic. It’s what allowed us to take in Uncle Gawain that one time, back when he was alive. Do you remember? You must have only been nine or ten. I was sixteen, I guess. We gave him the attic and he stayed with us three weeks until the night he made a terrible racket and nearly burned the house down. I wonder, what kind of spirit was he trying to summon? He never did tell me, even when I called him back.

If Uncle Gawain could find his way home, why can’t Mary?

But enough of that. To conclude, one of the neighbours, Joseph I’m guessing, must have heard me hollering, or otherwise caught a glimpse of what I was up to, and alerted George who passed it on to John. It seems a man can’t get any privacy anymore! And now you have the truth, do with it what you will. I only hope it’s eased your concern a bit.

Yours with brotherly love,

Colin

3 – July 29th

Dear Ewan,

Another hasty reply! It’s been a while since we’ve kept a correspondence like this. Hopefully my pointing it out won’t jinx it, though I suppose that’s really up to us. You remember how serious pops was about jinxes. Though I love the old man dearly, I could never really buy into that. I’ve always preferred the calling out of fate, daring it to intervene and make a mess of plans. That always gets him going, me saying things like that.

I must say, I was a little surprised by your reply. I’m happy you took my confession, such as it was, so well, but if you’re getting homesick you know you can always make the trip up north. We’d all be happy to have you. Of course, I’m also happy to fill you in on the goings on here.

But first! I forgot last time, probably due to the seriousness of the subject, to open with a comment on the weather. Well – summer progresses well in Diver. It’s still as humid as ever, though of late it’s become a little overbearing. My poor roses have begun to wilt some – perhaps I didn’t give Ma as much credit as she deserved. There have been storms recently, powerful, earth-shaking ones. I watched, the other day, a lightning storm roll through the valley, and listened to the booming thunder echo through the woods. It was like that for a while before the rain finally began to fall, and fall it did! The water came down with one massive splash, soaking everything in a split moment. I was outside at the time, chatting with Ma, and I immediately ran for the house. Ma stayed outside though and danced in the rain. I could hear the sound of her footsteps as she traced the treeline, splashing around in the rainwater, her high laughter in the wet and electric air.

So there it is: same old Ma, her same old highs and lows. The highs come more often now than they did when she was alive. On the good days she’ll wander around, admiring the plant and animal life. Sometimes she’ll surprise me when I’m out working on the property, she’ll speak up and point out a monarch butterfly that’s stopped to say hello, or a blue jay that has decided to take a moment to admire my work. Once, the other day, when I was looking for something in the shed, she showed me a family of bats hanging by their clawed feet, asleep in the shadows. She’s a great reminder of life, even in her death.

I know that when she’s out, wandering around, pops keeps an eye on her. I can’t see him, but I can hear his slow and steady footsteps in the creaking of the floorboards in the house. Ever the strong and silent protector, his presence is comforting. The only words he ever speaks are words of advice, it seems, occasionally he’ll relate one of his rare factoids – you remember them, don’t you? Do you remember the way he always sought hidden knowledge. He loved a good secret, but he also loved to share them with those he loved. Filled to overflowing with superstition, I think he always believed that the secrets he had and shared with us would be the salvation of him and our family.

In general, however, Pops tends to say even less than Grandma, who as I mentioned last time, still spends her days reading in the sun room (we’ve gotten closer, sharing that space, and she’s started to tell me stories about grandpa when he was younger, but we’ll get to those…). The only exception in Pops’ reticence is when Ma is having one of her low days – yes, they still come, even now. On those days I can hear him in their room, speaking to her in that soothing voice of his. I can picture him there, at their bedside, her hand cupped in his as he whispers to her, reminding her of all the light and beauty in the world, promising her again and again that he will keep her and her children safe. Did you know that was what often got her so down? The thought that something bad might happen to us.

Well – he takes care of her, as he always did. On those days I try to give them some space, and if I’m not working in the sun room with Grandma, I’m out on the porch with Grandpa. I like to sit out on the steps there and feel the sun on my face while I listen to the sound of his rocking chair. On some days, I think I can smell the smoke from his pipe – the one he carved, you remember. He spends his days, rocking and smoking, and when I join him we always get to talking. What about? I can hear you asking, but you know how it is with him. You can spend the whole afternoon jabbering away with the old man, or otherwise just listening to him flap his gums (the guy’s fondness for speech reminds me, in a way, of a drunk’s fondness for booze – he can never seem to get enough of it. Thank god he’s such a good speaker, but then again, if he wasn’t, I’m sure somebody would have figured out someway to shut him up), at the end of it all you’ll come away feeling warm and strangely enlightened, like you’ve been given some gift that will light up the rest of your week, but when you try to remember what topics had been touched upon you come up blank. So it is, generally, though I can say that a recent topic of conversation which came up was brief time in the Navy.

You didn’t know our dear old maternal grandfather was a sailor once, did you? Grandma told me about it. He was only there for about five years, but in those five years he saw a lot of the world – from South-East Asia to the Caribbean! He told me some stories, the characters he met, the adventures he had; It came to an end when he started to show signs of our condition. It was not a happy ending, I’m afraid. You can imagine how it was, for him. He never really knew his mother, whom he inherited it from, and so he didn’t really understand what was happening. He thought he was going mad, as anyone in his position might. He ended up injuring his eyes – on purpose, mind you – and he was discharged. That injury, he told me, is why he started to go blind later on.

Now that I’m thinking about it, it occurs to me that that is something he and I talk about quite a lot – this condition which he and I (and, to a lesser extent, thank goodness, you) have. What he sees, I hear, and you smell, occasionally, in Uncle Gawain it became something else altogether. I wonder how it manifested in Grandpa’s mother – perhaps she could feel them? I can only imagine how awful that must be, considering some of the one’s I’ve heard. To hear them can be bad enough, to see them, well, I can imagine why grandpa did what he did to himself when he was younger, but to feel them would be….

Well – Grandpa learned to manage, and I believe I am making the most of my lot in life, though I know John would disagree. He’s never believed, but even if he did, I think he would still disapprove of my life. He would tell me that I need to let them go, this family of ours – but how can I? It’s easier for him It’s hard when, for me, they never left. Everyone’s still right here, with me.

Perhaps, if you’re feeling up to it, you should come for a visit. Maybe you’ll be able to smell Grandpa’s tobacco as he sits and puffs, rocking away the hours of the day.

Yours as always,

Colin Skinner

4 – August 13th

Dear Ewan (and Jamie),

I received Jamie’s letter. I was beginning to worry for a bit there, and now my worries are confirmed. I apologize for casting this jinx on us – that’s the last time I challenge fate like that. You’ll think I’m making a joke, but I do feel strangely responsible – as though my letter, the things I wrote to you last time, are somehow responsible for your current return to the hospital. I’ve noticed that I have that effect sometimes. It’s like, something will get me started and this box just opens, releasing all kinds of stuff, terrible things, things that I can’t rightly get a hold of to put them back. It’s hard to describe.

Weather: Summer has grown full ripe. The valley is a tangle of heat and light and life. The sound of life is cacophonous now, but rising over the chirps of the crickets and the songbirds, and the hooting of the owls and the high pitch clicking of the bats at night, is the melancholy song of the cicada, marking the beginning of the end of another summer. You know how I get around this time of year…

I am thinking of you, brother, I hope you are not in pain.

Wishing you well,

Your brother Colin.

P.S. Jamie, if you’re reading this, please stay strong for my brother. He’s always been like our mother – he knows it and I know it – the lows can be bad, but you know better than us all how great the highs can be. The good days will always come again.

5 – August 27th

Dear Ewan (Or Jamie?),

It has been some time, and I have not received a reply to my previous letter. I am anxious about my brother’s health. John wrote me, but mentioned nothing more than I already knew. The rest was outside of my concern. I am trying to be patient with him, Ewan, but he grieves me so! It doesn’t help, this time of year. Summer is coming to a close and there is a chill on the wind.

In happier news, Mary has finally arrived! Though I don’t know how long she’ll stay for. You know how she is. That girl could never sit still. I had to write to her again, and once again the whole family came together to try and welcome her. I’m quite sure I gave Joseph a terrible fright, and I’m equally sure there will be hell to pay from John in time for it, but it was worth it, Ewan! It was so worth it!

I have heard Mary sing again! For the first time in so many years.

When you are well, you really ought to come for a visit. If Mary sticks around that long, you may just get to smell that perfume she always used to wear.

Anxiously yours,

Colin

6 – September 14th unsent

Dear Ewan,

Still no word? I don’t know what to do. I’m afraid, Ewan, for you and for myself. The summer is over and the sound of death in the valley is deafening. I can’t hear myself think! This has always been the worst time of year for me, but this year is especially bad.

The leaves are turning colour, and with every one which curls up and falls from the branch, my head becomes closer and closer to being torn in two. The family is silent. They can do nothing to ease my pain. I feel alone now as John must thing I do all year round.

I shouldn’t be writing these things to you. God only knows the state you could be in. I wish I was there with you, little brother, away from this valley of death.

Mary has left. She didn’t stay for long, and though I understand how it must be with her, I can’t help but be heartbroken.

John wrote to me again. He told me not to write you, the bastard! He wouldn’t tell me how you are, though. How can he criticize my alleged self-isolation, and then in the same breath try to isolate me from my own living brother? You have to help me, Ewan. Our patience for each other seems to be running out. I think George has written him again saying I’ve gotten worse.

I have gotten worse – or rather, well, the summer has ended once again, and I am alone once again; Alone and yet stifled by this crowd of death.

God, Ewan, it is worse than silence! I try to carve, but my hand shakes with exhaustion. I can’t sleep. Even writing this letter, I am uncertain if you’ll even be able to read my handwriting.

What am I even saying? I can’t send this letter to you. John is right about that at least.

Last year, around this time, I nearly drowned myself. I never told anyone. I went to the river and submerged my head, trying to block out the sounds. I spent longer and longer under the water until I found myself dreading coming up for air. I decided, in a split moment, to gulp the water into my lungs and let myself be carried away by the current, but I panicked. I managed to claw my way up the bank and vomit the water back up.

Perhaps I will do to my ears what Grandpa did to his eyes, all those years ago, only I have heard about such injuries. I worry I would induce in myself a permanent state of vertigo. Can you imagine it? Spinning around in silence for the rest of your life? Is there no escape?

Uncle Gawain embraced it. I understand that now. This condition of ours – he took the good and the bad. “One foot in the grave,” Grandpa called it. Did I ever tell you? I used to speak with him, up in the attic when he was staying with us. Late at night I would sneak up there and we would sit across from each other in the candlelight. He would tell me secrets there – and not like the ones dad used to tell. These were real secrets, knowledge that was hidden for a purpose.

He would speak of the fumes of the spirit, the heat of decay. He would describe to me the smokey pits which are home to the ancient dead. Once, he held my hand over the fire and stared into my eyes as I tried to squirm away. The day after that, he tried to set himself ablaze – failed, nearly took us all with him. That was the end of our relation.

Why did I call him back? Back then I could hardly hear them. Was it this desire for secret knowledge, this inheritance from Pops, that compelled me so? (Or perhaps I inherited it from the Asheworth line, rather than the Skinner – Gawain himself is evidence for that). When he came to me, he unplugged my ears. I wish I could go back. I wish I could shut my ears to the sound of all the dead.

I know I’m not mad, Ewan, I know it, but when it gets like this I wonder if it wouldn’t be better. I have heard things. I’ve heard that they can zap the madness out of a lunatic’s brain with electricity. Do you think that would work on me? A few shocks between the ears to shut out the noise? Then again, I would miss the family. It’s hard to remember the good parts when it gets like this.

Oh, who am I kidding? What is it I really want? To cure this world of death? Gawain once told me this world was made by death – a garden grown to be reaped by that legendary reaper himself. Maybe he’s right. When the valley was full of life, only a few weeks ago, it was nowhere near this loud.

Unsigned

7 – September 27th Unsent

Dear Ewan,

First Mary, and now you. My heart cannot take it, and yet, I am too tired even for grief. I haven’t slept in days. The sound of the valley beats endlessly upon the walls, the doors, the windows. The world around me quakes. How can a world hold so much death?

I remember when this house was full of the sounds of life, when we were boys. You and I and John and Mary. Grandma’s laughter and Grandpa’s stories, Ma humming to herself in the garden and Pops pacing the halls, watching over us all. John and I would play in the woods while you and Mary stayed in. Mary would sing and you would sit and dream. You were always so frail, little brother, but then again, perhaps we all were, in a way.

Where did everyone go?

I thought I might burn this letter, send it to you directly, but now I wonder if there’s a point. I can’t hear the ones I love over ceaseless blast of cold, uncaring death which fills the valley. The fruit has fallen and burst, the swarm of wasps have emerged.

Maybe I’ll visit you instead, but I think I lack even the energy for that. John will be here soon anyway. He told me of your passing – a brief message. That’s how I know he’s on his way. He wishes to say the rest in person, I guess, but it’ll just be a waste. He’ll probably take me away from this place. I know I should resist him, but I’m just too tired.

I have nothing more to say. I’m sorry I couldn’t see you one more time before you left.

Your brother,

Colin

8 – December 3rd (Partially burnt, recovered by Dr. Richter, Psych Ward, St. Luke’s Hospital)

Dear Ewan,

I’ll keep this short. It’s quiet now, though I almost miss the noise. John finally went and did it, he got me committed – his own brother. He thinks I’m like Uncle Gawain, but all I can say is that this place explains why Gawain was the way he was. The things I hear in these halls – there is evil in this place. I need to get out of here, I need to go back home. I don’t know what John will do with the place. For the time being, however, I just need to hear a familiar voice. Please, come to me, Ewan, I’m begging… –

Fragment burned.

–… can’t bare to be alone with the voices in this place. Now I understand what Gawain was talking about when he spoke about the smokey pits. There is sulphur on their breath.

I will try to get my hands on some matches so I can get this letter to you, but I have a feeling they will try and stop me. I pray I will succeed. If I can’t get this letter to you, I don’t know what I’ll do with myself.

I hope to hear your voice soon, Ewan.

Yours forever,

Colin