The Ten Dictates of Alfred Tesseller PDF
Preview The Ten Dictates of Alfred Tesseller
The Ten Dictates of Alfred Tesseler by D. P. Watt EX OCCIDENTE PRESS Bucharest ■ MMXII First published by Ex Occidente Press, in May, MMXII [email protected] www.exocccidente.com © D. P. Watt, MMXII Frontspiece by Akseli Gallen-Kallela (Ad Astra, 1907) Etchings by Francis Dounce Listening to the Dying Pleadings of the Forgotten In the House of Horological Respite, since 1099 EX OCCIDENTE PRESS Bucharest ■ MMXII O Lord, deliver me from eternal death A Wake You remember Alfred Tesseller-----the quiet one who arrived, all those years ago, in our decrepit country classroom. He had that accent that was so strange and yet so enchanting. We thought his family were ancient gypsies and the tales we told about him rivalled any myth performed around immortal fires. You must remember him! Surely you remember the dark breads, strange meats and exotic fruits he would bring with him in his battered metal lunchbox, and how, once, and only once, he shared the small squares of cake—of spicy syrup, or honey, and ground nuts—his mother would make him. You recall how we gathered around him that day, like we were old friends, and how he laughed, and we did too (although we laughed, like dogs, at the hiding we would deliver him that evening in the back lane). Ah, good, you do remember. I thought a little taste of blood would bring it all back! I come to tell you he is dead now. Alfred Tesseller is dead. It’s unnerving, I know, when you hear of those you knew as a child—however distantly, and however cruelly—now cold and packaged for the ground, the crypt, or the flames. I seem to recall that you were the worst though; the relentlessness of your tormenting pursuits and the brutality of your fists. That much older than the rest of us you had the upper hand in everything; size, speed and cunning. I recall the day you delivered me a pounding. It was a slight insurrection-voicing an objection to pelting Alice with those rotten cider apples, alive with the evil chuckle of wasps----but enough to merit retribution. I squealed as I ran from your great clumsy hands as we darted from tree to tree and dodged the clutching branches. I had the upper hand amongst the trees, small and nimble as I was against your awkward adolescent frame. Yet coming to the edge of the orchard I saw’ the expanse of a field out to pasture and something in me yearned to find space, as though I might be able to soar into the skies and finally rid myself of your tyranny. Within moments my short legs had failed me and you were upon me, with our dirty gang behind you, hungry for something they couldn’t comprehend. Even Alice, free for now from persecution, mustered a few supportive cheers. Setting steadily to work on me you hummed some playground ditty-------a sing-song chorus that chimed the pleasure of your fists upon my soft cheeks with metronomic precision. You had pinned my arms with your knees and I broke
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