The Pythagoras Curse Conclusion

The Curse Broken

It is the year of our Lord nineteen hundred twenty and six.

Today I sit in the parlor of my home patiently sipping a cup of tea as a pair of gentlemen pour over a stack of journals I presented to them.

The two men sitting before me had traveled a long way by horseless carriage to see these journals.

Wordlessly I surveyed their tailored suits and ties laced beneath stiff white collars. Both wore bowler hats of felt which they had unceremoniously placed onto the receiving table where we sat. One of them closed the last journal and placed it on the stack of others then gazed across the table at me.

“Mr. Allers…”

“Long Feather please.”

“Long Feather it is then. I must say, this is the most fantastical thing I believe I have ever read in all my years in the publication business. Is it true?”

I nodded.

“Every word.”

“And this Petra fellow, you called him Shaman. He died that day?”

“He did.”

“Amazing story sir. Simply amazing.”

The man turned to his companion and said, “Robert, what do you think?”

“I think this story is going to be well received by our readers. Mr. Long Feather will you agree to our publishing house taking you under contract?”

Robert leaned down, snatched a leather satchel and after opening it removed a sheath of papers.

“This contract will provide you a healthy advance and royalty commission on each book sold.”

“I do not understand healthy.”

Robert blinked several times, adjusted a pair of wire-rimmed glasses then gazed down at the contract.

“You will receive an advance of three hundred pounds and a guarantee of three shillings for each book sold.”

“The money is of no real importance to me. Remember, it is you who contacted me by post, not the other way round.”

“You are correct sir. Your reputation for storytelling precedes you. We have heard of your many sessions in the parks in Brisbane. I myself even stopped and listened one Saturday afternoon. This is the reason James and I have traveled three days from Brisbane by automobile to offer you this contract. You have a wonderful story to tell.”

“And you will profit from it, of course.”

“I will not lie to you sir we shall.”

“Then I will sign. You will transfer the proceeds to my bank?”

The man named Robert nodded then pushed the papers across the table and stretched across to hand me a pen.

“Once we return to Brisbane sir we will, of course, transfer the funds.”

I inspected it and signed my name, Falaya Talako, at the bottom of the contract.

Robert hastily withdrew the papers and his pen then frowned as he inspected my signature.

“Falaya Talako? I believe you said your name is Long Feather, did you not?”

“It is. Falaya Talako is my name in my native tongue.”

The man nodded, returned the documents to his satchel, and they stood. I stood with them and watched as Robert scooped up the stack of journals. Both of them donned their bowlers and they shook my hand.

“We shall be in touch with you Mr. Long Feather. You will be a very wealthy man soon enough.”

“I already am sir. Allow me to see you gentlemen out.”

I stood on the porch and watched as the two men loaded themselves into a vehicle covered with dust, it’s black side panels and fenders smeared with grime from the road. The cloth top was tattered and in need of repair or replacement. Behind where they sat I saw petrol cans lining the back seat. The man calling himself Robert waved at me as they turned in a wide circle and sped away.

I pulled a watch from my pocket, flipped open the cover and gazed at the time. It was almost noon. Lunch will be in order soon, but there is someone I need to visit first. Each day at this time I go and see him there.

I stepped off the porch, made my way around the back of the house and began my journey up a low-grade hill. At the top would be a lone tree, its branches providing deepened shape against the cemetery ground beneath it.

I stopped at the gate of a wooden fence ringing the cemetery and gazed at the two headstones.

Gerung Brandt, born 1222 A.D. Died 1876 A.D.

My brother and my friend.

Petra Allers, born 1222 A.D. Died 1876 A.D.

Born 1876 A.D.

I opened the gate and knelt in front of Gerung Brandt’s tombstone.

“Shaman, it is time for lunch. Please come and I will prepare it for you.”

“I am alive this day because of you and he boy.”

“I know Shaman. His dying wish was for us to carry him to you as you died. There he did as he said he would do. He took your soul and gave it back to you. The curse ended that day.”

“Aye, and I have lived these past fifty years free of it. I was twenty two years of age when the old man cursed me and now I have lived to be an old man and watched you grow into such a fine young man.”

“Thank you father. You understand when Gerung brought you back you were the same age as when you were cursed yes?”

“Yes boy, and your point?”

“We have lived these past fifty years together Shaman. I was fifteen years old when you found me that day on the trail. You are only seven years my senior and yet you still call me boy.”

“Point taken. Help me up. We will go in and I will assist you in the preparation of our repast. Then we will brew some tea and watch as the sun sets upon the horizon.”

“As we will for many years Shaman.”

“Yes boy…ah, Falaya Talako, as we will for many years to come.

Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, Part VII, Part VIII, Part IX, Part X, Part XI, Part XII, Part XIII, Part XIV, Part XV, Part XVI, Part XVII, Part XVIII, Part XIX, Part XX, Part XXI, Part XXII Part XXIII, Conclusion

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© P.G. Barnett 2019. All Rights Reserved.