Ponk's Inheritance
by P. H. Madore © 2006
After the day's work was done, Herbert sat in his living-room easy chair, exhausted. Sweat coursed down his face; he looked as though his head would burst. He'd always worked in frenzy, rarely stopping even for hydration. Until it was difficult to see he'd work; until at the brink of collapse. In his over-stuffed chair with a tall glass of ice water in one hand, a bowl of ice cream in his lap, he recalled the curious envelope. Among the usual sea of bills, personal communication, subscriptions, and wax-coated advertisements which flowed in on Mondays, it had come. He'd looked for a second and seen faint lines. At first black, with no reasoning, but as he kept staring the lines appeared colored, and he found the envelope to actually be an astonishing portrait; a lush island landscape, a mountain range in the distance. When he blinked finally, the envelope was again yellowish, the process of the portrait's appearance restarting.
All right, he thought. Once he'd finished his ice cream and taken a shower, he would open it. Sitting on the dining table, it seemed to have a mystical aura. He reasoned this was fatigue working on his mind, started toward it, but instead went to the refrigerator and grabbed three beers. He snagged it on his way back to his chair and, once there, stared down at it in his lap. Lips apart, eyes wide -- why did it make him nervous? What was with its gorgeous artistry and its revealing itself to the beholder gently, slowly? He grabbed a beer from the stand he'd set the trio on, opened it with a bottle opener he'd made himself. Guzzling half before looking again slowed his mind enough to pay it focus.
Now with a light buzz on, he examined the envelope and watched as the idyllic scene did its trick, formed before his eyes behind emerald, calligraphic letters. He wedged the beer between his legs and held the letter in his hands. He had the urge to rip it open, destroy its arrogant beauty. He cut it carefully open with a granite letter opener he'd made around the same time as the bottle opener, during the days when he'd been fooled into believing that "functional art" was the future. A heavy, once-folded parchment was revealed.
Stamped on the top of the upper flap were the initials M. S. The initials seemed to have been hand-written, but to Herbert they were so beautifully crafted this was difficult believing. Most non-artists would've assumed it was a stamp.
Herbert Ponk,
I've waited a terribly long time to see you. But, who am I, you ask? Well, as you can see by the vehicle itself, I am foremost one who enjoys dabbling into the arts as such a thing involves; not, I'm sure (by the examples of your work I have seen), unlike yourself.
And why am I writing you? I would like to meet you, of course! From what I have seen, you are, to borrow from an American expression, one hell of a great sculptor. I, too, have undertaken some sculpting in my time, which means we have something in common.
I do believe we could have a grand time if you'd choose to visit my estate here in New Zealand . In fact, I would like you to come soon. I fear I am near my end, I have lived a long life and meeting you, the famed American sculptor, is one of my final goals. If you let me know when you should be arriving (assuming, of course, that you decide to come), I can quite easily have my driver waiting at the airport on the mainland to pick you up (did I mention I own approximately 90% of the isle I live on?)
I believe you'll find my estate, shall we say, interesting. I do hope you fall in love with it as I have come to, over the years. And as a guest artist, you'll of course be welcome for as long and often as you like, assuming we've no serious qualms, which I cannot forsee given that I'm largely just a docile old fellow.
Anyhoo, have a good night.
Martin Sharp
1 Sharp Lane
Chance , New Zealand
Z74-EQ23
A good night? Herbert thought, in wonder. Likely it had been night when the letter was written, that was all. Being that the man was an artist -- an apparently reclusive and unknown one -- the concept intrigued him, and he decided he'd like to visit New Zealand , see this man's mostly-private island. The odd part was that Sharp had not said anything about having any work for him to do, yet was nevertheless inviting him to stay often and long. A retreat from the world might be nice.
Write, he told himself. A humble reply. Be casual.
He sat at his favorite of the two desks in his study. Dug out some heavy stationary, took a heavy ink pen, given him by a client from Eastern Europe as a token of appreciation, and slowly began to write.
Mr. Sharp, he began, in the messy-neat scrawl that was trademark of a man used to working with objects, not words. He paused for a long time after this, lost in thought, weighing the possibilities. At the corner of his mind there was a voice whispering danger.
Regardless of the doubts he had, he reapplied his fancy fountain pen to the stationary. Underneath the salutation, he wrote, I graciously accept your cordial invitation. I shall arrive at Aeotorea International Airport fourteen days from now, on the twenty-second. Herbert remembered the allure of New Zealand . Was there any more to write? He shook his head to himself and took a deep breath, writing, Sincerely, H. Ponk, Sculptor.
The deed was done. He folded the half-sheet of paper and quickly stuffed it into an envelope before a chance to change his mind.
He was startled at the three-day response. It was quick. The envelope this time, when stared at, became a changing swirl of color that eventually (after nearly five minutes) ceased to form an abstract water color-like image. The reply was short and sweet, mentioning that Herbert was not to bring any sort of recording equipment, and that he would be picked up by Sharp's one loyal servant.
He wondered vaguely at the ban on cameras. It made him uneasy. It was not as though he could just disappear. After all, he was Herbert Ponk, the famous sculptor.
He picked up the cordless phone in the cushion beside him and dialed the travel agent he'd used for ten or more years, Oscar Williams. He told Oscar he didn't care for the cost, he wanted to be in New Zealand 's chief city by the twenty-second. No bullshit, no delays, just a smooth trip. Oscar called him back later in the day and said it could be done for ten thousand. Herbert reiterated the irrelevance of the cost and hung up the phone.
The trip to New Zealand took twenty-one hours in all. He'd brought a copy of War and Peace , something he had wanted to read since college.
He arrived in the lobby of Aeotorea International to find it strangely empty. He noticed a clock telling him it was only six in the morning, which explained the lack of people, though Herbert felt it was rather bright outside for the early morning.
At the far end of the massive, open chamber, he noticed a man clad in black wool, slumped on a bench, head tilted forward. The man's hat seemed to sit atop a mountain of extra skin, as his position caused his extra chin to protrude awkwardly beneath his face. As Herbert approached briskly, the light suitcases hardly impeding him, he made out a small wooden sign hung around the man's neck, resting on his belly. Once he was close enough to hear the man's snoring, he saw the word "PONK" burned into the wooden slab in the unmistakable script of Martin Sharp.
The servant had apparently been instructed to wait until Ponk arrived and no, the master had not given a damn if that did mean waiting until next week. Instead of that length, the broad man had had to wait nine and a half hours, for most of which he slept off the previous night's booze.
Herbert set the cases down and approached the sleeping man cautiously. Then he slapped him lightly on the shoulder and the man came to, quickly looking in each direction first, then resting his eyes on Herbert, in front of him.
"Who're you?"
Not wanting to speak, Herbert pointed at the sign on the man's belly.
The man understood and said, "Ah, right then," now in his most official capacity. "Shall we, erm, go then?"
"I'd like that," said Herbert, wanting more than anything a warm bed to sleep in.
The drive was a fairly long one. Herbert dozed off a couple times and he was just starting to dream when he found the car coming to a stop around him. He opened his eyes and found the car in a mostly-empty gravel parking lot overlooking a beautiful body of water. Behind was a dense forest they had just traveled through and in the distance Herbert saw what he thought was a castle. "Where are we?" he asked.
"We're at Master Sharp's estate, sir. Well, almost. This is the automobile parking lot."
"Where's the house?
The driver responded as Herbert had earlier, by gazing over the water and pointing.
Right, Herbert thought, he owns most of an island. "I see," he said.
"Follow me, sir," said the driver, leaving Herbert to wonder if it was a command or request. He followed skulkily. A few yards in front of the car there was a motor boat which the driver was carefully putting Herbert's bags into, afterwards boarding it himself. Herbert got in after him and sat in the front.
As the aluminum craft approached the island's dock, Herbert realized that the entire island itself seemed to be a piece of art. Sculptures abounded. On one side of the main path that led to the castle entrance, he could see, sitting atop an elevated patch of beautiful, rich, dark green grass, was a sculpture of a giant snake. That was not the interesting part about the sculpture, however. The interesting part was the gap between each section of the snake's body. It looked like it was made of granite. The detail Herbert noticed in the piece, as they passed it on the way to the mansion, astonished him. The sculptor seemed to be a perfectionist after his own heart. How long must that monster have taken? That would be one hell of a commission.
The snake, more of a dragon really, was not alone. He saw a miniature blue granite gazebo set a good distance up a hill from the dragon to give the viewer a breath-taking view. Atop the gazebo stood an angelic-looking, fully armored knight, holding his sword to the sky.
"See that knight?" said the driver.
"Actually, I was just admiring it, yes."
"One night out of the year, I can't recall exactly which, the tip of his sword is directly aligned with the north star."
"Really?"
"I've seen it me'self."
"That's amazing," said Herbert, now noticing something else between the two sculptures. A ten-foot high kitchen chair sat in front of a lush green forest which formed the backdrop for the whole scene. On the chair there was something tiny, which he could not make out. "What's that on the chair?" he asked the dirver.
"That's a little boy, I believe, sir," he said.
Inside the lobby, which led immediately to an upward staircase on the right side and a downward one on the other side, the driver set Herbert's valises down and went up the stairway saying, "I'll just retrieve Master Sharp, sir."
Herbert grew anxious as he waited for something to happen. Five minutes, ten.
The driver returned, but now he was wearing a giant grin, a house robe, and a pair of seemingly expensive slippers. A wooden pipe hung from the corner of his lip. "Good day, Herbert, how are you?" he said.
"Where's Mister Sharp?"
"Ah, I'm right here, indeed."
"Huh?"
"Deception, Mister Ponk. 'Tis an art of mine."
Herbert felt very confused. The driver who now called himself Martin Sharp said, "Shall I take you to your room?"
"I suppose," said Herbert, unsure. This man was young. Hadn't Sharp said he was nearing the end of his life? This man couldn't have been much over forty.
The man picked up the suitcases and led Herbert up the stairs.
To the left of the top of the stairs was a long, dark hallway. The man walked down it and three doors down he stopped and turned left. He slowly opened the door and motioned Herbert to come near. Immediately he smelled a stench so powerful it choked and overwhelmed him. In a corner of the room he saw a rotting corpse adorned in a robe, not unlike the one the driver was wearing, with a matching pair of expensive slippers.
He turned around quickly and was even more startled by the new sight. The man stood naked, his fat, hairy belly drooping. He was wielding a revolver. Without a word he pressed the cold barrel to Herbert's temple. Herbert attempted to move, but the man pulled the trigger, sending a bullet through his skull just as he was about to say, "Why?" The body of Herbert Ponk collapsed to the floor. The naked, pudgy man had a manic, gleeful look about him as he shut the door and went back down the hall.
THE END