It was a glorious fall. The trees had donned their brightly colored frocks in spectacular style, as if determined to create a display that would compensate for the months of barren ugliness ahead. A mischievous breeze swirled through the piles of leaves on the ground, and whisked the skirts of little girls to and fro. It was the kind of day which parks are made for, and children by the dozen decorated the green expanse of Edith C. Wildman Memorial Park like so many sprinkles on an enormous green cake. “The Park”, as it was referred to by the children of Sandbury, was covered with happy rowdy kids. Toddlers built sand castles in the sandbox. Little girls hung out of the turret windows of the old wooden castle and yelled to some boys scrabbling about below to hurry up and kill the dragons so they could be rescued and come on down. A group of older children played hide-and-seek in the little patch of woods that bordered the pond. On the other side of the pond sat a little boy, all by himself. Walter was ten years old, and by rights should have been running about killing imaginary dragons with the other boys his age. Instead, he sat on the bank among the tall grass, looking at the wind-driven ripples which marred the glassy surface of the pond. He was thinking of his father. Father would have known what kind of bird that was, he thought longingly as a sweet trill resounded across the pond. Suddenly, an old man walking around the edge of the pond caught his eye. Idly, he watched the man in his light brown sweater and cap walk slowly around to a weather-beaten bench on the south side of the pond. The old man sat down, removed his cap, and ran his fingers through his thick white hair. Laying a brown paper bag on the bench beside him, he leaned back to wait. A few minutes later, he was joined by an elderly woman with her hair hidden by a bright scarf which tied under her chin. She sat down beside him and patted his knee affectionately before opening the brown bag and beginning to munch its contents. The man helped himself to whatever was in the bag. Walter, his curiosity aroused, began creeping through the tall grass. He moved stealthily, as his father had taught him to do when they had gone bird watching together, and soon was close enough to see the couple more clearly. Doughnuts! They were eating doughnuts! Walter hadn’t tasted a doughnut since Cousin Wilbur’s birthday party. He saw the old man reading out loud from a book, but before he could get close enough to hear any of it, both of them stood up to leave. To his astonishment, the old man stooped and kissed the lady’s hand. Walter’s curiosity was thoroughly aroused. What had this meeting been about? Who met on a park bench to eat doughnuts and read a book? And who in the world kissed a girl’s hand? Walter walked slowly home, determined to go to the park regularly and watch the old bench if he could slip away from his mother. She barely let him out of the house now that Father was dead. Walter sighed. Surely she couldn’t object to him going to the park. Maybe this mystery would make life a little more interesting. Then he and his mother would have something to talk about over dinner. Ever since Father died, dinner was a somber, silent meal.
The next day, Walter went to the park straight after school. He hid in the grass behind the boardwalk on which the old bench stood, and was delighted to see the old man approaching from the left, and the lady approaching from the right. The weather had turned colder, and the sky was overcast, so they both wore coats. “Good afternoon, Bertram,” said the lady in a gentle voice.
“Good afternoon, Helen,” replied the man, sitting down on the bench. Helen sat beside him, and they munched doughnuts in silence for a while. Then Bertram spoke.
“I haven’t gotten much farther, I’m afraid.”
“Oh Bertram, you know I don’t mind”, replied Helen. Bertram cleared his throat and began to read.
“It was the ninth of September when the dreadful event occurred. A nobleman from the distant province of Argural appeared at the home of the princess. The peasant lad Martreb was worried. He knew his friend was reaching the age of marriage, and visiting noblemen could spell trouble. Martreb’s worst nightmare came true the next day when a carriage pulled out of the great Montegro estate with his best friend seated unhappily beside a richly dressed man who appeared to be twice her age. Martreb caught a glimpse of her sad face as the carriage left the only home she’d ever known. He stood in the dirt roadway staring after them, trying to decide what to do.” Bertram stopped. “That’s all I’ve written since yesterday,” he said rather shyly. Helen patted his knee.
“It’s very good,” she said softly. “It all seems real again. Suddenly, a boom of thunder echoed around the park, and rain began pouring from the sky. Bertram jumped up and helped Helen get into her coat, which she had removed during the reading. Walter, still crouching in the grass and reeds, pulled his hood over his head. When he looked up again, Bertram and Helen were already hurrying away. Walter turned to go, but couldn’t help looking over his shoulder once. His eyes riveted on a rectangular object lying on the boardwalk next to the bench. He raced back. It was the book! Walter looked around, but neither Bertram nor Helen were in sight. Reverently, he picked up the heavy tome and shoved it under his jacket. Thoroughly drenched, he began running home.
Walter carefully opened the book. He had wiped it off as best he could, and dried it by the radiator. Apart from some wrinkled pages, it seemed unharmed. Now, lying in bed, he began to read by the light of a small lamp. Immediately, he was lost in the faraway world of Atamara. Figures raced through his imagination: the beautiful princess Neleh; the gallant peasant boy Martreb who became her best friend; the hard master Martreb worked for. He felt he too was playing on the lawns of the great estate with the young Martreb and Neleh. He seethed with anger at Neleh’s wicked regent’s plan to send her off to marry the cruel Mongo, a minor nobleman who lived in a faraway province where she knew no one. And then, in the small hours of the morning, Walter came to the part he’d heard read that afternoon. The rest of the book was filled with blank pages. The old man’s flowery handwriting stopped. Walter tried hard to go to sleep, but he was held in terrible suspense. He wanted to know what Martreb decided to do. He just had to go save Neleh from Mongo. But how? Walter was tired in school all day. The book was carefully wrapped in a cloth in his backpack. The minute school let out, Walter went to the park. But no one came. Finally, as it started to get dark, he went home, puzzled. When another day went by with no sign of the couple, he was worried; and by the third day, he was frantic. He had to get the book back to Bertram. At long last, on the fourth day, Bertram appeared. He looked older than before. His pace was slower. Helen didn’t join him. Bertram sat all alone, eating doughnuts. Summoning all his courage, Walter walked up to the old man. Bertram didn’t say anything, but his grey eyes asked a question. “Well?” Wordlessly, Walter held out the book. Bertram’s eyes lit up. Gratefully he took the volume. He patted the bench nest to himself. “Have a doughnut,” he said, fumbling with the bag to extract one. Walter took it eagerly. The light pastry melted in his mouth. After a moment, the old man inquired, “How did you find the book?” Walter had to swallow several times before he could get his mouth free.
“Well sir, I saw you and the lady here one day, and I was curious. So the next day, I got here early and hid. I heard you reading, and I saw the book lying there after you left, so I took it home. Then I read it, sir. I couldn’t help myself. Sir, is it a true story?” Old Bertram was silent for a moment. Then replied,
“Aye, it’s true, boy. I’m Martreb, and the lady you saw was Helen. She died yesterday. Caught a cold from the chill, and just died.”
“I’m sorry,” was all Walter could think to say. They sat in silence. Then Walter could restrain himself no longer. “What did Martreb—I mean you—do sir?” he burst out. “You only got to where he sees her being taken away. Did he save Neleh?” Bertram didn’t answer for a minute. Then he said, “Would you like to hear the story?” When Walter nodded eagerly, he sighed.
“All right. Well, I stood staring after Helen’s carriage for quite some time. As I stood there, I realized how much she meant to me. And she thought a lot of me, too. ‘Bertram,’ she said once, ‘I’d rather marry you than any nobleman around, because you’re my friend. If I have to get married, I’d rather marry a good friend than a complete stranger.’ I realized I couldn’t just let her go off and get married to this fellow. I’d heard some terrible things about Mongo, and I wasn’t about to let him have my princess. I had a lot of thinking to do if I was going to rescue her. . .” Walter sat entranced for over an hour as Bertram regaled him with the story of how he had followed the carriage to Mongo’s house and pulled off a daring rescue, only to be captured by the nobleman as Helen made her escape. Reluctantly, Walter stopped Bertram. “I’ll have to go home,” he said regretfully. “My mother will be worried. She doesn’t like me to be out after dusk. Could we meet here tomorrow after school?” To his delight, Bertram readily agreed.
For over a month Walter was fascinated as the old man recounted at their daily meetings his adventures—being pursued throughout the country with Helen at his side, evading the forces of evil, resting when they could but always running before Mongo. At last, the nobleman’s forces got too strong. Bertram’s voice cracked several times as he told of his last desperate gamble. He had put Helen on a boat to America, but had sacrificed himself to ensure her safety. It had taken him fifteen years to get out of prison, and twenty more to locate Helen. Only two years ago he had traced her to Sandbury, and met her again. They had begun meeting daily six months ago when Bertram had started his chronicle of their journey and wanted to make sure it was accurate. Now the two old friends were separated again. And, as usual, Helen had left while Bertram stayed behind.
“Well, that’s it,” said Bertram one day as they sat on the bench together. Walter sipped his hot chocolate slowly. It was so cold that they had opted for hot chocolate instead of doughnuts. At last Walter stood.
“See you tomorrow, Mr. Bert?”
It was a question rather than a statement. Bertram rose and smiled fondly at the boy he’d grown to love. “Yes, see you tomorrow, Walter.” The old man and the boy went their separate ways, shuffling off through the dead leaves on the path.
