The Nice Man

I met a really nice man out in Haworth a while ago. My doctor said I
should take more walks in the open air to help me recover in good speed
and, always having lived close to the Yorkshire moor that purportedly
inspired Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights, one of my favourite novels,
I felt it high time I should make the modest pilgrimage to Top Withens,
the barren farmhouse that occupies the moor.

Myself and Sylvester, who was my Alsatian, left the dreary cityscape
of Bradford and ventured to rural Haworth village, a most refreshing
change for the senses. From there we walked the country path out of
the village and onto the moor. I can not faithfully describe to you
the mixture of excitement and lament I felt, knowing I was leaving town
life behind for an afternoon, only to be forced back into this mundane
existence by the end of the evening, grappled into place by the talons
of daily existence. I’ve always, from a safe distance, admired those
that shed themselves of all their dependencies upon the city and lived
out the remainder of their lives in a tent in the countryside, but I
could never be carefree enough to join their ranks.

After our pleasant hike, Sylvester and I came upon the house, where we
sat for more than an hour. Not being hungry I allowed Sylvester to eat
the sandwich I made for myself, deciding no more than a can of beer
will satiate me. Top Withens was nice enough, derelict in the manner
that can only be aesthetically beautiful away from urban society, and I
can not deny that I experienced the occasional whimsical rush of
fictional history around the place, picturing the ghosts of Heathcliff
and Cathy, tearfully gallivanting about the grounds, living out their
forlorn love story against the backdrop of the wild moor. However, my
mind was constantly irritated by the likelihood that I was just a
tourist, at a tourist attraction among other tourists equipped with
cameras and folded maps. I was only feeling these things because the
Haworth tourist board wanted me to, I was only here because a guide
book and a website said I should be.

As such, on our journey back I took Sylvester off the tourist-wearied
path into the village and decided to explore the less chartered areas.
What, I asked myself, could be the worst thing to happen? If I get
lost I still have several days of time off left anyway, and if I get
bored I shall simply put it down as another venture with nothing gained.
Predictably enough, there was little to see. I’ve always been more
fascinated by the places tourist attractions don’t let you see; the
locked doors in old churches, the cordoned-off corridors in museums,
what are they keeping from us? In reality, I suppose, it would seem
that tourist offices keep these places from us because they are dull
and they would waste our time. That certainly seemed to be the case of
Haworth moor.

Several hours passed and I began to feel the strain in my shoes, so I
turned in the direction of the village. On my way back I came across a
man, sat upon a stone far from anything resembling a civilisation.
I walked to him and asked if I was heading in the correct direction of
Haworth. He did not immediately answer.

‘Most usually keep their distance from me’ he said, ‘it can be
intimidating to happen upon a man acting strangely in the middle of
nowhere.’
‘In what manner is your act strange?’ asked I.
‘I sit on this stone’ he replied, ‘and I do not move.’
This confounded me. ‘You might be tired’ I said, ‘or in
contemplation. Lord knows both of these are true to me at the moment.’
‘Ah’ he said. ‘I have sat on this stone for a long time.’
It was at this moment I felt Sylvester’s leash strain tightly in my
hand. My dog was snarling relentlessly at the sitting man, and were it
not for my restraint of him, would likely have him pinned to the ground.
‘Sylvester!’ I cried. ‘Behave yourself.’
The man waved politely and dismissively. ‘It is quite alright’ he
said, ‘the dog is only acting as expected. It is your behaviour that
confuses me more.’
I didn’t quite know how to reply to this. The man had only known of
my existence for a number of minutes. Surely he shouldn’t yet be
expecting a particular type of behaviour from a stranger?
He smiled and motioned for me to approach him closer. I obliged.
‘So why are you sitting on this stone?’ I asked.
The stranger did not reply. Instead he reached out and took hold of
my wrist. At this I immediately felt enraged. I could not believe he,
a stranger to me, would act so boldly. My head lightened and I
suddenly found it difficult to focus, rage clouded every sense I
possessed and I could no longer perceive time or atmosphere. But my
anger had no direction, I was aware enough to realise it was not he who
I was disgusted with, nor was it myself for damning him. I could not
work out why I was so full of wrath. With all the strength I could
muster I swung my leg around and met Sylvester with an almighty kick to
the ribs. The poor dog yelped in protest and staggered backwards.
At this the man let go of me. I stepped back, the rage was gone.
Sylvester looked at me with hurt abandon in his eyes and I felt
disgusted with myself for the violent treatment of my best friend. I
immediately dropped to my knees and comforted him.
‘What on Earth happened?’ I asked. The man smiled. His words and
actions seemed to be infused with an infectious politeness that made
him impossible to dislike.

‘The next thing I tell you may make you think me a mad man’ he warned.
However, upon saying this his friendly grin was wiped from his face by
an expression of deadly foreboding that, I am not ashamed to admit,
intimidated me somewhat.
‘I am the source for all the world’s evil.’
What could I then do? I stood alone against this man, save for an
angry dog, and he had just told me one of the most fantastical ravings
I had heard in a very long time. I could not then depart, or refute
him, because he would be hurt and I did not wish for that.
‘Of course you don’t believe me’ he continued, ‘its quite alright, why
should you?’ This made me think that, if nothing else, at least his
claim was genuine in his own mind. Why would a trickster resign their
efforts to convince so early?
I smiled as politely as possible, recalling what he had made me do to
Sylvester with just one touch of his hand.

‘I have not long walked free from a place where men make claims like
yours every day’ I told him. ‘But you have just shown me something
that makes me think I should believe you. Explain more, please.’
My friend seemed pleased at my open mindedness and granted my wish.
‘I radiate a strange, hypnotic force that effects nature in the minds
of men’ he explained. ‘Some are more susceptible to its powers than
others, but all are, at the very least, casually affected. Although
close proximity to me will heighten the influence, my power is stubborn
enough that it lingers around the globe. Now please do not part ways
with your acceptance of me when I tell you that I am quite possibly
close to seven-thousand years old. In the dark ages I lived in the
cities, and the degeneration and despair that filled the streets in
those days was evidence enough of this. At first I was blissfully
unaware of the unshakeable power I possess, but occurrences with
friends and family, which led to deliberate experiments, confirmed my
fears. I make people behave badly. Furthermore I learnt that this
power was keeping me alive, for I eventually became what I then
considered to be an old man, yet showed no physical sign of it. I have
no conscious decision in what I am capable of, and it has stung my
heart for centuries to know that all the despots, murderers and
remorseless criminals throughout history are likely influenced by me.
‘I moved onto this moor eventually, deciding that sacrificing human
civilisation would be the best course of action for the world. The
power is not cut off out here, but it is at least limited. I have of
course considered moving to a more remote land, but such places tend to
be too hot or cold and would likely be too much for me. So here I have
sat, upon this stone for a very long time indeed.’

I decided that I believed this man. What he made me do to Sylvester
is something no illusionist or hypnotist could ever bring me to do, for
I love my dog and would never strike him undeservedly.
The next question escaped my lips before I had time to consider
whether I should really be asking it. ‘Are you the Devil?’
‘I don’t think so’ answered the man in a speed that suggested he had
considered this himself for many hours. ‘I think the Devil, if he
exists, delights in the despair he causes, and I do not.’
I thought of other selfless men who have been the catalyst for war and
despair against their will. Then I decided that I had just met the
most selfless man on Earth.
‘In answer to your original question,’ he said, ‘yes, you are going in
the correct direction.’
I thanked the man and bade him farewell as I took Sylvester back home.

That night I could not sleep, I thought heavily upon the events of the
day, and I decided I would return. The very next day I came to see the
man on the stone, and I brought him some food and drink and books to
read. That day he was surprised, and I dare say a little pleased, to
see me again. I brought him Wuthering Heights and told him that he sat
at the very location where it was set. This interested him and he
promised me he would read the book.

I returned on several occasions, and the man grew to expect and look
forward to my visits. During one occasion we spoke of The Bible and so
I purchased a copy from the village shop and brought it too him. He
later joked that the earlier parts seem to be his biography, but he
enjoyed the New Testament very much. I reassured him that there are
people good enough to overcome his power and persist to act in their nature.

One day my friend seemed a lot more sullen than usual. I asked him
what the matter was. ‘Why is my evil not affecting you?’ He asked in
reply. ‘You have had continual exposure to me yet you remain kind.’
‘I think the good that some people inspire can outweigh anything else’
I said, eternally thinking of his selflessness. At this he smiled
meekly, but maintained his solemn countenance. The next thing he said
took me aback.
‘I would like you to kill me.’
‘What?’ I asked in disbelief.
‘The power will allow you to do it’ he said, ‘and if you do my
influence on the world will end. This can only be a good thing.’
I was stunned. I did not know what to say. He was right of course,
his death would benefit the world, but how could I be the one to make
that decision? How could this man be so selfless and kind as to be
prepared to die to make things better?
‘Take the leash of your pet’ he said, ‘wring my neck with it. Nobody
knows who I am or that I am here, the people that would mourn my
passing have all themselves passed centuries ago. There is nobody to
miss me or to swear revenge at my death. It is the best for all that
you honour my request.’

My heart began to pound. I did indeed feel the power, I could do it.
I ordered Sylvester to sit and I took his leash, clutching it with both
fists as I stared at my friend. I stared for a long time, on the verge
of acting until I made my ultimate decision.
‘I can not’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’
The man sighed. ‘You are my best friend’ he said.
What happened next was too horrible to behold. How could I have been
so narrow-minded as to forget about Sylvester? The way he snarled and
threatened on the first day had slipped my mind, and I had just freed
him from his restraint.

My friend did not scream as the dog leapt upon him, gnashing and
clawing at his body. I cried in protest but Sylvester was under a
spell, as far as he was concerned I did not exist at that moment.
I turned away, unable to hide from the hideous sounds coming from
behind, and I waited for silence.

When I reluctantly turned back, there stood my pet, wagging confusedly
and weeping at the foot of the body which he had dragged from life. My
friend lay next to his stone, lifeless and misshapen from the attack,
while Sylvester looked as though he had never attacked a single
creature in all his life.

I buried my face in my hands and cried. Sylvester tried to approach
me but I shook him off. Of course he hadn’t sentience enough to be
impressionable to my friend’s good will, but I could not look upon him
as anything other than a killer now.

I let my dog free, safe in the knowledge that he would never act in
that way again now that my friend had passed. It was upsetting to say
goodbye to him, but I knew I could never regard Sylvester as a friend
again. Then I looked at the leash in my hands, and wondered if my
friend had tricked me, asking me to remove it as he knew it would allow
the dog to attack where I could not.

On my walk back to the village I wondered whether people had enough
inherent ugliness to carry on causing misery or death despite the
absence of the power. It was certainly a possibility and would be
horrifying to think that my friend perished in vain. Nevertheless, I
was relieved by the events of recent weeks, in that I had met someone
who reminded me that the world is littered with people that
effortlessly inspire good.