The Last Chapter

Focus on one Isaac Martin. Isaac had been a man of many professions ranging from soldier, historian, and teacher. Isaac’s main life’s work consisted of neither of the above, but instead he busied himself with writing. Isaac was not what you would call a normal writer, for he neither wrote history or fiction. He instead followed his family’s tradition, a secret one that was only passed down through the Martin blood line. As he now felt the end coming to his long life, he began to write what would become the last chapter of his only book. The only questions were: What was the book? And how did it end?

Days had passed since Isaac Martin had last been seen outside his bedroom in his four story country estate on the outskirts of London. This being so, the servants of his house grew fearful for their master’s physical and mental health. Day and night Mr. Martin would work up in his room with the curtains drawn and the door locked casting shadows of darkness on his visage. The curtains themselves threw blazes of maroon upon his chamber rugs. His obsession became more frantic as each hour slipped slowly away.

Few of the men and women of the house knew what their master obsessed over; but fewer still knew even their master’s age. Most would have placed his age around eighty or ninety years old, but they would have been wrong. The late and only Isaac Martin experienced no less than one hundred and six years of life, and as he steadily reached one hundred and seven his health quickly declined.

This rapid change of health caught the attention of Isaac’s one and only friend, Thomas Bartholomew Gibson. Thomas, also one of the eldest servants of the house, visited his master everyday and so witnessed first hand his master’s obsession. In the past few nights the images of what his master was doing horrified him. Mr. Isaac Martin was working himself to death.

The thing with which Isaac drove himself closer to death over was a book. A book that, to Thomas, seemed to be over a hundred years old. Its pages were a worn yellow and the threads of the binding were frayed or refitted. A fine scratching noise filled the room made by a pen which had not ceased writing since it started. The writer himself looked as withered away as the book he was writing in. His hands stayed frozen in the forms of mechanical claws forced onto them through endless hours of writing. The skin of his cheeks hung from the bone of his face, while his eyes sunk into their sockets making him look like an undead corpse. One candle burned silently on his desk showing faded glimpses of each letter as it was written.

“Sir… Sir Martin you do not look well. You must rest for a time.” Thomas said letting his eyes wander over Isaac’s shoulder to a barely finished page.

The hollowed eyes of the old man shifted upward only for only a moment, “No… no Thomas… I can not… it must be finished…”

“Finish what sir? Surely I can…”, before Thomas was able to finish, Isaac interrupted him.

“Thomas no… no… you can not help… this endeavor is mine and mine alone… Please… bring some tea… I am in need of something to loosen my mind.”

Reluctantly obeying Thomas took a slight bow and left the darkened room. The white light of the hallway hurt his eyes, as they had not yet adjusted to the drastic change of lighting. Thomas’ thoughts went back to his master as he passed down the white washed corridor comforted by a scarlet rug on its floor.

“What could my master be doing?” Thomas wondered, “What keeps him going?”

The serious eyes of all of the Martin family relatives stared, ever watchful, at him from the frowning portraits that lined the corridor’s walls. As he passed each one the image of his master’s sunken eyes flashed back to him… along with the horrible scratching of his master’s terrible pen.

At long last, Thomas reached the grand staircase which overlooked a crystal chandelier and a marble floor. A grandfather clock chimed midnight from somewhere in one of the many corridors in the mansion. “No one should be up at this ungodly hour of the night” Thomas thought as he proceeded down the cedar steps of the staircase.

To Thomas’ amazement, there was someone else awake. As Thomas reached the bottom stair she made her presence known.

“How is he Mr. Gibson?” a small weak voice said.

“Who Millie?” Thomas answered

Matilda, or Millie as she had become known by, was one of the few young live-in maids of the Martin estate. She had laid awake for nights worrying over her dying master. Tonight she heard Thomas leaving his chamber and continued out in her night gown to wait for him to return.

“Please… don’t do this Thomas. I can‘t sleep… I worry too much. How is he?” Millie said finally coming out of the darkness of an unlit corridor.

“Not here… come with me”, Thomas said leading the way into the kitchen.

When they finally reached the large interior of the kitchen, Thomas sat Millie down at a cutting table as he proceeded to cupboard to begin making the tea. His motions were slow and careful as he poured warm water into a teapot and set it on the stove. Slowly turning back to an anxiously waiting Millie, he spoke.

“I fear that Sir Martin will not be with us much longer”, Thomas said holding back tears.

“We must get him to a hospital Thomas”, Millie said trying to hush her voice to a whisper.

“I fear that is no longer an option. He is too ill to leave that room. Yet he refuses to stop…” Thomas paused trying to take in the images he witnessed inside his master’s chamber.

“Stop what?” Millie demanded.

“… Stop writing. He has barely eaten… and I can only guess… barely slept as well.” he said shaking his head in his own disbelief.

“You must do something! He trusts you! Get him to a hospital. You are the only one he’ll listen to!” Millie hissed in frustration as she made eye contact with Thomas.

“And how do you suppose I do that, Ms. Watson? Please if you have an idea let me know” Thomas said turning back to lift the warmed tea from the stove and pouring it into two mugs.

“I don’t know. I’m just afraid Thomas. Afraid of what will happen… what he is doing to himself…” Millie said defeated, now trying to prolong her own tears

“All you can do now, Millie, is let it run its course”, Thomas said patting her on the shoulder and passing her one of the two mugs, “Now get you to bed. Don’t you lose sleep because of old Mr. Martin.”

Millie stood up and hugged him, then grabbed her tea and solemnly left the room. She looked over her shoulder just once, but knew that Thomas would do whatever he could to help their master. Thomas turned off the stove, then the lights, and left the kitchen. His thoughts traveled back to his dying master, and then to the mysterious book that had become his master’s obsession.

The house seemed to reverberate his thoughts as he came closer and closer to his master’s chamber. The portraits now spoke unheard secrets of ill fortune, as the white walls turned ghastly pale, and the crystal of the chandelier swayed in silent orbit. Finally Thomas reached the chamber door. Forebodingly Thomas turned the handle and walked in.

What Thomas saw now struck a new chord of fear in his heart. Isaac Martin lay back in his chair, hands dangling at his sides, wheezing. Each breath sounded like a grinding rocks as Isaac’s chest rose and fell with intermittent bursts. Thomas set the tea on his master’s desk and rushed to Isaac’s side.

“Sir Martin! What has happened? Come, you must get to bed”, Thomas urged as he attempted get his master to stand.

“No, my friend… this is the end… but… but…” Isaac paused to regain his breath.

“But what, sir, but what?” Thomas asked urgently.

“But it is not finished… the book”, Isaac gasped in between wheezes as he closed his eyes.

“Sir, I do not understand.” Thomas said.

“My family as always had a duty. One that has always been passed down to the next heir…” Isaac said in one breath, “but I have no heir, and so the work goes unfinished. That is why you must help me…”

“What would you have me do?” Thomas asked holding his dying master’s hand.

“You must finish it… continue where my family left off… you must… before it’s too late… only those pure of heart can continue its legacy.”

“Sir, but I don’t…” Thomas began, but stopped.

“Read and you will understand”, Isaac managed a smile as these words left his mouth.

Thomas stood up and pulled the yellowed book toward himself. He noticed that each page was written as a journal entry, signed with the name of the writer, topic, and date it was written. That is when things began to catch Thomas’ attention as he flipped through each page; for each entry spoke of a major event in the history of the world. The entry titles read as:

Nicodemus Martimus - Fall of Rome - 50 A. D.

Hannibal Marten - European Renaissance - 1100

Bernard Marten - Christopher Columbus - 1342

Samuel Martin - American Revolution - 1665

Richard Martin - Napoleon Defeated at Waterloo - 1746

Christopher Martin - Titanic - 1828

Joseph Martin - Rise of Adolf Hitler - 1860

Franklin Martin - Neil Armstrong on Moon - 1901

But the entries that made the least amount of sense to the now confused Thomas were…

Isaac Martin - 9/11 Terrorist attacks - 1970

Isaac Martin - War on Terrorism - 1970

Thomas closed the book puzzled.

“Sir Martin, this does not make any sense… the dates… impossible… This is 1970... There is no war…” Thomas stopped in a loss for words.

“Whoever writes in that book writes the history of what will happen… every paragraph… every sentence… every word… comes true… You… you must continue the legacy… the legacy of the world now rests in your family’s hands”, Isaac smiled at his old friend one last time then closed his eyes again.

Slowly Isaac’s lungs could pump no more and the old man lay lifeless on the back of his chair. Thomas turned back to the book. Carefully he opened to the place his master had left off. But, as suddenly as the page turned in his hand a name appeared at the top of the page. One that intensified, and horrified him… for the name that appeared at the top read:

Thomas Gibson - - 1970

In between the two words was a space… a void… which when Thomas was ready… would continue a legacy that had begun since the dawn of time. The only question was… what would it be…