If Words Could Kill

by Herschel Cozine

“With the invention of language,” Professor Hall was saying, “man rose above the other animals and dominated the earth.” He leaned forward and took a breath. “Perhaps even more important to man's evolution was the invention of the alphabet. The written word is an awesome tool.”

Professor Hall was a small man with a round, benign face and a shock of white hair that had not seen a comb in recent memory. He sat in a huge overstuffed chair facing the large living room that at the moment was occupied by four others, all listening intently to what he was saying His audience; a young man and his even younger wife, an elderly woman of indeterminate age, and a watery eyed man in his mid-forties, sat in one position or another studying the professor. Hall, having reached the age where he earned the title “emeritus” after his name, still enjoyed the experience of lecturing, and held impromptu classes whenever the occasion presented itself.

“We know,” he went on, “that the written word has an almost mystical power over an individual.” He looked from one to the other for a comment or reaction.

Betty and Jack, recently married and enjoying the afterglow of an elaborate wedding and a European honeymoon, were holding hands and casting intimate glances at one another. The old woman rocked back and forth, her bony hands constantly moving, twisting a handkerchief that she held in her lap. From time to time she dabbed at her eyes, but for the most part the handkerchief remained in her lap as a sort of security blanket. The man reminded one of a character from a Washington Irving tale; thin and pale, with ill-fitting trousers and square rimmed glasses, and a name-- Gilead --that fit the image perfectly. He peered over his glasses at the professor.

“The written word,” the professor went on, “can bring tears, rage, laughter, and a whole range of emotions. But is it truly ‘mightier than the sword', as the old saying goes?”

The diverse group had chanced to gather in the living room of a Bed and Breakfast in Southern Maine . It was December, cold and snowy, with a low mournful wind rattling the windows and piling the snow in deep drifts against the trees and fences. A cheery fire roared in the huge fireplace. An old brown cat was curled on the hearth, with no sign that he or she was aware of human presence, or cared for that matter.

The new bride was the first to speak. “Why, in many ways it is. A sword can't make you cry or laugh, now, can it?

“Sure it can,” Jack said. “I bet you'd cry if somebody stuck you with a sword.”

“That's not what I mean,” Betty said.

The watery-eyed gentleman stirred. “I know what you mean, young lady. And, in the context that you frame it, the sword cannot evoke emotion. But does that make it less powerful?” He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down like a trapped yo-yo.

“There is a maxim for almost any topic. Often more than one, and almost as often they contradict one another.”

All eyes turned to the man. Professor Hall sat back contentedly. Discussion is what he had always sought in the classroom.

“For example,” the man went on. “It is said, as our friend here has told us, that ‘the pen is mightier than the sword'. But we are also told that ‘action speaks louder than words.'”

“Hmmph,” the elderly lady snorted. “This is all rubbish.” She tilted her bony chin in a gesture of defiance. “A picture is worth a thousand words. Does that make a picture even more powerful than a sword?” She grunted.

The young man stood up and winked at his wife. Grabbing his side in mock pain, he yelled, “I've been stabbed by a picture. I'm going to die!” He crumpled to the floor as his wife laughed and clapped her hands. Gilead blinked behind his square glasses, his sour face revealing no hint of amusement.

“Well, anyway,” the old woman said, “you cannot possibly compare one with the other. True, the word can evoke emotions that the sword cannot.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “But it doesn't physically wound anyone.” She sat back, her eyes cast downward, never looking at the others. “The sword is physically mightier than the word. The word is emotionally mightier than the sword.”

Professor Hall nodded appreciatively. “Well said, Mrs. Trask.” She relaxed again in her chair, her hands worrying the handkerchief.

“But,” Professor Hall said, warming to his subject.

“Is it true that words only affect the emotions? Can they not harm you physically?”

The young man laughed. “Sticks and stones may break my bones...”

“Another adage,” Gilead interrupted. “But words can hurt you. Your reputation could be destroyed. Your self esteem.” He stared into space, his gaunt facehiding any trace of bitterness that his voice betrayed. “Maybe they can't hurt you physically. But they can hurt.” He sighed. “Oh, yes. They can hurt.” His voice cracked with emotion. For a few minutes no one spoke.

Professor Hall broke the embarrassed silence. “What you say, my dear Gilead is--sadly--quite true. But do we all agree that words have no power to do bodily harm?”

Betty, the bride nodded. Gilead and Mrs Trask silently agreed. Jack, the groom, refused to take the issue seriously.

“I suppose if you engraved them in stone and then threw it at someone they could hurt.”

Professor Hall smiled. “Our young friend here seems to feel this conversation is frivolous.” He took a glass from the table beside his chair, inspected the contents thoughtfully, then set it back down. “Perhaps he's right. But it's a cold night. We have no place to go and the evening is still young. If I may indulge myself, I should like to tell you a story that may make you change your mind, or at least give you pause for thought.”

Mrs. Trask looked dubious. Jack and Betty had lost interest, at least for the moment, and were silently sharing a world of their own. Gilead was impassive. But no one objected, and the professor rubbed his hands together in preparation for his recital.

* * * * * * * *

Long ago, when magicians and wizards were believed to have magical powers, there lived a young prince, Prince Evan. His father was in failing health, and it was apparent that it would only be a matter of weeks before the prince would inherit the throne. The prince, aware of the responsibility that would soon fall upon him desired a wife to share in the duties, and to lend an air of legitimacy to his position as ruler of a great country.

The Princess Jasmine, a beautiful young lady from a realm not too distant from that of Prince Evan, was the object of his affection. She, in turn, was seeking marriage and was most open to the prince's overtures. In those days travel was not easy, so the courtship was carried on by couriers carrying messages and gifts back and forth between Prince Evan and Princess Jasmine.

In situations such as this, there are frequently other parties involved, mostly in the form of jealous lovers. So it was in this one. Princess Jasmine had long been loved by her third cousin, Prince Felix, an intense young man who demanded--and usually got--what he wanted. And he wanted Jasmine more than anything else in the world.

However, his demands were met with indifference on the part of Jasmine. She, unlike his subjects, was not obliged to obey his every wish. She made it clear that her first love was Prince Evan, and if the prince would have her they would be married.

Felix was crazy with jealousy and desire. He called his personal adviser, a magician of some standing in the royal court, and sought his counsel. After listening to the prince's story, the magician thought for a moment.

“Sire,” he said. “I understand the Princess Jasmine and Prince Evan converse by messages delivered by couriers, is that not so?”

“Yes,” Felix replied. “Frequently.”

“Do you know the route these couriers travel?'

Prince Felix nodded. “Why, yes. They use the Rustleway Road that leads through the village just a mile from here.”

“How should I recognize one of these couriers?” the magician asked.

“Ah,” Felix exclaimed. “That is easy Jasmine's couriers all wear the hat of the realm--a brown leather hat with the green feather of the peacock in its brim.”

The magician gave an enigmatic smile. “Leave it to me, your grace,” he said.

Several days passed; fretful and harrowing days for Prince Felix as he waited for word from his magician. On the fifth day, the magician appeared, striding purposefully and with a sense of accomplishment through the foyer. He removed his hat and bowed before Felix.

“It is done, sire,” he said with a laugh edging his voice.

He went on to relate his adventure.

“I waited on the Rustleway road for three days. Then there appeared a courier wearing a hat of leather with a green peacock feather. I overpowered him and took the letter that he was bearing. I read it to assure myself that it was meant for Prince Evan, and was sent from Jasmine.” He laughed again. “Indeed it was.”

“What did it say?” Felix asked.

The magician waved his hand. “That is of no consequence, sire,” he said. “I took the letter and placed on it a curse. A deadly curse. Anyone who cast his eyes upon the message would be immediately struck dead.”

Felix shrunk back at the pronouncement, but his eyes betrayed interest.

“I assumed the courier's identity by taking his cap,” the magician said. “Then I personally delivered the letter to Prince Evan.”

“So happy and excited was he to get it that he never gave a thought that I was not the usual courier. He asked me to wait while he read it so that I may deliver a return message. He opened the letter excitedly, but his elation quickly turned to distress. He had barely glanced at the note when he put his hand to his throat, struggled for breath and slumped to the floor. You can imagine the concern and activity that followed. His attendants flew to his side, called in others for help and, in general, created chaos.

“In the confusion I retrieved the letter and made my departure.” The magician paused and studied Felix with anticipation.

“You mean Prince Evan is dead?” Felix said, a mixture of surprise and satisfaction in his voice.

The magician nodded.

“How splendid!” Felix cried.

The magician reached into his tunic and withdrew a sheet of papyrus. “This is the letter, sire. It is still cursed. No one--not even I--can remove the curse. Take it. Do not look on it or you will suffer the same fate as Evan. Do what you will with it. Destroy it. Whatever you do, keep it where no one will have access to it.”

Felix took the letter gingerly, not daring to look at it. Thanking the magician for his services, he dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

For reasons we shall never know, Felix kept the letter. He had his carpenter devise a container for the deadly missive. The carpenter fashioned a small cedar box, just large enough to accommodate the letter. He furnished the box with a hasp. The letter was placed inside and a ring positioned around the hasp to prevent the box from being opened accidentally. And to this day it remains sealed.

* * * * * * * *

Professor Hall finished his story and silently surveyed his audience.

Betty was wide eyed. “Did Prince Felix marry Jasmine?” She asked.

Professor Hall shook his head sadly. “That's the irony of it. Upon hearing of Evan's death, Jasmine became so distraught that she threw herself from the tower. So, in a way, the letter killed two souls.”

“Whatever became of Felix?” Betty asked

“He married, an unhappy union that bore him a son. Felix died a broken man.”

“How sad,” Betty said.

“Legend,” said Mrs. Trask. We don't even know if this Prince Evan even existed, let alone that he was killed reading a love letter.”

“Oh, he existed, all right,” Professor Hall said. “And we also know that he died at a young age. But the circumstances surrounding his death were mysterious, thus giving rise to the legend.”

Mrs. Trask harrumphed. “It seems to me there could be many reasons for his death. Why are you telling us this preposterous story? Surely you don't believe such ridiculous imaginings.” She waved an impatient hand. “Curses. Magicians. What nonsense.”

Hall smiled. “It so happens,” he said, “that I had the good fortune--or bad, if you are inclined to believe my tale--of coming into possession of the deadly letter of which I just spoke.” He paused and nodded in satisfaction as his listeners suddenly turned their full attention toward him. “How is that possible?” Gilead said.

“The message, still sealed in the cedar box, had been passed down through generations with the admonition not to look upon it lest one suffer the same fate as Prince Evan. Recently, the royal family of whom Felix was a member fell on hard times. In an effort to raise cash they submitted it for auction, knowing there were people who would pay handsomely to own this bit of lore, much as one would treasure a work of art.”

“And you bought it?” Betty asked. She squealed with delight. “How exciting!”

Professor Hall shook his head. “No, young lady. I had neither the means or the opportunity. But my uncle, who had more money than he could spend in a lifetime and a burning interest in the ‘paranormal' if that is the word, purchased it at auction a few years ago. Superstition kept him from opening the box. He kept it in a safe in his den. When he died earlier this year he left it to me.”

Mrs. Trask dabbed her eyes. “It seems to me your uncle had more dollars than sense if you'll forgive my saying so. Paying good money for a scrap of paper that someone says is cursed.” She sighed. “There's one born every minute.”

Betty, eyes bright with anticipation, paid no attention to the old lady “Do you have it with you?” She asked the professor.

Professor Hall nodded. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he withdrew a small wooden box, darkened with age and fitted with a hasp that appeared to be made of gold. A ring, also of gold, held the hasp in place. In order to open the box the ring would have to be cut.

Professor Hall tugged on the gold ring. “To my knowledge this box has not been opened since the day the letter was put in there by Prince Felix.”

He held the box out to his audience. “Would any of you care to open it and read the message?”

Mrs. Trask snorted. “It is all superstition. A fairy tale. Why I have heard better ones from Grimm,” She snorted again. “I wouldn't dignify it by opening your silly box.”

Jack stood up. “I'll do it,” he said. “I'm not afraid of the big bad wolf.”

Betty caught Jack's arm. “No!” She said. “Don't touch it! I'm afraid.”

Jack laughed. “Surely you don't think...'' He stopped when he saw the terrified look on Betty's face. Lowering his hand, he sat down. “OK, honey. If you feel that strongly about it.”

“You think I'm a silly goose,” she said. “But I don't want anything to happen to you.”

Professor Hall turned to Gilead . “And you?”

Gilead looked from the professor to the box, his eyes bright with excitement. A subtle smile curled his lips for a second, then disappeared. He put out his hand, then drew it back.

“Well, I don't know.”

Professor Hall smiled and returned the box to his jacket. “I thought not,” he said. “And your reactions are typical. No matter how skeptical one may be of the power of this message, there is always an element of doubt that restrains us.” He smiled at Betty. “You are not silly, my dear. You are an open lady who is honest with herself and others. That is a rare quality.” He turned to Jack. “Treasure that. You are a lucky man.”

Jack nodded uncertainly, looking from the professor to his wife. Rising slowly, the professor stretched and yawned. “Now, if you will excuse me, I shall retire. Have a pleasant evening.” He took a step toward the door, then turned to Jack and Betty. “Would you do me the honor of joining me for breakfast tomorrow?”

Betty smiled brightly. “We'd love to.” She looked to Jack. “Wouldn't we, honey?”

Jack agreed.

“Fine,” Professor Hall said. “Tomorrow at eight. I shall meet you at my table.”

Professor Hall did not keep the appointment. Jack and Betty waited a respectable time, then ate breakfast alone.

After breakfast, the newlyweds found Mister Trancas, the manager of the hotel.

“Have you seen Professor Hall this morning?” Betty asked.

Trancas shook his head.

“He was supposed to have breakfast with us. But he never showed up.”

Trancas frowned. “Odd,” he said. “I have known the professor a long time. He is a most punctual and reliable fellow.” He looked toward the stairs leading to the bedrooms. “Perhaps I should look in on him.”

The three climbed the stairs, Betty's face showing concern. They stopped at Professor Hall's door. Mister Trancas knocked softly.

“Professor?” he said.

No answer.

Trancas knocked again, louder this time, and repeated the professor's name.

Still no answer. Taking a ring of keys from his pocket, Trancas selected one and inserted it in the lock. He opened the door slowly and peered inside.

Hall was lying on the floor next to his bed. Betty gave a sharp intake of breath and put her hand to her mouth. Jack knelt beside the body and felt for a pulse. There was none.

“Dead,” Jack remarked. Seeing the cedar box on the floor next to the body, he picked it up. It was open. On the nightstand next to the bed was a note. Jack picked it up and read it aloud.

“If you are reading this note,” it started, “it is because I am dead. I leave this as a warning to whomever discovers my body. I am an old man, widowed and alone. I have no heirs. I have no one to hold me accountable. If I did, I would not do what I am about to do, even though, as a man of science, I have every confidence that no harm will come to me. The legend of the letter I am about to read is in all likelihood just that--a legend. However, I would be remiss if I did not take precautions, no matter how unlikely they are to be needed. The letter inside the cedar box I am about to open is said to have the power to kill anyone who reads it. If it indeed has that power, I shall be its next victim. In that event, whoever should find it, DO NOT READ IT! Do not even look at it. I beg of you, destroy it!”

The letter was.signed: “Edward Hall”.

Betty was crying softly. “Poor Professor Hall.”

“I knew this would happen,” Trancas said. “He had a bad heart. In fact he had a major heart attack just a few months ago.” He sighed and wiped his forehead with a large white handkerchief. “He came here to recuperate. His doctor told him any physical exertion or excitement could kill him.” The manager started toward the body, but Jack stepped in front of him, blocking his way.

“Maybe you should call the sheriff. We'll stay here until he comes.”

The manager hesitated. Jack waved a hand. “Go!”

Taking one more look at the professor's body, the manager turned on his heel and left.

“It wasn't a heart attack,” Betty said. “It was that terrible letter. I know it!”

Jack shrugged. “Maybe.”

“What do you mean, ‘maybe'?” Betty's voice rose to a near hysterical level. “I'm scared. Let's get out of here.”

“I still don't believe that story he told us,” Jack said. “You heard the manager. Hall had a bad heart. Maybe the excitement of reading the letter killed him.”

Betty shook her head. “It's the letter. Oh, Jack, let's get out of here before something happens to us.”

“What could happen?” Jack said. He knelt next to the body. The letter was still in Hall's hand, a square of ancient papyrus. Jack instinctively averted his eyes, took it from the professor's hand, and slipped it into the cedar box.

“Legend,” he said. “Superstition.” He turned the box over in his hand. “He had a bad heart.” He slipped the box in his pocket. “This is the twenty-first century, Betty. No one believes in curses and witchcraft anymore.”

“What are you going to do, Jack?” Betty asked worriedly. “Leave it! Oh, Jack, please don't touch it.”

Jack sighed heavily. “Be reasonable. This letter is harmless....” He stopped as Gilead entered the room. The man was dressed as he had been the night before, and his rheumy eyes were staring at the body of Professor Hall.

“He's dead,” Jack said simply.

“He read that horrid letter,” Betty said. “And Jack won't believe that it's cursed as Professor Hall said.”

Gilead nodded. “Where is the letter?”

Jack held the box up. “I put it back in the box.”

Betty sobbed. “Oh, Jack. Please. Get rid of it.”

“Betty. Be reasonable. Nothing will happen to us.” he said. But his voice lacked conviction.

“I don't want anything to do with it. It's too horrible for words. Don't you see? I'm frightened!”

Gilead stepped forward. “I'll take care of it,” he said. “Your wife's peace of mind is more important than this letter. Let me get rid of it for you.”

“Well,” Jack said hesitantly. “It's all so silly.” He turned the box over in his hand, then held it out to Gilead . Betty sighed and sat down, her trembling hands twisting the hem of her blouse. Jack's face betrayed relief.

Gilead put the box in his pocket and, without a further word, left the room.

Outside Professor Hall's room Gilead stopped, patted the pocket containing the letter and smiled inwardly.

It had been a brilliant plan. It was a simple matter for Gilead to get into Professor Hall's room by pretending interest in the letter. Hall was only too willing to talk about it.

Once inside, Gilead had no trouble killing Hall. Old and weak, the professor put up a feeble fight as Gilead squeezed the life out of him. Gilead retrieved the ancient box from Hall's coat pocket, cut the gold ring and extracted a yellowed papyrus sheet. The notorious letter! He placed it in Hall's outstretched hand and put the box on the nightstand next to the bed.

Gilead composed the note, counting on the fact that no one would be familiar with the professor's handwriting or would think that the note was a forgery. There would simply be no reason to think of it as anything but genuine. While Jack and Betty were occupied with Hall's body, he had retrieved the “suicide” note so no one could later prove it was a fake.

He chuckled softly, a bitter sound, devoid of humor. This would show those miserable people who had ridiculed him, who had stood in his way both personally and professionally. He had endured the injustices all of his life, powerless to do anything about it. Now he could fight back Certainly once the word got around of Professor Hall's death and the history of the cursed letter, people would believe in its power. Even the brash newlywed, Jack, with all his machismo and bravado, was having doubts.. The

people he would be dealing with—his tormentors—would not dare to challenge its authenticity. He had the power of life and death over them, at least in their minds. Slipping the letter in the morning mail for someone to read would be one way, he would remind them. And their deaths by the hands of the letter would be impossible to detect. It was the perfect killing machine. The irony was amusing as well. Kill them with words, as they had done to him. It was a delicious thought.

Back in his room, Gilead threw a log on the fire that he had started in the fireplace earlier that morning. He warmed his hands in front of it, then took the box from his pocket. He patted it and laughed.

“You little fraud,” he whispered. “I love you.”

With a thin hand he took the sheet of papyrus from the box and unfolded it.

The writing was faded but visible. Gilead squinted his eyes to read it. It was written in a delicate, obviously feminine hand, in a foreign language. He stepped over to the fireplace, brought the letter to the light and studied it more closely.

Suddenly, Gilead found it difficult to breathe. He put a hand to his throat, struggling for air. The room whirled and grew dim. He fell to his knees and tried to call out for help. But it was too late. The box and the letter flew from Gilead 's hand and landed in the fire. Burning with a bright orange flame, the papyrus withered and turned to ash. The flames slowly consumed the box until all that remained was a gold hasp, buried in the embers of the dying fire.

The coroner listed Gilead 's cause of death a heart attack.

END