Whisper, Keeper of Secrets
By Emily Brown
I am a traveler.
People may have forgotten my name, but they have all met me, and known me. The best of them and the worst of them.
I have heard the words they say when they do not want anyone to hear. The confessions they make. The promises. I remember each one as though it is written in the wind; spinning around me. They become me, day and night.
Why then am I not corrupted, you may ask? Why, then, do I still have a voice?
Listen… listen close, and I will tell.
#
A boy creeps into his father’s bed. He is five years old, and he holds me tightly. A warm embrace for a fleeting fantasy.
“Pappa!” His whispers are harsh, and so, so full of love. “Pappa, is jy wakker?”
The words translate in my mind as easily as a breeze catches leaves. “Are you awake?”
His Pappa rolls over. I catch the rustling of the sheets, the softness of the cloth, and lock it away tightly. Another sound for my repertoire. Another memory.
The boy repeats the words, and I am present in each one. “Pappa, is jy wakker? Are you awake?”
A pause, then a quiet response that brings delightful chills. “No.”
The child cackles, but the sound is faster, louder, more out of reach. I only manage to grasp the echoes of it. “Ja, jy is!” he laughs. “Yes, you are, you are!”
#
On the other side of the world, a four-year-old girl gathers her siblings to play a game. My favourite game. One of only a few I know.
In other places, I have heard it called Chinese Whispers, or Whisper Down The Lane. Here they simply call it Telephone.
A simple, basic phrase, over and over, until it is distorted into something else. And every person in this circle knows the magic of it – of me. Every person here relishes it.
The phrase makes it back to the little girl, and I bring it to her ear with utmost care, withholding only the smallest of sounds.
With it, more laughter fills me.
#
A seven-year-old boy tiptoes down the halls with his big sister.
“Sshhh!” One of my most-used sounds bounces off the walls in thrilling anticipation. “Remember, we can’t wake Mum and Dad, okay?”
The boy nods vehemently, dodging creaky floorboards. More sounds for my repertoire.
One of the hardest sounds to hide, I’ve found, is the rustling of wrapping paper, though the sister tries hard. It meets my very being with a satisfying shiver.
The boy stifles a giggle, and I hear it, clear as the morning winds. Beautiful.
“You’re sure that their anna-versary’s today?” he asks once more.
His big sister rolls her eyes, but returns his comment with a smile that I hold onto for dear life. “An-niv-ersary, Jay. And yes, I’m absolutely sure.”
At last, they tie their masterpiece with a bow and set out to make their parents a somewhat mediocre breakfast-in-bed, unaware that the proud parents are listening with eager ears to every hidden laugh that I bring them.
#
More tiptoes.
A ring of the doorbell that breaks sorrowed silence.
A young mother opens the door, but does not see what I see. A stranger, watching from around the corner with a gleeful adrenaline; a suspense-filled hope.
The mother sees, instead, a wood-woven basket placed on her doorstep, filled with all good things; handmade trinkets.
I already know what the note says, though she has not yet opened it: From a friend. Stay well.
#
And lastly, an old man, grey-haired, lying on the last bed he will ever know the feel of.
His every breath is a storm to me – impossible to drown out. Inevitable, and so soon gone away. Gone home.
He remembers me. They all do, when they have come this far.
He meets my eyes, and sees me, for just a moment. He sees what I am to him; what I can still be. And he takes my hand ever so gently.
His son leans down. “Pop.” The words are laced with a care that people only ever share in quiet places. “Pop, you know I love you, right?”
Say it, I tell the old man. Say it, and I will carry your words.
He does. “I love you too, son.”
And with the very last secret shared, he closes his eyes and goes to meet his Maker.
I keep his memory close, for it will not be mine to keep for much longer. He will be remembered beyond these walls. That I am sure of.
#
I am a traveler. I have visited many places, and seen many things. The best of them and the worst of them.
Much of what I see happens in darkness.
All of what I see becomes me. Day, and night. Light and dark.
I am not a friend, unless you call me so yourself. I am not trustworthy, not often.
But I am not yet corrupted.
You have listened; you have heard. You will even have met me, once or twice – though you do not remember that I was there.
You know.
Good things can be done in secret too.