The Whirlpool

By John Richard Sack

A short story. The human condition leaves many swirling at the fringes of a maelstrom that threatens to suck them downward until they are left prostrate at its epicenter. Often, it is one traumatic and overwhelming event that plunges people into the vortex. Can Willi Peyer survive the death of his infant son and free himself from the whirlpool’s powerful grasp before it utterly destroys him?

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Richard Sack
• Release date: Dec 30, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466054752

John Richard Sack

John Richard Sack was born in Springfield, Ohio. He earned a BA in English from Yale University and an MA in Creative Writing from the University of Washington. As a young man, John spent two years as a Trappist monk under the tutelage of Thomas Merton, his novice master at Our Lady of Gethsemane Abbey in Kentucky. In the 1970s, he trained in a Hindu ashram in Ganeshpuri, India. Spiritual transformation is a common theme in both his fiction and nonfiction books. He is the author of the internationally acclaimed novel: "The Franciscan Conspiracy" and a companion work, "Angel's Passage." "The Wolf in Winter" is a fictional tale of the early career of Francis of Assisi. His nonfiction "Yearning for the Father" and "Mystic Mountain" are guides to contemplative prayer, the culmination of years of research and reflection and his exploration of numerous spiritual traditions. "Trappist Tales" is a collection of short stories loosely based on his years at Gethsemane Abbey. He now lives in southern Oregon with his wife, Christin Lore Weber, author of many books related to spiritual growth. Their blended family includes Bjorn Kristian, Jeff & Karen, and Bryana & Patrick.

Book preview

The Whirlpool

A Short Story

by

John R. Sack

Copyright 2012 John R. Sack.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without permission from the publisher, except in the case of quotes used in critical articles and reviews. You can contact the author or publisher at:

mailto:[e-mail]

http://www.johnrsack.com

Published by Cyberscribe Publications at Smashwords

9700 Sterling Creek Road

Jacksonville, OR 97530

A few years after the second world war …

Sitting in the dark kitchen, Willi Peyer tried to fit the pieces together. He had just come from the baby’s crib. His son had died in the middle of the night and Willi, sleepless, trying to pace away his anxiety, had found him, so tiny and still, and though he wanted to curse the cruel universe, he had only sunk to his knees beside the boy’s body and, after some minutes, lurched to the kitchen.

He crossed his arms on the table and rested his forehead there. He hadn’t thought yet about waking his wife, who had finally fallen into a fitful sleep. He was still wondering why — why the boy should be taken from him who wanted a son so much, and now had only the stranger girl, why he had allowed the doctor to pierce the baby with the frightening needle, why he had left Germany so soon after the war, where the wind was cold in winter but carried no wet death with it, to come where he wasn’t wanted, thinking of his son’s future and the better life he would have in America, better than in his bruised and wounded native land, why his family, with worries enough already, should have this worst added to the rest.

He raised his eyes, which only stared and were dry, and saw the red light of the vigil candle flickering from the bedroom where the statue of the virgin holding her own baby stood on a shelf above it, the statue he had made for his pious wife. He was suddenly jealous of the virgin with her live son, with her power to save his own child if she had cared to help them. But she had not, despite his wife’s torrent of pleas.

The fault might have been his. He had not prayed often, and then only with doubts. He could not make himself believe, and for this reason, perhaps, his son had been allowed to die. The light flickered in its candle holder, very red in the dark room, and seemed to blame him. Yet he knew he could not be at fault, for he loved his son too much, and it was the virgin who should be blamed, the virgin who had failed them and whose votive light now mocked him.

But he had let the doctor pierce the boy, even though he knew in his heart that the doctor hated him ever since their first meeting when they had quarreled and almost fought. He had stood by silently while the man readied his needle and said nothing even when the baby