I've written another short story entitled, 'The Beauty of Ugh'. This story is significant to me for many reasons, expounding a message I would have the world internalize. This work was penned as a gift to benefit the Devizes and District Opportunity Centre, helping children with disabilities and learning difficulties. A fellow writer and friend, Darren Worrow, requested that a number of authors come together and contribute fresh short stories to be compiled into one book for the purpose of donating the proceeds to an organization benefiting children. A wonderful idea, I agree! This tale of mine is included among others in that book, available for purchase at Amazon.com. You can visit a website dedicated to the project at iamnotfrazzle.webs.com. The title of the completed book is, 'I am not Frazzle'. Please, look for it.
Oh yes, I dedicate this tale to a young, ambitious reader, Parker Randall.
Oh yes, I dedicate this tale to a young, ambitious reader, Parker Randall.
The
Beauty of Ugh
By
Richelle
E. Goodrich
“Eyes, so easily deceived, might judge more rightly with lids closed,
allowing ears and heart to remain wide open.”
~ Richelle E. Goodrich
Ugo Gerwyn Hubert was ugly.
It may seem a harsh thing to
say about a boy, but in actuality I am being kind, for ugly is a weak word to use describing the real sight of Ugo. The fact is this young man’s appearance could
startle a forest goblin; his features had been arranged by nature in a near
ghastly enough manner to cause a gorgon to turn to stone. A fair comparison might be Victor Hugo’s
fictional character, Quasimodo, while the initial effect poor Ugo had upon unprepared
eyewitnesses parallels the reaction of those who caught sight of Mary Shelley’s
monstrous creature spawned in a laboratory in Frankenstein.
Now Ugo wasn’t lacking in intelligence
or in any of the senses, he was just grotesquely physically-deformed from the
womb and a trial for anyone to stay an eye upon. Nevertheless, it seems malicious for a
saintly observer like myself to label one of God’s souls as hideous, revolting,
disgusting, repugnant, or gruesome (however fitting), so I shall in a very
cruel way be kind by saying that Ugo Gerwyn Hubert was indeed ugly.
Considering Ugo’s story, I
shall start with the ending first because I believe this account necessitates it. Knowing the ugly boy’s fate will also allow
you, the reader, opportunity to choose whether or not to press on with this
gruesome tale or to stop right here and now before you’ve been affected. It is, of course, your decision—but isn’t
that always the case?
Very well then, if you insist
on continuing down this road….
Ugly Ugo’s life ended in
death—a truth for all of God’s creatures—except that this young man breathed
out his final exhale by order of a court’s sentence, just barely having reached
that age society recognizes as early adulthood.
For you see, he’d been found guilty of ending another life, that of the young
and fair maiden, Elizabeth Natalie Desmona.
The law at that time was established on a foundation of simple, crude justice—an
eye for an eye, a loaf for a loaf, a life for a life.
The circumstances of the
crime were nothing if not straightforward.
Poor Elizabeth’s brother, Stephen Adrian Desmona, understandably upset to
the point of being haunted by nightmares even weeks after the incident, had
retold the tragedy to every ear in the village, which amounted to nearly the
entire population seeing that no one but Ugo’s father abstained from the trial. It was a short and concise hearing—guilty
without argument.
As the only eyewitness,
Stephen Desmona had left no detail unarticulated. He’d freely spilt the particulars as to how,
where, when, why, and who had taken his sister’s life. The deciding factor in the case had been the
fact that the alleged never once denied the charges against him. Not even a whispered word to plead innocent
or to beg for mercy or to offer some heartfelt strain of apology—nothing to
place doubt in the minds of every villager that the ugly monster was indeed
guilty of an equally ugly crime.
According to the accuser, the
circumstances of sweet Elizabeth’s death had come about on a late afternoon in
the following manner:
“It’s Ugh’s fault,” he said,
pointing a trembling finger before the judge.
“He’s guilty, I tell you; that hideous fiend cast the stone that killed
my sister! He’s always been crazy mad
with hatred toward me and my family ever since we were kids! You know it’s true.”
Stephen scanned the audience
for concurring nods, which he found in plenteous supply, before
continuing.
“The brute was harassing us
down by the lake. I don’t know why he
was even out where any good saint had to suffer a look at him. My sister and I weren’t doing anything to
attract his attention, just talking and skipping stones across the water. Our conversation didn’t include him; he was
never invited to join in. When he came
near I told him to go away and leave us alone, I did. We wanted nothing to do with him or his madness. He acted like he didn’t hear, and then he started
throwing rocks—big rocks—into the water too near Elizabeth. It made her nervous; I could tell by the way
she kept glancing at him. So I demanded
that he go on and leave us be…..but he wouldn’t. If he’d just gone home, if he’d just stayed away,
none of this would’ve happened! It’s his
fault for even coming around when no one wanted him!”
Again, there were concurring
nods from members of the audience.
“Well, he got mad because I
asked him to leave. He went into a fit
of rage and started calling names, throwing rocks at us instead of the lake. You’ve seen him knock blackbirds right off
their roosts with pebbles; you know how accurate his aim is and how hard his
arm throws. He did the same thing to
Elizabeth—hit her right between the eyes with a fisted stone! I saw it!
I saw it all, I tell you, he coldcocked her with a pitched rock!”
The eyes of many listeners
scrunched into condemning slits, all cast on the one blamed.
“I watched her fall into the
water where she began to slip under, disappearing from sight. I wanted to go in after her, to drag her out,
but that monster wouldn’t let me. When I
tried to get past him he grabbed hold of both my arms and shook me so hard,
threatening me with hateful words. I
feared for my own life! I was thrown
from the bank and suffered this!”
Stephen raised his arm and
peeled away a long sleeve to reveal a dark bruise that traveled from his smallest
finger clear to his elbow. Onlookers
gasped at the sight.
“This was my reward for trying to save poor Elizabeth. But I couldn’t get to her. That wild animal prevented me.”
Undoubtedly shaken by so
recent memories, Stephen began to cry like a toddler, his voice quivering
through the rest of his account.
“Eventually, he dragged Elizabeth
out of the water. As if it wasn’t enough
that he’d let her drown, he tossed her limp body onto the shore and beat her,
pounding on her over and over and over again in a wild fit of rage. I yelled for him to stop, but he
wouldn’t. I couldn’t do anything—I
couldn’t watch anymore! I’m ashamed to
say it, but I ran away. I ran home and
left Elizabeth to die in the devil’s arms.”
It was gruesome imagery painted
by Stephen. But to be fair, I must say there
were doubters who furrowed their brows, simply because a history of quarreling
existed between the two young men since youth.
However, when the implicated party failed to respond to questions
presented him by the judge, and when he furthermore refused to meet anyone eye
to eye, it seemed that Ugo Gerwyn Hubert was unquestionably guilty of the crime
in which he stood accused. No one
stepped forward to challenge the verdict.
He was sentenced to death—a life
for a life, as I explained.
When his public hanging took
place at sunrise in the town square, only one set of eyes did Ugo raise his
head to meet. Stephen Desmona turned
away from the silent stare cast him by his sister’s killer. The town understood Stephen’s grief, and
while the monster hung from a rope like a heavy sandbag, everyone agreed that they
were better off without that hideous figure lurking in their shadows, troubling
their streets. There had never been a fondness
felt for the disfigured soul anyway.
And so life went on.
But before we delve further
down that road, let me take you back to the start of Ugo’s story—far, far back
to the very earliest beginning.
It was a late, dark, still
night when Sandra Shaine Hubert gave birth to the only child she would ever
have. He was a large boy, a gruesome
sight covered in birthing fluids and blood.
Sandra cried for days while her boy remained silent, watchful, wrapped
up tight in cloths. Eventually she gave
the child the name Ugo, believing that God must have blessed him with greatness
of spirit having denied him any trace of physical beauty. His middle name came from his deceased
grandfather because his father, Bernard Alden Hubert, wouldn’t have ‘that spawn
of perdition’ (as he referred to the newborn) corrupting his good name.
Not many days later, on a
sunny afternoon, a baby boy was born to Maddalyn Unwyn Desmona a mile down the
road from the Hubert’s. The babe was
immediately named after his father, Stephen.
Born with a healthy set of lungs, the boy cried incessantly as his proud
parents showed him off to anyone who would take the time to awe over his
uncanny resemblance to a heavenly cherub. ‘If he isn’t the most adorable thing!’ was
a comment repeatedly voiced in their presence.
Needless to say, Ugo grew up
in the shadows—a nearly secluded existence apart from his mother’s pitying attention—while
Stephen thrived under the warm light of popular admiration.
Sandra tried her best to love
her ugly child, a task she found easier to accomplish in the privacy of their
little house built on a few acres of farmland.
Ugo’s father, Bernard, spent most of his waking hours working the land,
avoiding any paternal duties other than providing food and shelter. He grew potatoes, corn, carrots, onions, and
bright-yellow mustard seed. It was this
sunny color that Ugo developed a fondness for early on. If ever a traveling soul had squinted at the
Hubert’s fields, he might’ve caught a glimpse of a husky, warped figure sitting
in the midst of endless greens dotted with petals of an intense yellow hue. Ugo’s fascination for all things yellow remained
with him throughout his short duration in mortality, and most likely accounted
for his attraction to Elizabeth Natalie Desmona. The girl was born just two years after her
brother with buttery-blonde hair that glistened like gold in the sunlight. She was a happy child—always smiling, even at
the dreariest of faces.
The first time Stephen came
across his reclusive neighbor was by way of a snooping venture. He’d heard rumors of the ugly child and had
dared to sneak away from home, cutting through the Hubert’s cornfields on a
straight course for their little house. The
curious boy kept hidden within the tall cornstalks while peering out, spying on
Sandra Hubert who was busily folding up air-dried laundry. It would’ve been startling enough to have an
unexpected voice speak over his shoulder, questioning his reason for trespassing,
but when Stephen Desmona twirled around and found himself facing a living
creature more hideous than rumors painted, he nearly jumped out of his skin
scrambling to get away.
Carrying on as he did,
screaming out as if a garter snake had climbed up his pant leg, he caught the
attention of Ugo’s mother who came running toward the frightened child. She slowed her steps, the hurt evident on her
face, when her son stepped out of the cornstalks behind Stephen who tore down
the road toward home. Though expressions
were truly hard to read on Ugo’s face, he did look more puzzled than upset.
“Is he okay, Mama?”
Sandra nearly choked on her
tears hearing that her son’s first consideration was the other child’s welfare. All she could do was nod.
That day Stephen told every
one of his young friends, including sweet Elizabeth, that he’d encountered an actual
monster:
“He was an ugly beast—the
ugliest ever! I think he might be a real
ogre. You know they’re like trolls except
they wear clothes.”
“I heard that ogres, trolls,
and goblins will clobber you over the head and then skin you alive and eat you
for dinner,” someone said.
Stephen agreed assuredly with
his knowledgeable friend. “I know it. I’m lucky I can run fast; I almost didn’t get
away!”
It was Elizabeth who piped up
with a timid voice of reason. “I heard
he was just a regular boy.”
The other kids shook their
heads, dismissing her error. “No
way. I ain’t never seen a boy that looks
like a troll.”
“You mean an ogre,” someone
corrected.
“Yeah, a mean and ugly ogre.”
“I heard he was nice.”
Elizabeth persisted. “Mrs. Killian called
him quiet, like a field mouse.”
Stephen rolled his eyes at
his little sister. “Ugh, Elizabeth, he’s
only quiet so that he can sneak up on you before cracking open your skull to
bash your brains into stew.”
Everyone laughed, but the
majority covered their heads with two hands.
“That’s gross,” Elizabeth groaned,
making a face. “Mrs. Killian said his
name is Ugo.”
“Ugh-o,
you mean, as in, ugh-ly!” Everyone snickered at Stephen’s cruel play on
words.
“Yeah, that’s what you say
when you see him, ‘Ugh, you’re ugly!’ And then you throw up.”
“And then you plug your nose,
but only because he stinks worse than your vomit.”
“And then you run before he clobbers
you and eats you up!”
“—or he eats the vomit.”
Elizabeth turned and walked
away while the other kids snorted their amusement, continuing to make fun of
the peculiar boy she was now more than ever dying of curiosity to lay her eyes
upon. But she’d be forced to wait until
the following summer for opportunity to present itself.
It was nearing harvest season
when Maddalyn Desmona sank into a depression over her second miscarriage,
having hoped and prayed over the years for a large family to mother. Consumed by inner grief, the watchful eye she
normally kept on her children found itself resting often, seeking escape from the
pains of loss. Young Elizabeth took advantage
of this chance to sneak away from home, knowing that her brother Stephen (now capable
of menial farm chores) was off helping his father.
The cornstalks hadn’t reached
the same height as those Stephen had cut through on his first brave venture to
the Hubert’s front yard, but their fronded tops still towered over little
Elizabeth. Anxious and wary, she pressed
forward in short, hustling spurts interrupted now and then by momentary pauses
of hesitation. Imagery of Stephen’s
hideous, flesh-eating ogre haunted her imagination; nonetheless, it was in Mrs.
Killian’s less harsh report of the mysterious boy that Elizabeth trusted.
Approaching the opposite end
of the cornfield, the girl halted her steps.
Her neck stretched forward as she attempted to peer out from between the
last fibrous plants. A small brick-and-wood
home stood across a stretch of grass, the front door and windows darkened
beneath an extended rooftop. Not a
single person was in sight. While endeavoring
to amass the courage to go out into the open, the sweet child heard a voice
speak over her shoulder. Frightened of what
she might find, Elizabeth didn’t turn her head at first, for the voice itself came
across pleasantly enough.
“I like your hair; it looks
like butter. Did you come here to see my
mother?”
Elizabeth tensed and froze,
her heart beating rapidly in her chest. She
was too rattled to reply. The voice
traveled over her shoulder again.
“I’m sorry my mom’s not here;
she went into town to help clean people’s houses. She does that sometimes. Can I touch your hair?”
Terrified that there might be
even an ounce of truth to her brother’s claim that an ogre nicknamed by all the
village children as ‘Ugh the ugly’ would clobber her over the head and have her
brains for a stewed dinner, Elizabeth hurried forward out of the cornstalks. She turned abruptly, uncertain as to what she
might glimpse—a boy or an ogre or a monstrous beast reaching for her. Still inside the cornfield, young Ugo’s
features remained partially hidden behind tall, green stalks. Perhaps it was the slightly dim concealment preventing
a sudden and shocking revelation of his face, or perhaps it was the girl’s
determination to prove her brother wrong about this boy, or perhaps it was just
sweet Elizabeth’s nature to see beyond the worst—no one can say for certain, but
his big head so out of proportion, owning a crooked nose and swollen lips and eyes
distinctly askew, didn’t cause any fearful reaction in the girl. None at all other than a wide-eyed return
stare.
“Who are you?” she finally
asked the figure who remained somewhat masked.
“Ugo,” the boy replied, his
voice now a slightly softer, slightly vulnerable tone. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I’m not scared,” Elizabeth
declared straight away.
“Really?”
She gave no reply, concerned
that there might not be any truth to her claim once this mysterious boy fully
revealed himself. She squinted as if
trying to focus past the cornstalks and shadows.
“I’ve never seen you before,”
Ugo said.
Elizabeth raised her
shoulders timidly. “I’ve never seen you before
either.”
“Are you going to run away
from me?” It was hard to miss the note
of concern in his question.
A tense shoulder climbed
higher as Elizabeth carefully answered, “I don’t, uh……I don’t think so.”
“Honest?” Surprise and hope intermingled in that one
word.
The little girl nodded.
Wanting to trust this pretty
stranger with hair that glistened in his favorite color, Ugo dared to come
completely out of the field corn. Slouching
worse than normal due to an unusually powerful case of self-consciousness, he
blinked his eyes at the gawking female nervously sizing him up.
“Are you an ogre?” She had to ask.
Ugo’s bushy eyebrows perked
and scrunched together. “No.” He glanced down at himself and then looked up
again with his best apologetic face. “I’m
sorry if I look like one.”
Elizabeth confessed, “I don’t
know if you do; I’ve never actually seen an ogre.”
An awkward moment of silence
transpired where Elizabeth had a hard time keeping her eyes on the ugly boy. Ugo spoke up apologizing again. He truly didn’t want this pretty creature
with sunbeams for hair to run away.
“I’m sorry if I frightened
you.”
“You didn’t,” Elizabeth said,
then sheepishly added, “Not really.”
Ugo dared to ask his desire
once again. “Can I touch your hair?”
The wary girl screwed up her
face, uncertain. “Why?”
The boy shrugged, brushing
the lobes of his protruding ears with his humped shoulders. “Because.”
“Because why?”
Ugo scratched his globular nose,
thinking how to explain. “Well, because your
hair kind of looks like butter. I wanted
to see if it feels like butter too.”
“Oh.” Elizabeth touched her own curls, deciding
that the feel was soft enough but lacking any creamy smoothness. “I guess that would be okay.”
She stood as stiff as a tree
as he limped closer, purposefully slow and easy in his approach. A stubby hand with short, crooked fingers
lifted to stroke gently at her long hood of curls. She struggled not to shy away.
“You’re pretty,” the boy
said. When he smiled, his teeth stuck
out in every direction.
“Thank you.” Elizabeth blushed as he stroked her hair
again, her allowing it.
“It feels like flower
petals—yellow flower petals, not butter.
Have you ever seen mustard blooms before?” That’s what her hair reminded him of.
She shook her head.
Ugo’s unattractive features
readjusted, resulting in a cockeyed mask of enthusiasm. He extended his stubby fingers towards the
girl. “I can show you a whole field of
mustard flowers. Do you want to go see?”
He eventually dropped his
hand at Elizabeth’s silent rejection.
She hadn’t replied to his offer but stood there with rigid, high
shoulders.
Ugo made another suggestion;
he didn’t want the girl to leave. Company
his age had never stuck around before. “Would
you like to hear a story instead?”
She suddenly looked
interested. “Do you know a fairytale?”
Ugo nodded assuredly. “I know lots of them. My mom tells me one almost every night.”
Elizabeth quietly considered
his offer. A good fairytale was
definitely an enticing lure. The ugly
boy tempted her further.
“I know a story about a
princess and a goblin. Would you like to
hear it?”
Her head began to gesture to
the affirmative before she verbally accepted.
“Okay, but only if it doesn’t take too long. My mom will worry if she finds out I left
home.”
“Where do you live?”
The girl pointed over the high
stalks. “On the other side of this
field.”
“Oh. Well, I could walk you home while I tell you
the story. Then if your mother called,
you would hear her.”
Liking his idea, Elizabeth
smiled wide. Ugo mirrored the expression
less charmingly.
When he started lumbering in
a slow walk down a furrow walled by cornstalks, Elizabeth went along. She kept at his side, her focus on the ground
while listening to him cleverly narrate a tale that happened to star a little princess
with buttery-blonde curls. She gasped at
the introduction of mean-spirited goblins, but laughed when the fictitious
princess outsmarted the nasty creatures.
Nearing the end of their walk and Ugo’s story, their footsteps slowed
until finally halting just within the concealing crop of corn. Each walking companion turned to face the
other, neither as tense and nervous as when they’d first started out.
Elizabeth cocked her head
slightly as if lining up her gaze with Ugo’s slanted eyes. She then dropped her gaze and kicked at the soil.
“I liked your story. It wasn’t too scary.”
“Thanks. I’m glad you let me tell it to you.”
The girl glanced in the
direction of home. “Well……..I probably
should go before my mom misses me.”
“Oh….right.” Ugo’s form slouched further forward, disappointed
by her desire to leave. “I suppose you
shouldn’t get yourself into trouble.”
She shook her head. “No, that would be bad.”
He agreed with a nod. “Yes, that would be bad.”
Fueled by a courage that rose
from the likely presumption that he would never be blessed by the kind company
of this pale angel again, Ugo asked permission to touch her hair just one more
time. He was truly surprised when she requested
a similar favor.
“Can I touch your face?” Again she glanced at him from a tilted vantage
point.
His heart reacted with a
flutter, and he consented in an exhale.
“Okay.”
Both reached out. Ugo’s bigger fingers combed softly over
Elizabeth’s soft hair while her tiny palm landed on his cheek, just below his
lowest eye. He smiled at her touch, and
she helped his expression along by tenderly pushing his jowl upward—an attempt
to level out his features, especially those wonky, happy eyes. She laughed at the goofy look it produced,
and he laughed too.
And then they parted
ways.
It wasn’t the last time that
Elizabeth stole away from home to secretly visit with the ugly boy, and it
wasn’t the last fairytale Ugo Gerwyn Hubert narrated for the buttery-blonde
angel whose image frequented his dreams.
Though it amounted to little more than twice a year, usually when the
cornstalks were at their tallest, Ugo looked forward to rare visits from his
neighbor. He soaked up her pretty smile
and treasured permission to feel at her soft hair, but above all these
inexplicable blessings was the way his heart melted at Elizabeth’s parting
touch when she would press her palm against his cheek and mold his features in
a way that made her expression appear to approve of him.
Ugo dared to believe that his
future included the fair Elizabeth Natalie Desmona.
As the passing of seasons
cunningly and craftily turned girls and boys into young women and young men, such
changes tested the courage and boldness of those lads seeking manhood. At this biological crossroads for Stephen
Desmona and his friends they fell prey to a common falsehood, believing that persecuting
the undesirables earned them an elusive crown of manly nerve and greatness. Unfortunately for Ugo, his encounters with
Stephen were more frequent than the secret visits paid by his sister.
The majority of their confrontations
were due to Stephen and his friends seeking out the unsightly boy on his own
property or at a quiet fishing hole or waiting under a tree at the edge of town
for his mother to return from a cleaning detail. The intent was always to humiliate Ugo by taunting
him and casting the cruelest names meant to highlight his deformities. As I mentioned before, these boys had begun
early on to refer to him as ‘Ugh the ugly’, a nickname that in due course seeped
into common use by many thoughtless villagers.
Those feeling a prick of conscience and thus needing a reason to justify
reiterating the insensitive nickname were quick to mention how the boy’s
initials spelled out the word, UGH, thus making it an act of fate or his
mother’s intent or God’s will or whatever excuse pardoned the sin.
Poor Ugh….. Forgive me, reader, I meant poor Ugo tolerated
the unkindness as patiently as any soul could be expected to. Following his mother’s advice, attempts to
ignore, sidestep, avoid, or even befriend his tormentors always failed. Ugo would then resort to physical means of standing
up for himself. Some called it self-defense,
but most who shared a widespread dislike for the hideous figure blamed him for first
inciting a brawl and then pummeling his harassers.
“He ain’t innocent. He’s a stocky cuss; he knows his own strength.”
“He should keep his hideous
face hidden if he don’t want no trouble.”
“Them boys were only playin’ with
him as boys’ll do; it’s natural. They can’t
help rough up a rogue now and then.”
“What can any sane person
expect if you come around and make yourself a mark?”
So Ugo did his best to avoid kids
like Stephen who never thought twice about pestering him. More and more of his waking hours were spent
indoors where his mother provided household chores and kindhearted company. Although a bit restless at times he was
basically content until the unthinkable happened.
It was an early autumn day
when Sandra Shaine Hubert succumbed to an illness that robbed Ugo of the only
parent who had ever shown any concern for him.
Life became gray and lonely after his mother’s death, and it seemed for
a time that he might just lie down in the grave beside her. His father, who’d always been a silent and cold
figure, cared strictly for his own personal needs. He never asked anything of Ugo, and he never
gave. It’s hard to say what he expected
his son to do, for not once did he verbalize to anyone a recommendation for the
boy’s future or a mention that the young man stood in need of direction and
care. But the world did not entirely forsake
Ugo. One human remained who felt for the
ugly boy, and she paid him a visit on the very day he needed it most.
Unable to meet in secret
among the cornstalks (for they had already been slashed and harvested)
Elizabeth Desmona tracked the young man down at an isolated water hole. He sat alone at the edge of a muddy lake
surrounded by forest trees shedding leaves in autumn hues. Had it not been for grief’s blinding hand, Ugo
would’ve found the view breathtaking. The
young lady knelt beside him at the water’s edge where his large, bare feet had burrowed
into the mud. Her hand landed gently on
his humped shoulder where it remained.
The silent sweetness of Elizabeth’s
company eased poor Ugo’s pain in a way nothing else—no one else—held the power
to. Never once looking up, he cried
silent tears for a great while before his companion was even aware of it. The sound of sniffling gave him away.
The girl leaned against him
and put her lips near his ear. “I’m so
sorry for your loss, Ugo. I’m truly,
truly sorry.”
The griever said nothing, but
continued to cry quietly.
“Your mother was an angel, I
know. She did so much for so many, not
just for you but for those she helped out in town. It was her way of earning extra money, I
understand, but she always went above and beyond the tedious chores asked of
her. She worked to make day-to-day life easier
for others. Your mother will be greatly
missed—by you most of all.”
A wordless nod agreed with Elizabeth’s
words. She squeezed on his shoulder when
an inhale caught in his throat like an anguished sound of mourning.
“I’m so sorry, Ugo. I wish I knew what to do….what to say. But I don’t; I don’t know how to help you.”
Without lifting his head, the
young man turned toward the last human willing to give a passing thought to his
welfare. He threw his arms around her
and pressed his head against her bosom.
Elizabeth shed tears for her friend and stroked his tangle of hair while
he cried over the loss of his mother. The
mud dried on his toes as they mourned in this fashion.
Eventually his heartache
numbed and Ugo moved away, turning back to the lake. He didn’t allow the angel who’d held him to
see his face, certain it would be that much ghastlier to behold all red and
swollen.
“Are you going to be okay?”
she asked.
“I don’t know.” His reply was entirely honest; he had no idea
where to go from here.
“Will your father help—”
“My father hates me,” Ugo snapped,
cutting her off. “I’m sure he’d rather
I’d been the one to die. I imagine
everyone feels the same way.”
“Don’t say that, Ugo.”
“Why not? It’s true.
They all hate me.”
“They don’t know you.”
“They don’t want to,” he muttered,
clearly defensive and despondent. “They loathe
and avoid me. Even the women teach their
children to call me ‘Ugh the ugly’. I
endure it because I understand why; I’m a frightening, repulsive sight. I’ve seen my reflection.”
Shame hushed Elizabeth’s voice
as she admitted, “I know. I thought the
same thing when I first saw you. It’s
not fair, Ugo, it’s never been fair. But
more importantly, it’s not, nor has it ever been true.”
Ugo almost dared to look up at
his sympathetic advocate, but he couldn’t stand it if any sign of revulsion
were to show in her face. He kept his
eyes on the stubby fingers curled in his lap.
“It is true, Elizabeth. No one
will ever see me as anything but hideous.”
“Then you have to prove them
wrong. Show them your goodness and
kindness, then they’ll see how beautiful you are on the inside and realize how their
assumptions have been mistaken.”
“How can I do that when no
one will allow me near except to mock and ridicule?”
His angel didn’t have an
answer. “I’m sorry, Ugo,” she
sighed. “You’re a good heart—clearly your
mother’s son. Just like her, you have so
much to offer others. I’m truly sorry
they don’t accept you.”
It was a discouraging
conversation, yes, but Ugo continued to mull over Elizabeth’s words for many
days afterwards. It warmed his heart to
believe that she saw a beauty inside him like his mother’s. If only he could show the world when their
eyes were closed.
A year passed by on the
Hubert’s farm where Ugo learned to care for himself. Ignored by his father and yet not entirely
rejected, he took over his mother’s household chores voluntarily. One year eventually became two which steadily
grew to be three. Elizabeth continued to
visit Ugo in secret, especially during those weeks following the death of his
mother. Her appearances, including her
soft touch on his cheek, decreased over time.
On the whole, no one saw much of the young man called Ugh, although some
swore that they glimpsed his grim shadow hobbling along their lonely streets on
many a moonlit night. The rumors were
enough to cause nervous villagers to lock up their homes and sheds.
On a day nearing the
anniversary of Sandra Hubert’s death, it just so happened that Ugo came across his
buttery-blonde angel at the very mud hole where the two had shared a tearful,
grieving embrace. On this occasion she
wasn’t alone. Her brother Stephen stood
by her side, showing off how he could skip a rock five times over the lake’s
surface. Ugo considered turning around,
not wanting a confrontation with Stephen, but his desire to see Elizabeth was
strong, and he assumed that a gentleman’s civility would dictate conduct in the
presence of a lady.
He assumed wrong.
At first Ugo kept his
distance and tried his own hand at skipping flat stones across the water. Elizabeth’s pale face turned his direction a
number of times, unreadable in expression.
Ugo sauntered nearer, mostly to get a clearer look at her, hoping to
read in her eyes if his presence was wanted or feared. But then, as ought to have been expected,
Stephen intervened with his usual verbal abuse.
It would have served them all best if Ugo had simply turned and walked
away, but for some unfathomable reason the young man felt to do so would appear
cowardly to the lady in their midst. His
entitlement to stand on the lakeshore was the same as anyone else’s.
Stephen Desmona strongly insisted
that ‘Ugh the ugly’ leave their sight immediately.
Ugo Gerwyn Hubert staunchly refused.
The confrontation became sorely
physical.
Unfortunately when tempers
rage and pride dictates one’s actions, the consequences are usually
regrettable, and it no longer matters in the tiniest degree who was right or
wrong. Such was the case where poor,
sweet Elizabeth fell down victim. You
know the rest of Ugo’s story, for it began our sad tale. The guilty was put to death—a despised life
for the life of an angel. His body hung
like a heavy sandbag for three days in the town square where everyone agreed
that they were better off without that hideous figure lurking in their shadows,
troubling their streets. The day after
Elizabeth’s funeral, Ugo’s body was carted off to be buried in an unmarked
grave somewhere in his father’s cornfield.
And so life went on.
Days transitioned into weeks
that added up to months. For Stephen
Desmona it seemed a never-ending nightmare.
He grieved and bemoaned the loss of his sister, telling the tale over
and over to any listener as if a magical ear existed that could somehow change
the ending of a tragedy already carved in a headstone. Friends and neighbors came in great numbers
to offer the grieving family plates of food, sympathetic words, and ample shows
of affection. But it seemed the more
kindness that was extended, the deeper young Stephen slipped into the darkest
pit of depression and solitude. He just
couldn’t seem to pry his mind away from reliving the day of Elizabeth’s death.
It was barely two months
after the fact when Maddalyn Desmona found a long letter left on her son’s
bed. His things were gone. A frantic search for the boy found him
nowhere, and it was concluded that he’d run away from home. Maddalyn cried for days on end over the loss
of two children while her husband hung his head in shame, having read his son’s
cowardly confession:
To all who hated Ugh,
I am sorry.
It is my fault that such strong hatred ever existed
toward him. He was entirely undeserving
of it. I regret my actions to a depth
and intensity of pain no human heart should be able to bear and survive. Perhaps mine is made of stone. I’m beginning to think so.
I know that no amount of remorse or suffering on my
part will ever be enough to atone for what I’ve done, for persecuting Ugh over
the years undeservedly and for the malicious spreading of rumors against his
actual virtuous and noble nature, and for my final act of hatred most of
all. A confession is all I can give, for
I am the real monster and the true coward.
I will never be the hero Ugh was and is.
It is my fault that Elizabeth died. I threw the rock that killed her. It wasn’t meant to happen that way, but it
did. Ugh took the blame for it, and I
know why.
Here is the truth.
Elizabeth confided in me years ago that she’d met the
ugly boy whose fields bordered our own.
She described him as kind and gentle and a new friend. Because of hatred, jealousy, pride, disgust,
suspicion—take your pick—I made it my aim to prove her wrong about that
revolting character, for that’s all I ever saw when looking at him. I would not have my beautiful sister feeling
for that monster, and so my quest to torment him began. I spread rumors, picked fights, taunted and
insulted him in the hopes of drawing out an equally ugly temper from inside. But the truth is, he endured the persecution
from me, from others, from you perhaps, with greater forbearance than I or
anyone else could have managed.
Elizabeth snuck away on rare occasions to meet up with
her ugly friend, to hear him tell her stories and to make him feel less lonely. She would tell me about how nice he was, and
I would tell her she was a fool for allowing herself to be deceived. I tried to discourage her, but she was never
dissuaded.
On the day of her death, I started a fight with
Ugh. I was angry that he’d shown up
during our time together. I was angry
that he didn’t turn around and leave. I
was angry that Elizabeth kept looking at him, encouraging him to come
closer. I was angry that he couldn’t see
how he didn’t belong in her life, how she was meant for someone as beautiful as
her.
When he refused to go away, I pitched a rock at him
hoping to scare him off. His refusal to budge
made me angrier. When Elizabeth spoke up
to defend him, I lost my temper entirely.
I pitched stone after stone at him, figuring it would scare him off. Elizabeth tried to stop me; she got in the
way. I swear it was never my intent to
harm her, but I did. I threw the rock
that hit her in the head. I killed
her.
Ugh dragged her body out of the water. He tried to save her, to make her heart beat
again. When I realized his efforts were
to no avail, that there was nothing I could do, I accused him of causing her
death. I screamed at him—blamed him for
everything. Then I ran off while he
cried over her.
I never thought he’d take the blame without arguing
his innocence. But then again, who
would’ve believed him? That too is my
fault.
The truth is, Ugh may have been an awful sight, but he
had a pure and decent soul. He was kind
to my sister. He loved her more than I
did. I know it, because he was willing
to die for her while I cowardly let him do so.
Nothing can change the wrongs done to him, but I thought
at least his good name should be cleared.
I am sorry.
Regrettably,
Stephen Adrian Desmona
The letter was read aloud in
town and then posted on a public board.
It was the right thing to do. It
affected everyone.
Days passed quietly, a heavy
shroud of shame having settled over the land.
People pondered the injustice that had taken place and how it had been
allowed to occur. During this time
strange observations were made.
Mrs. Sawyer noticed that her
wood pile was dwindling. Curiously, she’d
not had that problem in a long while. Mrs.
Killian remarked how her front deck seemed to need sweeping often, gathering
leafs and debris like it never had. Mr. Waite
was surprised by the amount of chickens he was losing to coyotes, a trouble
he’d not experienced in ages. And Mr. Allen
found himself removing more rocks and garbage along his fence line than ever
before. Other peculiarities were noticed
and pointed out, mostly small things, chores mumbled about needing attention. The tasks had not been seen to in some time
and yet miraculously they’d been accomplished.
These things had gone unnoticed until finally neglected and in need of
someone to step forward and do them.
The truth spread swiftly as
it became apparent that the grim figure who’d once haunted their streets at
night was responsible for carrying out these simple, mundane tasks when he was
alive. It was ‘Ugh the ugly’ who had
kept their homes and streets beautiful. He’d
done so in honor of his mother and to prove, at Elizabeth’s suggestion, his
goodness to those who would never have given him opportunity during daylight
hours.
No one had bothered to sense
a lighter load until it fell back on one’s own shoulders.
Some say it was guilt. Others claim a learned lesson and gratitude. Then there are those who deem it penance for
what surely was a shared sin in God’s eyes.
In whatever manner it is explained, a grand thing did come about from
the trials of Ugo Gerwyn Hubert. The
hearts and eyes of a community were forever changed. They learned that physical attractiveness is
no indicator of an individual’s beauty. In
remembrance of the one who taught them this truth, a bronze statue of his
likeness was raised on the very spot where ‘Ugh the ugly’ was wrongly hanged,
having voluntarily sacrificed his life to save Elizabeth’s brother. The inscription is a lesson to never be
forgotten.
In memory of Ugo Gerwyn Hubert
“Anyone who takes the time to be kind is beautiful.”
Copyright 2013 Richelle E. Goodrich
