Moon Garden

Untitled Story

2011-10-14T00:29:00.006-04:00

Written for Prompt #6 at The Aeolian Harp:

Reverend John Greaves was a believing man. So when he walked into his bedroom that bright Thursday afternoon and found his young wife giggling in front of the looking glass, a diamond necklace flashing around her neck, he believed her when she said that the fairies had given it to her.

He sat on the edge of the bed, holding Mary’s small hands in his, as she told him how it had happened. She had spent the morning picking blackberries at the edge of Burke’s Meadow. After a while, when her second pail was nearly full, she retreated from the hot sun, and sat in the shade of the rowan tree to rest. She thought that she must have dozed off, for the next thing she recalled was finding the necklace glittering in her lap.

There was certainly no reason to doubt his sweet young wife’s word. Their village, tucked in the valley below Belmont Manor, was a humble one. None of the villagers or crofters had the means to own such a fine piece of jewelry. As Mary related her story to John, so many other tales about that tree sprang to his mind It was an old tree, to be sure, growing in the center of old stones left standing by the ancients. “Charmed,” is what the villagers called it.

In the days that followed, Reverend Greaves worried about what to do with the necklace. He also worried about Mary, who suddenly left the dishes unwashed in the sink after dinner, and spent a great deal of time out of the house. He hoped that she was just visiting the sick and poor of their parish, as was fitting for a rector’s wife.

One late afternoon, after he picked up the house and washed the dishes, Reverend Greaves found himself walking to Burke’s Meadow with the necklace in his pocket. He was just outside the village when he came upon his wife on the road up ahead. She wasn’t alone. Standing quite close to her was Lord Belmont himself. The man’s handsome head was inclined towards Mary as he listened attentively to whatever it was she was saying. Then they both laughed, and Lord Belmont offered her his arm. Mary took it as they set-off walking toward Reverend Greaves.

“John!” she called out. “What are you doing here?” Reverend Greaves watched her step away from Lord Belmont and drop his arm.

“I might ask the same of you, Mary” replied Reverend Greaves. He turned to Lord Belmont and said, “Good afternoon, my Lord. May I ask, how is Lady Belmont fairing these days?”

“Good to see you, Reverend Greaves. I came upon Mary as I was making my way to the village. She has offered to visit with Lady Belmont, who, I am afraid, has become weaker these last few weeks.”

“I am very sorry to hear it. I am sure that Mary will be good company for her,” said Reverend Greaves.

“And, you were you on your way to….?” asked Lord Belmont quizzically.

“I was on my way to the meadow,” answered Reverend Greaves. “I thought that I might find Mary there.”

“Yes, yes, I was just there. Picking more blackberries,” his wife thrust out her half-full pail as proof, but she didn’t quite meet his eyes.

“Well. Shall we all walk back to the village together then?” suggested Lord Belmont.

The entire way back, the diamond necklace weighed heavily in Reverend Greaves pocket, as they conversed about the weather and the price of tea.

~*~

Four nights later he awoke to find Mary’s side of the bed empty. The clock struck three as he rose, tied a robe around his waist, and went to search the house for her. She was not in it. He thought that perhaps she was out using the privy, so he sat down at the kitchen table and waited. After a while, he fell asleep and dreamed scandalous dreams about his wife and Lord Belmont. The sound of a cock crowing at dawn woke him; hiis neck was stiff. He found his wife asleep in their bed. Bending over to kiss her fair cheek, he saw a dry brown leaf tangled in her hair.

Reverend Greaves was very troubled by the changes in his wife. As he reflected upon them, he remembered the stories that his grandfather Seamus used to tell him about the Little People when he was a child. Their gifts, his grandfather said, always come at a cost. They may offer you gold and finery, but they will take your soul in return. Reverend Greaves began to suspect that the woman who ran-off without doing the dishes, and who disappeared in the night was not his Mary. The diamond necklace was still in his pocket. He would return it to the rowan tree in exchange for his true wife. Then, he would take an axe to that cursed tree.

It was a warm day, and the drone of bees filled the meadow. Reverend Greaves walked through the tall grass, fragrant with honeysuckle, praying fervently for Mary. A breeze blew his hair as he put a hand on one of the old stones and wondered whether it be an ebenezer or something else. The rowan tree stood there in the middle, heavy with red berries and full of noisy birds. He took the necklace out of his pocket and watched it dazzle in the sunlight. “Take this!” he shouted. “And, give me back my wife!.” Suddenly, the birds flew off in a frenzy of wings and calls, forcing Reverend Greaves to cover his head with his arms and sink to his knees. The necklace was lying in the dirt at the base of the tree.

For a long time he sat there waiting. Would they come and take the necklace? Would his Mary come out of the tree? He watched the sun go down. He heard the buzz of the bees fade away, replaced now by chirping crickets. He saw the first star,and the moonrise. He listened to an owl call off in the woods. And then, he heard voices, Lord Belmont’s and Mary’s. They were over near the brook. They were laughing together.

Reverend Greaves heart was pierced by raw grief and cold fury. He rose swiftly from the ground, gripping the axe in his hands. He began to stride towards them when all at once a voice arose from the bleak twigs overhead…

My 80 Year Old Desk

2011-09-19T20:30:00.000-04:00

This is where I do a lot of my writing: letters, bills, and sometimes a story :- ) It is one of my favorite places in my home. It even has two secret compartments!

Deliverance (written for prompt #4 at The Aeolian Harp)

2011-09-11T21:20:00.005-04:00

I never wanted to go with him. In fact, I begged mama to let me stay in Massachusetts with her, but my father had been the minister of the village congregation, and she was above all a god-fearing woman. She told me, with tears in her eyes, that my place was with my husband. I hugged her tightly, and breathed the familiar scent of her, memorizing it. I knew that I would never see her again. “I’ll write,” she said. But, letters to the frontier could take many months to deliver.

The next morning we left for Indiana territory, our small wagon loaded down with all of our worldly goods, which consisted of: six quilts, two pots, a tea kettle, a bit of mismatched flatware, a wooden chest, linens, a bedstead, sacks of seeds, and my husband’s tools. We left the table and chairs behind. Daniel would make new when we got to our land.

Our party was small. There were five families and our guide, twenty-six of us in all, including women and children. By the time we made it to the territory our number had been reduced to eighteen. My own vitality was greatly diminished, and yet, I discovered that I was with child. I was twenty years old.

It was July, and Daniel and I immediately set ourselves to the task of clearing the land and building a cabin. It was just the two of us. All of the others had settled some distance away from our own claim. Occasionally, La Bounty, a French trapper, would come by and camp with us for a few weeks. He brought us news from the territory about the other settlers and Indian sightings, and helped Daniel with the heaviest work, in exchange for meals, darning his socks, and mending and laundering his clothes.. I didn’t like him. He had poor manners, spoke rough language, and had hungry eyes that followed me around camp. Daniel said that we should be grateful for his help, and besides, La Bounty just needed a wife. I knew that Daniel was probably right, but still, I didn’t’ trust the man; I wanted him gone.

By September I felt the quickening of the child within me. My body had become lean and hard, and although my pregnancy was advancing, my gown hung loosely upon my frame. I was heart sore and lonesome for my mother and my village back in Massachusetts, but I was too tired to cry. I woke each morning feeling hollow and broken, but I kept doing what I needed to do to survive: fetch the water, prepare the food, cut brush, haul wood, mend clothing. I watched Daniel’s body become leaner, too, and I saw some of the certainty and determination vanish from his eyes. I wondered if he regretted coming out here as much as I did.

But, then, by October the cabin was built, and life got a bit easier for awhile. We had stores of grain to see us through the winter, and I had gathered what I could from the woods and fields: dried apples and cherries, preserved blackberries; plus the pumpkins and squash that we had planted when we arrived at the beginning of July. We would have enough to sustain us if we were careful. In the spring, we would purchase a milch cow and chickens.

In December, during a swirling snowstorm, there was a knock at the cabin door. It was La Bounty come to tell us that fever had spread throughout the territory, and many people had taken sick. The next day, La Bounty himself was burning with it. We made a bed for him and I nursed him for over a week . Then, just as he began to recover, Daniel fell ill. Three days later he was dead. Even though it was early in the winter, the snow was already deep, and I was heavy with child. I wouldn’t be able to travel back to my mother in Massachusetts until spring. I was completely alone in the world. Except for La Bounty.

He stayed on at the cabin for two more weeks. I washed and dressed Daniel’s body, and La Bounty built a plain pine coffin out in the shed. The ground was frozen, and Daniel wouldn’t be buried until spring.

One night, while we ate our supper together by candlelight, La Bounty asked, “How will you get back to Massachusetts come spring?” That I did not know. I would need a guide at the very least. The way home would be made more perilous because I would have a newborn baby to nurse and carry along.

“Maybe I could go back with the post,” I said.

La Bounty scoffed at this idea. “No, you would slow the mail considerably. They will not allow it. I will take you back,” he volunteered, but his black eyes glittered with greed, “for a fee.”

I sat in silence for awhile, considering my options. “How much?” I asked, in what I hoped was a confident voice.

La Bounty grinned, “One hundred fifty-two dollars.” He must have known; Daniel must have told him how much we had. It was the money for the cow and the chickens, and anything else we needed. It was all we had. But, I wouldn’t need the cow and chickens now. Come spring, all I needed was safe passage home.

“Okay.” I whispered.

“Yes? I will need the money in advance. To purchase supplies for the journey,” He said. And, like a fool, I gave it to him. He was gone before morning light.

~*~

The next two months were a gray void of loneliness and grief. In those first days of being alone I cried. I cried for Daniel, for my mother, for myself, for my baby. I cried until my eyes and throat were red and raw. I cried as loud as the wailing wind outside the cabin door. When the wind stopped, my tears stopped, too. Then, my life was just quietness, punctuated by the clicking of my knitting needles and the crackle of the fire. I was a white woman living alone in Indian territory, but I wasn’t afraid. I doubted that I would survive for very long out here by myself, although, with Daniel gone, I had more than enough provisions to see me through winter.

At the end of February, my time came. The pains lasted for two days. I saw the sun rise and set twice. When the pains became so fierce that I was sure that the baby and I would both die, he suddenly was born into my hands. I named him John after my father, as I couldn’t bear to call him Daniel after his own father, when he had brought me here and left me.

After that, I wasn’t alone anymore. I had my sweet, robust baby boy for company. Joy came back into my heart, and with it, fear. Now, I had something to lose, something precious and perfect. As the days grew longer, and the snow turned soft and began to melt, I began to worry about two things: burying Daniel, and La Bounty coming back.

~*~

One sunny morning in March, I tied Johnny to my chest with a shawl, and took the water bucket down to the creek. The buds were swollen on the trees, and here and there the ground was covered in trillium. Birds were singing, and the sun was warm on my back. As I filled my bucket with icy creek water, I realized that I could no longer put off burying Daniel. I would have to do it soon. Maybe today. I stood with my bucket full, and suddenly felt that I was being watched. The hair on the back of my neck prickled, and I instinctively put my free arm around my baby, holding him close to my chest. I looked around, straining to listen, and noticed that the birds had stopped singing. Out of the corner of my eye I thought that I saw movement. I dropped the bucket, dowsing my shoes in ice-cold water, and ran for the cabin as fast as I could. Johnny started crying. When I reached the cabin, I bolted the door and took down Daniel’s rifle. My hands shook as I loaded the gun. Who could be out there? Was it La Bounty? Indians? “Shhh, shhh,” I softly sang to quiet my baby. I needed to hear if someone was coming near the cabin, but all that filled my ears were Johnny’s cries and my own pounding heart. I whispered a prayer on a sob, “Please, Lord.” There was a soft knock on the door. I tried to see who it was through the cabin’s only window, but I didn’t want to move the curtains and give myself away. The soft knock came again. I couldn’t open the door with the rifle in my hands, but I didn’t want to be unarmed. I grabbed a knife from the mantle. Then I took a deep breath and opened the door.

It was a bear. A great black bear, standing up on its hind legs, at least six feet tall. I felt faint. I tried to slam the door shut, but the bear pushed its way inside. Instinctively, I raised the knife, but the bear caught my wrist in its great paw, and said, “No.” I did faint then.

I was lying in bed when I awoke. The scent of something delicious filled the cabin. I sat up, and saw a man squatting by the hearth fire, stirring something in a pot. His hair was long and plaited, glossy black, with feathers in it. Terror filled my breast when I realized what he was. Just then he stood, in an easy graceful movement, and turned towards me. I was startled, his eyes were blue like mine. He didn’t smile, but he held a bowl of good smelling food towards me, and his eyes were kind when he said, “Eat.” I took the bowl from his hands. I hadn’t had breakfast yet, and I realized that I was hungry.

“I thought you were a bear,“ I told him. He pointed to the bear skin hanging on the peg by the door. Then he motioned me to come to the table. He opened a pouch that was tied around his waist and took money from it, which he set upon the table. It was one hundred fifty-two dollars.

He said, “La Bounty dead”.

I was shocked, relieved, bewildered: why did this Indian man have my money?

“How did you get this?” I asked.

“I kill La Bounty,” he said. There was pride in his voice and eyes, and I felt my fear return.

“Why?”

“La Bounty cheat my people. La Bounty cheat you.” he said, and his eyes held mine assessing.

I felt myself let out a breath I hadn’t even known I was holding. “Thank you,” I said, and I meant it. Now I had the money to get back home.

The Indian man touched his chest and said, “Kitchi”

I smiled and touched my chest and said, “Charlotte”.

His lips turned up at the corners in the smallest of smiles as he reached out and gently touched my spectacles. “Little Owl”, he said. Then he asked, “Your man dead?”

My heart began to beat fast, as I wondered why he wanted to know. “Yes. The fever killed him this winter, “ I said.

“Buried?” Kitchi asked. His voice was quiet, like the soft sound of rustling leaves.

I was afraid to answer him. I knew that the Indians burned their dead, and I didn’t think I could stand it if he insisted that Daniel’s body should be burned. But, he was looking at me with that assessing look, and I was afraid to lie, so I told him, “No. His body is out in the shed. I’ve been waiting for the ground to soften so that I can bury him.”

Kitchi nodded and said, “Let me.” Then he left the cabin, and I followed him to the shed. He found the shovel and walked back along the field for quite a way, and stopped near an old maple tree. “This place?” he asked me.

“Yes. Thank you,” I said. And I was filled with wonder as he began to lift the earth with the shovel. Where had this Indian come from? Why was he helping me? I thought about the scriptures that spoke of angels, and I began to wonder if the blue-eyed Kitchi were one.

It took him a long time to dig a hole large enough for Daniel’s coffin. He hitched the horse to the wagon and brought the coffin out to the field. Then I prayed, and Kitchi buried my husband.

That night Kitchi slept in the shed. In the morning, he came into the cabin and made a delicious breakfast of corn-meal breaded fish. While we ate, I remarked shyly, “Your eyes are blue.“

He said, “My mother was white.”

I was filled with questions then, but I was afraid to ask them. Then Kitchi said, “It is time to ready the ground for planting. Let me.“

“That is kind of you, but unnecessary,“ I replied. “Now that I have my money I’m going back home to my people in Massachusetts.“

“How will you do this Little Owl? It is many rivers from here, and you have papoos.“

“I will find a guide and pay him,“ I said, lifting my chin defiantly. “I made the journey here, and I can make it back.” Even as I spoke the words, I wondered if they were true. Massachusetts was a thousand miles away, and not every guide was skilled or trustworthy.

Kithci looked me in the eye and said, “I do not have family. You do not have man. I will guide you. Let me”

The Curve of Time (also published at The Aeolian Harp)

2011-08-13T23:26:00.005-04:00

Lord Renfield was late for dinner again. By the time he arrived, the only unoccupied seat was the one to my right. “Good evening, Lady Agnes,” he addressed me as he sat down. “Have I missed the fish course?” he whispered.

No,” I whispered back.

He paused then and gazed at me warmly. “You look lovely tonight,” he said, and I felt the color rise in my cheeks at his compliment. He was the only man who had ever noticed me. I quickly looked away and began to study the china pattern.

I wasn’t quite sure what to make of Lord Renfield. He arrived at Braewood House a fortnight ago, as a guest of my uncle’s. I had never heard of him before then, yet he appeared to be very good friends with Uncle Frederick--strange, since he was at least a score of years younger. He said that he came from the west country, but possessed the oddest manners, behaving so familiar towards me that I felt shy and awkward around him. Four nights ago he taught me a new game with colored marbles that he called Chinese Checkers. While we were playing he told me that he liked my spectacles, and that I had beautiful eyes. I couldn’t tell if he was teasing, or if he meant it.

He turned to my aunt and uncle, and the small party of guests gathered at table, and offered his apologies for being late. “There was a problem with my carriage”, he explained, which led to a discussion among the men about carriage wheels and springs, and the wet summer we‘d been having. Everyone was sympathetic about his misfortune. I knew he was lying. He had no carriage in the carriage house; as far as I knew he had arrived at Braewood on horseback.

The fish course was served. Lord Renfield turned to me and asked if the weather had interfered with my field work. “S--s-some,” I stammered.

“From the condition of her hems, it hasn’t at all,” my cousin Eleanor offered haughtily. She was sitting directly across from him. “I saw Agnes in the front hall this afternoon with her skirts dripping mud.,“ she sneered.

Overhearing us, my Aunt Trudie exclaimed from the other end of the table, “Oh, for goodness sake, Agnes! Please tell me you haven’t ruined another gown tramping around after butterflies in the rain.“

My face went hot with embarrassment. What could I say in my defense? “The rain had stopped, Aunt Trudie, and I thought I saw Polyommatus semiargus from the window, They‘re very rare you know…” I finished weakly. A few of the women twittered to each other and cast me disdainful looks. Lady Julia, who was seated to my left patted my hand as if I were a child and said, “Don’t pay them any mind, dear, you go ahead and collect your bugs.“ I snatched my hand away. One of the men let out a low chuckle, until Uncle Frederick cleared his throat and began speaking on one of his favorite topics, time, commanding the attention of his end of the table.

Lord Renfield, however, regarded me with genuine interest. “Did you have any luck finding the butterfly?” he asked me quietly.

“No. Well, I might have been mistaken about seeing it. Some believe that it may be extinct.” I replied softly.

“Is that so?” Lord Renfield said with a thoughtful look.

“Yes.”

“Is finding this particular butterfly very important to your work?” he asked. His eyes were dark grey, and he smelled of bay rum and leather.

“Oh, my work isn’t important at all,” I explained, “At least not to anyone but me. But, I am hoping to feature the butterfly in my next embroidery if I can find one before the end of summer--that is, if there are any left to be found. I have consulted illustrations in books, but they all portray the butterfly slightly differently. I want to achieve an accurate representation.”

“You’re wrong about your work, you know,” Lord Renfield said. “It is important. Your uncle thinks so, and so do I. Your embroideries are exquisite. One day, I am quite certain that others will think so, too.” His eyes held mine for a moment, in that intimate way of his. “I’ve seen nothing that compares with them.“

“You must not have seen Lady Julia’s needlework then,“ cousin Eleanor cut in from across the table. “She does very fine work.”

“My lady,” Lord Renfield replied, “You would be surprised at the wonders I have seen,“

~*~

Later in the evening, the party had moved to the drawing room. Lady Julia sang for us accompanied by cousin Eleanor on the pianoforte. Lord Renfield missed the performance, having excused himself shortly after dessert was served. Afterwards, Aunt Trudie collected several of the women for a game of whist. Uncle Frederick was standing at the fireplace engaged in conversation with Captain Archer about his study on time. It was a subject of which my uncle was quite fond. “You see, Archer,” my uncle was saying, “time does not exist in itself, but is always relative to the person who holds the idea of it. It is both separate from and bound to space. Space, gives it shape, but it is the individual that gives it meaning. Oh, good, here he is now. Christopher, come and explain the concept to him as you did with me,”

Lord Renfield entered the room carrying a glass box with him. Before joining my uncle and Captain Archer, he walked over to where I was perched on the settee, and said quietly, “For you, my lady,” and handed it to me. When I looked inside, my pulse quickened, and pleasure spread clear to my toes. The box contained a glittering, living sapphire, a perfect Polyommatus semiargus specimen. I was stunned, and filled with questions. But, when I looked up to thank him, and to ask him how on earth he had found it--and in the dark no less!--, he had already turned his attention to my uncle and the captain.

“Imagine that time is a curve like this,” Lord Renfield drew a curve in the air in front of him. “Standing in the Present, on the highest point of the curve, you can look back and see the Past, or forward and see the Future, all in the same instant. Or, if you stand off to one side of this curve, your eye wanders from one to the other without any distinction.”(1)

“Do you grasp it, Captain?” my uncle enthused. “Now, imagine being able to travel anywhere you wanted to on the curve, or even being able to manipulate it!”

“Could such a thing be done?” Captain Archer asked skeptically.

I saw Lord Renfield exchange a warning glance with my uncle. “Possibly,” my uncle allowed.

“If such a thing could be done, the implications for the military would be enormous,” murmured Captain Archer with a faraway look in his eye.

Lord Renfield gave a tight smile, “The implications for progress and peace would be even greater. You must excuse me gentlemen.” As he turned away from Captain Archer and my uncle, I thought that I would now have a chance to speak to him and thank him for his astonishing gift, but instead he turned on his heel and strode from the room.

~*~

It was raining again the next day. Aunt Trudie and I had gone into the morning room where the light was best in the early part of the day. She was answering letters at her desk, and I was sitting by the window working on my embroidery when my Uncle Frederick and Lord Renfield came into the room. “Quite a dreary day, isn’t it?“ Uncle Frederick remarked. Then noticing me by the window he enquired, “Do you feel well, my dear? You haven‘t caught cold have you?”

Aunt Trudie answered for me, “Poor Agnes has been having trouble sleeping these last several nights. It seems that we have a ghost in Braewood House, Freddie.”

“A ghost! What nonsense is this?” Uncle Frederick exclaimed.

“There is no ghost, Aunt“, I admonished mildly, “only noises.”

“That is not what Brigid is saying,” Aunt Trudie fumed. “She insists that this very room is haunted, silly, superstitious girl! She refuses to come in here now, and it’s her duty to clean the Morning Room in the evening and lay the fire for the next day. Unfortunately, she’s a favorite of Mrs. Jones, who chooses to coddle rather than discipline her. Now she’s having Colleen do up the room, but she doesn’t do the job properly at all Just look at this dust, “ she finished in disgust, as she swiped a finger across the top of the writing desk.

“Noises you say?” Uncle Frederick shot a glance at Lord Renwick. “What kind of noises, Agnes?”

“Thuds, scraping sounds, a strange whirring like bird wings…and voices.”

Lord Renfield looked amused. “Were the voices male, female, or both?”

“The voices were low--I couldn‘t make anything out. I‘m not sure if they were male or female.”

“Where were the noises coming from?” Lord Renfield asked.

“This room, I think. It’s almost directly below mine. Although, why anyone should want to be in the morning room in the middle of the night, I couldn’t guess.”

“An assignation, perhaps?” Lord Renfield suggested with a wink. I blushed down to my toes.

He and my uncle began discussing a plan for my uncle’s new invention then, which they spread out on a table in front of them.

I still hadn’t had a chance to thank him for the gift he gave me. I felt rather self-conscious thanking him in front of my aunt and uncle, but I didn’t know when I would ever have a private moment with him, and it seemed wrong not to acknowledge it. “Lord Renfield, I didn’t have a chance last night to thank you for your gift. It’s very lovely…and so kind of you. But, may I ask where you found it?”

“In the garden,” he answered distractedly.

“Our garden?” I asked.

“Mmm, yes.”

“But when?”

“Yesterday, my lady.”

“Before dinner?”

Now, he looked up from the diagram he was studying and gave me an amused smile. “I actually found it early in the morning on my way out. I put it in the box and set it on the desk in my room.”

“I didn’t know you liked butterflies….” I murmured.

“Everyone likes butterflies,” he replied, and he turned his attention back to the drawing for my uncle‘s invention.

~*~

It rained for three more days before the sun finally shone warm and golden. In all of that time I had not seen Lord Renfield. My uncle told me that he had gone away for a few days, but would return by the end of the week. The noises in the night had ceased, and with them my sleeping difficulties. On this bright afternoon, I went out into the garden to look for butterflies, feeling happy and well rested. Despite all of the wet weather, it was June and the roses were magnificent. I walked for a long time and sketched several common specimens including Callophrys rubi and Pieris brassicae. I was chasing Gonepteryx rhamni when I heard his voice, “Lady Agnes.”

I turned to find Lord Renfield standing behind me. He looked surprised to see me there. He glanced around the garden, with his hands on his hips, then rubbed at his slightly stubbly jaw with a puzzled expression. “What day is it, Agnes?” I was quite taken aback by his use of my Christian name without my title. The day was very warm, and he was standing quite close to me. The fragrant roses mixed with the scents of bay rum and leather, made me feel a bit light-headed.

“It’s Tuesday, my Lord.” I breathed.

“What’s the date?”

“19th June.”

“And the year?”

“The year, my Lord?” my heart began to pound, and I feared that he was ill or injured in some way. “Why, it’s 1852--Lord Renfield, are you well, sir? Is it the heat?”

He stopped, and looked at me then, and his eyes held mine like an embrace. “No, Agnes, I’m well, but something is wrong. I must go and find your uncle.” Then he did the most unexpected thing. He took my hand, brought it to his lips and kissed it before turning to walk back to the house.

~*~

That evening Lord Renfield was absent from dinner. My uncle seemed subdued and preoccupied, and I was afraid that it had something to do with Lord Renfield’s absence and the strange way he had acted that afternoon.

When dinner was over and we retreated to the drawing room, I realized that I had left my embroidery in the morning room earlier in the day. I excused myself to go and retrieve it. As I made my way down the hall, I discovered that the south wing was already dark with evening shadow, so I stopped to light a candle before entering the room.

It’s funny how the familiar becomes strange in uncertain light. The room seemed unnaturally quiet, like a breath being held and the furniture took on grotesque, hulking shapes. I moved quickly to the window seat where I had left my embroidery. Just then, I heard a loud sound and a muffled groan. My skin pricked with fear as I recalled Brigid’s tales about ghosts in this room. I heard the sound of footsteps moving across the room, but I could see nothing. My single candle provided only a small, pale circle of light.

“Who’s there?” I called out. My voice sounded thin and shaky even to my own ears.

Suddenly, the wind gusted outside, and a draft blew out the flame of my candle, leaving me in complete darkness. I moved as quickly as I could towards the door, but as I made my way to it, it slammed shut. I think I screamed. I must have, for in an instant I heard a loud curse, the sound of booted footsteps, and the door burst open. He filled the room with his presence as he rushed to my side. “Agnes, Agnes, are you all right?” I felt Lord Renfield’s arms go around me, and I found myself clutching his coat. “Are you hurt?” his concerned voice rumbled against my ear.

“Oh! Lord Renfield! It’s you. No. I was frightened. I heard noises, and then my candle went out, and the door slammed shut. I feel so foolish, I’m sure it was just the wind,” I laughed shakily, but I was thankful for his strong arms around me.

“What are you doing in the south wing so late?” he asked me.

“I left my needlework here this morning, and came to get it.” I explained. “What are you doing here, sir? I mean, I thought you were out this evening.”

“I was,” he said. “I have just returned.” He touched my face then, lifting my chin so that I had no choice but to look into his eyes. “My name is Christopher,” he said gruffly. My heart began to beat fast, but not from fear. He lowered his head and placed a kiss gently on my cheek. “You really should have sent one of the servants after it,“ he said.

“Yes, well I would have, my Lor…Christopher,” I whispered, “except that all of the servants refuse to go into the morning room at night,”

“Perhaps there is good reason for that,” he whispered against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “Maybe it would be a good idea to stay out of the morning room at night.” I gladly accepted his offer to walk me back to the party.

~*~

Over the next fortnight, Christopher accompanied me on butterfly chases, picnicked with me in the garden, and spent evenings entertaining me by the fireside with Chinese Checkers and stories about his travels. He asked me many questions about my needlework and my interest in etymology and lepidoptery, and he said that my needlework was more than mere decoration. He called it art. I accused him of teasing me. He took my hand kissed it, and fiercely proclaimed, “Never.”

I was falling in love with him.

On Thursday evening, he did not show up for dinner. Uncle Frederick made the usual excuses for him. All that day, and the day prior, the two of them were locked away in the study working on my uncle’s invention. I missed him.

In the drawing room, Aunt Trudie summoned me to join her in a game of whist, “We need a fourth, dear.” I didn’t care for whist, but I hoped that it would prove to be a distraction from my thoughts. We were playing against Lady Julia and cousin Eleanor. Lady Julia led the first trick, and said, “Lady Townsend, I’ve received a letter from my mother today.”

“Have you?” replied Aunt Trudie, as she followed suit.

Lady Julia continued, “She has informed me that no one has ever heard of Lord Renfield, and he’s not listed in Burke’s.”

Aunt Trudie laid her cards down and looked at Lady Julia intently, “Is she certain?”

“Quite,” Lady Julia replied with a small smile.

My heart began to pound uncomfortably in my chest.

“Are you saying Lord Renfield is an imposter?” Aunt Trudie asked indignantly.

My cousin Eleanor looked positively gleeful as she played her next card, “Oh, that is a pity. I know you had hoped that he might offer for our dear Agnes soon. Well, marriage between the two of them is certainly out of the question now.”

I thought that I was going to be sick. I rose quietly and turned to my aunt, “Will you excuse me, please?”

Aunt Trudie gave a tight lipped nod. As I left the room, I overheard her say in an awful voice, “I will speak to Lord Townsend about having him put out of Braewood House immediately.”

~*~

Alone in my room I couldn’t stop the tears from coming. I couldn’t believe that Christopher was not who he said he was. Why would he lie to everyone? Had he lied to me, too? Then I remembered the lie he told about the carriage, and I knew that what Lady Julia said was true. Christopher had secrets. I needed to get some air. I stole from the house into the garden, and found myself running, running through the labyrinth until I was too exhausted to go on. I sat on a stone bench facing the house and watched the windows like I did when I was a child. Back then I used to think that windows were the house’s eyes. I remember playing a game in which I would look at a window from outside the house and imagine the room from which the house ‘saw” me. I found myself playing the game now, in the darkening gloom. In that window was the kitchen, where soft light brightened the glass. I could just make out cook sitting at the large wooden work table. I imagined her drinking tea from a stoneware mug with some of the servants. She would be laughing and spreading bread with jam. In that window was the drawing room…no, I wouldn’t linger there. I scanned the house, and saw a light where there shouldn’t have been one. That window would be the morning room, which should be empty at this hour, except….I quickly stood. That can’t be the morning room, I thought. There is no window on that wall. But, what other room could it be? I was baffled.
I found myself walking back into the house, down the corridor to the south wing, to the morning room door. It was closed, as it should be at this hour. I will admit that I hesitated to open it. It was fully dark, and I was afraid; I did not want to encounter a ghost. I opened the door, and quickly scanned the room: there was no candle, and the windows were on the south wall, just as they should be. I shut the door, and ran upstairs to my bedroom.

Once inside the safety of my room, I tried to puzzle out where the light I had seen had come from--and to which room the windows belonged. Tomorrow morning, before breakfast, I would rise early and find out.

I got into my bed then, and cried myself to sleep.

~*~

The next morning, I was up just before dawn. I dressed as best I could with no assistance, and brushed and plaited my hair. Then I quietly closed the door to my room and silently went down the stairs to the morning room.

The first pale rays of colored light were shining through the windows when I entered the room. I looked around; everything was as it should be. I had to hurry, for Colleen would be coming in to light the fire soon. I moved to the wall where the windows I had seen from the garden should have been. I found myself running my hands over the wall paper, and the chair molding. In the center of the wall, at the bottom of the molding, I felt a little metallic latch and pushed it with my finger. Suddenly, a door appeared in the wall where there hadn’t been one before! I let out a small cry and jumped back. Then, I summoned my courage and stepped through the door. I was in a small room. Directly in front of me were the windows I had seen the night before. There was a writing desk beneath one of them. I stepped toward the desk, and heard the door close behind me. I whirled around, but the door was gone entirely. In its place was a wall of bookcases. My heart beat fast, as I realized that I was locked in. I pounded on the wall and called out, but no one came. So, I went to one of the windows. I was two stories up, and there was no way to get down without risking serious injury.

It was then that I noticed what was sitting upon the writing desk. A strange object of a clear, lightweight substance that looked like glass, but wasn’t. One end was pointed and bright blue. I picked up this object to examine it, and the blue part came off in my hand, exposing a brass colored nib, not just like a pen, but somewhat similar. There was a piece of writing paper on the desk, so I rubbed the nib on it, and it left behind a thin blue line of ink! Next to the paper was a small round object made of metal, with crimped edges. One side of it was painted red and there were white letters that spelled C O K E. I had no idea what it was. I turned around then and saw that the room was full of strange objects made from materials I did not recognize. What was this room? What were these things? I went to the bookcases to try and find the door I had come through. I began pulling books off the shelf, feeling around the wood for a latch, when one of the books caught my eye. It was like nothing I had ever seen. On the cover was a picture of a building, but the colors and the image looked real. I was more afraid than I would be if I had seen a ghost.

I wanted out of the strange secret room. I frantically felt all around the bookshelf, but could not find a latch. In desperation, I went back to the desk and began looking through its drawers, for what, I’m not sure. What I found, I shall never be able to forget. A picture, like the one on the book jacket, of Christopher. He was smiling, and looking so handsome and real, that I tears sprang to my eyes. I touched his face on the picture, and turned it over. There was writing on the back. It read: Dr. Christopher Renfield, Oxford University 1912. The room began to spin then, and everything went black.

~*~

When I opened my eyes, I was still in the room, but I was no longer afraid. I sat down at the desk and wrote a note with the strange writing instrument:

Dear Christopher,

I am locked in your secret room.

~A

I found some sealing wax and matches, rolled the paper into a tight scroll, and sealed it closed. Then I went to one of the windows and opened it. I stood there watching for at least half an hour before I saw the stable boy Tommy. “Tommy!” I called as loudly as I could. “Tommy” The boy looked all around, until he finally saw me waving up in the second floor window.

“Lady Agnes? What is it miss?” he called up.

“I need you to find Lord Renfield and deliver this letter to him right away. Can you do that? He should be in the Breakfast Room now,” I instructed. “Do not show the letter to anyone else!“ Then I tossed the rolled paper out the window. It landed in front of the boy, who knelt to retrieve it. He saluted me and was off.

While I waited for Christopher to come and let me out of the room, I thought about what I might say to him. I finally decided to say nothing at all.

In minutes I heard booted footsteps fast approaching. Then, a door suddenly appeared in a different wall, and through it Christopher. He stopped just inside the threshold his eyes filled with concern. He stood there a moment, and then came across the room. “Agnes.” He said, as he took my hands. I turned away. “Please, let me explain. I know all of this, “ he gestured to the room, “must seem strange. Even frightening. You know the experiment your uncle has been working on? The experiment worked. But, your uncle, he didn’t….Agnes, I…” he ran his hand through his hair in consternation, then looked into my eyes. “I love you, you know.”

I felt myself begin to crumble, and tears spill from eyes. “Christopher,” I said in a small voice. “Who are you?”

“I want to show you something,” he said. He took my hand and led me to the bookcase, pulling a book from the shelf. He opened it to a bookmarked page. “See this? This is yours.” And, there on the page was the embroidery I was planning in my head for Polyommatus semiargus. The text read, The Mazarine Blue is one of Agnes Renfield’s most important pieces. Much of what we know about this extinct butterfly was gathered from her research and needlework design.

“I don’t understand,” I whispered.

“It’s your destiny, Agnes,” he said. “I’ve been trying to tell you that in time to come you will be an important artist.”

I was speechless.

He rubbed my hands and held my eyes with his, “In a few years your uncle will publish a book about his experiments with time. In that book there will be a plan for a machine he invented which allows people to travel back and forth from the present to the past and the future. Your uncle thought his invention didn’t work, but it did. In 1912, I built your uncle’s machine, albeit with a few adjustments. Then, I traveled along the curve of time to now, so I could meet him and congratulate him on his invention. These things,” he gestured around the room, “are artifacts that I brought with me from my time travels to show to him.”

I couldn’t speak.

“I have to go back, Agnes,” he whispered roughly. “I don’t belong here. There is so much work that I have left to do in my own time.” He lowered his head to mine and kissed me. “Come with me,” he said. And, I felt time stop.

The End

_________________________________
(1) Maurice Matterlinck used this illustration to explain a theory put forth by John William Dunne in his 1927 experiment: An Experiment with Time, which M. Wylie Blanchet describes in the beginning of her memoir titled, The Curve of Time, published in 1968.

Hagia Sophia

2011-07-28T12:56:00.003-04:00

"Holy Wisdom", by Meinrad Craighead.

Those owls, her familiars. She holds the labyrinth’s string, the red cord. our connection. And, of course, the moon.

Reblogged from: One Deep Drawer

The Bumpity Tree ~ A Memory

2011-07-03T21:56:00.002-04:00

We lived on a small, narrow street, well-shaded by old trees of various woods. Across the street from our plain brown house stood two tall catalpa trees. One of the tree's roots grew above the ground in a large gnarled mass. We called it The Bumpity Tree, and would often sit upon the roots and play.

On a breezy day in mid-spring, we children made a great game of trying to catch the trees' large white blossoms as they sailed down. We would dance and skip as the blossoms fell around us like bouquets at a wedding (which is what we called the game).

On days that it rained I noticed that the root mass formed puddles, like a system of miniature lakes. When the rain stopped, I would go out and play on The Bumpity Tree, building tiny dams from sticks and leaves. I gathered the smallest pebbles, and they became people: kings, queens, mothers, fathers, and children. I sailed them across the lakes in rafts made from hydrangea leaves, and in slender canoes made from the leaves off my neighbor's hedges. I built them tiny huts and cottages in the nooks and crannies among the roots. There was an entire kingdom of pebble people. My friend Annie joined me in the game, and my cousin Judy who lived across the street a few houses away. We three played with the pebble people on the Bumpity Tree for many seasons of our childhood.

The thing was, they were real. The people I mean. They never looked like the kings and queens that they were. They always looked just like pebbles, even while I played with them. But, I knew that they were people. It wasn't just pretend. Annie and Judy knew, too. They still know. Whenever I have the chance to see them today, they ask me, "Do you remember The Bumpity Tree?" Yes, I remember.

I realize that some people might not understand this, anymore than they understand that the body and blood of Christ can look like bread and wine. I cannot understand it either. It is a mystery. I'm just happy to have experienced it.

Luke 18:17 "Truly I tell you, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.”

Nevermore ~ Pt. III

2011-06-27T00:03:00.004-04:00

It had all changed. The bridge, the wood, the fields were all completely altered. It was like a new place. Arwen barely recognized anything from the day she had spent here in early spring. The leaves were just opening on the trees then, and the undergrowth was tender and new. Everything had been green and bright. Now the grass in the fields was hip-high, dry and brown, crackling in the breeze, and the trees in the wood were full, russet and gold, heavy with seed and shadow. She found the rowan tree she had sat under that day, and saw that it had lost a large branch since then, probably during some wild summer storm. Nothing was the same. She shouldn’t have been shocked, but she was. What had seemed like a good idea last night, now felt like a ridiculous waste of time. But, what else was there to do, other than go back to her flat? She was here now, and it was a fine, crisp day.

Arwen spent the day walking in the wood, collecting mushrooms and roots. She watched the chipmunks scamper through the undergrowth for beechnuts and acorns. She filled her lungs with the pleasant scent of dry leaves. She studied the sky, and a group of crows. When she sat under the rowan tree to eat her lunch of apples and walnuts, and drink her thermos of hot water, a butterfly landed on her knee. She held her breath as it stood there, opening and closing its wings: it saw her!

Afterward, Arwen stood on the bridge for a long time, and didn’t feel afraid, even when a riverboat passed by. She looked down at the dark water and felt light. Soon, the sun’s rays began to slant long and low. At four o’clock she pedaled back to the city. She decided to go back again tomorrow.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The next day there was a decided chill in the air. Arwen bundled up and wore extra socks. She brought a sketchbook this time, and spent a long time sketching the bridge, the trees, the sky. When she sat under the tree to eat the tomato and cheese she brought for lunch, she wished that the butterfly would come back, but it didn’t.

After lunch, she stood on the bridge again and watched the water. She wondered what would happen if she stood on the rail. Would she fall? Would anyone know? She thought about doing it; standing up on the rail.

A riverboat came then. It was the same one from yesterday. She saw a man on the deck, bent over some boxes. He turned his head, and Arwen instinctively lifted her hand.
She froze.

He smiled and waved back.

The boat moved fast and was almost under the bridge. Arwen was gripping the rail, and leaning forward, trying to see him.

“Hey, hey, there. Have a care; you’ll fall!” the man called.

The boat slipped under the bridge, and Arwen ran to the other side.

“Hey!” she called to the man. “Hey, can you see me?”

The man laughed,, “Yes, I can see you; you’re wearing a red coat, luv!”

Arwen laughed, too. She waved until her arm hurt, until the riverboat rounded the bend and was out of sight.

He waved.

~*~*~*~*~*

The next day Arwen made sure that she was standing on the bridge at one o’clock. It was a frigid day, but she waited, hoping with all of her heart that the riverboat would come again. That the man would be on it.

She heard it before she saw it, the chug of the motor, the quickening of the water. Her pulse leapt, and she felt warm down to her toes when he came into view. She smiled and waved to him.

He smiled and waved back, “Hey there! Aren’t you cold?”

“No!” she called back. “I’m not!”

She ran to the other side of the bridge and looked down as the boat slipped under. He was there, on the other side looking up. At her. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Arwen. Arwen Fields.”

“I’m George.”

The riverboat moved fast downstream.

~*~*~*~*~*

The day after that was Saturday. Arwen bundled herself up in her coat, packed her lunch and pedaled out of the city to the bridge. She felt so tired today. The long ride out to Petersgate was an effort for her. Her muscles ached. She hoped she would get to see George.

At one o’clock she stood on the bridge shivering. She waited. But, the boat never came.

She was retrieving her bicycle to ride home, when she heard a car coming down the road. She looked up, and saw it pull over to the shoulder. A man got out.

It was George!

“Hello Arwen,” he said smiling. He had brown eyes that crinkled at the corners. “I was hoping you would be here this afternoon.” He was taller than he looked on the boat. He wore jeans and a navy peacoat. The wind ruffled his short dark hair. “Today’s my day off,” he said, by way of explanation. He noticed her bicycle. “Oh, were you leaving?” he looked disappointed.

“I, …No,” Arwen said, smiling.

“That’s good..” he said, smiling back. He shoved his hands in his pocket and looked around at the woods and fields. “Do you live near here?” George asked.

“No. I live in the city. In Paternoster Square,” she told him. Arwen looked down at her boots.

“That’s a long way to come on a bicycle.” he noted. “What do you do way out here by yourself?”

“I like to watch birds.”

Their eyes met, and he smiled, “I like to watch birds, too.”

They spent the rest of the day together, talking on the bridge. George had brought a blanket, which they spread over the mossy stones, and a basket filled with fruit, cheese, and bread, along with a couple bottles of ale. They sat and talked about his job making deliveries on the river, and about her studies. They discussed the music they liked, and the concerts they had been to see. They talked about books and movies and all the places they had visited, and all the placed they would like to visit. They ate and talked and laughed until the crows flew into the rowan tree.

When the sky turned pink and gold with the setting sun, they folded up the blanket and walked back up to the road. Before he left, George took her hand and asked, “Can I see you again, Arwen?”

Her answer was yes.

*~*~*~*~*~*~

Alone in her flat, Arwen awoke that night burning with fever. The next day, her body ached so badly that she couldn’t get out of bed. She lay there helplessly, thinking about George. What would he think when she didn’t show up at the bridge? She shivered and ached and slept for three days.

On the third day, she felt well enough to eat a little. She showered and got dressed. She wondered if she had the strength to pedal to the bridge. She was thinking about putting on her coat when she was startled by a sound that she’d never heard before. It was the bell to her flat. Arwen didn’t know what to do. Should she answer it? It sounded again. She went to the door, and put her hand on it. A voice called through the door.

“Hello? Arwen? Arwen Fields?”

George?

Arwen fumbled with the locks and threw open the door.

“Arwen! Hello. Are you alright? I’ve been worried about you...You looked so pale the other day, and then when you didn’t show up…” he had flowers in his hand. “May I come in?”

“Oh, yes, yes. Please, come in. Yes, I have been ill. I came down with it that night after I got home,” she explained. “I had no way of letting you know.”

He handed her the flowers. “These are for you,” he said smiling.

They were roses. “Thank you,” Arwen smiled shyly. And then, “How did you find me?”

He laughed, “You told me you lived in Paternoster Square. I just asked for the girl with the red coat.”

THE END

Nevermore ~ Pt. II

2011-06-25T23:29:00.007-04:00

She watched the black square lighten, saw colors and shapes rise to the surface, like corpses in deep water, take on color, definition. She began to laugh, quietly at first, as was her nature, and then wildly, in great cackling whoops, until she was lying boneless upon the floor, crying, dissolved. Photographic evidence. She slept for a long time after that, overtaken by exhaustion and hunger. She wasn’t a ghost.

Arwen awoke hollow and dizzy; she needed to eat. Putting on her coat, she went out into the busy street. She walked past shop windows and restaurants, gazing longingly inside: people sitting together, sharing food, conversation, candlelight, the musical tinkling of silver and crystal. She felt faint. Rounding a corner she saw an alleyway behind a café; saw a person alone rummaging through a full and stinking dumpster. A sob rose in her throat; she turned away, wretching.

She passed the cathedral and thought about going inside, of curling up on a pew, and waiting for Mass so she could eat a communion wafer. But, it wouldn't be enough. She was so hungry now.

It was dark when she came to a sidewalk bistro. She could hear live jazz music playing inside. There were tiny white fairy lights twinkling around the poles of the canopy, and paper lanterns hung from the white canvas. Underneath, a couple had just finished their meal and were leaving. The man placed his hand on the woman’s back as they went inside; and she looked up at him and smiled. The woman had hardly touched her meal. There was still tea left in her cup. Arwen’s mouth watered painfully, and stars danced and spun before her eyes. It would be so easy to reach over the rail, to drink the tea, to take the leftover bread, the fish. It wouldn’t be stealing. Not really. The food was already paid for, and would just go into the dumpster out back. She had been nearly three days without food--she had to do it, didn’t she?

It was easier after that.

Arwen continued to go to class. She submitted her papers, and sat for exams. She rode her bicycle and walked everywhere. The lease on her flat was paid until the end of the year, courtesy of her father, and no one expected her home until Christmas. She was a rabbit in a garden, a wild creature nibbling at the edges, unseen.

At first she was depressed by her predicament. Then she became angry. One night she walked into a jewelry store and took a necklace from the case. Because she could. Because it was so easy. But, later that night she went to the cathedral and wept bitterly. After awhile, an old woman shuffled in and knelt beside her in the pew. Arwen watched the woman work delicate beads with gnarled hands, thin, dry lips moving wordlessly, eyes fixed upon the altar. She took the necklace out of her coat and laid it on the pew next to the old woman. The diamonds glinted.. Then, Arwen rose to her feet, lit a votive candle, and walked back to her flat.

Two days later she read about it in the newspaper: Stolen Jewels Found in Church. The old woman had turned the necklace over to the police. She hadn't seen anyone in the church, she told them.

~*~*~*~*~*~

By autumn the loneliness was a sharp thorn, festering. Arwen had lost weight. She was pale and listless. She stopped going to class. Lying in bed, she tried to think when it had all started. She remembered the day in class--April 23rd. She struggled to recall the days and weeks leading up to that date: her birthday, going to the circus, visiting the museum, a concert, studying at the library, attending classes. Everything hopelessly ordinary in her mind. All of it the same. She had always been alone, she realized, even then. Except, before, she had told herself that she didn’t mind; that she liked being alone. Now, just thinking it made her cry, because it was a lie, a miserable lie.

Rivulets ran across her cheeks, dripping into her ears, which brought to mind a rainy day a few weeks before her birthday. How had she forgotten it? She had gone to collect plants for her botany project, in a place outside the city called Petersgate Bridge. There were fields there and a wood. She had found several rare specimens that day, and ate her sandwich under a Rowan tree. Afterward, she had stood on the old mossy bridge, looking down into the dark flowing water. And, it had frightened her, standing on that bridge. She had suddenly become aware of how isolated she was there, how she could be hurt, and no one would hear. It felt like a million eyes were watching her.

She sat up, and wiped her eyes. It had to have happened then.

Tomorrow, she would go back to the bridge.

Nevermore ~ Pt. I

2011-06-24T22:20:00.001-04:00

She began to suspect it in earnest while sitting in class on April 23rd. She remembered the date because it was three days after her birthday; the violets her father had sent her were already dark and drooping disappointments, and there was no tea in the tin at breakfast that morning. The hall was full; there were perhaps two hundred students. But still, she clearly and loudly said, “Present,” when her name was called. She also raised her hand and waved, a little frantically. “Mark Arwen Fields absent,” the professor intoned. She watched, helplessly, the proctor note it.

There were other times, too. Standing in line at the deli, holding a paper number in her fingers.
“32!”
“Yes, I would like…”
“32!”
“Yes, yes, that’s me. I would…”
“Right, then. 33!”

At the circus, seated in front of the tiniest child, listening to the little girl exclaim, “Look at the Tiger, Daddy! He‘s bigger than the man!” The child didn’t miss a thing. She saw everything, even when Arwen slowly rose to her feet, and stood.

The bus doors closing in her face. The suffocating cloud of exhaust as it pulled away from the curb, while she shouted, “No, wait, please, I’ll be late!”

But, hadn’t that always happened to her, even before the day at the bridge? The seventh child in a family with eight others, she was used to being overlooked. In fact, she was a naturally quiet person, with quiet features, and quiet hair. She was not obvious. She disappeared in crowds.

But, this was different. She was hungry.

She never kept much in her small flat. A bit of milk, butter and bread, some biscuits, and of course, tea. She had eaten the last biscuit two days ago with the end of the milk. Since then, she had spent a lot of time standing in lines for nothing. At the supermarket, the cashier looked around, annoyed, and muttered something under her breath. She then called for a clerk, who cleared away all of Arwen’s groceries from the belt. At Maisie’s Café, she sat at a table for forty-five minutes waiting for a waiter. Finally, she left. It was the same everywhere she went. No one saw her.

Tonight, she was sitting cross-legged on her bedroom floor in front of the mirror. She had taken her mother’s old Polaroid from the shoebox in her closet, and set it in front of her on the bed. She had to know if she was…dead. Well, that was an explanation, wasn’t it? She remembered reading somewhere that ghosts could not be photographed, so…
She leaned forward with a meterstick in hand, and pressed the button with it. She remembered to smile. The camera clicked and bzzzzd, pushing out a rectangle of shiny white paper with a magic black square. How she had loved this trick when she was a little girl! But, now Arwen held her breath as she watched the picture slowly develop.

A Thousand Worlds

2011-06-23T17:09:00.003-04:00

The day is rain soaked gray, yet verdant, almost tropical. My windows are open. I am lulled by the sibilant sound the rain makes; it whispers: shhhhhhhhhh. A squirrel mother is at the bird feeder. I can see from her soft body that she has young to feed back in her leafy nest. She herself is hungry now.

This afternoon I have been reading the poetry of Rabindranath Tagore. This line from, The Hero, has taken me captive:

Mother, let us imagine we are traveliing,
and passing through a strange and dangerous country.

A thousand worlds live in those lines.

Why is it that most grown-up people equate "game" and "play" with "sport"? They are not the same.

A game my girls and I always play is, “Would you rather be a fairy or a mermaid?” They always want to be mermaids, and I a fairy. We go to great lengths describing our other selves: where we live, how we look, what we do. There is no sport in it at all. Play takes you somewhere.

Image found on 'we heart it' via http://feathersinblack.blogg.se/

Shadow Man

2011-06-22T19:22:00.002-04:00

The first time I saw the shadow man I was seven years old. It was the middle of the night, and the whole house was asleep. I slept alone in my own room, on account of being the only girl in a family of boys. My room was small, not much bigger than a closet. My father had converted it from a bathroom to make room for me, and my mother had decorated it with violet covered wall paper. There was only room in it for my bed and a dresser, which is where my dolls sat and stared with unblinking eyes. At that time, my family did not keep furry creatures of any kind, because one of my brothers was severely asthmatic. We had no dog or cat (I would not be without one now, as they have the ability to discern evil intent), and because of this, I was often visited. as a child.

There was thunder that night, and it woke me. I lay there for a minute listening to the wind and the rain, before I opened my eyes. When I did, there was a man standing next to the side of my bed looking down at me, he was all in black. and wore a cape and top hat. He had no discernible features, being completely caliginous, composed of darkness. I sensed evil intent, and I was afraid. He stood watching. I lay waiting. I shut my eyes and prayed fervently, opened them, and he was still there. I closed my eyes again, and screamed for my mother. He left. She came. That was the first time.

There have been many other times since then, and not always at night. Once I saw him standing on the roof of the building behind my house in the middle of the afternoon. Another time I saw him standing under a tree in the rain across the street. I am not the only one. My brother has seen him, and my nephew (he saw him for the first time last summer), and one of my sons. In fact, so many people have seen him that it appears to be a worldwide phenomenon (look up shadow man top hat on the internet and see what you find). Everyone describes him the same way, as tall, thin, shadowy, dressed in black, wearing a cape or trench coat, and a brimmed hat. He is called "the shadow man" or "the hat man" by all who have seen him. And, I wonder if he is not one spectre, but one of many.

He doesn't come to play or to cry like other ghosts. There is no mirth or sadness in him. The shadow man comes watching. What is he looking for? Why does he watch me?

Seeing

2011-06-17T18:09:00.002-04:00

Everything was different: the color of the hills, the sunlight, the way the people spoke; and it felt like a conspiracy against me. I suppose I knew that it was coming to this my whole life. I never belonged there. I was born too late, the only girl in a family of sons, a whisper among shouts, drawn to spirits and saints in a family who protested such things as nonsense, a wood sprite raised in grassy fields--and me, so terrified of open spaces! It was inevitable that the Fates would lead me here to the rocky woods by the sea, to live among dragons.

So, today I let the wild wind dry the tears on my cheeks as I chased a bird deep into the cool, green wood. The bird sang like a robin with a sore throat; I knew it was a scarlet tanager. My little boy and I held hands and helped each other over ancient stone fences, and scurried through the tall ferns, two forest creatures, until we found it, red as heart's blood, singing high up in a beech tree. It was worth the scratches and scrapes we received along the way. It was a pot of gold.

The woods are a rainbow and a symphony. They are a crowded city of life. We saw chipmunks and yellow warblers, orioles, goldfinches, and blue jays. I've walked through these woods with other people by my side, and they see and hear nothing; they are immune to the magic. You can point and try to show them, but they just become confused and say, "Where?" You have to look and listen with more than your eyes and ears to see the woodfolk. You have to open yourself and let them in. And, you have to want to see.

"A Change Came O'er The Spirit of My Dream"

2011-06-17T11:27:00.000-04:00

When I was a little girl I learnt that the fairies dance whether you are there to see them or not. It was a hard lesson. You miss a lot when you are away. The whole forest changes.

The Fairy Ring, by Arwens Grace

Over The Hills and Far Away

2011-06-11T12:25:00.001-04:00

Tomorrow we will follow the west wind to the land of my people, back to the long lakes and the rolling green drumlins that I love. We are going to see my parents, who are getting on in years. I want to make this journey more often now--once a month I hope--, and spend as much time with them as I can. My children need to hear their stories, and taste their grandmother's baking.

Today is busy with preparations: washing, and packing, errands to run, and bills to write before I go. The children and I will leave early in the morning, but the dragon slayer will not come with us. Oh, yes, he has dragons to fight while we are away, but he also has my chickens to feed, the gardens to water, the pool to maintain, and all of our children's little creatures to tend: parakeets, tortoise, kittens, dog, and fish. He has told me to hurry back :-). By St. Christopher's protection, I will.

Why I Tend Roses ~ A Memory

2011-06-11T08:30:00.039-04:00

I cried all that summer. The dragon slayer would come home at night and find me outside, my hands full of pearls, counting prayers beside the statue of Our Lady. He is a man of few words, and my words had left me. What was there to say?

Lying together in the dark, night after night, he held me tightly until gray empty sleep covered me like fog. I was as lost as the baby that had bled out of me.

One night he returned from hunting dragons with a warm smile on his face and roses in his hands. But, the next day the roses were dead, like our baby. I turned away and cried. Why?

It was a Sunday when the dragon slayer took a spade from the shed and broke the ground. I watched him while the children swam and played in the sun, his muscles flexing as he lifted the heavy soil. It was easy work for him. He is strong; so much stronger than I. As I sat watching him, I thought of the dragons he hunts; I was glad that I am not one of them.

After a while, he laid the spade down. And, he left.

I sat and watched the children play. He was gone a long time. We had supper and went inside.

It was evening when he came back. But, he didn't come into the house.

It was almost dark when he found me.

The dragon slayer took me by the hand, and brought me out to show me what he had done. There were roses and roses and roses and roses. Four bushes of them. In their center was Our Lady. He sought my eyes, "These roses will not die," he said.

I touched his cheek and smiled.

"Gatekeeper" by Sheila Wolk

Song of the Sea ~ Part III

2011-06-10T08:00:00.024-04:00

They came from the east; three men bearing important news for the Lord of the Lakes. Surely, the news was good, for now there was to be a fete at the great hall. The entire village was in a merry mood, as it was customary that all would be invited to attend. The women baked pies and trimmed their best dresses with ribbon and lace, and the men sharpened their axes and tightened their bowstrings to make ready for the contests that would be held during the party. The fete was the talk of the village. But, all of the excitement made the fisherman uneasy. He told his wife that nothing good could come out of the east, but she was insistent that they should attend.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

Rinnah was out picking berries by the lakeshore to make into pies, when she saw the strangest thing: a large bird, like a winged sunset, sitting on a perch of driftwood talking. "Hello," it said, clear as day. She had never beheld such magic. Behind her a man spoke, "I see you have met my friend." That is how she met him.

He was a man of many wonders.

On the first evening of the fete, he found Rinnah looking out at the lake. "Have you ever seen the sea?" he asked. He took a shell from his pocket and held it to her ear, "Listen."

And, she heard. There was a storm swirling inside the shell, all the singing voices, calling, calling. Her heart filled. "Are you a magician?" she asked.

He laughed, and the sound made the blood rush to her cheeks. "No, I am a sea captain."

On the second evening of the fete he found her in the garden admiring the way the roses held the moonlight. He opened her hand and pressed a pearl into it. "This is how moonlight looks upon the sea."

On the third night of the fete he asked her to dance with him beneath the stars. "Are their as many stars in the sky above the sea?" she asked him.

"Darling, there are stars in the sea," and he reached into his shirt and pulled a necklace of stars from around his neck, and placed it around hers.

When the fete was over, it was soon time for the captain to return to the sea. The fisherman dreaded the knock on his cottage door when it came. For here was the captain come to ask for his daughter's hand. The fisherman and his wife were sorely aggrieved. They could not let him take her back to the sea. "Build your house here in the hills," the fisherman offered, "then our blessing will be upon you."

The captain was stunned, "But, sir, my livelihood is the sea, I am a rich man because of it. I know not the ways of the land, and could not support your daughter here. Would you have your grandchildren be poor?" And, he left the cottage with a heavy heart.

But, that night, the sky flashed brilliant from a rare eastern storm, and her parents could not stop Rinnah from running out to dance in it. He found her like that, dancing in the rain with her hair unbound. By morning they were gone.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

He first noticed the change in his bride when he felt the breeze turn. All the way east it blew dry from the land, and now it blew wet from the sea. Rinnah no longer would ride in the carriage, but insisted on running through the tall grass, all the while laughing and shouting, "Captain, my Captain, O, listen!" The closer they came to land's end, and his home, the more unsettled Rinnah became. Her eyes, once so light, turned dark as if some storm brewed within them. And she sang all night. In his heart, he began to wonder why the fisherman had left the sea. It seemed to him a strange thing for a seaman to do. Would he leave it unless he had to?

By the time they reached his home, night had descended like a raven. The sky was clouded, and there was no light. There was nothing at all to see. But, he had to cajole Rinnah to come inside, to prevent her from stumbling toward the rocks and the sound of the surf.

In the morning, he awoke to find her gone. She was on the beach, her skirts wet with seafoam, her eyes lost in eternity. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" He said. He'd wanted to be with her when she saw it for the first time. She didn't care if he was there or not.

As the days passed she was never indoors. She sat upon the rocks singing, laughing, crying, with the gulls circling around her. He had to find her and beg her to come inside, "Your skin will burn,” he said. She often forgot to eat.

At night, he would fight sleep for fear that she would slip out of the house and walk into the sea. It had already happened twice. He woke in the darkness to hear her singing in the distance. When he found her on the beach, her nightrail soaked and heavy around her legs, the waves pulling her out towards the deep, he knew fear, "Darling, you'll drown yourself out here alone in the dark." And, when her songs became his dreams, and he saw her swimming away like a fish, he began to fear why the fisherman had left the sea, and what she might be.

He did what any good husband would do. He protected her the only way he knew how. He sent for the witch. The captain paid her dearly, and did just what she told him to do. He built a magnificent garden, with great high walls. There were roses, peonies, and lilies. And, in the center was a cottage. He put the potion in Rinnah’s wine at dinner, and carried her out to the garden. He placed his sleeping bride upon the bed in the cottage, and went outside the walls while the witch performed her magic. When she was done, he went inside.

The next day Rinnah awoke to silence. There was no more singing sea. No more calling breeze. She rubbed at her ears, and in a frightened voice, called for the captain. “Where have they gone? Why can’t I hear them anymore?” He showed her the roses, the peonies, and fountains; all of the delights of the garden, but she wouldn’t have them. She wanted only the sea.

Weeks passed, and he watched Rinnah fade before his eyes like the roses. He realized his mistake, and sent for the witch. “Reverse the spell,” the captain commanded. But, the witch just cackled, for her spell could not be broken, not even by herself.

The captain cursed himself, and tore at his hair. He had the witch carve stones at the entrance of the garden to warn others not to enter. Then, with his back to the sea, he went into the garden of his beloved.

Whosover
enters here
let him
Beware

For he shall
nevermore
escape nor
be free of my spell

The End

Song of the Sea ~ Part II

2011-06-09T10:49:00.000-04:00

He would never forget the look on his wife's face when he walked through the cottage door that night, or how the joy light came back into her eyes when she took the babe from his arms. They named her Rinnah. All that night they stayed awake making plans. They would leave immediately, before the sun rose over the western hills. For, that is where they would go--to the west, back to his wife's people, who were of the hills and the long lakes. He would fish there, although the lakes would never provide enough for a living. He would have to join the wood-cutters, too. These thoughts were a shadow upon his heart, for he had never lived away from the sea. But, he would do it. For her. It had been too long since he had seen her smile.

He packed their belongings quickly, not daring to stop and think. His wife fussed over the baby, and put together a bundle of things the child would need. While it was still fully dark, he hitched the billy goat to the cart, and tied the nanny behind, as they would need her milk to feed the baby. His wife wrapped the infant in a shawl, and tied her to her chest. Then they set-off for the dark hills in the west, away from the dawning light and the sibilant sea.

Years later, that night seemed like a dream gone hazy around the edges. Was it his daughter Rinnah that he had brought from the sea that night? Or had he returned the sea-maid, and received Rinnah as a gift from the sea sirens? He just didn't know. It became less and less clear to him how she had come to them. Besides, it hardly seemed to matter here in the far western hills anyway.

Rinnah was a good girl, helpful, bonny, and kind. She could spin fast, and knit faster. She was skilled at repairing her father's nets, and at helping her mother at the hearth. She picked berries all summer long, which she preserved and baked into pies. She carried baskets to the sick and the poor. And, she had the sweetest singing voice in their village, as her name implied. She was loving, and she was beloved.

All was well in the fisherman's family, until the west wind blew wild before a storm. The first time it happened was when Rinnah was five years old. She was in the garden gathering blossoms for the table, when the wind began to blow cold through her hair, and her mother called from the door for her to come inside. As the rain began to fall needle sharp against Rinnah's skin, she heard voices in the wind calling, calling. She stayed where she was, listening hard, straining to hear above the rain and the thunder. Lightning flashed and cracked loud, and somewhere a tree fell. Her mother came running, screaming for her to come, yet, Rinnah did not move. She wanted to stay and listen. She could not leave while they called.

Afterward, her mother explained it away by saying that the storm had so frightened young Rinnah, that the little girl couldn't move. But, it wasn't true, as they soon discovered when other storms blew in from the east. As she grew, her parents were horrified to discover her in the garden on stormy nights, soaked through, laughing and dancing with her arms flung wide, while the wind whipped her wet skirts round her legs, and she lifted her face to the wild sky. "Can you hear them singing?" she would ask, or, she would lick her lovely lips, and whisper, "The wind tastes of salt!"

When the rain stopped, she returned to herself. And, since storms seldom came out of the east, all would soon be forgotten. But, the fisherman was troubled. Deep in his heart, in that dark place of between forgetting and knowing, he worried that her storms were a bad omen. They stirred within him old memories of the sea, which he now struggled to recall; grass covered dunes, salt-damp air, the cries of gulls, and the dark water rushing in, pulling him away. His memories were murky shadows, far over the hills, in another time. Why, he could scarcely remember the sea. Surely it could not reach her here.

So, it was a surprise when one day a storm appeared out of the east, with a gleam in its eye, dressed in leather boots, a bird sitting upon its shoulder. The fisherman hadn't expected this at all.

Song of the Sea ~ Part I

2011-06-08T08:28:00.004-04:00

There had been no fish in his nets for three days. He had just finished readying his hooks and lines for morning, and was mooring his boat, when their voices rang out across the water raising the hairs on the back of his neck. The first stars were just coming out as the sun slid below the horizon. He tied off the knots fast, and hurried to shore, his boots sloshing in the tide. Three nights. They’d been singing for three nights.

He had heard them before, when he stayed late on the water fishing for striped bass, but it was only a fleeting note or two, leaving him to wonder if he’d imagined their singing. There was no doubting it now. Their voices rose plaintively above the sound of the surf, like gulls far out to sea who have lost the land. It was surely a bad omen, and he bowed his head to the wind, and pulled his oilskins more snugly round him, as he made his way with haste across the dunes, to the cottage he shared with his sad, lonely wife. Nine long years, and still he had given her no babes. She had nothing but her spinning wheel and his old dog to occupy the long days while he was at sea. He wanted to give her so much more. Daughters to help her with the baking and sewing; sons to help her with the garden and wood pile; a house full of happiness and laughter, to drown out the roar of the wind and the sea. Instead, he had given her a hard, lonely life, far away from her land-loving people.

If the moon had not been full and bright he would have missed it. As it was, he nearly stepped upon the slime-coated thing writhing in the tall beach grass. He took a step back and crossed himself before he swung his lantern to shine upon it. He had seen many things come out of the sea, but never this. It was a child. An infant maid from the sea, her shining scales fading before his eyes. He knew then why the sirens keened and sang their dirges these last three nights. He would pick the thing up, he decided, and deposit it back in the water. The sirens would be grateful, their singing would stop, and the fish would fill his nets once more.

He lifted the infant maid carefully with his sea roughened hands, not expecting her to feel warm like him. So tiny and delicate, she was, with a soft halo of pale fuzz covering her head. This was what sailors feared, a true monster from the deep. He should feel disgust. But, he didn’t. She somehow seemed more human with every step he took towards the pounding surf.

When he reached the wet apron of the sea, and the foam licked his boots, he stooped to release her into the dark waters. But, when he looked down at the small form in his arms, what he saw was only a helpless babe, with a tiny rosebud mouth and round, trusting eyes. His heart beat fast as she gazed up into his eyes. He felt a sudden, unexpected rush of protectiveness, and by Our Lady, he could not cast the babe down into the angry black water. Bewildered, yet determined, the fisherman turned his back to the sea, and strode purposefully toward his cottage with the baby cradled tenderly in his arms, nevermore to return.

Garden of Enchantment

2011-06-07T08:35:00.027-04:00

Today I went back to the enchanted garden by the sea. I woke early and packed a picnic basket with apples and sandwiches, and waited for my children to tumble out of bed. It was a sunny day. We arrived at the garden just as the tide was turning. We visited the shore first, and climbed among the rocks and bent low to study the small things in the tidal pools: hermit, sand, and tiger crabs; tiny striped fish; and tinier shrimp--a whole aquatic world in miniature. My little boy and I held hands and helped each other over the rocks. We worked together to fill our pail with shells with fanciful names: moon, periwinkle, slipper, bubble, and Neptune.

After awhile, we dried our feet, and I discovered that I had cut my heel on some sharp rock. (It is sore tonight.) We had our picnic in the green grass on top of the sea wall, and then entered the garden.

Although it sits on the edge of the sea, it is almost unnaturally quiet within its walls. The roses and peonies are in bloom, along with one late lilac tree. We wandered along the brick paths and climbed the steps to the long colonnade, imagining another time, when there, off in the bay, a three-masted ship appeared large in the distance. "A pirate ship!" exclaimed my little boy, for, indeed, that is what it looked like. We smelled the flowers and watched a bird build its nest. We found a tiny bottle of soap bubbles at the foot of a stone bench, left-over from a weekend wedding, and had great fun blowing clouds of bubbles with its tiny fairy wand. Then, we pet the lions and left the garden's walls, hoping to get a better look at the ship and take a picture of it.

But, when we looked out at the bay the ship was gone. We scanned the horizon for as far as we could see, but it was as if the ship had vanished...or had never been.

Seeing Ghosts

2011-06-06T08:09:00.018-04:00

All young children believe in ghosts (and monsters, witches, and fairies). Disbelief is a spell, a curse inherited from their parents, who also had the spell put on them while they were very young. One night, when a child calls out for her mummy or dad to come and chase the ghost away, she hears, "There is no such thing." At that moment, the spell is cast, and Doubt silently creeps in to inhabit the child. The child never doubts the ghost, mind you, but rather it is herself that she comes to doubt. The child doubts her own ability to discern. In a short time, the ability diminishes until she can no longer see Other things. (This has far-reaching implications, for what is God but a Spirit?; The Holy Ghost.)

That is how it happens. When it happens.

If it happens.

For, when some children call for their parents in the middle of the night, and hear, "Darling, you just have an overactive imagination." The child's own strong, sensitive, curious heart beats fast and she has the courage to speak aloud, "No, Mummy, what I have is a ghost in my room!" (or an angel, witch, or demon). Then, her words effectively break the spell.

As long as she believes in herself, she will see what there is to see.

A Memory

2011-06-05T15:58:00.004-04:00

When I was young and the dragon slayer took me from my country to live with him here, I had to learn the folkways of the people, and how they spoke. It was hard for me, as I wasn't very good at it. The people could tell that I was not from this place, and they gave me strange looks when I smiled, and did not welcome me. I found myself spending more and more time with the trees, birds and butterflies, and with the fairy folk who are the same here and there. The dragon slayer could see that I was lonely, so he brought me little gifts of flowers and chocolate when he returned home from his fighting. And, at night, he would build a blazing fire to warm me.

By that time we had two infant sons. I spent those days reading story books, building blanket forts and pirate ships from chairs, and kneading bread dough, cutting vegetables for soup, and cooking porridge. It was a quiet time, for I didn't know anyone. But, I was happy, especially after the dragon slayer showed me the way to the sea.

My little boys and I would pack a picnic basket in the morning, and come home with it in the afternoon filled with shells. We counted and sorted them on the stone floor of the patio. The ones with holes in them became necklaces, which we would wear into town when we went to the library and the farmer's market, and to post our letters.

The country I come from has many long lakes and green rolling drumlins. Before the dragon slayer brought me here, I had never seen the Sea. It is beautiful--but, dangerous. Mostly, because of the many dragons. I think that is why the people here are so reserved. They are used to the their lies, and of having to hide.

This Scared Me

2011-06-05T08:00:00.018-04:00

Can you read the stone tablets on each side of the entrance?

Whosover
enters here
let him
Beware

For he shall
nevermore
escape nor
be free of my spell

And, yet I could not resist entering this great walled garden.

I know now that I have fallen under a powerful spell, indeed, for I must return again to this magical place: to smell the roses, and skip along the pathways, and watch the ships, and pet the lions. Perhaps, Tuesday.

Summer Home

2011-06-04T13:31:00.001-04:00

When the weather is fine we build tents and live out in the garden. We furnish them with pillows, blankets, and books, and while away the afternoons in the comfort of these shady bowers. In the evenings we listen to the insects sing and gaze wonderingly at the stars before we go to sleep, and watch for fairy lights flashing in the trees.

The best time to do this is during the full Blessing Moon. There are certain to be fairies then, scattering wishes about.

Transformation

2011-06-04T10:16:00.002-04:00

Have you ever been to a caterpillar's funeral? I have. It is one of the happiest events in the garden. Etiquette requires that you wear flowers in your hair, even if you are a boy. We brought acorn cap bowls of dandelion salad to share, dressed with violets and strawberry juice, and also a bottle of honeysuckle brandy to make the party merrier.

A caterpillar takes a long time to entomb. The tomb, of course, is unique to the kind of caterpillar. Some are like dried up leaves (Mourning Cloaks), and some are like cotton-wool (many of the moths), and some are mermaid green, stitched together with sparkling gold (Monarchs). The caterpillar builds it himself. It is a fascinating process to witness, for as the caterpillar dies, he becomes his own grave.

There is dancing, and singing of joy songs, and stories are told about the caterpillar's life. There are many reverent whispers about the Mystery of death, the doorway to Life; and of ghosts, those sad and sometimes angry souls caught between here and now, whose dying act was somehow interrupted.

Did I tell you that I wore yellow? I did. My yellow gauze sundress with the white cotton lace trim. I wore buttercups and pea blossoms in my hair. But my feet were bare, as butterflies, birds, and fairies most of all, disdain shoes of any kind.

And, now I have a Butterfly Christening to look forward to, in just two weeks! I'm thinking of making butter cakes with rose petal frosting to bring to the occasion.

Clocks

2011-06-03T10:56:00.002-04:00

The dragon slayer keeps a clock on his beside table. He needs it because he must be up before the dawn breaks to ready his gear, read the news, and fortify himself with coffee enough to survive the challenges ahead of him.

I have never kept a clock. But during the winter holidays I started thinking that perhaps I should have one on my bedside table, too. So I told him, and he smiled. And, a clock appeared under the Yule tree.

I finally got the courage to plug it into the wall last week, and set the time.

And then, I unplugged it last night. For good.

Last night at two-oh-five a.m. I awoke and looked at my bedside clock. It never shows me the time in the middle of the night (although, the dragon slayer's does). My clock shows the faces of demons and sometimes the flames of hell glowing red and terrible, but no numbers--never numbers. I usually shut my eyes tight against this terror and press close to the side of the dragon slayer. But, these last few nights the dragon slayer has been far away in other lands, fighting the dragons there. So when I opened my eyes last night, and saw on the clock an evil word glowing back at me, I reached for the wicked machine and yanked hard until its cord pulled out from the wall.

In general, clocks frighten me. I don't like to look at them counting away the minutes of my life. In a way, we are all locked in the witch's tower, like Dorothy Gale of Kansas, watching the malevolent red sand steadily flowing out of the hourglass.

Storms

2011-06-03T09:40:00.001-04:00

All day the sky threatened fury, and the wild wind haunted us. But, the storm waited until the cover of night to strike. The windows rattled and streamed with rain. The sky flashed white hot and angry.

It did rage.

I brewed tea, made a bread pudding with raisins and apples, and brought out a jigsaw puzzle with a bright, cheerful scene. We sang songs and made each other laugh, while we each secretly prayed that the house wouldn't blow away.

We learned that some did. And that the storm stole four lives, too.

Why are storms like that?

Sea Memory

2011-06-02T20:20:00.000-04:00

I think it was June, because the wild beach roses were in bloom. On the brightest of days, we packed our lunch in a basket and drove to the end of the world. We walked upon sparkling hot sand with our tender white feet, and spread a blanket close to shore. The air was cooler there, the breath of the sea blew against our hair and faces. The boys flew kites. I plopped my 6 month old Sunbeam down on the blanket and rubbed her all over with white lotion, and covered her head with a floppy hat while she bubbled and cooed. The sea was loud in my ears that day. A steady pound and hiss as each wave landed and pulled away. I picked up moon and slipper shells from around the edge of our blanket to entertain Sunbeam. She smiled and I smiled, delighted by everything: the rose scented air, the high golden sun, the vast blueness above and below, the glittering sand speckled with shells. I think one of the boys called me then, so I stood, and turned away from my baby for the briefest second. But it was all she needed: Thetis of the Silver Feet, that goddess of the sea, mother of Achilles, had been waiting for this moment. She wanted my Sunbeam. With a roar Thetis came crashing upon the shore grabbing at the blanket, pulling it out into the deep with my baby girl upon it like a magic carpet. I screamed, but screams have no power to save. As fast as Thetis of the Silver Feet had snatched her up, he ran and snatched back our Sunbeam.

I clutched her tight as we watched the blanket and the basket be dragged out to sea.

An Old Story

2011-06-02T16:28:00.000-04:00

The wood cutter’s daughter did not run-off into the woods on that fair summer morning in defiance of her parents, as the villagers later whispered. The truth was, that as it so happened, she was obediently helping her mother. The girl had only just turned seven, and for the first time her mother thought her strong enough for the task of fetching water. The little girl took the pail with a happy heart, and set-off to the brook, which before now, she had never been allowed to go near.

The day was bright, and the birds were singing. All was green and verdant; bees droned; butterflies flitted about. When the little girl reached the brook and knelt beside it with her pail, she saw a picture waving on the surface: the green leaves of the trees, the blue sky, and a little girl with golden hair. “Who is she?” she wondered, and looked all around the mossy banks of the brook, and in the tall grass for the golden haired girl. Not finding her, the little girl peered back into the water. In a strange burst , she realized that the little girl with golden hair was herself,. Is this what others saw when they looked at her? Is this who she was? It wasn’t that she was an ugly child; no, just the opposite. But, it was like looking at an image on the altar of the village church, or a plate in a storybook. She had always believed she was real, but now she wondered, and the thought filled her with terror.

The girl dropped her pail and ran to find her mother. But, as she was only just turned sevem, she ran a long way before she realized that she had gone in the wrong direction. By the time she was aware of her mistake, it was too late. She had already crossed the boundary into The Wood where the animals talked, and where Prince Richard, just last year, had found the maiden of legend, who had been sleeping for one hundred years.

In The Wood, the birds’ songs were the whispered words of a thousand secrets. The trees whispered, too. The girl strained to hear what they were singing, but it was in the Old Language, which she didn’t know. Of course, she turned back. And, of course, it didn’t matter, for the girl was in The Wood now, and she would need something as magical as Ariadne’s thread to find her way out.

She wandered for hours, days, and moments, until she could go no further. It was then, when she was at the end of her strength, that a cottage appeared in a clearing up ahead. Here was help at last! Encouraged, the little girl pressed on. She could smell the deliciously homey aroma of porridge coming through the window, as she climbed the porch steps. She knocked at the door. (A green door with an arch of roses that bade, “Welcome, happiness within”.) She knocked until her knuckles were sore, and then she sat down and cried.

It was then, that a kind bluebird landed on her shoulder and whispered, “The door isn’t locked, you know. They never lock the door.”

When you are hungry and tired, it doesn’t seem wrong to eat or rest. It seems natural and right. The little girl didn‘t hesitate to open the door, to eat, and to rest her tired body. Do you think you would have done differently?

The cottage belonged to a family of Transylvanian bears. You may have heard of their spectacular shows from days of old, before the bears returned to The Wood. The bears’ dancing was powerful magic, and it was a gift that they happily offered to the world. Men and women and children laughed and were amazed to behold the bears and partake of their gift (which was wonder, something rare indeed). But, mankind is greedy and cunning. Before long, the bears’ gift, once so gladly and freely offered, meant shackles, poor food, and mistreatment for the bears--but, that is another story.

The bears who lived in the cottage in The Wood were a young family. They had taken a walk in the Small Meadow to pick berries while their porridge cooled. Upon their return home, the bears noticed that the green door was ajar, and that the porridge was gone. The father and mother bear were filled with concern. Who had come into their house? And were they still here? The father bear insisted that his wife and cub wait outside, while he searched the house. I hope you can imagine his surprise when he found a little human child sleeping in his cub’s bed.

At that moment the little girl awoke. She saw the great bear looming over her, and was too terrified to move. Father bear said in the softest voice he could manage, “Did you lose your way in The Wood?”

It took only a moment to show her the way back home, for in The Wood, you are never very far from it.

The End

If you are looking for a lesson (and there isn’t one) I suppose one could say:
It is easy to get lost.
It is hard to know what is real.
Kindness often comes from strangers.
Villagers will always talk.

Mockingbird Moon

2011-06-01T23:02:00.002-04:00

Sometimes in the middle of the night I hear a lone mockingbird singing in the trees outside my window. In the moonlight he calls for a lover. I think the moon tricks him into thinking it's still day. It's a beautiful song, and a lonely one. All the other birds are asleep, along with all of the cats, and dogs, and people. Just he and I are awake, wondering about the sleeping world.

The insects are busy at night. If I go downstairs and out the back door, and make my way to the garden, my bare feet leaving silver footprints in the wet grass, I feel them touch me with their wings. They could be fairies. If you believe in such things.

I do.