Tag: Books

The Healer’s Daughter

FB_IMG_1592766229369It was her favorite spot, a tiny gem hidden at the base of a cliff where almost no one went. No one except herself. Her mother had shown it to her when she was just a little girl, barely old enough to be trusted on the narrow path down. It was the secret of her mother’s success as a healer; the herbs and fungi that grew down here were especially potent.

Now her mother could no longer safely walk the path, and the task of harvesting was hers alone. It was the one time a week that she could be completely alone, far away from expectations and women’s chatter. The only sound was the soft fall of the water into the pool, and the light which filtered through the heavy canopy turned leaves luminescent and created glittering jewels in the spray.

That she would be a healer was unquestioned. Thanks to her mother she knew every remedy and could find the best and rarest. Her mother’s secret recipes had long been committed to memory. She had no quarrel with her destiny; it was, after all, a much freer life than that of the girls sent to the matchmaker by the time they were of age. And as village healer she was by law protected from a fate far worse, the fate of those who caught the eye of the nobility. She had seen them, their white painted faces devoid of expression above their opulent robes. No feeling or identity could remain in that life; such would destroy a girl more surely than the demands made of her.

No, fortune smiled upon her, and not even the basket heavy with living treasure against her shoulders could make her sorry. She must put other wishes from her mind and thank the ancestors for smiling upon her. But she could not prevent his face from appearing in her mind one more time.

The Lamplighter

FB_IMG_1591483602188He walked the streets in the dusk, the invisible bringer of light. Dawn and twilight, his two-headed staff tapping the cobblestones with each step. For forty years now he had walked the streets and alleyways, the stones of the old wall familiar friends now.

Fifteen steps from lamp to lamp, his feet knew on their own every start and stop. The tiny hiss as each wick flamed marked a beat in an old song. The almost imperceptible heat of each tiny flame staved the cold growing in his bones.

Ah, there was the ivy trellis across from Mistress Burnley’s shop. Fripperies didn’t sell until the well-born young girls left their late breakfasts with nothing to do but spend their fathers’ money. Nevertheless, Mistress Burnley’s second floor window held warmth at the snuffing hour each morning and comforted him each evening. Yes, there she was, as always, a fixture same as he.

Ten more steps to the old stairs, five – no six – to the top. Imagine forgetting that after all these years! Turn left to follow the wall, but only after lighting the corner lamp. Tonight music wafted from the open windows of Master Hollywell’s townhouse just across the way. Seemed Mistress Burnley’s wares would be displayed handsomely tonight. The Hollywell dances marked the height of the season, no doubt. The merry singing of the strings and the sound of feet tapping in rhythm called out to him, keeping time with his staff.

Fifteen more steps, another welcoming hiss. On he went, marking the time unheeded, forever caught between the light and the dark.

The Mirror Image

FB_IMG_1590687230114The Mirror Image raced the storm. She was the fastest sail on the bay, but this was the greatest race of her career. A race with the wind itself.

It was a beautiful storm. The sun rose gold ahead of her, lighting the water with its false promises of the day ahead. Behind her, dark clouds loomed over the golden rays, over the Mirror Image, over the glassy surface of the bay. Sheets of water waved below them, riling the water into angry ripples like a shattered looking glass.

A fork of light split the gloom, its electricity carried through the rain to set teeth on edge. It was too close for comfort, but the sails were full. She had lost the race. Buffeted by the edge of the storm, sails dampened by spray were furled and tied. Sea anchor cranked and rattled into the depths. Her mirror image in the water dimmed and scattered as the rain caught her. She would wait, secure against the onslaught, her masts barren in salute.

The Bench

FB_IMG_1590687238016It was perfectly placed, halfway down the walking trail along the river, looking out at the park across the water. The city’s most popular view. In the morning the sun rose behind it over the skyscrapers, leaving it in the shadows as people hurried to work, but in the evenings… oh, the evenings!

The river reflected the glow of the setting sun in the sky, bathing the whole area in rose light. If there were clouds, streams of light pierced them, creating natural spotlights at the edge of the water. People would sit, sometimes absently, sometimes with intention, and leave little bits of themselves along with the fading sunlight.

First, there were children. They never sat, not for long. Their weary watchers would collapse onto the bench, calling nervously for their charges to stay away from the water. Excited chatter and daring balancing acts on the wall would be the response, often accompanied by the indignant trumpeting of geese disturbed in their placid feeding.

Then there were the starched and tied business partners, almost too busy to notice the view. Glued to cell phones, foreheads furrowed in concentration or voices raised in agitation over the status of a deal, they relaxed no more than the keepers of the children. Perched on the edge of the seat, knees jogging nervously, briefcases opened and rustled with feverish haste, they never stayed long.

Then would come the old married couples, hand in hand. With creaking joints they would settle comfortably and gaze out over the water, steadfast and quiet as if the world stood still for them. Sometimes they would talk quietly, ordinary conversations about ordinary things. Mostly they just sat, wrinkled fingers entwined with comfortable familiarity with each other and the twilight.

Finally came the young lovers. Dancing carelessly as dark shadows in the day’s final light show, they laughed and talked and played like children. Only it wasn’t the geese they played with, but the future. Soft kisses in the corner of the bench, playful chases around its back accompanied by laughing protests, whispered promises and sweet caresses echoed across the river as the night descended upon it all.

Dreamcaught

FB_IMG_1590687224460She flew above the world, reveling in the wind that buffeted her. She didn’t know how, she only knew she was. The river tossed her against the rocks; her head hurt and water filled her lungs. “Hush, dear, don’t cry,” her mother soothed, stroking her hair. “Everything will be alright, you’ll see.” She buried her head in Mother’s lap, breathing the scent of lemon and fennel lingering on her clothes. The hands stroking her hair turned to claws that raked her skull and back, drawing screams of pain and betrayal from her aching throat. She ran, the breath ragged in her lungs, her muscles seizing and tripping her. She could feel the beast’s breath on her neck and fell, strength gone, waiting for its jaws to close on her throat. Her mother’s hands picked her up and she flew.

The Warp

FB_IMG_1590604606681The city burned. Well, technically speaking, cities, since there seemed to be several versions all at once. It had started on Times Square. Everyone on the street suffered the same blinding headache at the exact same moment, and when they recovered the billboards had been replaced with the original New York Times building. Brand spanking 1904 new. Except that 1904 hadn’t had access to 2020 technology, and within seconds broken electrical wires and gas lines had exploded half the building.

It hadn’t stopped there, obviously. No one knew what had created the time rift, but every explosion warped it further. Theatre facades from the 1920s replaced gleaming modern glass and steel, only to burn. Modern street signs stood before the flaming remains of storefronts from the 1800s. Over it all towered the twisted and shattered skyscrapers of the last forty years.

After the buildings, the warp affected living things. First trees and other greenery shifted and broke, sparks from the blazing city setting them alight like living torches. Then people began to change. Some were suddenly mysteriously confused, insisting they were someone else and cowering in terror. Others simply disappeared, while men and women in costumes from long ago days blended in bewilderment with the screaming theater crowds. The worst cases no one talked about, the ones caught between as the rift continued to warp. The ones who didn’t survive, could never have survived.

Most fled, trampling each other in wild abandon like animals racing a forest fire. Here and there a trace of humanity survived: a man snatching a crying child from the path of a bus careening out of control, a woman supporting an elderly man who could barely hobble. For the most part, civilization fell to its basest instincts, the urge to survive at all costs.

It was vain. The city lay silent, its hodgepodge of time staring with bloodied and emptied eye sockets on a burning concrete wasteland.

The Fountain

FB_IMG_1590514269688The river was placid and cold, wide against the narrow horizon.  The deepening autumn chill had turned the trees a bright orange that lit up the river brighter than a forest fire. He set his boots against the rough rocks that formed the bank, the crunch of stone against stone amplified by the surface of the water.

He felt as if he had followed this river for a lifetime, at the same time as if he had been born two weeks ago when he left Alakinuk. The silence of the place held a peace that not even the howling of wolves could disturb. The only intrusion of men visible in the entire landscape was his two canoes.

He glanced instinctively toward the section of bank where he had landed, reassured by the sight of both resting half on the rocks. The river could change quickly, he had learned the hard way that first night. A sudden rainstorm had quickened the current and almost swept his poorly secured belongings back where he had come from. He had spent the night feeding a roaring fire trying to warm his soaked body after nearly drowning tying the canoes higher.

He scanned the sky, noting the heavy cloud cover but affirming that he had time to pitch camp before the freezing rain came again. He whistled and the dogs left the canoe with a bound, trotting at his heels as he trudged to the edge of the woods to cut thin timbers for a shelter. They wore their leather harnesses so that he could use them for any necessary hauling and could easily tether them for the night. He had already seen the value of keeping them at arm’s length, especially at mealtimes.

He laughed to himself, reveling in the thought of himself as the sole human in this wealth of wilderness. Soon he would be farther than any map charted; if not for the native tribes that he had heard passed through Alakinuk twice a year, he could almost imagine himself the first eyes to see this country, to uncover its secrets and claim its rewards. Another glance at the sky reminded him that it could also claim him if he was not prepared for its harsh reality.

As he hastily took his hatchet to some spindly pines that stood out green against the orange, he remembered the stories of explorers that had filled his imagination as a boy. The stories of open lands and rich discoveries that fired his soul to seek something other than the tired trappings of civilization. His favorite had always been the far-fetched claim of Ponce de Leon’s quest for the fountain of youth.

Old Juan may not have literally been searching for the waters of eternal life, he thought as he finished constructing his temporary shelter, but he had truly understood what the real treasure was. He straightened and propped himself on the lean-to poles. The dogs sat beside him, tongues lolling out, waiting for their nightly meal of dried fish. This land was the true fountain of youth, the challenge and the wealth that put life into a man’s soul. And he had found it.

Daniella and the Lions

FB_IMG_1590513867980Now, then, Leo, it is time for our story. It’s bedtime, you know, and you must lie down quietly and listen. Teddy came to keep you company and remind you to be good. Zara, don’t you mess up, now, you know Leo hates it when you crowd.

Now, what shall we read tonight? I know your favorite story, Leo! Here it is, Daniella and the lions. Daniella was only four, but she had a special gift. She could talk to lions. Every day she went to the zoo to visit and talk to the lions who lived there. They wanted to know all about her, and she wanted to know all about Africa. Sadly, they didn’t know about Africa because they had been born in a zoo like this one, but Daniella didn’t mind. She brought a book from the library and told them all about it instead.

All the zookeepers knew Daniella and enjoyed her visits. They often let her help them feed the animals, and sometimes they let her give tours. No one knew that she could actually talk to the lions, and Daniella kept her secret, but the zookeepers noticed that the lions behaved much better when she was around.

One day, the biggest lion escaped from the zoo. All the zookeepers and the visitors and the mayor and the council and the police and the firefighters and animal control were very upset. They ran around in a tizzy, huffing and puffing and getting red in the face. When Daniella went to the zoo that day the lion keeper told her what had happened and asked if she could help.

Of course Daniella could! She asked the other lions where Leo had gone, and they told her he had decided to go and see Africa. He wanted to see what all the fuss was about. Well, no one believed Daniella when she told them, because of course no one knew she could talk to lions. She knew she would have to find Leo all by herself, and she had an idea where he might have gone to find Africa.

Daniella went to the Museum. Sure enough, when she arrived the lady at the desk shakily pointed toward the savannah exhibit, her hair standing on end and her dress all in a tangle. Visitors to the museum hid under benches or ran screaming for the door. No one wanted to be around with a lion on the loose.

They all yelled for Daniella to run away, but of course she didn’t listen. She went right in and found the biggest lion staring at all the stuffed lions and giraffes and zebras. He was astonished that they were not in cages, and very excited by the stuffed lion chasing the zebra. He wanted to stay there all day.

Daniella scolded the biggest lion for scaring the whole town and told him it was time to go back to the zoo. The lion pouted and growled, but Daniella put her arms on her hips and gave him “the look.” He closed his mouth and followed her without more argument.

Everyone shouted with excitement when Daniella and the lion marched through the gates of the zoo together. They asked her how she managed it, and Daniella just smiled. And every day she still went to the zoo to talk to her friends.

Now, Leo, no more story tonight. You really must go to sleep. You too, Zara, and all the rest of you. No more begging, Teddy and I have to go home now. We’ll be back tomorrow, and I’d better not hear that you ran away to Africa again!

The Memorial

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There they hung, the uniforms, lining the hallway where they had hung all my life. It would be the last time he walked past them for many months, probably years. He took it slowly, pausing before each one to remember.

First the cuffed olive green of his great-great-grandfather’s, the pockets fraying away and the seams worn with age. Although it had been well laundered, he could almost see the bloodstains that must have covered it as it had carried the wounded back behind the lines amid the spatter of gunfire. He rubbed his fingers together, slick with the imagined mud that soaked the fabric in the shallow trenches as rain and explosives pelted the ground. He smiled at the thought of the wrinkles crushed into it by his great-great-grandmother when she welcomed her husband home safely.

He wondered what she had felt when she saw his great-uncle march away wearing the next uniform on the wall. The green had once been the same, but time had faded it less than its predecessor. This one had been mended, the holes where shrapnel had ripped through it still visible despite the stitching. He imagined his great-grandmother’s hands shaking as she arranged the pieces, the only thing returned to her from the trenches of France. Her son’s body had long since returned to dust in the very fields where he died, his cross tended by grateful strangers.

Next hung his grandfather’s tiger stripes. His grandfather had never been able to talk about what had happened in the jungles on the other side of the world. He had watched his grandsons grow and play with distant, haunted eyes. Loud noises had always agitated Granddad, and Grandmother had quietly sent the boys home whenever Granddad lost his temper and started yelling about cowards. His heart had been broken, she had explained, first by the horrors of the jungle war and then by the resentment and ingratitude when he returned safe but changed.

The last uniform was the most important to him, and he placed his hand on the glass case as if by doing so he could touch its owner. Dad had put on the sand colored uniform with its rusty splashes of color as a way to honor the father whose sacrifices had been forgotten. He had worn it proudly for five years, seeing his tiny son only a handful of times before hitting a land mine in a faraway desert. His picture and this last uniform were the reason for this last walk today.

By this time tomorrow, a fifth uniform would begin its own journey to the wall. He placed his forehead against the glass in the closest thing he remembered to a hug from Dad. “I’ll make you proud, Dad,” he whispered before continuing his last walk out of the front door, the promise hanging in the air as the final memorial.