Tag: Journey

Doorman

The floor undulated beneath me, its checkered waves lifting me although I could not feel a surface under my feet. I wasn’t sure I even had feet; I couldn’t seem to find myself. The door hung from nothing, stood on nothing, with light streaming through it from some unidentifiable source. A Fedora sat on top of it, incongruous and yet belonging.

“From where have you come?” The light flickered with every word that hung heavy in the blackness like a star.

“What are you?” I would have gasped, but could not find my lungs.

“I am the Doorman. From where have you come?” The stars increased and yet lit nothing.

“Um, Earth?” I would have swallowed, but could not feel my tongue. “Small town USA?”

“What is your purpose here?” The stars began to coalesce into nebula, filming the blackness with cloudy light that could not obscure the Doorman.

“I don’t know.” I would have shaken my head but the muscles had vanished. “You tell me, I don’t even know what here is.”

“Where are you going?” The light behind the Doorman intensified, searing into my unprotected soul.

I would have covered my eyes with my hands if I had possessed either. “I wish I could tell you. Where do you lead?”

“You have asked correctly.” The checkered waves froze, the fedora vanished, and the door opened.

Book Review: The Legend of Luke by Brian Jacques

An ancient weapon. A missing father. A warrior son. An infamous villain. A community of happy woodland creatures. Aged companions. A tale waiting to be told.

A tale Martin desperately needs to know. All his life he has carried his father’s sword and used it to defend the helpless and innocent. His prowess with a sword and his good heart has earned him a warrior’s renown, as well as many loyal friends, but until he knows what happened to his father Martin cannot rest.

Long ago, an evil pirate captain who terrorized the seas raided Martin’s home and killed many, including Martin’s mother. His father, Luke, though a kind, peaceful farmer, vowed to avenge the deaths and destroy the tyrant once and for all. He left his sword with his baby son and promised to return victorious, but Martin never saw him again.

Martin’s friends, wanting only for him to be happy, organize a journey to Martin’s old home in search of answers. Few of them have any experience with adventuring or battle, but what they lack in skill they make up for in determination. Along the way they attract an unlikely collection of helpers and companions, who with imagination and ingenuity help them reach their destination safely.

None of them expect what they actually find when they reach Martin’s childhood home. The end of their quest begins a true tale of friendship, courage, and heroism. Martin will finally know what happened after his father embarked on his own quest, and why he never returned.

My kids chose this book for our bedtime read, and as we made our way through it a few chapters at a time, they quickly fell in love with the adorable woodland characters. We laughed together over the creatures zany antics, cheered for their courageous exploits, and cried when they were sad. This is a must read for all ages and a captivating read-aloud for families.

Tears of the Cyborg

I walked through the empty rooms, no footprints visible but mine in the soil-thick dust covering the floor. My steps echoed thinly from the metal cabinets lining every wall. My ears tingled from a faint hum that could be felt more than heard, and an occasional click or whirr felt like a church bell in the silence.

Double doors, windowless and cold, jerked on clogged tracks into the wall, exposing thick darkness tinged by a faint red glow. I took a ragged breath, my chest aching with anticipation that bordered on fear. Two agonizingly slow steps carried me over the threshold, and I strained for every shred of light to illuminate the room’s contents.

The whirring and clicking surrounded me here, along with the faint gurgle of some sort of liquid, and a steady drip against a puddle. As my eyes adjusted I could make out the source of the red glow, clear tubes filled with a luminescent fluid snaked toward a single point against the far wall. I walked toward it, a shape materializing slowly as I drew near.

The whirring grew louder, and I could make out exposed gears, wires, and pulleys against a narrow strip of white somehow untouched by the dust that pervaded the place. A little closer and something moved; I jumped backward with a compulsive squeak as a pale, expressionless face rose to view, colored only by the glow of the tubes that culminated behind it.

A crack appeared at the edges of the face, and a light breeze fanned the loose hair at my neck, obviously the reason for the lack of dust on what I could now see was an old-fashioned dress collar. A drop of blood-red liquid spilled from the corner of a dark eye and rolled down the delicately human cheek to drip on the floor. Another followed it, then another. The lips parted with the whir of gears, and a mechanically female voice spoke incongruously through their stillness. “Is it the end?”

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 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.