“I often find myself coming to Emerson in those moments when I just feel like I need to hear the voice of an old friend. And this week was one of those times. Some of you have heard that one of the quiet hands behind this community, Jones Martin, made his transition this week.” Some of the faces I look over register a note of trauma and grief. But, many are wear blank expressions. “He wasn’t very loud, you’d never see him at a town hall meeting, but he always had a kind word to share. If you have been coming here for a while, and you brave handful know who you are, you’d see him going around here every Saturday between March and November. He tended the garden that surrounds our lovely spiritual home. And he did it for no pay. His payment, he told me once, came from the many things he learned from our weeds and roses. Although he did once confide that the weeds were far better teachers.” A collective chuckle ripples across the room.
It’s standing room only. Bodies are silhouetted and black against all of the windows at the perimeter. I know not all of them have come to hear a lick of what I say. I spy the minister from the Baptist church down the street sitting about halfway back in the center. His arms are folded high across his chest in defiance. His chubby, pink body looks like someone poured him into that arrow collar shirt and polyester pants and then forgot to stop. Next to him at least five seats are filled with equally disdainful and stiff looking folks. They’ve come in under the ruse of showing some solidarity in the wake of this week’s brutal crime. I know what they’re up to. Come to see who’s draining off their crowd, they have. But it’s not me who is making the leak in their tithe baskets. It’s the comfort people feel when someone stands up at a pulpit and, rather than condemning them to eternal punishment for so much as letting a vegetable rot in the refrigerator, says out loud what deep down they have known all along to be truth and have been too afraid to admit. It is just that, though they burn out quickly, these bright stars are the glint in God’s eye.
“Jones was almost ninety years old. He couldn’t get around as well in these last couple years and so the precedent of his volunteer service has been passed on to new people with their own lessons to learn at the hands of nature. But he was bright and happy up until his last day. I sat with him on his last day, and we talked about his roses. Unfortunately, a few hours after our chat, I was called back to his home for a much less happy reason. It was then I saw what I hoped never to see. Our good friend and humble fellow traveler had been murdered.” Now comes the wave of gasps and knitted brows. None of this is for Jones, it’s worry for themselves that has them clutching the arms of a loved one and making eye contact with friends. In the back I notice the porcine figure of the Police sergeant shift his weight from leg to leg. Obviously not a regular church-goer, he arrived too late for a seat.
“He was not the type of man to wish for any sort of memorial service. He didn’t much care for attention being drawn to himself. In fact I think if he were in this room right now he would probably blush and hurry out the door! But I believe we can do him just as great an honor by turning our attention to the nature he loved.” And while I’m at it, why not get in a jab at that Baptist preacher?
“Ok, just by show of hands, how many of you, when you found this church community, cried your first time here?” At least half the hands rise into the air. “Ok. How many of you felt like you had finally found ‘your people’?” More hands shoot into the air, with less reluctance about the gesture this time. Well who wants to admit they cried?
“I bet I know why. I didn’t tell you anything new under the sun. I simply said the words that you knew to be true in your hearts. For all your lives you had been asked to render life from what Emerson calls “the dried bones of the past”. You were supposed to fashion the ‘armor of God’ from these worn and faded robes. You were bidden to serve at the altar of religion and denied the truth of your personal revelation. Your parents, well meaning and living out their own imprint of God and maybe some fear, warned you of all sorts of behaviors that would put you squarely on that God’s bad side and get you into trouble. Don’t talk back; be seen, not heard; be a lady; act right or the devil’s gonna get you; and most of all you must never EVER touch yourself! Am I right?” The room ripples with laughter.
“And probably a lot of you went in exactly the opposite direction as soon as you could! Am I right? I did. Heck yeah. I went to Paris! And the magic ingredient we were searching for was for once not to be told but to really experience something. I wanted to break the rules but mostly I just wanted to KNOW.”
“I don’t know about you, but no one ever told me that this curiosity I had in my mind was natural, was God-given. No one ever told me that it was ok to trust my experience, or my gut instinct. You women out there know what I’m talking about. How many of you had your life decisions taken away by a well intentioned father or husband or brother or had your intuition treated like superstition?”
In the back a tawny-skinned woman yells “amen!” I love it when they get fiery.
“Listen to what Emerson has to say: ‘We must trust the perfection of the creation so far as to believe that whatever curiosity the order of things has awakened in our minds, the order of things can satisfy. Every man’s condition is a solution in hieroglyphic to those inquiries he would put. He (or she) acts it as life, before he apprehends it as truth.’ So he’s saying that God’s gift to us, that the great teacher we have each chosen is not in a monument to religious tradition but our experience - as our own inner nature unfolds it to us.” I’m quoting Emerson and not the man known as Jesus and I can just feel that Baptist start to boil. Fuck him.
“How does that hit you? Hm? Wouldn’t you just rather have a devil to blame? Wouldn’t it be easier if I submersed you in water and just washed all of that junk out of your life?” I get another round of reluctant ‘amen’.
“But I can’t do that to you. I would be denying you the divinity of your true nature to create the life from which you must learn – from which you must remember, re-member, that God is in you as you are in God. That YOU are the creator. And that nature, your nature, your desires, are god-given and can be trusted.”
“How does that feel? How many times have you been told that it’s ok to trust yourself in mainstream churches? Hm. It’s a lot of responsibility all of the sudden, isn’t it?”
“Yes!” they shout back as one chorus.
“We live at the crest of an awfully inquisitive and materially progressive wave in human thinking. Our chemists, our doctors, our researchers and scientists have poked at nature and truly believe that they have forced her to relinquish her secrets. But are we any closer to understanding ourselves as people? Are we any closer to loving each other? We can see the wood that will build homes and make our Sunday papers but are we any better at seeing the trees? We all can look out our windows or drive down the road and know who owns what land around us, but who among you owns the horizon? We can go after nature, investigate her, divide her up into boundaries and buy her and sell her, but none of us will ever own the her best part. Who owns the sunset? Who owns the starry sky? Who owns the smell of the flowers? The one who owns these is simply the one who perceives them. Who stops to drink them in. And there is God, in that momentous evening light, in that fragrance, in that twinkling. Today. Now. Calling out to you to pause and simply allow yourself to be taught by that natural wonder that we are so good at pushing to the perimeter of our lives.”
“And this is what Jones Martin found in those rose bushes. Again as Emerson says: ‘The flowers, the animals, the mountains, reflected the wisdom of his best hour, as much as they had delighted the simplicity of his childhood.’ In every thing he found a delight. One time I was hustling along to the parking lot, running off to some meeting or another, and he came running up to me all excited. He was holding out something he had just yanked out of the ground. ‘Look!’ he said, ‘I just pulled this up! This is what I saw popping out of the dirt.’ And he showed me this little bitty green sprout about two inches long. ‘And THIS is what I pulled up when I decided to take it out of there!’ And he held out a root system that honestly was at least four feet long! Little bitty green sprout – Four feet of roots! Does that remind anybody of anything? How many little things you harbored in your mind that you didn’t really WANT the Lord to heal you of? Well it’s just a little resentment and she deserved it! It was just a little bitty lie and it was for the good. No one will know! But below the surface that little bitty thing is connected to a whole web of issues and other lies and resentments and dirty stuff that needs redemption. Those roots run deep and flourish in our psyches if we don’t tend to them regularly. Do you hear what I’m saying? It’s on us to cultivate our god nature.”
“Emerson continues to say: ‘Nature, in its ministry to man, is not only the material, but is also the process and the result’. And I know, everyone figures well that guy was writing in the early 1800’s. Things are different now. But, not necessarily; not so fast my friends. This man was living in Massachusetts where he saw the industrial revolution rapidly remaking the landscape. In addition there were a lot more farms back then and as a result there was wide spread de-forestation. There are more trees in the Northeastern United States now than at the time of the Civil War. He’s beseeching people of his OWN time to not go too far, to find nature in their hearts – to experience directly and live deeply in the moment.”
They’re awful quiet. “So next Saturday I expect to see all of you out here planting petunias!” And they finally lighten up with a roll of laughter. “Hey, I’m serious! It’s almost the season! Just another month or so now.”
“So lets settle into our chairs, relax, and get in touch with that wise silence within. As you quiet your mind feel that still pool in your center. The presence of divine spirit within you is stronger than any calamity around you. Rest in that place and for a minute, let’s just allow God to love us…”
And I lead them through their meditation. Halfway through I open my eyes to see Jack seated near the front. He smiles as I spy him.
In my ear I hear him “Death may be natural, but not drought. You must choose to live.”
I have to kill or he will. What’s natural about that?
Friday, November 14, 2008
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Nanowrimo - 13
He continues to talk, which is good because my breath is completely gone.
"All my life I've heard this sweet voice of a woman in my head; nice and soft and steady and always seeming to make sense of those things which made no sense at all. Yet every time I tried to draw near to her, she disappeared. Every time I thought I'd found her, she was gone again. In moments of loneliness I would fly toward that loving voice. But then, POOF! Just like that! Vanished! I just wanted to put the world together in a way that made sense. It was you, wasn't it? That voice was you, Mummy!"
"I-I had no idea that you were once born. I had no idea.... I thought that by my leaving I might..."
"Yes!” He interrupts. “Yes, that is another juicy subject, isn't it? You up and leaving me when I was just a wee child of two years old! And to the care of that boorish man with his peevish fleet of nurses and maids, tutors and horse riding teachers! I was subjected to learning lots of stuff, which I was quite sure mattered little. And I know how to ride a horse into battle. A skill that still serves me well, as you can just imagine. But, no one, none of the lot of them, understood me. No, none of them could figure out that little boy at all. They all figured my moodiness was a side effect of my motherless condition. But that didn't stop them from applying the switch to my back for every sullen attitude or roguish wit. All I had, the only connection, what this thin voice I would hear in the silence. I used to lock myself into the closet and dig deep behind the coats just to have the silence and to year that comfort. I thought if I could just find the owner of that voice, all my misery would stop. And here you are!"
I'm beginning to despise his theatrical manner. What century does he think this is? I hold my head between my palms. The thumping in my temples seems like to explode. Breathing deeply, I can only push out one sentence at a time. "I did think of you often, imagining how I would talk to you if you were with me, if I was allowed to treat you like I wanted to. But that man, that horrible man, he yanked you from my arms within minutes of your birth. I wasn't allowed near my own child. I couldn't nurse you, touch you."
"And leaving looked like a good solution to you? For whom was this solution of yours supposed to be of any benefit? You should have fought! You should have demanded to take care of your son!"
"DON'T YOU DARE JUDGE MY ACTIONS! Don't you dare judge my yesterday using today's yard stick! You have NO IDEA what it was like to be a woman back then. I wasn't a person, I was chattel! When Mr. Fitz... whatever his name was married me he as good as bought me and I, my offspring, my very body belonged to him! I had no voice! I had no rights! I had no wealth or political ties of my own to fall back on and certainly lacked the social graces to be gay in public company. One word from him and I could have been out on the street with nothing and no one to fall back upon! I couldn't even leave my door unaccompanied without incurring condemnation. I COULDN'T WALK DOWN THE STREET! You have no idea! NONE!" He waits in silence while I catch my breath.
“Are you a homosexual?”
“Oh don’t tell me you have a problem with that! Now YOU need to move that attitude into this century!”
“I have no issue with it as long as you are honest. Your father was a homosexual. I was convinced of it even as naïve as I was back then. He despised having to be married to me. It was only in a heated moment after my first feed that I managed to conceive you. I don’t think he made anyone’s life more pleasant save for his lover. So I’m asking you. Are you a homosexual?”
“Yes, indeed I am.”
“Good. You know what you are, then. And I knew what I was, although I didn't know that much about it. I had fed. Sure, I had fed once and felt that inexplicable rush of pleasure. I was as much frightened as delighted. Like the first time you touch yourself as a child and it feels good even though it’s a bit new and unnatural. You like it but instinctively know that you’ve done something mommy would hate. I had, as of yet, no idea where this had come from, thought I had perhaps done to cause it. I looked at you in your crib and saw my shadow pass over your face. I figured, wrongly - obviously, that by leaving I would spare you turning into what I had become."
"I've been looking for you for over 200 years! So many times I thought through just what I might say. I’ve wasted hours crafting what exact words I could say that would ...pierce your heart just as mine has been! And now you're here and you're just so... disappointing! Look at you! You're tired. You have bad hair. You deprive yourself the feeding you need for the most maudlin of reasons. And that is all you have to say to me? These excuses?"
"You're angry."
"Nice catch, that. How ever did you guess?"
"I was angry for a long time. And we do not feel emotions like mortals. Even if you're passing, there's no one who can hold your hand while that wave hits. I’ve felt that tide roll in and hit me like a wall, damned near drowning me in a see of hatred. I killed a lot of people, wanting to watch them hurt. But this, too, shall pass. The tide just as surely flows back out, and hopefully there is not too much wreckage in its wake to tidy up."
"When was that? Was that when I lost track of you?"
"Hm. From before the Tecumseh wars on to the begin of the Mexican war. 1810 maybe? The details, you know, get fuzzy. Counting doesn’t matter so much after a while."
"They wouldn't if you would feed. It is in our nature to feed! Why do you deny yourself what is natural? Vampires make terrible nuns, you know."
"It doesn't exactly go with my job title."
"And what are you doing playing minister to these foolish mortals? They're so peevish and trite! I don't see why you bother with them so much!"
I stomp my foot on the floor, rattling the furniture and windows. "The man you killed tonight wasn't trite. He was a good person."
"That old bit of gristle tasted like canned food." He muses, theatrically picking his teeth.
"You are not funny!"
"Oh! What are you going to do, Mummy? Take me over your knee?" his sarcasm catches me up short. Must have gotten that trait from his father. "you can't because you lack the strength to do anything about it. But you’re not totally spent on life yet, I can see that."
"I do not wish to feed, anymore. I wish to be done. I've seen enough."
"Well, you better start, because you're going to need some energy. I'm not done with your little country town just yet. And no mortal can stop me, so you're going to have to come after me yourself! It will be like all the fun little games we never got to play! Catch me if you can!"
"You - you're not going to kill again, are you? How could you?"
"I feed and kill in the way God intended me to, just like you. When we don't do what we're meant to do, we get unhappy. Wasn't that in one of your Sunday talks?"
"But this is not right! It's one thing to feed but you can't just treat their lives as if they don't matter! Life is not a game! Mortals are not toys!"
"OH please! Look in the mirror next time you toss out the platitudes! Je-SUS! The four fifths of them who won't be 'terrorized' will be eagerly watching the evening news! Not a few will even hope to be my next victim! See, the human brain is wired to enjoy violence. Think about it, they had to be, for violence is necessary to survival. It is mandatory that one do violence to an animal or a tree in order to procure food and shelter. Those ape men who recoiled from wielding the club or flint simply didn't survive. They didn’t live long enough to put their drop into the river of DNA. That's why the English loved watching the criminals be hung, drawn & quartered. That's why Parisian crowds watched eagerly while person after person went to the guillotine. That's why the mobs gathered for lynchings in America like it was a Sunday outing. That’s why nation after nation continues to make war and make movies about war and why people line up and pay good money out of love for gory, violent movies. And now that most people don't get the opportunity to kill in order to eat, now that dinner is just a trip to the refrigerator and just some plastic wrapping away? They're bored and depressed. Don't worry mummy! They're going to love me!"
"You're a monster!"
"And the apple doesn't fall far from the tree!"
"STOP THIS! If you're angry at me then take it out on me! What do you want me to say? That I'm sorry? Sorry doesn't even cover how either of us feels. I was wrong! I was young and foolish and selfish and wrong. I can't expect you to forgive but don't take your anger out on these people!"
"Then why don't you stand up, wipe your bony ass and get off the fucking pity pot?! Live, damn you!"
"Because I'm tired! I am so, so deeply tired right down to my bones. I just can't."
Thick quiet fills up the air. It's a while before he breaks it. "I saw you once. You were soaring above the mountains, riding the air, and hunting with ease. That is the picture of you I have held." He makes for the window, fixing to leave.
"Wait. Before you go. What is your name? I didn't have a say in naming you, and time has taken it from me. I know I’m a terrible mum, but please just tell me your name."
A sly smile curls across his face. "You can call me 'Jack'." And in a flash of dark wings, he's gone.
"All my life I've heard this sweet voice of a woman in my head; nice and soft and steady and always seeming to make sense of those things which made no sense at all. Yet every time I tried to draw near to her, she disappeared. Every time I thought I'd found her, she was gone again. In moments of loneliness I would fly toward that loving voice. But then, POOF! Just like that! Vanished! I just wanted to put the world together in a way that made sense. It was you, wasn't it? That voice was you, Mummy!"
"I-I had no idea that you were once born. I had no idea.... I thought that by my leaving I might..."
"Yes!” He interrupts. “Yes, that is another juicy subject, isn't it? You up and leaving me when I was just a wee child of two years old! And to the care of that boorish man with his peevish fleet of nurses and maids, tutors and horse riding teachers! I was subjected to learning lots of stuff, which I was quite sure mattered little. And I know how to ride a horse into battle. A skill that still serves me well, as you can just imagine. But, no one, none of the lot of them, understood me. No, none of them could figure out that little boy at all. They all figured my moodiness was a side effect of my motherless condition. But that didn't stop them from applying the switch to my back for every sullen attitude or roguish wit. All I had, the only connection, what this thin voice I would hear in the silence. I used to lock myself into the closet and dig deep behind the coats just to have the silence and to year that comfort. I thought if I could just find the owner of that voice, all my misery would stop. And here you are!"
I'm beginning to despise his theatrical manner. What century does he think this is? I hold my head between my palms. The thumping in my temples seems like to explode. Breathing deeply, I can only push out one sentence at a time. "I did think of you often, imagining how I would talk to you if you were with me, if I was allowed to treat you like I wanted to. But that man, that horrible man, he yanked you from my arms within minutes of your birth. I wasn't allowed near my own child. I couldn't nurse you, touch you."
"And leaving looked like a good solution to you? For whom was this solution of yours supposed to be of any benefit? You should have fought! You should have demanded to take care of your son!"
"DON'T YOU DARE JUDGE MY ACTIONS! Don't you dare judge my yesterday using today's yard stick! You have NO IDEA what it was like to be a woman back then. I wasn't a person, I was chattel! When Mr. Fitz... whatever his name was married me he as good as bought me and I, my offspring, my very body belonged to him! I had no voice! I had no rights! I had no wealth or political ties of my own to fall back on and certainly lacked the social graces to be gay in public company. One word from him and I could have been out on the street with nothing and no one to fall back upon! I couldn't even leave my door unaccompanied without incurring condemnation. I COULDN'T WALK DOWN THE STREET! You have no idea! NONE!" He waits in silence while I catch my breath.
“Are you a homosexual?”
“Oh don’t tell me you have a problem with that! Now YOU need to move that attitude into this century!”
“I have no issue with it as long as you are honest. Your father was a homosexual. I was convinced of it even as naïve as I was back then. He despised having to be married to me. It was only in a heated moment after my first feed that I managed to conceive you. I don’t think he made anyone’s life more pleasant save for his lover. So I’m asking you. Are you a homosexual?”
“Yes, indeed I am.”
“Good. You know what you are, then. And I knew what I was, although I didn't know that much about it. I had fed. Sure, I had fed once and felt that inexplicable rush of pleasure. I was as much frightened as delighted. Like the first time you touch yourself as a child and it feels good even though it’s a bit new and unnatural. You like it but instinctively know that you’ve done something mommy would hate. I had, as of yet, no idea where this had come from, thought I had perhaps done to cause it. I looked at you in your crib and saw my shadow pass over your face. I figured, wrongly - obviously, that by leaving I would spare you turning into what I had become."
"I've been looking for you for over 200 years! So many times I thought through just what I might say. I’ve wasted hours crafting what exact words I could say that would ...pierce your heart just as mine has been! And now you're here and you're just so... disappointing! Look at you! You're tired. You have bad hair. You deprive yourself the feeding you need for the most maudlin of reasons. And that is all you have to say to me? These excuses?"
"You're angry."
"Nice catch, that. How ever did you guess?"
"I was angry for a long time. And we do not feel emotions like mortals. Even if you're passing, there's no one who can hold your hand while that wave hits. I’ve felt that tide roll in and hit me like a wall, damned near drowning me in a see of hatred. I killed a lot of people, wanting to watch them hurt. But this, too, shall pass. The tide just as surely flows back out, and hopefully there is not too much wreckage in its wake to tidy up."
"When was that? Was that when I lost track of you?"
"Hm. From before the Tecumseh wars on to the begin of the Mexican war. 1810 maybe? The details, you know, get fuzzy. Counting doesn’t matter so much after a while."
"They wouldn't if you would feed. It is in our nature to feed! Why do you deny yourself what is natural? Vampires make terrible nuns, you know."
"It doesn't exactly go with my job title."
"And what are you doing playing minister to these foolish mortals? They're so peevish and trite! I don't see why you bother with them so much!"
I stomp my foot on the floor, rattling the furniture and windows. "The man you killed tonight wasn't trite. He was a good person."
"That old bit of gristle tasted like canned food." He muses, theatrically picking his teeth.
"You are not funny!"
"Oh! What are you going to do, Mummy? Take me over your knee?" his sarcasm catches me up short. Must have gotten that trait from his father. "you can't because you lack the strength to do anything about it. But you’re not totally spent on life yet, I can see that."
"I do not wish to feed, anymore. I wish to be done. I've seen enough."
"Well, you better start, because you're going to need some energy. I'm not done with your little country town just yet. And no mortal can stop me, so you're going to have to come after me yourself! It will be like all the fun little games we never got to play! Catch me if you can!"
"You - you're not going to kill again, are you? How could you?"
"I feed and kill in the way God intended me to, just like you. When we don't do what we're meant to do, we get unhappy. Wasn't that in one of your Sunday talks?"
"But this is not right! It's one thing to feed but you can't just treat their lives as if they don't matter! Life is not a game! Mortals are not toys!"
"OH please! Look in the mirror next time you toss out the platitudes! Je-SUS! The four fifths of them who won't be 'terrorized' will be eagerly watching the evening news! Not a few will even hope to be my next victim! See, the human brain is wired to enjoy violence. Think about it, they had to be, for violence is necessary to survival. It is mandatory that one do violence to an animal or a tree in order to procure food and shelter. Those ape men who recoiled from wielding the club or flint simply didn't survive. They didn’t live long enough to put their drop into the river of DNA. That's why the English loved watching the criminals be hung, drawn & quartered. That's why Parisian crowds watched eagerly while person after person went to the guillotine. That's why the mobs gathered for lynchings in America like it was a Sunday outing. That’s why nation after nation continues to make war and make movies about war and why people line up and pay good money out of love for gory, violent movies. And now that most people don't get the opportunity to kill in order to eat, now that dinner is just a trip to the refrigerator and just some plastic wrapping away? They're bored and depressed. Don't worry mummy! They're going to love me!"
"You're a monster!"
"And the apple doesn't fall far from the tree!"
"STOP THIS! If you're angry at me then take it out on me! What do you want me to say? That I'm sorry? Sorry doesn't even cover how either of us feels. I was wrong! I was young and foolish and selfish and wrong. I can't expect you to forgive but don't take your anger out on these people!"
"Then why don't you stand up, wipe your bony ass and get off the fucking pity pot?! Live, damn you!"
"Because I'm tired! I am so, so deeply tired right down to my bones. I just can't."
Thick quiet fills up the air. It's a while before he breaks it. "I saw you once. You were soaring above the mountains, riding the air, and hunting with ease. That is the picture of you I have held." He makes for the window, fixing to leave.
"Wait. Before you go. What is your name? I didn't have a say in naming you, and time has taken it from me. I know I’m a terrible mum, but please just tell me your name."
A sly smile curls across his face. "You can call me 'Jack'." And in a flash of dark wings, he's gone.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Nanowrimo - 12
Our fearsome travel on the westward trails, picking through wilderness, watching for bears, bartering with friendlies or avoiding hostiles, keeping our powder dry in rain, fording streams and rivers, every day an gamble to survive, hunting for food and sometimes going hungry, lives mixed in memory with Gabriel. The frontier or the man, I gave myself over to each with what proved to be a careless amount of abandon. Making a warm fire under the stars where we could sleep and enjoy each other’s bodies, wandering through this country alone doing our trading and trapping, we were a nation of two.
Eventually the Ohio valley became more and more settled. Our little world was interrupted by Tecumseh’s terrible Indian wars and our frontier became peopled. In making our trails we had accidentally blazed a path toward the interior for opportunity starved masses. Our lives became settled, set in place with bands of gold. And our lives together stretched on for years. But, Gabriel was a man who needed to conquer. He needed wide, wild spaces accompanied by things unknown to maintain his sense of cheer. He was happiest on his horse, gun in hand and facing a risk to his life. I had gone from being part of his adventure to his albatross. And so, I finally understood what Zoltan had warned me about while I was still very young and under his tutelage. These mortals don’t have long on this Earth and so have no patience for life’s unfoldment. Their little hearts turn on a dime.
My first determination was never to forgive him. I would never condone this wasting of my time and energy in the absence of any true love. I would never pardon the walking out which lacked discussion or reason. “How dare you pay for your freedom with someone else’s sanity? How dare you demand perfection yet offer so little. How dare you sweep away any fond memory with one bitter gesture?”
“Plink! Plink!” The sound two gold bands make while I play with them draws me from reverie. I find myself at the roll top desk, toying with the rings and staring out a black window. This is ridiculous. I plop them back into their tiny drawer and shut the desk up. It’s always easier to rehash those moments when one could be perceived as having been wronged. Those other many moments when I was the aggressor are bastards of memory – only owned when pressed.
My grief was a rage. I killed for the first time not for the sake of feeding but for the sheer joy of squeezing all life out of a living man. I began to do the deed in stages, starting with the first immobilizing bite and watching their eyes beg for mercy at every turn. I wanted to see the absolute terror in their eyes. I wanted it to hurt. I wanted someone else to feel pain like I had felt pain. The more I fed and killed, the stronger my rage did grow. In anger, I was wild as a beast, invincible, and at a loss for all human dignity.
I could have destroyed myself forever carrying that grudge. When suddenly I came to my senses three years had passed. I ceased this reign of terror on the countryside and moved to upper New York State to start over. This time I had nothing to buy or sell and no one upon whom I could rely for security. The kindness of strangers extended there became my first introduction to the Unitarian church. I soaked up the ‘The Dial”. Emerson’s words became a balm to me and I vowed to love no human more than these divine principles.
Ten years a go, I welcomed the chance to come here, in the role of minister, to the heartland where population was sparse. This was partially to feel the air and room around me but also to know that here was a place where no people slipped off the edge. A crowded metropolis, filled with the inter-mingling feet of strangers, lends itself to widespread anonymity. No one might notice one person missing. But out here, every person matters and every body is counted.
I thought this would be a guard against the urge as it could not arise in safety. I wanted to be in a place where I was guaranteed to wither and die like a normal person. I never counted on another once born entering this world and throwing the balance off entirely. But someone has arrived, someone strong and aggressive, and I lack the strength to do anything about them. That is, unless I feed.
It hasn’t been easy to abstain. With the improved mortal diet through this last century it’s less necessary to feed, but still the hunger is there. And I love the hunger. I love that pain of emptiness in my gut because in a world that grows more and more stale with each passing age that gnawing at my core is the only thing that tells me I am still alive. A life defined by a discomfort and denial of life itself is the one factor that makes me feel like a real human. I starve, there fore I am.
And now this dark blanket is being ripped from me. The ruse is over. “Woman, what art thou?” asks the black night as it creeps through the window and into the room, filling every corner.
And to it I can only render the most feeble of answers. “I am that I am. I know not whither I come.”
I collapse onto the bed for another night of restless travels through memory. Drifting off those distant words echo in my mind. “Hello, Mummy.”
“Peck Peck Peck” I hear the percussive tap and the rattling of the window in its frame. I feel my eyes open but cannot sense that this has had any effect. Eyes closed, eyes open, all is black.
“Peck! Peck!” I raise up, and in the dim square that is my window I make out the outline of a raven, tapping its beak on the glass, looking in at me. I’m not ready for this moment as much as the moment is ready for me.
“Peck! Peck! Peck!” He knows I’m awake and becomes more insistent. Is this how you got into my friend Jones house? Agitating him at the window? And you’re here to destroy me now?
I stand up and look at him in the eyes. Only the glass separates us. “I just want to talk” comes through the ether.
“That’s good, you’ve got some explaining to do.” The lock is stiff with the cold and takes some effort to give way, but as soon as I have the window open a couple inches the corax flutters through.
I push the window shut, reach to turn on a light and when I turn back around before me stands a grown man. His face shines with the health of the newly fed. His hair is thick and dark and something about his features is oddly familiar.
“Don’t you recognize me?” He bellows, holding out his arms.
I scan his features but can only frown.
“I’m shocked that you would fail to recognize your own son!”
Eventually the Ohio valley became more and more settled. Our little world was interrupted by Tecumseh’s terrible Indian wars and our frontier became peopled. In making our trails we had accidentally blazed a path toward the interior for opportunity starved masses. Our lives became settled, set in place with bands of gold. And our lives together stretched on for years. But, Gabriel was a man who needed to conquer. He needed wide, wild spaces accompanied by things unknown to maintain his sense of cheer. He was happiest on his horse, gun in hand and facing a risk to his life. I had gone from being part of his adventure to his albatross. And so, I finally understood what Zoltan had warned me about while I was still very young and under his tutelage. These mortals don’t have long on this Earth and so have no patience for life’s unfoldment. Their little hearts turn on a dime.
My first determination was never to forgive him. I would never condone this wasting of my time and energy in the absence of any true love. I would never pardon the walking out which lacked discussion or reason. “How dare you pay for your freedom with someone else’s sanity? How dare you demand perfection yet offer so little. How dare you sweep away any fond memory with one bitter gesture?”
“Plink! Plink!” The sound two gold bands make while I play with them draws me from reverie. I find myself at the roll top desk, toying with the rings and staring out a black window. This is ridiculous. I plop them back into their tiny drawer and shut the desk up. It’s always easier to rehash those moments when one could be perceived as having been wronged. Those other many moments when I was the aggressor are bastards of memory – only owned when pressed.
My grief was a rage. I killed for the first time not for the sake of feeding but for the sheer joy of squeezing all life out of a living man. I began to do the deed in stages, starting with the first immobilizing bite and watching their eyes beg for mercy at every turn. I wanted to see the absolute terror in their eyes. I wanted it to hurt. I wanted someone else to feel pain like I had felt pain. The more I fed and killed, the stronger my rage did grow. In anger, I was wild as a beast, invincible, and at a loss for all human dignity.
I could have destroyed myself forever carrying that grudge. When suddenly I came to my senses three years had passed. I ceased this reign of terror on the countryside and moved to upper New York State to start over. This time I had nothing to buy or sell and no one upon whom I could rely for security. The kindness of strangers extended there became my first introduction to the Unitarian church. I soaked up the ‘The Dial”. Emerson’s words became a balm to me and I vowed to love no human more than these divine principles.
Ten years a go, I welcomed the chance to come here, in the role of minister, to the heartland where population was sparse. This was partially to feel the air and room around me but also to know that here was a place where no people slipped off the edge. A crowded metropolis, filled with the inter-mingling feet of strangers, lends itself to widespread anonymity. No one might notice one person missing. But out here, every person matters and every body is counted.
I thought this would be a guard against the urge as it could not arise in safety. I wanted to be in a place where I was guaranteed to wither and die like a normal person. I never counted on another once born entering this world and throwing the balance off entirely. But someone has arrived, someone strong and aggressive, and I lack the strength to do anything about them. That is, unless I feed.
It hasn’t been easy to abstain. With the improved mortal diet through this last century it’s less necessary to feed, but still the hunger is there. And I love the hunger. I love that pain of emptiness in my gut because in a world that grows more and more stale with each passing age that gnawing at my core is the only thing that tells me I am still alive. A life defined by a discomfort and denial of life itself is the one factor that makes me feel like a real human. I starve, there fore I am.
And now this dark blanket is being ripped from me. The ruse is over. “Woman, what art thou?” asks the black night as it creeps through the window and into the room, filling every corner.
And to it I can only render the most feeble of answers. “I am that I am. I know not whither I come.”
I collapse onto the bed for another night of restless travels through memory. Drifting off those distant words echo in my mind. “Hello, Mummy.”
“Peck Peck Peck” I hear the percussive tap and the rattling of the window in its frame. I feel my eyes open but cannot sense that this has had any effect. Eyes closed, eyes open, all is black.
“Peck! Peck!” I raise up, and in the dim square that is my window I make out the outline of a raven, tapping its beak on the glass, looking in at me. I’m not ready for this moment as much as the moment is ready for me.
“Peck! Peck! Peck!” He knows I’m awake and becomes more insistent. Is this how you got into my friend Jones house? Agitating him at the window? And you’re here to destroy me now?
I stand up and look at him in the eyes. Only the glass separates us. “I just want to talk” comes through the ether.
“That’s good, you’ve got some explaining to do.” The lock is stiff with the cold and takes some effort to give way, but as soon as I have the window open a couple inches the corax flutters through.
I push the window shut, reach to turn on a light and when I turn back around before me stands a grown man. His face shines with the health of the newly fed. His hair is thick and dark and something about his features is oddly familiar.
“Don’t you recognize me?” He bellows, holding out his arms.
I scan his features but can only frown.
“I’m shocked that you would fail to recognize your own son!”
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Nanowrimo - 11
Tall clipper ships crowded Baltimore harbor, their masts like a strange, leafless forest. Their bellies bobbed with the tide. I couldn’t fill my lungs with enough open air and my feet were most grateful to at last stand upon unmoving soil. I had no idea what to do or where to begin. How could I make my way toward the vast interior? Into this bright haze and mental intoxication of my early arrival walked Gabriel. He smiled, cocked his hat and something in my head said “follow him”. I was but fifty years old by the calendar, still so young in my thinking and hopeful in expectation.
In his voice was a singularly unusual drawl what sounded as if words were in no hurry to leave his lips. His dress, fur cap and homespun clothing was utterly unsophisticated and unlike any thing I had seen in Europe save a weary peasant. But, his walk was confident and his expression adventurous. His eyes danced with the color of a pond in the sunlight and he seemed at the ready to pluck the whole world from the bough of a tree and take a big bite.
At first, I couldn’t make out what he was asking me.
“Wus yaw name, ma-dam?”
I’ve never been in the position to do my own introduction. As I was married, I transitioned from being someone’s daughter to someone’s wife with out much acknowledgement of my own personhood. I was whosever I was. And the others, Zoltan, Agnoletti, none had ever needed a title to understand.
“My name? Why, My name is ‘Eleanor’.”
“Why tha-at is jus’ a lovely ole name. Named after someone were yew?”
“Indeed I was, after Eleanor of Aquitane, the queen of England who rode bare-breasted into battle during the crusades.” At least that was the historical marker I had chosen. Much more interesting that my croupy grandmother.
“Well, Well! I mus’ say! Nahw yew got a nother name Miss Eleanor?”
I had prepared for such a moment long ago to avoid being found by my husband. Upon passing the interred bishops in a Parisian church I chose a surname. “Durat.”
“Why that is just lovely there. Sounds French. Yew French nahw?”
No, I am not. “Why yes, indeed.”
“Well that’s niiice, I never met a French person up close before. Though I sho’ shot some when they took to wanderin’ into my trappin’ territory.” He laughs at his own humor. “Now what are you going to do with yourself here in Baltimore? You got family here to find? Yer husband already over here?”
“No, no I haven’t anybody over here. I have no husband.” The old boy is probably dead by now, I figure.
“Ah see. You indentured then, working some fo you can pay to be free?”
“No, no I’m not here in anyone’s employ.”
His face turns baffled and skeptical. “Well whacha come all the way over for?”
“I grew tired of running from Napoleon’s wars. I lived on a battlefield. Everything I had was destroyed or dead. Everything. I had nothing left to stay for, so –.”
“So you come to Baltimore.”
“I came wherever a ship would take me for the passage I could pay.”
“You come awn over heyah all by yew lonesome?”
“Indeed.”
“Huh. Well here you is.”
“Not for long. I’ve seen enough of cities and their crowded squalor. I’m should like to travel west. I want to see the open land.”
“How yew fix to do that, now?” The smile he wears is one of those knowing grins, like he knows the outcome and finds me amusing. “This here country is big, full of wild Indians! Can’t just go out for a stroll and see it in a day yew know.”
“I know. That’s why I’m coming with you.”
“Nahw what in the name of heaven makes you think ah want tah be travelin’ around with some woman? That just ain’t right! Why you fresh off the boat an’ all yew cain’t survive a day out in the wild. I can’t be doing my trappin an’ takin’ care ah yew!” My jaw is quite set so he persists. “What in the name o’ God can yew do tah survive out in the wild? You cain’t hunt. You cain’t trap none. I figure you cain’t hardly shoot a gun or make a fire. How yew think yews goin’ ta survahve?”
“I survived the marchings of an army across my country like a swarm of locusts stealing every last bit of life from the land. Your wild territory doesn’t really frighten me.”
“Darndest woman I ever saw. Well it just ain’t right! I can be taking a woman! Mebbe yew din’ have the same kinda morals ovah in France be heyah we don’t just take up with folks!”
“Unless you want to.” I look up into his broad and open face and watch it slowly curl into a smile.
With one horse loaded with trapping equipment we head westward, walking along the Cumberland trail. The land is open and the air is wildly fragrant. As we proceed the plumes of smoke from various settlements grow more and more sparse while the terrain becomes hilly, then rock, then quite steep. This, at last, is how a human is supposed to live, to really live, wild and free. I can only marvel at what each bend in the road offers.
Our first encounter with a native comes as we cross the mountains and he is the most singularly unusual sight. In dress he resembles the people of Baltimore. But his hair is long and dark like a raven’s, refracting hundreds of shades of black as it plays in the sunlight. His skin is deep, almost fragrant in color. While the native exchanges a friendly greeting with Gabriel, introducing himself as “John”, he eyes me warily. But, he is a “friendly”, a Cherokee, and civilized and we are welcomed to his home for a supper and a warm bed for the night.
Indeed John does live in a home not terribly unlike those cabins that we have passed. As we arrive, his family greets us warmly at the door. Then, all at once, I hear a tiny voice shouting from the interior of the cabin. The same few syllables are repeated but I cannot make them out.
“Oh that is my grandmother.” John explains.
At once in the doorway an old woman appears with the same deep skin and a head full of long, white hair. Holding herself up on the frame she looks around, sets eyes on me, and shouts her incomprehensible utterance again.
“My grandmother keeps to the old ways. She still practices the old faith.” He’s explaining with a bit of an embarrassed tone.
“What is she saying?”
John hesitates, then ventures in a low voice “she calls you ‘skinwalker’. It’s, well a human that is an animal, one living by power of what you call witchcraft.”
On the wrong day, her hunch would be accurate. But I have not the slightest inkling of the urge in me. “Say whatever you must that she may know her home is safe from all witchcraft.” I make eye contact with the old woman while John translates my words. We regard each other for a long second and then she nods and with a grunt waives me into the house.
After our meal the old woman motions me toward her by the hearth. For a minute she simply breathes deeply, looking into my eyes. Her every gesture is introduced by a grunt and a nod. She throws some fragrant branches and leaves into the fire, which in turn set loose a sweet smoke. In her hand she holds two crossed feathers from a colorful bird. Circling them over my head she chants for several minutes until the scented smoke has dwindled. And then, with a grunt and a pat on the head, this little ceremony is quite finished.
As I sleep I seem to travel this vast land, but from above. I soar and circle wide, colorful valleys past mountains and forests. I call out in wonder but only a screech comes from my throat. Suddenly, I spot something below and I’m uncontrollably drawn toward it. I have no conscious understanding or recognition for what draws me. Diving lower and lower I speed along the surface of a mountain lake until all at once I reach down and snatch a fish from the water. When I come to settle on a rock I immediately subdue my quivering captive with sharp claws. I tear at the slippery flesh, consuming the lot.
We depart early in the morning and John sends us off with a courtesy any English gentleman would envy. As we stride away I spy the tiny, white haired frame of a woman watching us.
In the days and weeks after leaving John’s home we head into Shawnee territory. These natives are not friendly at all in Gabriel’s estimation and he is visibly apprehensive. He orders me to stay close. For the most part it seems we are out here, in this wilderness, by ourselves. We track beaver, watching trees for gnawing and setting traps. The meat is decidedly greasy but their fur is thick.
As the days become hotter I begin to sense the presence of eyes around us, deep in the trees. The woods have an intelligence within them, which regards us two travelers warily. I can feel it. I can feel the mind of these observers grow malevolent as we proceed further and further. I feel the eyes drawing near.
And then it comes. It starts as a flutter in my stomach and transforms into a burn. The woods pulse with loud intensity. I can hear every foot fall of every insect and the wing flapping of every bird. One minute we quietly regard the land for a place to set traps and in the next my world is going black save for the urge to feed. I feel my teeth drawing out.
“I’m going to check up by that creek.” I shout over my shoulder to Gabriel.
“Don’t wander far off now! I cain’t have you yellin’ up a storm cause yew get lost.”
With that admonition I tramp off into the forest. The thick trunks of trees make a veil between us. My blood boils I my veins. The food is near, it’s –
With the sound of a wild screech I turn to see a man, masked and dressed like I’ve seen no human attired, leaping down onto me from the trees and holding a weapon aloft. With a growl I snatch him from the air and bite into his deep flesh. The flavor is rich, sweet, stronger than any I’ve had.
The ecstasy is unbelievable. All colors of the forest invade my eyes with their brightness. For a minute I can understand what the birds are communicating. I hear their many little voices each saying “I’m here! I’m over here! I’m here! I’m here!” An old tree holds me up. It talks to me slowly and softly, telling me my secret is safe in its branches. I regard the native’s drained body, his painted flesh and feather adorned person. He, too, is part animal. In different circumstances, we could have been friends. But out here if one is to live, another must die.
“Nothing over that way.” I tell Gabriel, upon my return.
“What was all that noise I heard?”
“Oh, I surprised a turkey hen and she made quite the noise. Darn near scared me out of my skin.”
He just nods and returns to his silent wait for an animal to land in his trap. The woods relent; the eyes recede. We are safe.
In his voice was a singularly unusual drawl what sounded as if words were in no hurry to leave his lips. His dress, fur cap and homespun clothing was utterly unsophisticated and unlike any thing I had seen in Europe save a weary peasant. But, his walk was confident and his expression adventurous. His eyes danced with the color of a pond in the sunlight and he seemed at the ready to pluck the whole world from the bough of a tree and take a big bite.
At first, I couldn’t make out what he was asking me.
“Wus yaw name, ma-dam?”
I’ve never been in the position to do my own introduction. As I was married, I transitioned from being someone’s daughter to someone’s wife with out much acknowledgement of my own personhood. I was whosever I was. And the others, Zoltan, Agnoletti, none had ever needed a title to understand.
“My name? Why, My name is ‘Eleanor’.”
“Why tha-at is jus’ a lovely ole name. Named after someone were yew?”
“Indeed I was, after Eleanor of Aquitane, the queen of England who rode bare-breasted into battle during the crusades.” At least that was the historical marker I had chosen. Much more interesting that my croupy grandmother.
“Well, Well! I mus’ say! Nahw yew got a nother name Miss Eleanor?”
I had prepared for such a moment long ago to avoid being found by my husband. Upon passing the interred bishops in a Parisian church I chose a surname. “Durat.”
“Why that is just lovely there. Sounds French. Yew French nahw?”
No, I am not. “Why yes, indeed.”
“Well that’s niiice, I never met a French person up close before. Though I sho’ shot some when they took to wanderin’ into my trappin’ territory.” He laughs at his own humor. “Now what are you going to do with yourself here in Baltimore? You got family here to find? Yer husband already over here?”
“No, no I haven’t anybody over here. I have no husband.” The old boy is probably dead by now, I figure.
“Ah see. You indentured then, working some fo you can pay to be free?”
“No, no I’m not here in anyone’s employ.”
His face turns baffled and skeptical. “Well whacha come all the way over for?”
“I grew tired of running from Napoleon’s wars. I lived on a battlefield. Everything I had was destroyed or dead. Everything. I had nothing left to stay for, so –.”
“So you come to Baltimore.”
“I came wherever a ship would take me for the passage I could pay.”
“You come awn over heyah all by yew lonesome?”
“Indeed.”
“Huh. Well here you is.”
“Not for long. I’ve seen enough of cities and their crowded squalor. I’m should like to travel west. I want to see the open land.”
“How yew fix to do that, now?” The smile he wears is one of those knowing grins, like he knows the outcome and finds me amusing. “This here country is big, full of wild Indians! Can’t just go out for a stroll and see it in a day yew know.”
“I know. That’s why I’m coming with you.”
“Nahw what in the name of heaven makes you think ah want tah be travelin’ around with some woman? That just ain’t right! Why you fresh off the boat an’ all yew cain’t survive a day out in the wild. I can’t be doing my trappin an’ takin’ care ah yew!” My jaw is quite set so he persists. “What in the name o’ God can yew do tah survive out in the wild? You cain’t hunt. You cain’t trap none. I figure you cain’t hardly shoot a gun or make a fire. How yew think yews goin’ ta survahve?”
“I survived the marchings of an army across my country like a swarm of locusts stealing every last bit of life from the land. Your wild territory doesn’t really frighten me.”
“Darndest woman I ever saw. Well it just ain’t right! I can be taking a woman! Mebbe yew din’ have the same kinda morals ovah in France be heyah we don’t just take up with folks!”
“Unless you want to.” I look up into his broad and open face and watch it slowly curl into a smile.
With one horse loaded with trapping equipment we head westward, walking along the Cumberland trail. The land is open and the air is wildly fragrant. As we proceed the plumes of smoke from various settlements grow more and more sparse while the terrain becomes hilly, then rock, then quite steep. This, at last, is how a human is supposed to live, to really live, wild and free. I can only marvel at what each bend in the road offers.
Our first encounter with a native comes as we cross the mountains and he is the most singularly unusual sight. In dress he resembles the people of Baltimore. But his hair is long and dark like a raven’s, refracting hundreds of shades of black as it plays in the sunlight. His skin is deep, almost fragrant in color. While the native exchanges a friendly greeting with Gabriel, introducing himself as “John”, he eyes me warily. But, he is a “friendly”, a Cherokee, and civilized and we are welcomed to his home for a supper and a warm bed for the night.
Indeed John does live in a home not terribly unlike those cabins that we have passed. As we arrive, his family greets us warmly at the door. Then, all at once, I hear a tiny voice shouting from the interior of the cabin. The same few syllables are repeated but I cannot make them out.
“Oh that is my grandmother.” John explains.
At once in the doorway an old woman appears with the same deep skin and a head full of long, white hair. Holding herself up on the frame she looks around, sets eyes on me, and shouts her incomprehensible utterance again.
“My grandmother keeps to the old ways. She still practices the old faith.” He’s explaining with a bit of an embarrassed tone.
“What is she saying?”
John hesitates, then ventures in a low voice “she calls you ‘skinwalker’. It’s, well a human that is an animal, one living by power of what you call witchcraft.”
On the wrong day, her hunch would be accurate. But I have not the slightest inkling of the urge in me. “Say whatever you must that she may know her home is safe from all witchcraft.” I make eye contact with the old woman while John translates my words. We regard each other for a long second and then she nods and with a grunt waives me into the house.
After our meal the old woman motions me toward her by the hearth. For a minute she simply breathes deeply, looking into my eyes. Her every gesture is introduced by a grunt and a nod. She throws some fragrant branches and leaves into the fire, which in turn set loose a sweet smoke. In her hand she holds two crossed feathers from a colorful bird. Circling them over my head she chants for several minutes until the scented smoke has dwindled. And then, with a grunt and a pat on the head, this little ceremony is quite finished.
As I sleep I seem to travel this vast land, but from above. I soar and circle wide, colorful valleys past mountains and forests. I call out in wonder but only a screech comes from my throat. Suddenly, I spot something below and I’m uncontrollably drawn toward it. I have no conscious understanding or recognition for what draws me. Diving lower and lower I speed along the surface of a mountain lake until all at once I reach down and snatch a fish from the water. When I come to settle on a rock I immediately subdue my quivering captive with sharp claws. I tear at the slippery flesh, consuming the lot.
We depart early in the morning and John sends us off with a courtesy any English gentleman would envy. As we stride away I spy the tiny, white haired frame of a woman watching us.
In the days and weeks after leaving John’s home we head into Shawnee territory. These natives are not friendly at all in Gabriel’s estimation and he is visibly apprehensive. He orders me to stay close. For the most part it seems we are out here, in this wilderness, by ourselves. We track beaver, watching trees for gnawing and setting traps. The meat is decidedly greasy but their fur is thick.
As the days become hotter I begin to sense the presence of eyes around us, deep in the trees. The woods have an intelligence within them, which regards us two travelers warily. I can feel it. I can feel the mind of these observers grow malevolent as we proceed further and further. I feel the eyes drawing near.
And then it comes. It starts as a flutter in my stomach and transforms into a burn. The woods pulse with loud intensity. I can hear every foot fall of every insect and the wing flapping of every bird. One minute we quietly regard the land for a place to set traps and in the next my world is going black save for the urge to feed. I feel my teeth drawing out.
“I’m going to check up by that creek.” I shout over my shoulder to Gabriel.
“Don’t wander far off now! I cain’t have you yellin’ up a storm cause yew get lost.”
With that admonition I tramp off into the forest. The thick trunks of trees make a veil between us. My blood boils I my veins. The food is near, it’s –
With the sound of a wild screech I turn to see a man, masked and dressed like I’ve seen no human attired, leaping down onto me from the trees and holding a weapon aloft. With a growl I snatch him from the air and bite into his deep flesh. The flavor is rich, sweet, stronger than any I’ve had.
The ecstasy is unbelievable. All colors of the forest invade my eyes with their brightness. For a minute I can understand what the birds are communicating. I hear their many little voices each saying “I’m here! I’m over here! I’m here! I’m here!” An old tree holds me up. It talks to me slowly and softly, telling me my secret is safe in its branches. I regard the native’s drained body, his painted flesh and feather adorned person. He, too, is part animal. In different circumstances, we could have been friends. But out here if one is to live, another must die.
“Nothing over that way.” I tell Gabriel, upon my return.
“What was all that noise I heard?”
“Oh, I surprised a turkey hen and she made quite the noise. Darn near scared me out of my skin.”
He just nods and returns to his silent wait for an animal to land in his trap. The woods relent; the eyes recede. We are safe.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Nanowrimo - 10
Looking around the house I frame the disarray in a whole new mindset. The furniture and possessions thrown around the room, holes punched in walls, it’s all the mark of a once-born high on freshly consumed life blood. Dammit! I had sensed another one drawing nearer. I should have started taking precautions. But, I’ve never encountered another on of us and had it go so badly. “Mummy…” Could it be?
Skeptical, the sergeant at the scene orders the body lifted. “The blood pools underneath the body if the wounds were inflicted while it was lying down. Those fang marks are some stupid prank! Vampires! Of all the god damned stupid things you’re talking like a bunch of school girls! But BE CAREFUL! Don’t destroy the evidence! Gently! I’m only letting you do this so you shut up!”
He’s trying to bring some calm to a room where the faces of his most hardened officers have turned to paper white. These tough guys think they’ve seen everything after a few traffic accidents and domestic disputes. “You lot haven’t seen anything until you’ve lived in a culture without a television in every house to pacify the mob.” I think to myself.
Two rubber gloved officers lift Jones body ever so slightly in pursuit of said pool of absent blood. Idiots. Jones is a skinny man, his body would never be large enough to conceal 3 liters of liquid. And with those wounds this room should be spattered and red.
“Sir there’s no blood underneath him!” They drop the corpse and leap back.
“Dammit! Be careful!” He bellows, wiping the sweat from his head. “Dammit!”
As much as I don’t believe in doing this, I start to perform the task I was called here to do. I open my Bible to the spot in the New Testament where Jesus casts a legion of devils out of a man. I close the book, repeating those words out loud. I then walk from room to room sprinkling my (supposedly) holy water and saying a blessing, finally rubbing the water all about the entire frame of the back door, the smashed in point of entry for the murderer. Some of the officers come up to me, asking to be anointed so that the evil spirits don’t catch them, too. I do. I bless them. And then I tell them to make sure they are never alone.
“Jones didn’t have anyone here with him. He was an easy target for whatever or whoever did this. Stay together.”
The sergeant corners me asking “Do you REALLY think that this was really done by some demon-crazed monster? Some vampire?”
“I don’t know. But I do know that history is littered with tales of secluded townships gone mad with fear. Whatever nut did this we have to make sure that fear doesn’t keep the rest of us from doing the same to each other. If people feel safer and closer to each other with holy water and exorcisms, then that’s what I’ll do. They’re less likely to feel afraid if they are in a group. Look at Mr. Jones circumstances, old, alone, feeble. For their own mental safety we must make sure people take steps to see that their lives look nothing like his.”
“I’ve got enough on my hands investigating this! I can’t run around holding everyone’s hands so they don’t get scared of the dark!”
“How many monsters do you want to have on your hands? Fear is that powerful.” I turn to leave and pause in the kitchen. This is one area of the house not crawling with police. The blue ceramic plate upon which I served his dinner on is smashed on the floor, chicken bones scattered about it. Thanks to the window left ajar, a chill runs through the place.
The window. I look up at it, I look over to the smashed in back door, then back to the window. I replay my memory of the corax. Did Jones, ever loving soul that he was, open the window to talk to that bird and welcome in his own killer? Did that clever raven pick the latch?
“I thought you’d left.” The sergeant says from behind me.
“This window is open.”
“So it is.”
“Why would a skinny old man who can’t pay his heating bills and who always wore long underwear, flannels and coats to stay warm, even while indoors, during the winter – leave a window open in February?” He just frowns at me. “Listen, I was here this afternoon, I left about 2 pm. Before I left I emptied that garbage can because it was brimming over with empty, dirty soup cans. After I was done I washed my hands at that sink, right by that window. And that window was closed up tight.”
“That window is eight feet off the ground outside and it’s small!”
“This window is how the killer got in, not your back door. That pile of matchsticks is just plain theater. I can feel it.” I step closer to him, hoping to make a dent in his ridiculous ‘hard boiled cop’ persona. “In my line of work I come in contact with a fair amount of criminals. It’s part of my job. I’ve been into prisons to talk to killers on death row and some of their escapades do near the humanly impossible. I’m telling you that in my gut I know this window is where the crime started.”
“I see a lot of criminals in my line of work, too.” His head rocks back in a skeptical gesture reminiscent of ‘the Lone Wolf’. Except this wolf is more of, well, a pig.
“Check the area.” He tells another officer. “Thank you Miss Durat, excuse me, Reverend Durat, we’ll call you if we need any further testimony.” He delivers this with a ‘you can leave now’ in his voice. He doesn’t like someone meddling in his investigation. He doesn’t like exorcism or advice. And I’m probably his number one suspect, to boot.
As I step gingerly around the house. Avoiding wreckage to exit the scene I hear the officer in the kitchen exclaim “Morton, there’s drops of blood on the floor.”
Oh but something tells me that this is not where the crime started at all. Not really.
“You must go now, something comes for you. Something evil.” Fr. Agnoletti, a once born living as a monk, makes this breathless announcement, slamming the wooden door of his hovel behind him. His chubby frame heaves with his attempts to catch a breath. “I was just crossing the fields, returning from the abbey and these great, black birds came upon me. Chased me on the ground they did and flew down real close to me, like so!” He mimics a winged creature flying in close proximity to his skull.
“Perhaps they could smell some bread in your pockets?” I venture an explanation. I’ve escaped France, Napoleonic wars and revolutionary insanity for Campania and only just recovered some health and feeling of normal.
“I have no bread! This is terrible! Dios mio this could draw attention to me and I can’t have that. I have a good life in this abbey, nice and quiet. I keep to myself and study and I like it here. These birds, whatever they bring I could end up on a pike! I tell you these are not normal birds. Someone is looking for you and I don’t have the strength to fight off whoever it is! Go! You must go!”
“Where am I supposed to go to now? Everywhere I go there is war.”
“The war will be here soon enough, too! You go to Napoli and get you onto a ship. Go wherever it take you. Maybe across the ocean to New Spain. Go!”
And so I fled again. Always I seemed to be running from something. In Naples I found a ship to Portugal, which seems to be leading me back into Napoleon’s jaws. Damn that little man! I find a ship heading across the ocean. The urge to feed is unstoppable whilst in transport and I dispatch of some rope monkeys. It’s dangerous to do in such confined quarters. There’s nowhere to run. I cannot drink of the lifeblood in safety at all but the cravings are uncontrollable. I make a bit of a spectacle, a woman traveling across the ocean alone. Every other passenger comes with a huddle of children and clutching spouse attached. The decks are packed as few ships make the trip now. Another factor for which we can all thank Napoleon. Many passengers have sold their entire world’s possessions to afford the journey. I had to employ a great amount of my remaining gold jewelry plus what Zoltan had gifted me to afford passage and food for the journey.
For weeks we float about over the turbulent sea, unfathomable is the blue deep spreading for as far as the eye can behold. Finally, to the west a thin strip of land appears along the horizon. Everyone, from passenger to ship mate, pushes to the edge of the vessel in anticipation. At long last we set land in Baltimore. We pull into a harbor bright with a haze filling the air, giving one the strange sense that we have landed in a city of light. Baltimore is a port city, but its size more nearly resembles that of a town. Most intoxicating is the air. I breathe and the scent of many trees, each contributing its perfume to the wind as it flows over land, greets my grateful senses. The streets are far from the cramped affairs of Europe with their fetid odors and gutters of filth. Instead I have the sense that I stand on the edge of a land vast, wild and ripe with possibility. At long last there is someplace to go unpremeditated by the confines of church and empire.
I thought of the ship I had just disembarked. More will come, filling this land with their families and bodies. I had to go into it, take it in and taste it before it was gone entirely. Finally, perhaps, fate had handed me a chance to be truly free.
Skeptical, the sergeant at the scene orders the body lifted. “The blood pools underneath the body if the wounds were inflicted while it was lying down. Those fang marks are some stupid prank! Vampires! Of all the god damned stupid things you’re talking like a bunch of school girls! But BE CAREFUL! Don’t destroy the evidence! Gently! I’m only letting you do this so you shut up!”
He’s trying to bring some calm to a room where the faces of his most hardened officers have turned to paper white. These tough guys think they’ve seen everything after a few traffic accidents and domestic disputes. “You lot haven’t seen anything until you’ve lived in a culture without a television in every house to pacify the mob.” I think to myself.
Two rubber gloved officers lift Jones body ever so slightly in pursuit of said pool of absent blood. Idiots. Jones is a skinny man, his body would never be large enough to conceal 3 liters of liquid. And with those wounds this room should be spattered and red.
“Sir there’s no blood underneath him!” They drop the corpse and leap back.
“Dammit! Be careful!” He bellows, wiping the sweat from his head. “Dammit!”
As much as I don’t believe in doing this, I start to perform the task I was called here to do. I open my Bible to the spot in the New Testament where Jesus casts a legion of devils out of a man. I close the book, repeating those words out loud. I then walk from room to room sprinkling my (supposedly) holy water and saying a blessing, finally rubbing the water all about the entire frame of the back door, the smashed in point of entry for the murderer. Some of the officers come up to me, asking to be anointed so that the evil spirits don’t catch them, too. I do. I bless them. And then I tell them to make sure they are never alone.
“Jones didn’t have anyone here with him. He was an easy target for whatever or whoever did this. Stay together.”
The sergeant corners me asking “Do you REALLY think that this was really done by some demon-crazed monster? Some vampire?”
“I don’t know. But I do know that history is littered with tales of secluded townships gone mad with fear. Whatever nut did this we have to make sure that fear doesn’t keep the rest of us from doing the same to each other. If people feel safer and closer to each other with holy water and exorcisms, then that’s what I’ll do. They’re less likely to feel afraid if they are in a group. Look at Mr. Jones circumstances, old, alone, feeble. For their own mental safety we must make sure people take steps to see that their lives look nothing like his.”
“I’ve got enough on my hands investigating this! I can’t run around holding everyone’s hands so they don’t get scared of the dark!”
“How many monsters do you want to have on your hands? Fear is that powerful.” I turn to leave and pause in the kitchen. This is one area of the house not crawling with police. The blue ceramic plate upon which I served his dinner on is smashed on the floor, chicken bones scattered about it. Thanks to the window left ajar, a chill runs through the place.
The window. I look up at it, I look over to the smashed in back door, then back to the window. I replay my memory of the corax. Did Jones, ever loving soul that he was, open the window to talk to that bird and welcome in his own killer? Did that clever raven pick the latch?
“I thought you’d left.” The sergeant says from behind me.
“This window is open.”
“So it is.”
“Why would a skinny old man who can’t pay his heating bills and who always wore long underwear, flannels and coats to stay warm, even while indoors, during the winter – leave a window open in February?” He just frowns at me. “Listen, I was here this afternoon, I left about 2 pm. Before I left I emptied that garbage can because it was brimming over with empty, dirty soup cans. After I was done I washed my hands at that sink, right by that window. And that window was closed up tight.”
“That window is eight feet off the ground outside and it’s small!”
“This window is how the killer got in, not your back door. That pile of matchsticks is just plain theater. I can feel it.” I step closer to him, hoping to make a dent in his ridiculous ‘hard boiled cop’ persona. “In my line of work I come in contact with a fair amount of criminals. It’s part of my job. I’ve been into prisons to talk to killers on death row and some of their escapades do near the humanly impossible. I’m telling you that in my gut I know this window is where the crime started.”
“I see a lot of criminals in my line of work, too.” His head rocks back in a skeptical gesture reminiscent of ‘the Lone Wolf’. Except this wolf is more of, well, a pig.
“Check the area.” He tells another officer. “Thank you Miss Durat, excuse me, Reverend Durat, we’ll call you if we need any further testimony.” He delivers this with a ‘you can leave now’ in his voice. He doesn’t like someone meddling in his investigation. He doesn’t like exorcism or advice. And I’m probably his number one suspect, to boot.
As I step gingerly around the house. Avoiding wreckage to exit the scene I hear the officer in the kitchen exclaim “Morton, there’s drops of blood on the floor.”
Oh but something tells me that this is not where the crime started at all. Not really.
“You must go now, something comes for you. Something evil.” Fr. Agnoletti, a once born living as a monk, makes this breathless announcement, slamming the wooden door of his hovel behind him. His chubby frame heaves with his attempts to catch a breath. “I was just crossing the fields, returning from the abbey and these great, black birds came upon me. Chased me on the ground they did and flew down real close to me, like so!” He mimics a winged creature flying in close proximity to his skull.
“Perhaps they could smell some bread in your pockets?” I venture an explanation. I’ve escaped France, Napoleonic wars and revolutionary insanity for Campania and only just recovered some health and feeling of normal.
“I have no bread! This is terrible! Dios mio this could draw attention to me and I can’t have that. I have a good life in this abbey, nice and quiet. I keep to myself and study and I like it here. These birds, whatever they bring I could end up on a pike! I tell you these are not normal birds. Someone is looking for you and I don’t have the strength to fight off whoever it is! Go! You must go!”
“Where am I supposed to go to now? Everywhere I go there is war.”
“The war will be here soon enough, too! You go to Napoli and get you onto a ship. Go wherever it take you. Maybe across the ocean to New Spain. Go!”
And so I fled again. Always I seemed to be running from something. In Naples I found a ship to Portugal, which seems to be leading me back into Napoleon’s jaws. Damn that little man! I find a ship heading across the ocean. The urge to feed is unstoppable whilst in transport and I dispatch of some rope monkeys. It’s dangerous to do in such confined quarters. There’s nowhere to run. I cannot drink of the lifeblood in safety at all but the cravings are uncontrollable. I make a bit of a spectacle, a woman traveling across the ocean alone. Every other passenger comes with a huddle of children and clutching spouse attached. The decks are packed as few ships make the trip now. Another factor for which we can all thank Napoleon. Many passengers have sold their entire world’s possessions to afford the journey. I had to employ a great amount of my remaining gold jewelry plus what Zoltan had gifted me to afford passage and food for the journey.
For weeks we float about over the turbulent sea, unfathomable is the blue deep spreading for as far as the eye can behold. Finally, to the west a thin strip of land appears along the horizon. Everyone, from passenger to ship mate, pushes to the edge of the vessel in anticipation. At long last we set land in Baltimore. We pull into a harbor bright with a haze filling the air, giving one the strange sense that we have landed in a city of light. Baltimore is a port city, but its size more nearly resembles that of a town. Most intoxicating is the air. I breathe and the scent of many trees, each contributing its perfume to the wind as it flows over land, greets my grateful senses. The streets are far from the cramped affairs of Europe with their fetid odors and gutters of filth. Instead I have the sense that I stand on the edge of a land vast, wild and ripe with possibility. At long last there is someplace to go unpremeditated by the confines of church and empire.
I thought of the ship I had just disembarked. More will come, filling this land with their families and bodies. I had to go into it, take it in and taste it before it was gone entirely. Finally, perhaps, fate had handed me a chance to be truly free.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Nanowrimo - 9
I find Jones out behind his house, contemplating the withered beds of his garden. In four months this plot will explode with color and life. But, you wouldn’t know that to look at it today. Dirty mounds covered with dead leaves are populated by dried, dead looking remnants of rose bushes and the scraggly husks of what used to be marigold & zinnia. Like a flannel question mark, he supports his thin frame on a cane while bending down to look over the spot where last season’s salvia lived. He hears me coming, but can’t right his back fast enough to make a proper greeting. Instead I just get a turn of the head and a “Hello, hello! Well if it isn’t the dinner-fairy!”
“Hello, Jones. Just bringing by some dinner I made for ya.”
“Yes yes I see that. That’s nice, that’s real nice there.” He makes his way back to straight again with a sigh. “ahhhh, just lookin things over here. Won’t be too much longer I’ll have my flowers back.”
“You miss them during the winter, do you?”
“Ohhhh if I could tug at the plants to make the spring come faster I would. My old bones can’t take much more of this cold. Maybe some day I’ll be one of them snow-birds and head down south for the winter!”
“With the kind of plants they have in the south? We’d never see you again! I bet you’d be off farming passion flowers in no time.”
“PASSION flowers? He heeeee, no ma’am I don’t think so. I’ll stick to these here roses.” He waives his cane briefly toward the brown stems popping out of the ground in V-shaped clusters. He does have the loveliest rose bushes. The bank of wild roses along the front of his house bloomed clear into November. “C’mon in, now. Don’t want my dinner getting cold!”
Walking into the ranch house behind Jones happens at such a delicate pace that it almost feels like a ceremonial procession. Inside he slides his bones onto a vinyl chair at the kitchen table while I take the liberty of rummaging through the cupboards to find a plate for his dinner. Difficult to find a bit of china without some chips or cracks in it, but I locate a plate with only few nicks along its edge. “It’s still hot.” I put the plate in front of him and sit down.
He looks at the plate, looks up at me politely, looks back at the plate, looks up at me with raised eyebrows, and then starts to grin.
“Shit, you need a fork!” I always forget that all people use silverware, now.
“A knife too, if you can locate a clean one.”
“Yes, yes, there’s a setting right here in the drawer.”
“Don’t bother none about wiping ‘em. If there’s dirt on them it’s all my dirt.”
I place the flatware within his reach and sit down. Like a hungry dog, he dives into the food. He doesn’t get much from his social security, just enough to keep a roof over his head, I bet. Food stamps help some. But what he buys is the cheap stuff in cans. The contents of his grocery bags tend to be the easily cooked, canned food. The heap of cans attracting flies around his garbage bin is a testimony to poor eating habits.
“You want me to take those cans outta here? They’ll be stinking in another day or so.”
“If that makes you happy miss, you may do so.” He eats with a meditative intensity. “hmmmm, good good food. Like real cookin’. Where’d a young lady like yerself learn to cook like that?” As he looks up I notice the spatters of chicken grease across his glasses.
From an 800 year old Italian monk is where I learned it. “I learned by hanging out with folks like you! That and watching Julia Child.”
“he he, Julia Child. Wife loved watching her. ‘cept some of her later shows. I think she was drunk in some of them. Heh. Sampling the cooking wine, maybe. Heh.”
“Maybe your wife cooked too well? If she’d burned dinner a few more times maybe you’d know how to eat something besides canned food!”
“She did burn dinner, that’s how I know how to open a can.”
For the span of at least five minutes we are helpless with laughter. When the last chortles have spent themselves out, he adds “well, the prettiest of roses all comes with thorns.”
“I might have to use that one of these Sundays.”
“I want royalties.”
“I’ll make sure the board comes straight to you with their editorial.”
“They at it again, huh?”
“No more than the usual. Wait until next week when I celebrate Ash Wednesday by telling everyone that they are atheists and prostitutes.”
“So it’s the Catholics been having all the fun all these years? Didn’t know that! I’d have left the Baptist church long ago had I known that.”
“Oh yeah man, and their communion wine is the real thing! Not just grape juice.”
“So maybe Julia Child just did her shows after going to church!”
“Maybe so old friend, maybe so.”
I get up to start fishing under the kitchen sink for a proper garbage bag to put the cans into. They make a terrific clatter once the bag is full. Jones doesn’t rinse the cans before tossing them aside so by the end of the task bits of noodles and drippings of slightly moldy mushroom soup cover my hands. I will never understand what some folks call food.
I head over to his kitchen sink and squirt a bright green liquid into my palm. Soap, amazing. I can’t help but play with this color for a bit before washing. Through the window before me I see the choke cherry tree, it’s limbs bare and grey except for the few bright red balls still hanging from its limbs. At first I only dimly register the raspy call of blackbirds. Then, at once, five of them appear in the yard. Large and robed entirely in black, their color commands a silent moment of awe. This darkness they wear seems tinged with thousands of midnights. Can’t help but whisper their name silently “Corax…”. All at once they take flight, their large wings casting a shadow over the garden. But one stays behind. Turning, he marches determinedly toward the house, aiming his beak up at me as I look out the window as if to make eye contact.
“Raaaaak!” It calls out. “Raaak! Raaaak!” He seems to be yelling at me, trying to say something. With a flap of wings like a flowing cape he comes to rest on the window ledge just outside. The ledge is narrow, but he manages to turn and point his beak straight towards me. Our gazes lock, he seems to regard me most intently, almost as if this creature were sent to detect…
I bang on the window, stunning the bird. He flies off, airing his complaints. “Raak raaak raaak!”
“Whatcha tryin to do there? Break my window?”
“Sorry, that bird was just, I don’t know, getting too close. Ravens are kinda weird. Like they’re too smart in their heads to still be stuck in bird bodies.”
“Well they used to be revered as gods.”
“Or seen as the souls of those unhappily deceased.”
“I like my version better!”
I try to hide it, but the raven’s visit has put a distinct uneasiness in my stomach. As I leave the house, clinking bag of cans in tow, I inspect the skies. The uneasiness grows into a distinct apprehension over the next few hours. Fear. I haven’t felt fear in a great while, and this overtakes me utterly. At home I rummage through my desk, I try writing, I try cleaning, all in attempts to stuff this strangely ominous sense of doom.
As night creeps in the faces start to haunt me. An English gentleman, a waif, a Jacobin, a reformer, a ship hand, a pioneer bent on killing a village of natives, a soldier delirious from battle and wandering far from the field, they start slowly, like a haunted parade. Yet soon they rush in, old faces, young faces, all surprised and angry and pleading with their eyes to be spared. I can’t shut my eyes and make the visions stop. The Canadian, the hippie, the Italian who liked to steal old ladies’ purses (so that’s what pizza tastes like?), the hitchhiker, the burglar, the business man from New York who thought he was going to get a neat little liaison, the law student, that big, dumb lawyer, the ski racer, the lot of them assail me with their faces.
“That is why!!” I shout into the air. “That is why I stopped! That is why I want to be the one to die now!!”
“I am weary of your baleful whingeing and self-deprivation.” Is all I hear back from the darkness. And so, all goes silent.
The phone rings. It echoes foreboding through the house. I reach for the receiver feeling it burn in my hand.
“Reverend Eleanor” says a panicked voice from inside the line. “You have to come quick, it’s Jones.”
“Who is this?”
“It’s Missy! Your chaplain!” The upset voice sounds hurt.
“Calm down Missy, tell me what has happened.”
“We don’t know! We don’t know but it looks awful and he’s dead! Something killed him! There’s demons in his house I tell you! You got to come over and cast out the witches and demons! It’s terrible! I tell you you got to get over here!
I can’t slap her through the phone. Maybe by the next century they’ll do something to perfect that. “Missy!! Get a hold of yourself! You’re talking nonsense! Now what do you see?”
“It’s terrible! It’s pure evil!” And thenceforth she is merely incoherent and tearful. Shit.
“ok! Ok! I’m coming right over. I’m coming to Jones house? Is that it?”
“yes! Yes! Come quick!”
“ok, I’m on my way. Try to stay calm and stay with other people. Don’t let anyone wander off on their own. Do you understand?”
“y-yes.”
“Good, I’m on my way.”
Where my advice comes from I’m not even sure. But, I have a feeling from the sound of her voice that I know what I’ll find. Dammit! Why Jones? He was such a sweet man!
I can see my destination from a good mile off. It’s a bright square of police lights and emergency floods like a postage stamp on the black night. As I arrive the people who have gathered rush toward me. I try to calm them down and find the police.
“Good evening officer. I’m Reverend Eleanor Durat from the Unitarian church in Farmersville. I got a call to come over here.”
“You know Mr. Jones?”
“Yes, I visited him weekly. I brought him food and we’d sit and talk.”
“When’s the last time you were over here?”
“Just this afternoon. I brought him a chicken dinner and removed the pile of cans he had in his kitchen.”
“you notice anything funny about the place while you were here Reverend?”
“Nothing funny just…” the officer leans in as if I might be withholding some valuable detail. “Only a murder of ravens gathering in the back yard. We don’t usually see those around here.”
“hm!” He seems awfully disappointed with my contribution.
“May I see him?”
“What?”
“May I see Jones? Some people here have called and asked me to cast out demons.” I hold up a Bible and a bottle of water for him to see. No one needs to know that it’s just evian.
“you say you were here just this afternoon?” He holds his face in the same pinched, pug like expression he looks at the bottle and looks at me.
“Yes, not even eight hours ago.”
“Well, come take a look” he raises the police tape blocking entry. “Just keep in mind that this is a murder scene. Do not touch anything. I’m going to have to ask you to put these booties on your shoes so no evidence gets destroyed.”
The scene inside the house is ghastly. Tables are upturned, furniture is ripped and upended, curtains are stripped from their rods as if clawed off by giant hands. I can only gasp and look around in surprise. “It didn’t look like this!” I keep repeating this as I pass shelves whose books have been thrown to the ground, a busted TV, and holes punched into the walls.
“This way.” The cop steers me toward the bedroom. Amidst the fluttering bits of cotton batting and springs a torn open mattress belches into the room, lies old Jones. Naked, spread eagled on the floor his chest has been carved open and he holds his heart in his own left hand. Entrails spill out of the body cavity. He has been castrated and I don’t want to know where that part went. His bones are broken.
My eyes slam shut from shock. The scene is just so, it’s so OLD. I haven’t seen a man die with his body beaten and drawn in such a manner in almost 200 years. Who would even think to do such a thing? But as I contemplate this, my spine goes cold. I open my eyes and survey the scene again. Something is exactly wrong.
“There’s no blood.”
“What?” One of the officers turns to look at me.
“There should be blood. There is no blood.”
Those who have been dusting and photographing at a distance to avoid coming too near now draw in. “Holy shit, she’s right.”
I step over the debris to come near, standing next to my old friend’s body. I bend down and gently take his head between my palms. Looking up briefly at the officers for acknowledgement I slowly turn his head to face the other direction. On his neck appear two neat little poke marks, just a thumb’s length apart. I hear the room reacting. But with my ears that hear no human sound comes another voice.
“Hello – MUMMY!!”
“Hello, Jones. Just bringing by some dinner I made for ya.”
“Yes yes I see that. That’s nice, that’s real nice there.” He makes his way back to straight again with a sigh. “ahhhh, just lookin things over here. Won’t be too much longer I’ll have my flowers back.”
“You miss them during the winter, do you?”
“Ohhhh if I could tug at the plants to make the spring come faster I would. My old bones can’t take much more of this cold. Maybe some day I’ll be one of them snow-birds and head down south for the winter!”
“With the kind of plants they have in the south? We’d never see you again! I bet you’d be off farming passion flowers in no time.”
“PASSION flowers? He heeeee, no ma’am I don’t think so. I’ll stick to these here roses.” He waives his cane briefly toward the brown stems popping out of the ground in V-shaped clusters. He does have the loveliest rose bushes. The bank of wild roses along the front of his house bloomed clear into November. “C’mon in, now. Don’t want my dinner getting cold!”
Walking into the ranch house behind Jones happens at such a delicate pace that it almost feels like a ceremonial procession. Inside he slides his bones onto a vinyl chair at the kitchen table while I take the liberty of rummaging through the cupboards to find a plate for his dinner. Difficult to find a bit of china without some chips or cracks in it, but I locate a plate with only few nicks along its edge. “It’s still hot.” I put the plate in front of him and sit down.
He looks at the plate, looks up at me politely, looks back at the plate, looks up at me with raised eyebrows, and then starts to grin.
“Shit, you need a fork!” I always forget that all people use silverware, now.
“A knife too, if you can locate a clean one.”
“Yes, yes, there’s a setting right here in the drawer.”
“Don’t bother none about wiping ‘em. If there’s dirt on them it’s all my dirt.”
I place the flatware within his reach and sit down. Like a hungry dog, he dives into the food. He doesn’t get much from his social security, just enough to keep a roof over his head, I bet. Food stamps help some. But what he buys is the cheap stuff in cans. The contents of his grocery bags tend to be the easily cooked, canned food. The heap of cans attracting flies around his garbage bin is a testimony to poor eating habits.
“You want me to take those cans outta here? They’ll be stinking in another day or so.”
“If that makes you happy miss, you may do so.” He eats with a meditative intensity. “hmmmm, good good food. Like real cookin’. Where’d a young lady like yerself learn to cook like that?” As he looks up I notice the spatters of chicken grease across his glasses.
From an 800 year old Italian monk is where I learned it. “I learned by hanging out with folks like you! That and watching Julia Child.”
“he he, Julia Child. Wife loved watching her. ‘cept some of her later shows. I think she was drunk in some of them. Heh. Sampling the cooking wine, maybe. Heh.”
“Maybe your wife cooked too well? If she’d burned dinner a few more times maybe you’d know how to eat something besides canned food!”
“She did burn dinner, that’s how I know how to open a can.”
For the span of at least five minutes we are helpless with laughter. When the last chortles have spent themselves out, he adds “well, the prettiest of roses all comes with thorns.”
“I might have to use that one of these Sundays.”
“I want royalties.”
“I’ll make sure the board comes straight to you with their editorial.”
“They at it again, huh?”
“No more than the usual. Wait until next week when I celebrate Ash Wednesday by telling everyone that they are atheists and prostitutes.”
“So it’s the Catholics been having all the fun all these years? Didn’t know that! I’d have left the Baptist church long ago had I known that.”
“Oh yeah man, and their communion wine is the real thing! Not just grape juice.”
“So maybe Julia Child just did her shows after going to church!”
“Maybe so old friend, maybe so.”
I get up to start fishing under the kitchen sink for a proper garbage bag to put the cans into. They make a terrific clatter once the bag is full. Jones doesn’t rinse the cans before tossing them aside so by the end of the task bits of noodles and drippings of slightly moldy mushroom soup cover my hands. I will never understand what some folks call food.
I head over to his kitchen sink and squirt a bright green liquid into my palm. Soap, amazing. I can’t help but play with this color for a bit before washing. Through the window before me I see the choke cherry tree, it’s limbs bare and grey except for the few bright red balls still hanging from its limbs. At first I only dimly register the raspy call of blackbirds. Then, at once, five of them appear in the yard. Large and robed entirely in black, their color commands a silent moment of awe. This darkness they wear seems tinged with thousands of midnights. Can’t help but whisper their name silently “Corax…”. All at once they take flight, their large wings casting a shadow over the garden. But one stays behind. Turning, he marches determinedly toward the house, aiming his beak up at me as I look out the window as if to make eye contact.
“Raaaaak!” It calls out. “Raaak! Raaaak!” He seems to be yelling at me, trying to say something. With a flap of wings like a flowing cape he comes to rest on the window ledge just outside. The ledge is narrow, but he manages to turn and point his beak straight towards me. Our gazes lock, he seems to regard me most intently, almost as if this creature were sent to detect…
I bang on the window, stunning the bird. He flies off, airing his complaints. “Raak raaak raaak!”
“Whatcha tryin to do there? Break my window?”
“Sorry, that bird was just, I don’t know, getting too close. Ravens are kinda weird. Like they’re too smart in their heads to still be stuck in bird bodies.”
“Well they used to be revered as gods.”
“Or seen as the souls of those unhappily deceased.”
“I like my version better!”
I try to hide it, but the raven’s visit has put a distinct uneasiness in my stomach. As I leave the house, clinking bag of cans in tow, I inspect the skies. The uneasiness grows into a distinct apprehension over the next few hours. Fear. I haven’t felt fear in a great while, and this overtakes me utterly. At home I rummage through my desk, I try writing, I try cleaning, all in attempts to stuff this strangely ominous sense of doom.
As night creeps in the faces start to haunt me. An English gentleman, a waif, a Jacobin, a reformer, a ship hand, a pioneer bent on killing a village of natives, a soldier delirious from battle and wandering far from the field, they start slowly, like a haunted parade. Yet soon they rush in, old faces, young faces, all surprised and angry and pleading with their eyes to be spared. I can’t shut my eyes and make the visions stop. The Canadian, the hippie, the Italian who liked to steal old ladies’ purses (so that’s what pizza tastes like?), the hitchhiker, the burglar, the business man from New York who thought he was going to get a neat little liaison, the law student, that big, dumb lawyer, the ski racer, the lot of them assail me with their faces.
“That is why!!” I shout into the air. “That is why I stopped! That is why I want to be the one to die now!!”
“I am weary of your baleful whingeing and self-deprivation.” Is all I hear back from the darkness. And so, all goes silent.
The phone rings. It echoes foreboding through the house. I reach for the receiver feeling it burn in my hand.
“Reverend Eleanor” says a panicked voice from inside the line. “You have to come quick, it’s Jones.”
“Who is this?”
“It’s Missy! Your chaplain!” The upset voice sounds hurt.
“Calm down Missy, tell me what has happened.”
“We don’t know! We don’t know but it looks awful and he’s dead! Something killed him! There’s demons in his house I tell you! You got to come over and cast out the witches and demons! It’s terrible! I tell you you got to get over here!
I can’t slap her through the phone. Maybe by the next century they’ll do something to perfect that. “Missy!! Get a hold of yourself! You’re talking nonsense! Now what do you see?”
“It’s terrible! It’s pure evil!” And thenceforth she is merely incoherent and tearful. Shit.
“ok! Ok! I’m coming right over. I’m coming to Jones house? Is that it?”
“yes! Yes! Come quick!”
“ok, I’m on my way. Try to stay calm and stay with other people. Don’t let anyone wander off on their own. Do you understand?”
“y-yes.”
“Good, I’m on my way.”
Where my advice comes from I’m not even sure. But, I have a feeling from the sound of her voice that I know what I’ll find. Dammit! Why Jones? He was such a sweet man!
I can see my destination from a good mile off. It’s a bright square of police lights and emergency floods like a postage stamp on the black night. As I arrive the people who have gathered rush toward me. I try to calm them down and find the police.
“Good evening officer. I’m Reverend Eleanor Durat from the Unitarian church in Farmersville. I got a call to come over here.”
“You know Mr. Jones?”
“Yes, I visited him weekly. I brought him food and we’d sit and talk.”
“When’s the last time you were over here?”
“Just this afternoon. I brought him a chicken dinner and removed the pile of cans he had in his kitchen.”
“you notice anything funny about the place while you were here Reverend?”
“Nothing funny just…” the officer leans in as if I might be withholding some valuable detail. “Only a murder of ravens gathering in the back yard. We don’t usually see those around here.”
“hm!” He seems awfully disappointed with my contribution.
“May I see him?”
“What?”
“May I see Jones? Some people here have called and asked me to cast out demons.” I hold up a Bible and a bottle of water for him to see. No one needs to know that it’s just evian.
“you say you were here just this afternoon?” He holds his face in the same pinched, pug like expression he looks at the bottle and looks at me.
“Yes, not even eight hours ago.”
“Well, come take a look” he raises the police tape blocking entry. “Just keep in mind that this is a murder scene. Do not touch anything. I’m going to have to ask you to put these booties on your shoes so no evidence gets destroyed.”
The scene inside the house is ghastly. Tables are upturned, furniture is ripped and upended, curtains are stripped from their rods as if clawed off by giant hands. I can only gasp and look around in surprise. “It didn’t look like this!” I keep repeating this as I pass shelves whose books have been thrown to the ground, a busted TV, and holes punched into the walls.
“This way.” The cop steers me toward the bedroom. Amidst the fluttering bits of cotton batting and springs a torn open mattress belches into the room, lies old Jones. Naked, spread eagled on the floor his chest has been carved open and he holds his heart in his own left hand. Entrails spill out of the body cavity. He has been castrated and I don’t want to know where that part went. His bones are broken.
My eyes slam shut from shock. The scene is just so, it’s so OLD. I haven’t seen a man die with his body beaten and drawn in such a manner in almost 200 years. Who would even think to do such a thing? But as I contemplate this, my spine goes cold. I open my eyes and survey the scene again. Something is exactly wrong.
“There’s no blood.”
“What?” One of the officers turns to look at me.
“There should be blood. There is no blood.”
Those who have been dusting and photographing at a distance to avoid coming too near now draw in. “Holy shit, she’s right.”
I step over the debris to come near, standing next to my old friend’s body. I bend down and gently take his head between my palms. Looking up briefly at the officers for acknowledgement I slowly turn his head to face the other direction. On his neck appear two neat little poke marks, just a thumb’s length apart. I hear the room reacting. But with my ears that hear no human sound comes another voice.
“Hello – MUMMY!!”
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Nanowrimo - 8
After service ends I withstand a line of people wanting to hug and chat with their minister as they make their way out the door toward coffee and doughnuts. I learned early on ways of embracing people so as to not end up in full-frontal bear hug. I’ve never been a big fan of such expectant affection where they get to glean some sort of closeness and I must feast my nose on the fragrant symphony of those who showered, who didn’t, who ate what for breakfast and who has squirted perfume on themselves.
Once the line dwindles to an end, after about 30 minutes (people will wait for 30 minutes just to say ‘hello’?) I rush off first thing to cleanse my hands. This old habit of mine was hard learned after observing many a small pox, flu and measles epidemic. And still I do it to prevent transmission, especially after having to hug so many bodies.
Comparing those masses, stinking from work and lack of bathing to these crowds of the religiously cleanly I’m astonished at how long we lived not knowing about the value of rinsing the world’s grist from oneself. Out of the soap dispenser comes a stream of pearly, hot pink fluid. And this is supposed to clean me? I play with the bright liquid between my fingers, watching its unnatural coloring contrast my skin, before washing it away.
An usher brings the weekly headcount into my office while I sit to collect myself. 157, up from last week but we’ll see what happens as the weather gets warmer.
“Didn’t know you could play piano!” He remarks.
“I’ve been playing since, well it feels like forever. I’ve always enjoyed playing.”
“Yer pretty good! I heard Vicky saying you should play with the choir.” The pause at the end of his sentence is expectant.
“No, George, I have my hands quite full in caring for this community already. And really, I have nothing to prove there, anymore. My performing days are over. Now it’s just something that I know how to do.” I turn to look at him, fumbling with his hat in the doorway and shifting from foot to foot. He’s in his early 50’s, a salty haired fellow slipping from life as an awkward, nerdish man with small, moist hands into a lonely old age. There are more than a few of these characters in this community and each in turn has ponied up to get extra attention from their minister. I can tell he’s on the edge of taking his turn at asking me out to the diner for coffee and so I add “my schedule is really quite full” and shoot him a stern look over the top of my spectacles.
“Right! Right. Well it was just a thought. I – I’ll be going now.” Backing away he makes his awkward retreat. Jerk.
George must be the seventh one to attempt to woo the minister. I knew this would happen as I arrived here. Women’s roles have advanced quite a great deal in my observation, but the expectation of their roles as females of the species has not. They see my ringless finger as a vacuum that must be filled. And their lonely homes with wives dead or divorced and gone does look like just the fit. No matter the age the assumption persists of what I must surely desire to have in my life simply based upon the parts nature equipped me with. Well, nature has equipped me with lots of things that no one quite expected.
As I make my rounds on the weekdays of the old ones I gather the real acceptance that any human craves.
“You never got married, did you girl?” asks Helen. Her eyes, having seen much in her 89 years, have clouded over. But her expressions are just as sharp and clearly penetrating. She sits propped up in a wheelchair so padded that it could be a recliner with big wheels. Her life started on a farm filled with chickens, cows, vegetables and fruit trees. The corn grown was measured in square acres, not miles. She raises a withered hand to touch mine, an obvious gesture meant to theatrically hunt for a ring.
“No ma’am, I never did.”
“Good! It’s a waste of time! You’re smart to stay single! You can have your OWN life and call your OWN shots. No man thinkin’ he’s the big boss o’ you and thinkin’ he can push you around none. Yer money is yer money and your life is yer own! Smart! Couldn’t much get away with that in my day. Folks would talk, thinkin’ many be you weren’t normal or sumthin. Sayin maybe you were queer or somthin. But why does there have to be something wrong with a girl who just wants to enjoy her life? Answer me that!”
Her commentary forces me to chuckle. “I don’t know if it was such a conscious choice at the time. I just happened to get busy doing a bunch of other stuff.”
“Well it’s good you could. I got stuck marrying at 17. Who knows what they’re about at that age? Nowadays I could stay in school, go to college maybe. Back then you stopped learnin about the time you’re twelve and then your workin workin in the fields to keep things going. Not like now, not like now at all…”
The heartland Helen knew has long since been swallowed up by agribusiness. People, environmentalists and liberals and such, come in writing about how farms were self sustaining units before corn was king and beef was grown, raised and killed in filthy little cow cities full of feed lots. But costs are always there, hiding in history’s margins. Helen was the fifth of ten children, only six of whom made it out of infancy. Their purpose was to work, to be the blood running the engines of the farm. Personal identity, talent, exploration, all just not a part of the life equation.
“I’m gonna take my nap now miss Eleanor. Thank you for stopping by and thank you kindly for bringing that lovely lunch. You sure do raise some nice chickens. Not like that crap you get in the store now. Nope. Kill it yourself, do ya?”
“Yes ma’am. Kill them and dress them myself.”
“Well that’s just fine. That’s how it’s supposed to be. Make and kill your food like God intended, not some crap all wrapped in plastic sitting in some store. Well you take care now and thank you for stopping in.”
“It’s my pleasure to come by. I’m glad you enjoyed the food.”
“Now don’t forget to give the lord a kiss on the way out the door.”
“No ma’am, I won’t forget”
Next to the door hangs a faded print of Christ the King. Helen was raised Catholic and as much as she loves her Unitarian minister friend, her spiritual imprint was made by Rome’s thumbs. Her portrait of the kind, white skinned Jesus wearing wealthy robes like a French king is a bit smeared and faded around his face from the years of affection each person entering Helen’s home has been obligated to show. I kiss my fingers and touch the Lord’s cheek.
“So long, cousin.” I tell the picture as I exit. I love Helen. It’s only around these elderly shut-ins I start to feel right. I need to be around folks who understand what age does to your mind and soul. There’s a despair to having seen the world lurch ahead only to fall back into sad mistakes that only octogenarians understand.
Eileen likes to come in prattling on about some TV show or another sometimes. One of them is about vampires. “There’s this one guy vampire, he’s like real serious and really hot!”
So there’s something sexy about being a vampire? “It wouldn’t take too much commitment for you lot to have a similarly intimate relationship with your dinner, too.” I think as she shares the latest twists in a pretty screwy plot line.
Now that the fear of immediate death has been relegated to a small corner of nightmare land by antibiotics, hygiene, medicine and public sewage systems, people seem all to happy to remake the old boogey men into sex symbols. Such terror what used to ignite a mob to march now simply forms long lines around a theater. Although the mob was, in its own way, a form of entertainment, whether they were carrying off a king to his demise, burning a witch or lynching a black man. People blame violence and murder on the images the brain takes in from movies and TV. They have no idea how far these elements have gone to pacify the passions of the human herd.
Instead they commit suicide on the payment plan, slowly over stuffing themselves with foods whose chemical origins they cannot even begin to fathom. The sole advantage of this to a body like mine would be how very much longer I can go between feedings thanks to the excess of fats in their blood.
An image of that Jehovah’s Witness flashes back through my mind. Miss bacon & eggs. The thought makes my head burn a little and I have to take deep breaths.
What Helen doesn’t know is that I did attempt the marriage thing once, over a hundred years ago, in yet one more of many failed attempts to be normal. Zoltan had warned me about becoming involved with mortal men. “They never have a hope for maturing enough in one lifetime to understand the feelings of a woman properly. Especially a woman such as you! They must not be bothered with!” Oh but bother I did.
I really thought, though, that he was special. That he connected to me and loved me as I was. And perhaps he did, until the day when he did not. Ahhhh Gabriel where did you go? Fly back to heaven with all of the other angels? Perhaps it was never really possible for him to understand a heart like mine and it was simply selfish of me to try? I was only 50, what did I know? He grew jealous and suspicious of me in the end, puzzled that I didn’t age and possessed such strength. The man just wanted someone to take care of him. I’m not that girl. And all I have to show for it is two gold bands. Who was I kidding? Zoltan was right. I could never have entered into the kind of love I wished for. I wished, in the greed of youth, to enter into a love completely. Yet in concealing large parts of myself for fear of the popular misunderstanding, I managed to only guarantee that I could never be completely loved.
I wind the car down yet another gravel driveway. Parking by the door I reach into the insulated bag in my passenger seat and retrieve a warm chicken dinner. This one is for Jones.
Once the line dwindles to an end, after about 30 minutes (people will wait for 30 minutes just to say ‘hello’?) I rush off first thing to cleanse my hands. This old habit of mine was hard learned after observing many a small pox, flu and measles epidemic. And still I do it to prevent transmission, especially after having to hug so many bodies.
Comparing those masses, stinking from work and lack of bathing to these crowds of the religiously cleanly I’m astonished at how long we lived not knowing about the value of rinsing the world’s grist from oneself. Out of the soap dispenser comes a stream of pearly, hot pink fluid. And this is supposed to clean me? I play with the bright liquid between my fingers, watching its unnatural coloring contrast my skin, before washing it away.
An usher brings the weekly headcount into my office while I sit to collect myself. 157, up from last week but we’ll see what happens as the weather gets warmer.
“Didn’t know you could play piano!” He remarks.
“I’ve been playing since, well it feels like forever. I’ve always enjoyed playing.”
“Yer pretty good! I heard Vicky saying you should play with the choir.” The pause at the end of his sentence is expectant.
“No, George, I have my hands quite full in caring for this community already. And really, I have nothing to prove there, anymore. My performing days are over. Now it’s just something that I know how to do.” I turn to look at him, fumbling with his hat in the doorway and shifting from foot to foot. He’s in his early 50’s, a salty haired fellow slipping from life as an awkward, nerdish man with small, moist hands into a lonely old age. There are more than a few of these characters in this community and each in turn has ponied up to get extra attention from their minister. I can tell he’s on the edge of taking his turn at asking me out to the diner for coffee and so I add “my schedule is really quite full” and shoot him a stern look over the top of my spectacles.
“Right! Right. Well it was just a thought. I – I’ll be going now.” Backing away he makes his awkward retreat. Jerk.
George must be the seventh one to attempt to woo the minister. I knew this would happen as I arrived here. Women’s roles have advanced quite a great deal in my observation, but the expectation of their roles as females of the species has not. They see my ringless finger as a vacuum that must be filled. And their lonely homes with wives dead or divorced and gone does look like just the fit. No matter the age the assumption persists of what I must surely desire to have in my life simply based upon the parts nature equipped me with. Well, nature has equipped me with lots of things that no one quite expected.
As I make my rounds on the weekdays of the old ones I gather the real acceptance that any human craves.
“You never got married, did you girl?” asks Helen. Her eyes, having seen much in her 89 years, have clouded over. But her expressions are just as sharp and clearly penetrating. She sits propped up in a wheelchair so padded that it could be a recliner with big wheels. Her life started on a farm filled with chickens, cows, vegetables and fruit trees. The corn grown was measured in square acres, not miles. She raises a withered hand to touch mine, an obvious gesture meant to theatrically hunt for a ring.
“No ma’am, I never did.”
“Good! It’s a waste of time! You’re smart to stay single! You can have your OWN life and call your OWN shots. No man thinkin’ he’s the big boss o’ you and thinkin’ he can push you around none. Yer money is yer money and your life is yer own! Smart! Couldn’t much get away with that in my day. Folks would talk, thinkin’ many be you weren’t normal or sumthin. Sayin maybe you were queer or somthin. But why does there have to be something wrong with a girl who just wants to enjoy her life? Answer me that!”
Her commentary forces me to chuckle. “I don’t know if it was such a conscious choice at the time. I just happened to get busy doing a bunch of other stuff.”
“Well it’s good you could. I got stuck marrying at 17. Who knows what they’re about at that age? Nowadays I could stay in school, go to college maybe. Back then you stopped learnin about the time you’re twelve and then your workin workin in the fields to keep things going. Not like now, not like now at all…”
The heartland Helen knew has long since been swallowed up by agribusiness. People, environmentalists and liberals and such, come in writing about how farms were self sustaining units before corn was king and beef was grown, raised and killed in filthy little cow cities full of feed lots. But costs are always there, hiding in history’s margins. Helen was the fifth of ten children, only six of whom made it out of infancy. Their purpose was to work, to be the blood running the engines of the farm. Personal identity, talent, exploration, all just not a part of the life equation.
“I’m gonna take my nap now miss Eleanor. Thank you for stopping by and thank you kindly for bringing that lovely lunch. You sure do raise some nice chickens. Not like that crap you get in the store now. Nope. Kill it yourself, do ya?”
“Yes ma’am. Kill them and dress them myself.”
“Well that’s just fine. That’s how it’s supposed to be. Make and kill your food like God intended, not some crap all wrapped in plastic sitting in some store. Well you take care now and thank you for stopping in.”
“It’s my pleasure to come by. I’m glad you enjoyed the food.”
“Now don’t forget to give the lord a kiss on the way out the door.”
“No ma’am, I won’t forget”
Next to the door hangs a faded print of Christ the King. Helen was raised Catholic and as much as she loves her Unitarian minister friend, her spiritual imprint was made by Rome’s thumbs. Her portrait of the kind, white skinned Jesus wearing wealthy robes like a French king is a bit smeared and faded around his face from the years of affection each person entering Helen’s home has been obligated to show. I kiss my fingers and touch the Lord’s cheek.
“So long, cousin.” I tell the picture as I exit. I love Helen. It’s only around these elderly shut-ins I start to feel right. I need to be around folks who understand what age does to your mind and soul. There’s a despair to having seen the world lurch ahead only to fall back into sad mistakes that only octogenarians understand.
Eileen likes to come in prattling on about some TV show or another sometimes. One of them is about vampires. “There’s this one guy vampire, he’s like real serious and really hot!”
So there’s something sexy about being a vampire? “It wouldn’t take too much commitment for you lot to have a similarly intimate relationship with your dinner, too.” I think as she shares the latest twists in a pretty screwy plot line.
Now that the fear of immediate death has been relegated to a small corner of nightmare land by antibiotics, hygiene, medicine and public sewage systems, people seem all to happy to remake the old boogey men into sex symbols. Such terror what used to ignite a mob to march now simply forms long lines around a theater. Although the mob was, in its own way, a form of entertainment, whether they were carrying off a king to his demise, burning a witch or lynching a black man. People blame violence and murder on the images the brain takes in from movies and TV. They have no idea how far these elements have gone to pacify the passions of the human herd.
Instead they commit suicide on the payment plan, slowly over stuffing themselves with foods whose chemical origins they cannot even begin to fathom. The sole advantage of this to a body like mine would be how very much longer I can go between feedings thanks to the excess of fats in their blood.
An image of that Jehovah’s Witness flashes back through my mind. Miss bacon & eggs. The thought makes my head burn a little and I have to take deep breaths.
What Helen doesn’t know is that I did attempt the marriage thing once, over a hundred years ago, in yet one more of many failed attempts to be normal. Zoltan had warned me about becoming involved with mortal men. “They never have a hope for maturing enough in one lifetime to understand the feelings of a woman properly. Especially a woman such as you! They must not be bothered with!” Oh but bother I did.
I really thought, though, that he was special. That he connected to me and loved me as I was. And perhaps he did, until the day when he did not. Ahhhh Gabriel where did you go? Fly back to heaven with all of the other angels? Perhaps it was never really possible for him to understand a heart like mine and it was simply selfish of me to try? I was only 50, what did I know? He grew jealous and suspicious of me in the end, puzzled that I didn’t age and possessed such strength. The man just wanted someone to take care of him. I’m not that girl. And all I have to show for it is two gold bands. Who was I kidding? Zoltan was right. I could never have entered into the kind of love I wished for. I wished, in the greed of youth, to enter into a love completely. Yet in concealing large parts of myself for fear of the popular misunderstanding, I managed to only guarantee that I could never be completely loved.
I wind the car down yet another gravel driveway. Parking by the door I reach into the insulated bag in my passenger seat and retrieve a warm chicken dinner. This one is for Jones.
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