On the Road to California

By Elizabeth Sheridan

On the edge of a road three people stood arguing.  There was a young man about six feet in height and slight in build.  He wore baggy blue jeans that covered his sneakers and a long-sleeved black shirt.  His brown hair was spiked with blue styling gell.

A woman stood next to the young man.  Her blonde hair was pulled back from her face with a dark blue ribbon. She wore a starched white shirt and black slacks with comfortable fitting running shoes.

Beside the woman was a man decked out in a full suit of armor.  He held his helmet under his arm and his sword was in its jewel-encrusted scabbard.  His sweat soaked black hair clung to his face and curled in the heat of the day.  He looked at the young man and the woman and shook his head.

“This is boring,” whined the young man, Mark.  “Are we going to walk in silence all the way to Boulder Creek, California?”

“Be quiet, city boy,” bellowed the woman, Gertrude, an orderly at a mental institute.  She was becoming annoyed of the constant complaining made by the young man.

“If we are going to argue the whole trip then we will hate each other by the time we get even half way to our destination. Why don’t we each tell a story to pass the time,” suggested the evil knight, Sir Geoffrey.

“I don’t want to go first,” exclaimed Mark.  “I failed all of my public speaking courses during school.”

“Well, since it was my idea than I will go first,” said Sir Geoffrey.

***

Sir Geoffrey’s Tale

“There once was a noble knight, a high ranking Dragonlord, loyal to the Dark Queen.  He was known for his handsome looks, his courageous deeds, and his ferocity in battle.  His name was Sir Agion.  As a favorite of the Dark Queen and a proven Dragonlord, he was assigned to ride a red dragon into battle.  It was a great beast of a dragon, larger than any of its kind.  Sir Agion and the red dragon together proved undefeatable to any knight at that time.  Any knight, that is, except for Sir Doric.
        “Sir Doric was a knight of Solamnia. He was bound by honor to do only good.  ‘My honor is my life’ was the code he lived by.  Sir Doric was most certainly a formidable opponent to Sir Agion.   He too rode a dragon to battle, this one being a dragon of good, a golden dragon.  His skill with a lance matched that of Sir Agion and every duel fought between the two ended in a draw.  Though Sir Doric found these duels a pleasant challenge, Sir Agion was infuriated with each outcome.
        “For months Sir Agion searched for a way to gain an advantage over Sir Doric but he came up empty handed.  Then, one day, he was told by one of the Grey Robe wizards that there was a sword with magical powers.  These powers could give the user the ability to defeat anyone in battle.  Many knights had gone looking for this sword but none had come back with it.  The only major problem was that this sword was located somewhere in a volcano in the Abyss. Once in the Abyss you are totally at the mercy of the Dark Queen, a goddess known for her harsh treatment of trespassers.  Sir Agion did not care to dwell on that detail for long.  He ordered the Grey Robe wizard to find a portal to the Abyss that he and his dragon could enter.  The wizard found one.  Sir Agion immediately left on the dragon and, armed for the battle of the demons of the Abyss, entered the portal in search of this magical sword that could help him defeat Sir Doric.
        “On the other side of the portal the land and sky were as red as blood.  There was no sign of life at all.  In the distance was a volcano billowing clouds of thick black smoke.  Sir Agion flew on his dragon towards the volcano and at its base was an opening.  The knight dismounted the dragon and walked cautiously through the opening.  His surroundings were unknown to him as it was pitch black inside the volcano.  The only light was a red glow emanating from the end of what appeared to be a long and narrow tunnel. 
        “Sir Agion walked towards the glow and entered a room filled with golden treasures.  Coins and jewelry filled chests or lay upon tables.  All sorts of golden objects were piled in heaps near statues of various gods and goddesses.  In the middle of the room stood a statue of a dragon.  It was so realistic that Sir Agion almost dropped his sword.  The stone statue was as high as the rocky ceiling and as wide as a dozen warhorses.  But this was not what captured the knight’s attention.  For clutched in its taloned hands rested the magical sword Sir Agion had been searching for.
        “Sir Agion stepped forward and picked up the sword in his hands. ‘Ah,’ he thought. ‘The power of this sword in now mine to command!  With it I can defeat my greatest foe! Nothing can stop me!’  Then, without warning, the head of the dragon statue turned from stone to scales.  Its eyes glowed a fiery red.  Its gaze fixed on the knight. Sir Agion took a staggering step back but fell over a helmet.  He looked at the helmet and saw a skull still inside it.  Unable to get up Sir Agion dragged himself a short way from the dragon.  When he had fallen he had dropped the magical sword.  Oblivious to the dragon still staring at him he searched frantically for the sword.  He couldn’t find it.  It was lost to him.  As he realized this, he gave a startled cry, for before his eyes the mountains of gold and jewels suddenly became piles of bones.  They were the bones of other knights who had gone looking for the magical sword only to have died in the room he was in.  Sir Agion looked fearfully at the dragon with the fiery red eyes and prepared himself for his impending death.  With one breath of fire from the dragon’s gaping jaws, Sir Agion’s body was reduced to ashes.  The dragon turned back into stone, its claws holding the magical sword so many had sought and failed to obtain.”

***

“Wow, man.  You really tell one frigid story,” said Mark.  He had barely noticed the distance they had walked while listening to Sir Geoffrey’s tale.  He thought of telling his own story next but couldn’t think of one suitable. 

“Yes, Mark is right.  That was a very good story,” said Gertrude.  She turned to Mark.  “I will go next if you don’t want to go next.”  Mark just nodded his head.  “All right, then.  A nurse I work closely with told this sad story to me.  She said that this is true and that it was embellished only slightly.”

***

Gertrude’s Tale

            “In 1853 Sara Grey was thirty years old and unmarried.  She had long chestnut brown hair and big blue eyes.  She usually wore a long white dress with an unfashionably small hoop, a wide white collar and cuffs, and a starched white apron pinned from her neck to her waist.  Her hair was her best attribute but was seldom seen since it was in two thick braids in a starched white cap. 
        “Sara worked in Mimosa Hills, a private clinic and asylum.  It had been a plantation house but was converted into an asylum by her parents.  Her father was the head doctor and her mother was the administrator.  The asylum held thirty-four people.  All were proven to be mentally insane.  The third floor was the women’s ward.  The youngest woman in the ward was eighteen.  She had been in a state of melancholia for years and cried for hours at a time.  While in the asylum she had attempted to kill herself on numerous occasions and had been seeing and hearing things that weren’t there. The age of the oldest woman was unknown for she had been in a comatose state since she had been brought in. 
        “Meals in Mimosa Hill consisted of a bowl of gruel or porridge, a piece of bread, and some tea.  Sara helped the patients eat their food if they could not do so on their own.  She also dressed patients and changed their linens.  The only ones she had a hard time with were the ones with violent tendencies.  Those patients had to be strapped to a bed with leather cuffs when being attended to so that they did not hurt themselves or others.  It was also never quiet.  There was always someone screaming, moaning, crying, or singing.  Some patients had whole conversations to a person only they could see.  Others didn’t talk at all.  Sara worked hard to keep her patients fed and cared for and always had time to give a hug and a smile.
        “One day, a day like any other day, there was a knock on the main door.  Sara’s mother opened the door to see a poor bedraggled young woman accompanied by a worried Sheriff Holcolm.  The woman’s clothes were tattered and filthy.  Her hair was uncombed and matted.  She was talking some gibberish and no one could understand a word she was saying.  The sheriff said that he had found her walking the streets in town and wanted to see if she would be admitted to the clinic.  Sara’s mother admitted the young woman into Mimosa Hill and found a place for her on the third floor.  There was barely anything to give the woman by way of clothes but fortunately the next day the ladies of the Presbyterian Church donated clothing and foodstuffs.  That night the patients had boiled chicken and potatoes, vegetables, fresh baked bread, and fresh milk.  After the patients were locked up for the night Sara had a slightly more edible meal with her mother and father.
        “The following morning the young lady that had been picked up by Sheriff Holcolm constantly vied for Sara’s attention.  It seemed like she was trying to say something important but there was nothing Sara could do since she could not understand what the young woman was talking about.  After she found suitable garments and necessities for the young woman everything went back to routine.  Several weeks passed and after no word from the family of the young lady Sara decided to name her Antha.
        “Thirteen years passed.  The young woman, Antha was still at the clinic and no word had been heard from the family.  A young medical student, Boris Korchev was sent to Mimosa Hills to do physicals.  As Boris was examining Antha she started speaking her gibberish.  Boris looked at her in surprise and then spoke to her in the same speech.  Sara was astounded.  She asked Boris how he knew what Antha was saying.  Boris told her that his grandparents spoke the same language Antha was speaking.  He asked Sara why Antha was in the asylum and was horrified to learn that she was kept in the clinic simply for speaking a language no one had understood. 
        “After several hours of talking Boris related Antha’s tale of how she became lost from her family after coming to America, had taken the wrong train, and ended up roaming the streets of the nearby town were she had been found.  All of the staff wanted to help Antha in some way.  It was decided that they would help find Antha’s family and take her home. 
        “It took over a year to track down the location of Antha’s family but they were finally found in Trenton, New Jersey.  The family had had no idea what had happened to Antha and were overjoyed to have her back home after almost fifteen years.  Boris Korchev stayed at Mimosa Hill as the new head doctor after Sara’s father retired.  Sara Grey continued to work in the women’s ward on the third floor.

***

“Fifteen years in a mental institute. I do believe I would have gone insane,” said Sir Geoffrey. 

“Thought to be crazy because you are different,” said Mark. “That happens all of the time.”

“Yes, it does.  It happens all too often,” said Gertrude.  “Now it is your turn to tell a tale, Mark.”

“I would rather not tell a story.  I can only think of one but I would rather not share it,” said Mark.

“Oh. Come on, Mark,” Sir Geoffrey exclaimed.  “Tell us your story.  We told one.”

 “All right.  I will tell you a story.  But you won’t like it,” warned Mark.

 “Let us be the judges of that,” said Gertrude.                                           

***

Mark’s Tale

            “This tale is a true one though I have pretended for the longest time that it was not.  Ever since I can remember I have run away from the truth rather than fight it.  My dear mother ran away from the truth all her life but still never really escaped it.  Recently I learned that I don’t have to like the truth in order to face it.  As a matter of fact the truth makes me sad and bitter.”  Mark gave a harsh laugh that made his two companions draw away from him.  “Sometimes I wish I really could forget the truth.  That way it wouldn’t hurt me like it does at this very moment,” he sighed and shook his head.  “You want to hear my tale?  Well, when I’m done telling you my tale you will wish you could forget too.
         “My mother was poor, had come from a poor family.  She dreamed of being rich but, hey, doesn’t everyone?  She moved to New York to make her fortune and ended up with nothing.  Nothing, that is, except for me.  I was told that my father had old money.  A lot of good that would have done for Mother if that was true.   He left her before I was even born.  I don’t know his name but, then again, I never wanted to.  I was afraid that I was named after him.  He broke my mother’s heart and I’ll never forgive him for that. 
        “After I was born my mother moved us from one sleazy motel to another.  Too often we had to sleep on the streets, hungry and cold.  When I was six my mother became determined to get a job and put me through school.  She didn’t seem to mind that the only job she could hold was that of an exotic dancer.  She made enough to get a small, decaying apartment.  We didn’t always have food but at least we had a place to sleep.
        “When I started school I made up fantastic stories about my life.  Those stories were how I explained my filthy clothes, the bruises made by an angry hand, no father to speak of, and a depressed exotic dancer for a mother.  Everyone eventually began to ignore me.  They were tired of my lies and deceptions.  When I realized this I just didn’t speak at all.  I was ‘That Quiet Kid in the Corner’ until my junior year in high school.  I fell in love that year.  Her name was Cassandra.  She was like an angel with golden hair and bright blue eyes.  When I spoke, she listened.  I did not tell her lies; I told her the truth.  The truth about my family, about my past.  She was not repulsed and she did not blame me for my father leaving, as my mother did. 
        “Her parents were not so understanding.  When they looked at me all they saw was some poor mongrel of a human.  Something not fit for the cat to drag in.  They forbid me to even look at their daughter.  Naturally I ignored their threats.  I continued to see Cassandra every chance I got. 
        “One day we were walking down the street and gazing in various shops.  A pair of gold earrings caught Cassandra’s eye.  They were shaped like small delicate violets.  Of course I had no money to buy her the earrings so we walked on.  For days I couldn’t get those earrings out of my mind.  If only I could find the money to buy her the flower earrings.  Finally I went to my mother’s boyfriend and asked him how much money he would give me if I acquired certain things for him.  He was suspicious at first since I had never come up to him with any kind of business proposition since he had known me.  Eventually he agreed to give me more than enough money for the earrings if I worked a few jobs for him.  I considered this a reasonable offer.
        “I didn’t get caught. Ha!  I never get caught.  I bought the golden earrings the day before Cassandra and I were to take a walk in the park.  I was going to ask her to marry me.  I didn’t give up my hopes, though.  I had no money and I lived in a virtual dump.  I worked in a cockroach-infested diner washing dishes.  Well, to my surprise and delight she accepted despite all my faults.  The elopement was to take place a month later.
         “On the night Cassandra and I were to be married Cassandra was driving to pick up her dress from the cleaners.  She never got a chance to wear it.  On her way there a drunk driver ran a red light and smashed into the driver’s side door.  She died later that night in the hospital.  I was holding her hand when she took her last breath.  I cried and screamed and raved but she was gone.  It was my fault she had died.  My fault she was with the angels in heaven instead of being an angel here on earth.  She had been wearing the golden earrings when she died.  Three days later she was buried with those same delicate flower earrings on.”

***

“I still bring her flowers,” Mark sighed.  “From red roses to white daisies they all lay at her grave.  I can’t forget and I don’t think I truly want to.  Is that crazy or what?”

 “I’m so sorry, Mark,” said Gertrude. 

 “I am sorry too,” said Sir Geoffrey.  “It is hard to lose someone close to you. But it was not your fault, you know.  The drunk driver was at fault.”

 “But she would not have been there if I hadn’t asked her to marry me,” Mark told him.

 “She wanted to marry you,” said Gertrude. “Whatever else happened was beyond your control so stop blaming yourself.  You were there for her at the end and that is what counts.”

 “Come on.  Lets keep walking to California,” said Sir Geoffrey.  “We will tell happier stories along the way.”

 The three of them continued to walk along the dusty road and argued about who would tell the next story.