Tales from the
Temple
The Long Road Home
RA Britton
and
CJ Culbertson
Holding hands, looking at the
sunrise,
stretching, relaxing, finding
that certain contentment and knowing
that the real purpose of us
is love,
the rest is just .... details
-Ra
We have found the now.
In the past, in the present
and the future
We found our own universe
and our own time.
-Cj
Prologue and Synopsis
What do
you do when your creations are more of a mystery to you, than you are to them?
What is
true love? Where is the beauty,
nobility and truth in a human life? Can
one attain perfection? More
importantly, would you really want it? Tales
from the Temple: The Long Road Home seeks
to answer these questions.
Ra, the
Egyptian Sun God, and his once mortal mate Neterka live an idyllic life in
their temple on Manu, the Sacred Hill of Sunrise. Ra often watches the mortals he created and cannot understand why
some humans see and live in sorrow while others seem to find joy even in the
worst conditions and situations. Ra set
the mortals into a perfect world, and does not understand why they insist on
ruining his handiwork.
Neterka,
who has lived in both worlds, inadvertently sets them off on an adventure to
gain true understanding of human nature.
In frustration, Neterka suggests to Ra that the reason he does not
understand is because he has never lived a mortal existence. Ra, seeing the wisdom in her words, sets
them off on a travel through time in various human lives.
These
lifetimes span numerous decades and circumstances. A priestess in the House of Ra suddenly becomes his favored one,
and immortal. A Pythia of Apollo turns
her back on service to the god to follow a soldier into a campaign that will
destroy an entire civilization. A
Prince and Princess teach two kingdoms that understanding and befriending a
common enemy is a more powerful weapon then any sword. Ra, who dies first in one lifetime, must
face the afterlife without his beloved Nerterka at the Temple. An earnest captain and an open-eyed southern
daughter find adventure and danger on the seas during the brink of war. A young sailor/poet must choose between the
love of his muse and duty to his naval heritage. An archeologist looses her greatest love, but finds that it is
possible to find contentment in a new one.
A couple are given the rare gift of understanding how they can each love
the other over the invisible strands of the internet. Two people society deems worthless in a world doomed to be
destroyed somehow find love and renewal after its destruction. Ra and Neterka live lives ranging from those
at the very pinnacle of power to inmates of an insane asylum, and find that all
people, no matter what their station in life, can find beauty, nobility and
love within those stations.
Told in
short stories, interspersed with essays and reflections from both Ra’s and
Neterka's point of view, the story weaves together the melding of their
different perspectives of life and love into a unified whole. Throughout all the stories, one thing
remains constant: the love between the
Sun-God and his soul mate. The
situations change; they suffer loss and tragedy, joy and hope, even separation,
but they come to the same conclusion:
there is no greater path than the one that leads you home to the one you
love.
Contents
Imagine - Ra
Imagine - Neterka
Sand, Blowing Across the Dunes (Ancient Egypt)
Egyptian Meditation
Imagine the Bliss
*To Speak in Shadows/Imagine the Seperation (Ancient
Greece)
Meadow Meditation
The Power in a Name
*Your own Personal Brian (Ancient Rome/Nazareth)
*Call Me Al (MidEastern tale)
*A Dragon’s Tale (Medieval)
*Smiles (Reinessance)
Sea Adventure (circa 1776)
[Helios
1 and 2, tbe Emerald rescue, a sea story, the ball]
*Citizens (French Revolution)
*Golden Rush (mid 1800s)
Let Go of Yourself and Soar (1942)
Hidden In Plain View (1947)
*Secret Agent (1950s/60s)
The Legend of Souls (2002)
The Long Road Home (Unstated)
Imagine the Impossible Dream
Imagine – Neterka Reprise
Imagine No More
The Eagles’ Poem
Now
Simple Pleasures
Tales from the Temple
Myth
All was silent.
Where once the mighty temple stood
a wilderness now lay.
The marble columns, once reaching upward
now lay silent, like slain giants.
The golden cauldrons, once housing holy oil
now were tarnished, forgotten and unused,
save for the ants buried beneath the dirt.
The Sun wept,
but kept on shining, remembering
when he was worshiped by throngs
who gave thanks to the giver of life and love.
He still gave life to the earth,
but few worshiped him.
they took his love for granted
save for the few lying upon the beach.
The Sun waited,
watching for the one who would renew him.
Many entered the wild place:
A majestic deer came and left,
An eagle soared and called his name
and was ignored.
Even man attempted to connect and left,
his prayer unanswered.
She came,
a humble creature passing in the woods,
hopping among the ruins.
She stopped, ears twitching at the sound
of long lost whispers to the sun.
Drawn by unknown force she hopped
toward the ancient steps of the temple
and sat facing eastward, waiting.
He rose,
a ball of heat and gleaming color
casting shadows on the earth,
and noticed the small form upon the steps
who watched unwavering.
He turned his full brilliance on her
and felt his love for her reflected back.
All was quiet, the world was waiting.
They stood,
aware of nothing but each other
the Sun and his one
connected and changing the wilderness;
the columns rose above them,
the cauldrons burst into flame once more,
tall grass and weed became lush meadow:
the temple stood again.
Tales from the Temple
Imagine if you will the days spinning backward: a millennium ends here, a century turns there, a year ends now, and another, and a thousand others, and finally there are so many days, so many years ending and beginning that you can no longer remember why it seemed important that you keep count of them at all. And yet I have counted them.
I
have counted every one, marking the beginning of each new year, of each new
century, in my own quiet fashion: a glass of wine, perhaps, a slient
toast. The world revolves, the view
changes. Now I stand atop a castle
turret, now upon the deck of a sailing ship.
Here I gaze upon an ageless river, there a body-strewn battlefield; now
I see the dancing lights of the Champs d'Elysee, now I see the smoldering fires
of a fallen civilization.
The
years change, but the question does not.
Will this be it? I ask
myself? Will this be the year I tell my
story, the whole of it, from beginning to end, at last?
And
what a lovely entertainment it has been, of these thousands of turning years,
to imagine the telling, the circumstances of the telling, and the reason for
the telling. I have created the
scenario and variations upon scenarios over and over again in my mind. Where to begin? How best to glorify or debase myself in the telling, how to find
the thread of truth that, in the end, must be the summation of any man's life —
even if that life has been as long and as tangled as mine. So now the time has come, and the moment is
-as so many greatly anticipated moments aree … disappointing. I realized some time ago that the whole
story cannot be told, not today, perhaps not ever. Every man's life is simply a sum of parts, and these are the only
parts I can tell you now.
But
the beginning, where was that? I think
sometimes it began with a lithe young girl of grand ambition and laughing eyes,
or maybe a young man of unsullied confidence and a rather reckless appetite for
adventure. At other times I am sure it
all started with the wistful longings of a poet-priest I once called
friend. Was it a woman's power, a man's
dreams? What dark god fashioned this
unlikely tale and sent it spinning into space with a single smiling breath? And dare I think I ever, at any time, had
any control over it at all?
It
began with the magic, you see. And so,
therefore, must I.
I
had a name in that long-ago time, but I have forgotten it centuries since, so
let me call myself as I was in those days, Al.
Perhaps I had a mother, a father, and an early family life but I do not
recall those either. Life began for me,
as I remember it, in the House of Ra.
Much
has been written in human history about this time in Egypt; entire lifetimes
have been dedicated to piecing together the scattered bones of that long-ago
life. As always, when what is shattered
is reassembled with no model to follow, mistakes will be made in the
reconstruction; great chunks, perhaps, will be missing and others will seem to
have no place in the whole at all. The
result is, more often than not, a monstrous grotesquerie.
So
believe me when I tell you that, while historians have done a fair job of
reassembling the past, so much of what they have learned is only what we wanted
them to know, what was left for them to know.
And nothing, I assure you, of what you know or what you think you know
of that time can even begin to touch the truth of the House of Ra.
Truth
is an interesting word. I cannot tell
you now with absolute certainty whether the structure itself, the temple
complex in which we lived and worked and ate and slept and studied was in fact
composed of mortar and stone, or whether it was merely an illusion of the same
— or, most likely a combination of both.
I will describe it therefore as I perceived it to be, remembering that
in the end, in almost every instance, the difference between truth and illusion
is so faint as to be almost inconsequential.
Tales from the Temple
Imagine
if you will, sitting on the steps of a temple in the wilderness. You are not alone, but are sitting with a
hand in yours — a hand you had forgotten was once always there. You look out toward the rising sun, and find
yourself counting the sunrises you watched without that compforting hand in
yours and think to yourself, how did I ever enjoy this alone? The years run past your eyes, spinning in a
relentless series of images that go backwards beyond the life you know at this
moment. You watch each sunrise, and
suddenly realize that your own arrogance prevented you from enjoying this
simple pleasure for eternity.
This
I have done. I can’t speak for the
figure beside me, even though we are of the same soul. For me, this realization has brought with it
pain — but also a new peace and resolves to never allow myself to look again
for the better path. There is no better
path then the one we walk together.
Like
my friend, I have counted the years and marked them with a glass of wine, and a
toast to the future. There were times
when we marked them together: once on the deck of a great ship, or the top of a
western mountain, once in the dark depths of an impenetrable forest, and also
the busy markets of an oriental village.
One of my favorites was under a great tree made of gleaming lapis lazuli
and turquoise. But more often than not
he was looking out over his horizon, and I was looking out over mine.
What
a waste.
Interestingly,
we both feel the need to tell our stories.
He is right; it has been entertaining.
It was not until recently that I understood that the story could have
been so much fuller, and been one continuous adventure. The moments when we were together burned
with intensity that changed history.
When we were apart, they simply entertained us until next we met. That is why we find now that our stories are
somewhat … disappointing. It should not
be that way. Had we not taken the long
way toward each other, we would certainly have taken the joy we find in each
other now entirely for granted.
But,
where to begin? Our separation was so
long ago, that neither of us can remember it, let alone the reason for it. We just take it from the Others that it was
a need to find a better path that set us out looking for something
different. I could tell the story of
how we played together as children and knew each other as Al and Betty, but
that seems rather pointless. I remember
a man with starburst eyes who taught me how to truly love and another who
showed me that life was a vast playground.
But in the end, these stories brought me back to the hand I now hold at
the temple. I was in control of nothing. I just sailed along at the whim of a smiling
god who sent me spinning into one unlikely story after another, to finally
arrive here on these steps.
I
should thank him someday.
My
friend with the lovely hand is right.
Life did start in the House of Ra.
It was there that I learned my first lesson: that life in service to
something greater than yourself holds more value than life in service to
yourself. To say yes without thought to
your own needs brings a greater joy then can possibly be imagined.
But
life in the House of Ra was only the beginning. I learned the other lessons along the way, and tried to leave a
record of them as they were learned.
Unfortunately, historians do not find my words worth repeating. They follow instead the overt, the things
they deem of great importance. This is
why history is often full of gaps and inconsistencies. How do you reconstruct something without
seeing all the pieces as equally important?
My words may not fit with what historians believe about the past, but
that is because they are not searching for truth, but profit. Truth, as many will tell you, is
subjective.
There
is one truth. And I sit each morning,
holding its hand.
Tales from the Temple
Sand, Blowing Across The Dunes
As
I stand and look out from my chamber window, I notice nothing. Not the beautiful Black columns that at
night look as if you are walking among stars, nor the courtyard that during the
day bustles with the life of those who serve.
It is not that I find the site any less invigorating or appealing. It is simply that I now look out to a new
life, and have separated myself from this one.
For I know that my time to serve in this realm will be over soon, and my
new life will soon begin. No more will
I see the day; the time will soon be upon me when I will ride with him in the
underworld, embarking on a new adventure, one that I have studied but not yet
experienced.
It
is for this reason that I now wish to tell of my life here in his house. I am now known as Neterka: one who constantly does good with perfect
devotion. I am the High Priestess of
the House of Ra; or I was until very recently when I was called to take on my
new name. Ah ... but I get ahead of
myself, and I want to tell my tale without sounding like the old woman I have
become. I put these symbols on the
papyrus in the hope that someday, someone will know that I was here and served
a special purpose beyond the duties of the High Priestess. For you see, my name does not come from the
Temple Priest, but from Ra himself. I
serve him, am devoted to him; I carry his Sa.
I
have had many names in the 25 years I have served in this House. My earliest name was Saba – Born in the
Morning. I would find out years later
how my mother fought her labor in order for me to be Saba. She fought with all she had to make sure
that my birth came with the first rays of the dawn, and for good reason. Our family’s devotion to the House of Ra
reaches back for centuries; it is a revered name. My father was High Priest, as was his father and so on. My mother, while not a priestess, served as
a worker in the House. The members of
my family are destined to serve him. It
was this destiny that caused my mother to have high ambition for me, even
before my birth. She wished her eldest daughter
to become a priestess in the Temple. As
the eldest, I was the only daughter allowed to serve as a priestess, and my
success surpassed her imagination. My
success became dangerous, reaching into the very House of my Uncle, The Morning
and Evening Star. Ah ... but I get
ahead of myself again.
As
Saba, I was the happiest. I tumbled and
wrestled in the sands with my two brothers, watched three more sisters come to
my family, had playmates, and was allowed to be free. I learned the ways of the Egyptian woman: to serve the Gods, the family, then
others. It was the best of times for
me, too innocent to realize what that service would mean, to young to realize
that the service had boundaries. For
six years I played, lived, loved and was the favorite of my father. I was his Khepri, his morning sun. My favorite thing to do then was to walk to
the House of Ra twice a day. Once with
my Father, who would let me skip and chatter, hold my hand, buy the sweetmeats
of the vendors and kiss me as he entered the enormous columned entrance. Then once again in the afternoon I would
walk with my Mother, who insisted on quite decorum and reverence as we waited
by another entrance, the one only the priest and priestess could exit
from. For my mother, this was the only
entrance that mattered, the one she hoped I would someday use. I should have paid more attention to those
afternoon walks to meet my Father. Perhaps if I had, I would not have felt the
anger I felt when, on my sixth birthday, I was brought to the Temple College
for testing and instruction.
From
age six to ten I was taught in the Temple.
Every day I would walk to and from the complex with my Father. Officially Khepri now, I learned how to read
and write, the history of the Upper and Lower Kingdoms, the mythology of the
Gods and ethics and morals. I hated
being there at six years old. I loved to learn, but was always getting beaten
for one thing or another. Either I was
out playing in the sands, (trying desperately to regain my freedom), asking too
many questions of the scribes or prophets, or doing the unthinkable sin,
learning faster then the boys. As I got
older, however, the beatings became less frequent, and I began to enjoy myself
at school. I had a keen mind, and was
eager to learn. To learn the many
astral planes of the afterlife was a joy, to learn history was a passion, and
the myths of the Gods were pure adventure.
I would dream of the Sun God, crying tears that became his people,
imagine his wrath towards those people when they became arrogant and foolish,
and reveled in his compassion for them when the carnage mounted. The House of Ra became a haven, a place
where I could be a good Egyptian female, but learn and grow. The House of Ra became my refuge.
When
instruction was completed on my eleventh birthday, I was brought before a
divine scribe, a prophet of inner dreams, a purification priest and a priest of
Anibus for entrance into spiritual training.
I passed the tests, pleasing both my parents, especially my mother. I was still allowed to go home, and I was
quite content with the next few years.
There were only a few times when I was not happy, and that was largely
due to the reaction of people around me, reactions I only now fully understand. The first of these occurred when I was
thirteen, and was allowed to go to Manu, the Hill of Sunrise with the High
Priestess of the Temple to perform a ritual for the journey of Ra across the
heavens. While there, I was admiring
the beauty of the mountain when I saw a young boy playing nearby. Astounded that he was on the sacred place,
let alone playing among the brush, I walked over to talk to him. His look of surprise did not deter me; I
simply thought that my words of warning frightened him. He never spoke, but looked at me for a very
long time. When the soft pink glow of
the dawn began to change to the stronger glows of orange, however, he turned
away and disappeared over the crest of the mountain. When I returned to the ritual, the Priestess seemed frightened,
and asked whom I had been speaking to.
When I told her about the boy, she turned pale. When the ritual was over and we returned to
the Temple, I was brought to the High Priest under Ra's Tree in the center
courtyard. After telling him and the
prophet what had happened, I was taken away to a room and left alone. I found out later that the Priest was too
frightened to say anything; no one else at the ritual had seen the young
boy. Many will tell you that my skin
glowed with the God’s Sa. I can’t
say. I was not allowed to view my
reflection for five days.
It is not important the
many events that came next. For years I
had similar things occur during rituals or events that concerned the God. My name became synonymous with the occult. I went about my duties, learning and
performing them with expert care and precision, but I found that with time, my
friends began to dwindle down to a select few who knew me and accepted the
things that happened without blinking.
One of these friends was Nathja, keeper of the sacred animals. The fact that I could pet and fondle the
Falcon of Ra did not frighten her. She
simply accepted that I had a way with the bird. She was soft spoken, totally at ease with both animal and people
and was herself a holder of the Sa of Bast.
Perhaps this is why she did not fear me or treat me differently than
anyone else. All I know is that Nathja
loved me, and I her. I was happy to be
with her for the next few years.
Ah,
you must have guessed by now that the God favors me. It is easy to see this now, but believe me when I tell you that
at the time I did not know it. The
strange happenings were never explained to me, but were instead only discussed
within the highest epsilons of the House of Ra. I therefore continued with my duties, enjoying the few
friendships I had, performing the rituals of songs and sacrifices, and being
happy as a priestess and high keeper of the animals of the God. I was young, successful and dedicated to my
position in the House of Ra. My
happiness was not tied to the favor of the God, but to the joy of devoting
myself to him. My name was eventually
changed to Alara-Netermu: true joy in
constantly doing good with devotion and tenderness.
When
I was eighteen, I again went before the High Priest and his entourage. After being purified, I was put before the
tree of Ra. This tree is the center of the House courtyard, it’s life-size
trunk and branches made of blue lapis lazuli, and leaves of turquoise. I waited, unsure of why I was there, but
wise enough to say nothing. Ra’s falcon
set down upon one of the lower branches, and my first inclination was to hold
out my arm so that I could lay my face against his feathers for a small bit of
comfort. The gaze from his eyes,
however, was so intense that I left my arm at my side. I found that my eyes could not meet
his. Confused, I simply looked down at
my feet.
Eventually,
a Priest silently signaled me to follow him inside the huge covered Temple that
fills over half of the entire complex. Being a priestess, I was always in the
Temple, performing the daily rituals, but that day I found myself being led
through secret corridors I never knew existed.
I was led to a small chamber. Inside the chamber was a holy lamp similar
to the one used in the main chamber of the Temple, but on a smaller scale. It
was lit, but burning low, casting shadows across the floor and walls. Next to the lamp sat a bowl of sacred food
for sacrifices. The Priest refused to look at me, and said nothing; he simply
turned and exited the room. Once again
I silently waited, not knowing why I was there, or what was expected of
me.
It was not long before I heard chanting from the main chamber of the Temple. It was soft, but the tune and words were still recognizable. It was the Neter’s Hymn; a chant to bring about the spirit presence of the God to the High Priest. Having led this chant for many years, I immediately picked up the bowl, held it aloft and faced east.
"The
Lamp of Wisdom burns steadily, If the soil that feeds it be reality,” I
intoned softly. From behind me, I could
feel the heat from the lamp warm my skin.
“If
the oil that feeds the lamp be Love, The beloved will meet the Lord and be
blessed,” I sang, this time facing south. The heady odor of holy oil filled
my nostrils; it was almost overpowering.
“If
the air that feeds the Flame be Truth, The Breath of She who breathes will
inhale Wisdom.” I was now facing west,
weak-kneed and light headed, but unable to keep from continuing with the
hymn. Slowly, and with difficulty, I
turned to the north.
“If
the Spirit enters the Flame, The Fire will be as bright as a Star." I felt the intense heat of the flame, and watched the
shadows leave the walls and floor. The
room was ablaze with light, with heat, with his presence. I was so frightened I did not want to turn
again to the east. Only years of devotion to the ritual forced me to move. The sight before me caused me to do
something I had never done in all my years of service: I dropped the bowl. What I saw cannot be accurately described. After all these years, words still fail
me. This was no young boy playing on
Manu, this was the God Ra: a falcon
headed, shining figure wearing the Uraeus, its coiled cobra gleaming with an
intensity that made it appear alive and ready to strike.
I
dare not tell you everything that happened, it is not safe to talk of such
things. I can tell you that it was the
night he gave me my new name. I became
Neterka-Bast. I had become literally
the personification of the heat of the sun, for I now carried the Satapu Sa of
Ra. Satapu Sa is the living wisdom,
virtue and essence of the god, given by touch.
With this came his hidden name —something that until that moment was known
only to the High Priest. That night I
surpassed all my mother’s expectations, and my own ambitions: I became High Priestess, chosen by Ra
himself, and the favorite of his servants.
This
sounds like a perfect ending to my story.
It is not. Being the Favored One
made me a threat, not only to the High Priest, but to my Uncle the Pharaoh as
well. It placed my head equal to his,
because the Pharaoh also claims to be the personification of the Sun. I was a woman, and held a close family tie
to the throne of Egypt. My position
made my family a political threat. For
this reason, my Uncle ordered that I never be allowed to leave the House of Ra
again, and that my full name never be revealed, either in writing or
speech. He always thought that this was
his idea. It was not. It was a thought
planted by Ra through his High Priest. While
my full name is not contained in any of the writings concerning the lineage of
the Priestesses, it is imprinted on the Obelisk of Ra in the Temple, and can
never be removed.
I
was given my own living quarters within the Covered Temple. I was no longer High Keeper of the animals,
but the falcon I loved so much never left my side. He had his own special place within my chamber. I loved living at the Temple and fulfilling
my duties as the High Priestess. In the
years since he elevated me I have been visited regularly by him. I have seen him in all but one of his
manifestations, my favorite being Autm-Ra, the man-god who wears the double
crown of Egypt. Over the years, his Sa has changed my
appearance; my skin glows with an inner warmth, and my eyes deeply contain his
wisdom. I was beautiful and
powerful. I am old now, my youth swept
away like the sand on the dunes outside the Temple. Many thought that age and loss of beauty would weaken my favor
with Ra, but it has not. To him, I am
still Habibah-Kamilah: loved
perfection.
The
day is almost over now. I have told all
that needs to be told, said all that needs to be said. He has traveled Manjet to the
horizon, and will soon start his journey down the river of the Underworld back
to Manu. This papyrus will soon be all
that is left of Neterka-Bast. My eyes
grow dim, even as I feel the familiar heat against my skin, and smell the
pungent odor of holy oil. I will soon
see him in the one form that he has never revealed. He will soon call me by my new name, and I will be allowed to
finally love him as a woman rather then serve him as his priestess.
I
hope with all my heart, that this is seen.
I pray that some one will know that I lived, learned, served and was
loved in the House of Ra. I entreat the
gods who guard their Temples that someone will learn the one essential truth of
my life in his service.
I
am for him, as he is for me.
Tales from the Temple
We
seem to live not only in Time but also in Eternity. If we abide with Ra and He abides with us,
we
may bring forth fruit which will last for eternity.
If
we live with Ra, our lives can flow as some calm river through the dry land of
earth, just as morning's clouds flow down the mountain valley, fogging and dewing
and watering life there, diffused in the rising glow of the Sun's brilliant
spectrum, and satisfying the thirsts for life.
Such
communion can cause the trees and flowers of the spiritual life -- love and
service -- to spring forth and yield abundantly. It is the common goal of flora and fauna, of life and life, and
love.
Spiritual
work may be done for eternity, not just for now. Even here on earth we can live as though our own real lives were
eternal, and rightly believe so.
I
wish that I may make my life like a cool river in a thirsty land. I wish to give freely to all who ask my
help. I wish to absorb my tributaries,
to extend my deltaic tendrils: I wish
to understand and to learn, and to continue.
Tales from the Temple
In
those early years with him in the astral plane, I found that everything I knew,
or thought I knew, was not quite the truth.
Perhaps it was the fact that I had been mortal, and therefore unable to
understand a life of immortal perfection.
Perhaps it was the fact that I had devoted myself so exhaustively to
being his supplicantfs that the idea of being his equal was hard to accept as
truth. Whatever the reason, there were
times when he and I did not see eye to eye.
We
would ride the skies in Manjet during the day, each looking at totally
different worlds. It was during those
early flights that I first realized why he had built the House of Ra. As the biggest star in the heavens, he had
lost touch with the people his tears created.
As they ambled along in the day to day struggle that is mortal living,
he could not understand why some found happiness while others did not. “After all,” he would tell me, “they came from me, and I put them into a
perfect world.”
In
the beginning when he would talk to me in this manner, I found it difficult to
answer. It was not that I didn’t have
my own opinion; I simply found it difficult to express it. After a mortal lifetime of service to him,
it never occurred to me to counsel him.
This was our first bisect. He
wanted me to talk to him, to tell him my ideas; I wanted to continue serving
and loving him as we had done for years.
I assumed that my new life would simply be an extended version of what I
had already known. According to the Book
Of The Dead, that was the way it was supposed to be. It contains no chapter on acclimating
oneself to an elevated position.
In
the end the patience Ra learned in his House saved me from pitching myself
headlong into the river of the dead. He
continued asking questions, pulling answers out of me. In time, I was able to answer him with a
confidence born from knowing that he valued my opinion, even when we did not
agree. In the security of that
knowledge, a true love was born.
That
is not to say that bliss was not ... strained at times. After all, when you ask someone's opinion,
chances are you might not like what you hear.
The
question of why mortals seem to muck up the perfection he gave them was a
common theme with us. We would lie in
the meadow near the temple and discuss the “ingratitude” of the unhappy ones at
length. With time, I found that while I
could see the answer, he just could not understand. I would ask him about the moods he was in when he cried. I would ask him about the tears he cried in
sorrow. A person created from that
tear, I would suggest, would have a vastly different outlook then the one
created from a tear of joy. Beauty
would still come from the poet born from sadness, but it would likely be a poem
beautifully expressing the misery of life.
Consequently, a symphony born from the heart of the happy tear, while
having a melancholy movement or two, would invariably return to explode in a
joyous climax. I knew he did not like
my opinion; he expected the sad ones to get over it, and show gratitude for the
life they held such disdain for.
We
enjoyed idyllic days back then, so entranced with the wonder that was true and
lasting love, that we began to pay less attention to the world outside our
Temple on Manu. The years blew across
the House of Ra, and the civilization that had brought us together began to
erode like the stone faces of the statues on the Temple.
It was then that those born out of his tears
of frustration began to emerge. Unlike
mortals, these tears had produced those like him. They began to gain ground as our attention was diverted, and when
we finally noticed the change, their stories had begun to capture the
imagination of mortals. We were amazed
at the ridiculous stories that emerged.
The head god had been hidden away while his father was fed a rock
disguised as his infant form, or setting two eagles into flight, each flying
off in a different direction, to designate the “center of the earth” when they
met. I never could quite figure out why
that particular spot needed to be found.
But it was Ra’s reaction to these stories that upset me. He alternated between being angry enough to
order the destruction of mankind again or an apathy that, quite frankly,
frightened me more then the idea of another bloodbath. I hope he never held any resentment for me
for diverting his attentions. If he
did, he never let it show.
In
Ra’s defense, he did try to talk to their leader, an obstinate, thunderbolt
tossing loud mouth, with a penchant for mortal women. We would go to Olympus to try and be friendly, only to be met
with hostility that was palpable. Zeus
would push Ra as far as possible, only to retreat when he saw those starburst
eyes burn dangerously intense. In the
end, when he taunted Ra that he could lead the mortals far better, Ra looked at
me with eyes filled with resignation, and simply told Zeus to go ahead and
try.
We
returned to our own Manu, happy to be together in the simple stone and natural
complex we loved. We would often
venture down to earth, to walk among the mortals and listen to them. We would usually end up in the company of
philosophers, discussing all manner of matters important to man. I was tolerated, because while they did not
know Ra for himself, they recognized a bearing that stopped any arguments
concerning my presence.
I
loved those discussions, although I have to admit, many of their ideas seemed
rather wasteful. On one trip, a
philosopher droned on about defining justice, only to conclude 4 hours later
that you could not define it. I remember Ra’s eyes seeking mine and rolling in
impatience. That impatience continued
at home, and that’s when I unintentionally planted the idea that changed our
idyllic days.
Tired
of talking in circles about the ingratitude of mankind, said in frustration
that he could never understand mortals, because he had never known what it was
like to be mortal. I was quick
to add that although I had been mortal, I had been his Favored One, and thus
never really knew the struggles other mortals faced. Had I been in want, in pain, or needed anything, he would have
provided it for me. I had never
exploited that aspect of our relationship, but I suppose that is because being
the favored one automatically made me want for nothing in his House. The point is, that statement made sense to
him, and we ended up paying the price for my outburst, for centuries to come.
Perhaps
one day I will learn to keep my opinions to myself.
Tales from the Temple
Imagine Time
A time when the arms
of the one you love
are so steadfastly around you,
that you will never again
feel adrift.
A time when the kiss
of the one you love
falls so soothingly on your
lips,
that you will never again
feel anxious.
A time when the voice
of the one you love
speaks so serenely in your ear,
that you will never again
feel troubled.
A time when the tenderness
from the one you love
so warmly surrounds you
that you will never again
feel beaten.
The time approaching
when the one you love
so gently holds your hand
that you will never again
feel alone.
Tales from the Temple
We
seem to live in a time we lovingly call The Now. If we nurture Now, it nurtures us, bringing forth great beauty,
joy and a sense of peace which will last, has lasted for eternity.
If
we love Now, our lives can refresh not only ourselves, but all those who come
in contact with us, just as new snow covers and refreshes the dry nooks and
crannies of a desert mountainside. The
land may seem the same as the snow melts away under the warmth of the sun, but
in the spring when all have forgotten that first snowfall, spring flowers burst
forth and fill the mountainside with new and unexpected life.
Nurture
the Now, for it has a power that surpasses anything man can produce. It can fill the loneliest valley with new
life, refresh the driest desert with the most beautiful of plants, calm the
fiercest of sea storms.
The
Now will radiate out from us, touching all who come in contact with it. It can create loving bonds that transcend
time, space and distance. We are but
the vessels: the Now is the power, and
will last beyond us.
I
wish that I may make my life like the rain that nurtures the earth. I wish to give freely to those who ask, but
also to give without knowing; as the rain that falls in the deserted expanses
barely known to man.
I
wish to love, and to be loved. I wish
to touch all who know me with a spirit that gives peace. I wish for the beauty and wisdom of now to
continue.
Tales from the Temple
The
sun had risen over the horizon as it always had, orange and brilliant, diffused by light clouds so
familiar to him he could see them with his eyes closed. But this morning his eyes were wide open,
the starbursts reflecting the few stars that were still stubbornly holding on
to their positions in the sky above. He
stood watching the colors of the morning with the eyes of a child as he always
did, but this morning the joyful anticipation he always felt before boarding
Manjet was gone. Neterka was not there,
and he wanted her hand in his. He
wanted to see her smile radiate from her eyes and lips, to feel the sparks snap
from her soul to his. The joyful
anticipation of this, his birthday morning was gone, and Ra felt ... alone.
He
did not board Manjet this morning, preferring to stay in the temple courtyard,
partially to hide from the fact that he did not wish to ride alone, but also
because the courtyard containing his tree and the cauldrons of holy oil brought
him closer to her. It was her favorite
section of the Temple, and where they spent the most time together when she was
there. It usually brought him a sense
of peace to be here. Today, however, it
did not, and he could not help but feel like the disappointed child he was at
that moment. He wanted her, and she was
not there. He stamped his foot in
irritation.
He
could not help but remember back to an earlier time when she was gone, and
frowned. It had been the winter night
mortals revered most, and usually, he anticipated that night with a sort of
wonder, but one year, it simply lost its luster. It had been their first big test: a time when he wanted so much to show her ... no ... to share
with her all that she had brought to him.
But she was gone, still living the life he had sent her into. She was with him in spirit, yet separated
from him.
He
frowned then, not just from the memory of that Christmas, but also from the
understanding that once again, she was gone.
He did not want to celebrate his birthday alone. Almost as if he knew, Neterka’s falcon flew
down and perched along one of the lower limbs of the great tree. Both the bird and the god stared out across
the dunes with the same unexpressed emotion: longing.
He
tried to shake it off, but by noon he had aged to a young man and as with most
young men his thoughts had turned to desire, and that desire brought
frustration. The urge to do something
was born out of that frustration, and he took off in a run down the steps of
the temple. His long limbs ran along
the wilderness paths, the banks of the stream, and the soft sandy shores of the
glassy lake. He tried to outrun his
thoughts, but it was no use; everywhere he went she was with him. Usually, this gave him peace. This day, however, it brought nothing but
compunction. He could not escape her, and
he wanted more then her spirit could give him.
He
knew where she was, but refused to give in and go to her. They had agreed long ago that once they were
living mortal lives, they would let those lives play out naturally, as it did
for all mortals. In this life, he had
passed first, leaving her alone to live the rest of her days without him. He had not realized how hard these
separations would be. He knew that she
would grieve for him on earth, but had not once considered that it would be
just as hard to wait for her on Manu.
As he ran he felt the rope around his heart tighten, and knew it was not
physical exertion causing it.
He
was a mass of conflicting emotions, and he ran to escape them. He ran from his desire to toss aside his
resolve and just be a god and go get her. He had that power, but ran harder to hold firm to his promise not
to use it. For once in his long
existence, Ra understood real mortal grief.
He was dealing with the pain of separation from the thing his heart
desired most — and hated it.
He
was running so fast, and thinking so hard, that he never realized the changes
in himself that were so much a part of him.
By the time he felt the surf lapping at his feet he was an older man,
and Manjet was sailing low in the sky.
He had, without realizing it, sought out the sea that had always been
the source of his strength. He was far
from Neterka’s mountain and sea — this was a place she had never seen. They had often talked of coming here
together, but the knowledge that they had eternity to share it had made them
put it off. This was not something
exclusively Ra. Neterka had yet to show
him her beloved mountain. Ra stood on
the shore and slowly exhaled, letting the sound of the surf and the salty air
slowly refresh him.
He
sat in the sand, toes in the water, arms around his knees, and felt his balance
return. As Manjet sailed slowly toward
the sea, he waited for the green flash
with a smile, never noticing his body aging again. Finally relaxed, he waited with anticipation. When the brilliant green hue flashed across
the shimmering water, he was suddenly hit with the memory of a pair of shining
green eyes twinkling up at him with a combination of mirth, desire, and
love. As many old men do, he sighed and
smiled with contentment over the loveliest of memories and softly breathed her
name into the wind. But because he was
an old man he forgot himself, and the name was not Neterka, but her true name,
the one she had always longed to hear him speak out loud. He sat awhile in shock at the slip and then
smiled. He had given in to her at last,
even if she had not heard it.
Manjet
disappeared from view, and the evening sky turned the deep blue that settles in
as the first stars begin making their appearance. His birthday was over, and he had survived it. He was in his night form now, and he stood
and watched the night mist begin to roll in around him, rising and covering the
cliffs above him. Turning to return to
the temple (by quicker magic this time) he looked up toward the misty cliffs,
and saw a form emerge.
The
form was silhouetted against the silver moon’s reflected mist, small and
standing along the cliff’s edge. The
wind blew her hair and skirts in soft billows.
He stood transfixed at the sight.
From behind her, the soft light seemed to radiate, accentuating her
small frame. She said nothing, but
stood there waiting.
And
suddenly, he knew.
Climbing
quickly over the rocks, he finally reached the cliff’s edge. She stood before him smiling, as if to say
“What took you so long?” and he laughed.
They stood facing each other, the Sun-god and his One, each one staring
in shock and disbelief that they were together, afraid to touch each other in
case it was a dream. Finally, in joy
and hope that they were doing the right thing, he shouted her true name as she
threw her arms around his neck. The
answering kiss and whisper of his name was all they needed to know that Here,
and Now, was Truth.
In
the morning, he boarded Manjet with a smile.
Sailing overhead, he looked down toward the place where he knew she was
sleeping, where he had once slept with her as her mortal husband. In that moment, he made a decision.
And
saw her smile in her sleep.
Tales from the Temple
When the hour approaches
and you have returned
my soul will know.
Through the mist
will I emerge,
soft, radiant, smiling.
arms out stretched,
ready to envelope you
in a warm embrace
The breath of life
will I give you
in a tiptoe kiss
And we will marvel
at the beauty made not by our design,
But Love’s
Tales from the Temple
Helios' Captaincy
The music room in the Governor's House at Port St. Thomas, a tall, handsome,
pillared octagon, was filled with the triumphant first movement of Locatelli's
C major quartet. The players, Italians
pinned against the far wall by rows and rows of little round gilt chairs, were
playing with passionate conviction as they mounted towards the penultimate
crescendo, towards the tremendous pause and the deep, liberating final chord.
And on the little gilt chairs at least some of the audience were following the
rise wih an equal intesity: there were two in the third row, on the left-hand
side; and they happened to be sitting next to one another. The listener farther
to the left was a man of between twenty and thirty whose big form overflowed
his seat. He was wearing his best
uniform — the white-lapelled blue coat, white waistcoat, breeches and stockings
of a lieutenant in the United States Navy, with the silver medal of Yorktown in
his buttonhole. And the deep white cuff beat the time, while his bright
green starburst eyes, staring from a deeply tanned face, gazed fixedly at the
bow of the first violin. The high note came, the pause, the resolution;
and with the resolution the sailor's fist swept firmly down upon his
knee. He leaned back in his chair, sighed happly and turned towards his
neighbor with a smile. The words “very
finely played, sir, I believe” were formed in his gullet if not quite in his
mouth when he caught the cold and indeed inimical look and heard the whisper,
“If you you really must beat the measure, sir, let me entreat you to do so in
time, and not half a beat ahead.”
Helios' face instantly changed from friendly ingeniuous communicative pleasure
to an expression of somewhat baffled hostility: he could not but acknowledge
that he had been beating the time; and although he had certainly done so
with perfect accuracy, in itself the thing was wrong. His color mounted; he fixed his neighbor's pale eye for a moment,
said, “I trust ...” and the opening notes of the slow movement cut him
short.
The minuet set Helios' head wagging with its insistent beat, but he was wholly
unconscious of it; and when he felt his hand stirring on his breeches and
threatening to take to the air he thrust it under the crook of his knee.
It was a witty, agreeable minuet, no more; but it was succeeded by a curiously
difficult, almost harsh last movement, a piece that seemed to be on the edge of
saying something of the very greatest importance. The volume of sound died away
to the single whispering of a fiddle, and the steady hum of low conversation
that had never stopped at the back of the room threatened to drown it; a
soldier exploded in a stifled guffaw and Helios looked angrily round.
Then the rest of the quartet joined the fiddle and all of them worked back to
the point from which the statement might arise; it was essential to get
straight back into the current, so as the cello came in with its predictable
and necessary contribution of pom, pom-pom-pom, poom, Helios' chin sank
upon his breast and in unison with the cello he went “pom, pom-pom-pom,
poom.” An elbow drove into his ribs
and the sound “shshsh!” hissed in his ear. He found that his hand
was high in the air, beating time; he lowered it, clenched his mouth shut and
looked down at his feet until the music was over.
He heard the noble conclusion and recognized that it was far beyond the
straightforward winding-up that he had forseen, but he could take no pleasure
in it. In the applause and general din his neighbor looked at him, not so
much with defiance as with total, heartfelt disaprobation; they did not speak,
but sat in rigid awareness of one another while Mrs. Hearte, the commandant's
wife, went through a long and technically difficult piece on her harp. A
nudge, a thrust of that kind, so vicious and deliberate, he thought, was very
much like a blow. Neither his personal temper nor his professional code
could patiently suffer such an affront, and what affront was greater than a
blow?
The storm of applause told him that the performance was over, and he beat his
palms industriously, stretching his mouth into an expression of rapturous
delight. Molly Hearte curtseyed and smiled, caught his eye and smiled
again, at him; he clapped louder.
Helios and his neighbor in the rusty black coat stood up at the same time, and
they looked at one another. Helios let
his face return to its expression of cold dislike — the dying remnants of his
rapture at the music were disagreeable — and in a low voice he said, “My name
is Andrews, sir, I am staying at the Crown.”
“Mine, sir, is Richards. I am to be found any morning at Joselito's
coffee-house. May I beg you to stand
aside?”
___________
The Crown, where Helios was staying, had a certain resemblance to its famous
namesake in Portsmouth: it had the same immense gilt and scarlet sign hanging
up outside, a relic of former British occupations, and the house had been built
about 1750 in the purest English taste, with no concessions whatever to the
Mediterranean or Carribbean except for the tiles. Helios contemplated how
seriously British “The States” were, yet were not, then, moved on in
thought. The place smelt of olive oil, sardines, and wine, and there was
not the least possibility of an applie pie or even a decent suet pudding.
Yet, on the other hand, no English inn could produce a chambermaid so very like
a dusky peach as Mercedes. She bounced out on to the dim landing, filling
it with vitality and a kind of glow, and she called up the stairs, “A letter,
Teniente: I bring him .…” A
moment later she was at his side, smiling with innocent delight, but he was
only too clearly aware of what any letter addressed to him might have in it,
and he did not respond with anything more than a mechanical jocosity and a
vague dart at her bosom.
At length, he went so far as to open the letter, which, in which, to say, he
was 'hereby required and directed to proceed on board the Bunny and take
upon you the Charge and Command of Commander of her; willing and requiring all
the Officers and Company belonging to the said Sloop to behave themselves in
their several Employments with all due Respect and Obedience to you their
Commander; and you likewise to observe as well the General Printed Instructions
as what Orders and Directions you may from time to time receive from any your
superior Officer ... Hereof nor you nor any of you may fail as you will answer
the contrary at your Peril. — To: Helios Andrews, Esqr., hereby
appointed Commander of the United States Navy Sloop Bunny, by command of
the Admiral Thos. Palasky.'
His eyes took in the whole of this in a single instant, yet his mind refused
either to read or to believe it. His face went red. The second reading ran faster and
faster. His face grew redder still, and his mouth widened of
itself. He laughed aloud and tapped the letter, folded it, unfolded it,
and read it again with the closest attention.
He was unable to keep still. He was unable to keep still. Pacing
briskly up and down the room he put on his coat, threw it off again, and
chuckled a series of disconnected remarks. “There I was, worring,
... ha, ha .... such a neat little brig ... ha, ha ... if only I can get men to
man her, that's the great point .…” He was exceedingly hungry and
thirsty: his head poked out into the corridor and he was hailing the
chambermaid. “Mercy! Mercy! Oh, there you are, my dear. What can you bring me to eat, manger,
mangiare? Pollo? Cold roast pollo? And a bottle of wine, vino — two
bottles of vino. And Mercy, will you come and do something for me?
I want you, desiree, to do something for me, eh? Sew on, cosare, a
button.”
'Yes, Teniente,' said Mercedes, her eyes rolling in the candlelight and her
teeth flashing white.
”Not teniente,” cried Helios, crushing the breath out of her lovely, supple
body. “Capitan! Capitano, ha, ha,
ha!”
And so they celebrated Helios' promotion.
___________
Helios and the Doctor
Helios woke in the morning straight out of deep, deep sleep into an instant
wakefullness, and even before he opened his eyes he was brimming with the
knowledge of his promotion. “She is not quite a first-rate, of course,”
he observed, “but who wants a blundering great first-rate, with not the
slightest chance of an independent cruise? And the chance of prize
money! She lays beyond the ordnance quay, in the next berth to the Suzanne.
I shall go down directly and have a look at her. No, no, must give the
crew fair warning; a note to the Master at least. Especially since that
scrub of a naval commandant BlackHearte (darn pretty wife on the harp, he
smiled on a tangent) has probably stripped her of all ablebodied seamen and
officers; he knew I was engaged at the concert, the cuckold.” He already
knew that his new command was without a first leutenant and surgeon from the
mingling chatter with other officers at last night's concert. Never thee
mind, he thought, a ship is a ship, and 'tis his ship he shall shape soon
enough. He smiled at the alliterative thought, and arose.
The first thing he did in fact was to cross the road to the naval outfitter's
and pledge his now elastic credit to the extent of a noble, heavy, impressive
epaulette, the mark of his present rank, a symbol which the shopman fixed upon
his left shoulder at once and upon which they both gazed with great complacency
in the long glass.
As the door closed behind him, Helios saw the man in the black coat on the
other side of the road near the coffee-house. The evening flooded back
into his mind and he hurried across, calling out, “Mr. – Mr. Richards.
Why, there you are sir. I owe you a thousand apologies, I am
afraid. I must have been such a sad bore to you last night, I hope you
will forgive me. We sailors hear so little music, are so little used to genteel
company, that we grow carried away. I beg your pardon.”
”My dear sir,” cried the man in the black coat, with an odd flush rising in his
dead-white face, “you had every every reason to be carried away. I have
never heard a better quartetto in my life: such unity, such fire.
And the harpist had such a deft touch. May I propose a cup of chocolate,
or coffee? It would give me great pleasure.”
“You are very good, sir. I should like it of all things. To tell
truth, I was in such a hurry of spirits I forgot my breakfast. I have
just been promoted,” he added, with an off-hand laugh.
“Have you indeed? I wish you joy of it with all my heart, sir. Pray
walk in.”
At the sight of Mr. Richards the waiter moved his forefinger in that
discouraging inverted pendulum gesture of negation. Richards shrugged,
said to Helios, 'The posts are wonderfully slow these days,' and to the waiter,
speaking in the Spanish of the island, “Bring us a pot of chocolate, Jose,
furiously whipped, and some cream.”
“You speak the Spanish, sir?” said Helios, sitting down and flinging out the
skirts of his coat to clear his sword in a wide gesture that filled the room
with blue. “That must be a splendid thing. I have often tried, and
with French and Italian too; but it don't answer. They generally
understand me, but when they say anything, they speak so quick I am
thrown alee.” He laughed heartily and just then the waiter came with the
chocolate and said, “Fine day, Captain, sir, fine day!”
“Prodigious fine day,” said Helios, with great nodding benevolence.
“Bello soleil, indeed. But,” he added, bending down and peering out of
the upper part of the window, it wouldn't surprise me if the cyclone's edge
were to set in.” Turning to Mr. Richards he said, “As soon as I was out
of bed and noticed that greenish look in the nor-nor-east, I said to myself,
“When the sea-breeze dies away, I should not be surprised if the cyclone's edge
were to set in.”
“It is curious that you should find foreign languages difficult, sir,” said Mr.
Richards, who had nothing to contribute regarding the weather, 'for it seems
reasonable to suppose that a good ear for music would accompany a facility for
acquiring an ear — that the two would necessarily run together.”
“I am sure you are right, philosophically,” said Helios. “But there it
is. Perhaps my musical ear is not so famous, neither; though indeed I
love music dearly. Heaven knows I find it hard enough to pitch upon the
true note, right in the middle.”
“You play, sir?”
“I scrape a little, sir. I torment a fiddle from time to
time.”
“So do I! So do I! Whenever I have leisure, I make my attempts upon
the cello.”
“A noble instrument,” said Helios, and they talked of Boccherini, bows
and rosin, copyists, the care of strings, with great satisfication in one
another's company until a brutally ugly clock struck the hour. “You will
forgive me, I am sure. I have a whole round of official calls, but I hope
I may count upon the honor and pleasure of your company for dinner?”
”Most happy,” said Richards, thinking of his long-empty stomach, with a
bow. They were at the door. “Then may we appoint three o'clock at
the Crown? We do not keep fashionable hours in the service, alas.
By that time I am positively grumbling with hunger. We will wet the swab,
and when it is handsomely awash, why then, perhaps we might try a little
music.”
“Did you see that hoopoe?” cried the man in the black coat.
“What is a hoopoe?” cried Helios, looking about.
A bird. That cinnamon-colored bird with barred wings, Upupa epos.
There! There, over the roof. There! There!”
“Where? Where? How does it bear?”
“It is gone now. I have been hoping to see a hoopoe ever since I arrived
with my ill and aging patron, god rest his soul, on these restorative
isles. It was a mestastasizing I could not contain, even with a
pharmacopeia boundless, alas,” he muttered looking down. “But I beg
your pardon. You were speaking of swab wetting.”
”Oh, yes. It is an expression we have in the Navy. The swab is this,”
— patting his epaulette — “and when first we ship it, we wet it. That is
to say, we drink a bottle or two of wine.” Helios pondered without
showing recognition, or so he thought, of the medical knowledge his new
acquaintance espoused.
”Indeed?” said Richards, with a civil inclination of his head. “A
decoration, a badge of rank, I make no doubt? A most elegant ornament, so
it is, upon my soul. But, my dear sir, does it not leave you unbalanced?”
”Well,” said Helios, laughing, “I dare say I shall put them both on, by and
by. Now I wish you good day and thank you for the excellent
chocolate. I am so happy that you saw your epopoo.”
___________
___________
A Sea Story
He'd found a bar that was little more than a barn in the eastern part of town
back away from the nice areas. The
hanging board out front declared it to be the Rum and Randy, and he thought a
few glasses of what was known as "sailors' flip," concocted of rum,
sugar, and beer, might cheer him up. He
needed a bit of cheer after leaving Emerald in the early evening just before
her father and uncle were expected home.
Soon a few drinks had become a few more. The atmosphere was alternately jolly or melancholy, depending on
whether the officer singing a song was just making port or just about to sail
from it. Helios recognized a couple of
the officers from the schooners and other small vessels that Bunny
sometimes encountered. They compared
experiences and memories of up north and eventually found a table to sit together. The others spoke of women they knew, with
sometimes enough detail that the listeners knew that the narrator was talking
of his fantasy and not of fact.
But like sailors everywhere, they liked a good story, whether totally true or
not — it made the time go by more pleasantly. Helios listened to the others'
stories with a smile. Later, he took
the duty boat back to Bunny, and with the silent satisfying efficiency
of long practice, the Bunnies hove anchor and made easy sail out of the
harbor on the ebb tide.
Two mornings later, as a colorful sunrise painted the sky to their starboard,
they observed the coast four miles to windward, having made good speed through
the night, followed by the arrow of their phosphorescent wake. Helios had dreamed peacefully within
Emerald's soft embrace.
Bunny was still bounding along, heeled over with a beam reach, her wood,
canvas and rigging combining their voices in a rhythmic song that sounded
almost Survivorish.
The Captain of the Bunny couldn't help but stretch and smile at the
sights and sounds that only sailors know and miss terribly when beached
ashore. And so Helios relished the
moment and saw that many of his crew were in a similar revelation around him. They all admired the taut canvas and
impressive bow wave thrown up, prouder still that they were sailing their
ship.
In the swaying dungeon of the cabin that was his sanctuary, Helios looked one
more time at the chart that accompanied his orders. The crew had long before begun a whispered discussion of their
destination, a trigonometry of place, prize money, and mortality.
___________
The Ball
Emerald sat at the stool in front of the dressing table mirror, pulling her
hair into a soft sweep. She had long since learned how to set her long curls in
this fashion without a mirror, but doing it allowed he to slyly watch
Helios. He stood behind her, oblivious
to the fact that she was watching him. She immediately saw the conflict on his
face: desire for her flushed his cheeks, but the excited chatter from the
hallway interested him as well. She
looked down at the pins on the dressing table, wondering if she would hear the
soft sound of the door opening. She
heard no sound, but instead felt his fingers softly buttoning her gown, and his
kiss on her neck. She rose to embrace
him, and again marveled at the site of the man. He was dressed, at her insistence, not as the resplendent captain
of the Bunny, but as a gentleman.
His coat and trousers perfectly formed to a body honed by years at
sea. Together they made a stunning
pair, made even more beautiful by the love they shared.
The owners of the inn where they were staying had decided to stage an impromptu
ball, partly to relieve the boredom of country life, and partly to send off the
officers and men to the war the next day. Emerald loved balls; she loved to
dance, and especially loved the impression she and Helios made whenever they
danced together. Helios, on the other
hand, loved to mill around the room talking to people. He could talk as easily to the ladies and
gentleman at a ball as he could with the sailors and roughnecks at the Rough
and Ready, a bar close to where he moored the Bunny.
He was already in the ballroom when Emerald appeared at the top of the
stairs. She smiled as she watched him
navigate his way around the room, simultaneously flirting with her friend
Morgan, and telling jokes to a group of avid listeners. He was in his element, full of charm and
wit, and she loved to watch him. When
she finally descended the staircase, she marveled at the speed in which he
weaved his way through the crowd to offer his arm at the last step. It was one of the wonders of their
relationship; no matter what they were doing, they always seemed to find each
other. She gently took his offered arm,
and they made their way to the center of the ballroom.
Gliding to the center of the dancers, the pair stood facing each other. Emerald offered him her hand, and he took it
and gently pulled her into his arms. As
they twirled around the room, they were aware only of each other; they never
saw the appreciative stares, nor did they hear the murmurs from the onlookers
and other dancers. Helios expertly
began to dance with her toward the large French doors that led to the
veranda. As the music swelled, the
glare of the ballroom was replaced with soft moonlight. The lovers stopped, and found themselves
looking at the wondrous sight before them.
A magnificent full moon shone down on the gardens and lawns that reached toward
the misty sea. Flowers that shone
bright in the sunlight were now painted strange, muted colors. The fountains and reflecting pools shimmered
under the pale light, and the lovers soon found themselves walking among the
garden paths. When they reached a
secluded grove, Helios laid his coat on the ground, and they sat together,
sharing soft kisses, touches, and words of love.
Two hours later, the couple emerged from the path and returned to the
veranda. The ball had turned quite
boisterous by this time, due to the large quantity of champagne consumed. Emerald stopped to gaze up at Helios, who
was carelessly smiling and pulling grass out of her hair. She smoothed his shirt and let her hands
linger on his chest as she stood on tiptoe to smooch him privately on last
time. They once again joined their
friends in the dancing and revelry.
The next morning, Emerald stood once again on the veranda; this time watching
as Helios left for the docks. He never looked back, but strode toward the coach
with quiet resolve. As the coach
lurched away, she forced herself to watch until he disappeared. She was saddened at his leaving, but she was
not worried. He would be on the Bunny,
and Emerald knew that the great ship loved him as much as she did, and would
always protect him.
Tales from the Temple
Sailing
The lovers felt the calming wake
on a sailing ship called Love,
and safely from a loving nook,
they watched the moon above.
Safe within each other’s arms,
when love was spent, they slept,
knowing that, among the stars,
Their secret was well kept.
The peaceful, sleeping lovers,
drifting on the lapping swell,
wakened, and in passion
sought the union known so well.
The sailing ship, it sails on,
each day it skims the wave,
and each new night brings with it
all the peace these lovers crave.
Tales from the Temple
Let Go Of Yourself And Soar
Raymond Andrews trudged alone
along the dirt road in a state of extreme annoyance. The morning was almost gone and yet the chill in the air still
clung to his skin, and the breeze grazed his pink cheeks like knives. He drew his wool coat tighter to his chest,
balling his hands into fists to keep them warm. Thankfully his ears were warm under the stocking cap his mother
had knitted before he joined the Navy four months earlier, but warm ears and
head were not enough. The rest of him
shivered, as much in irritation as the cold.
“Damn! Does it never warm up on this Island?” he
said to himself as he blew into his fingers.
He was in such deep thought that he never noticed he had veered toward
the edge of the dirt road until his foot stepped down into a deep puddle. He felt the cold water splash over his boot
and down into his sock. “I hate this
place,” he grumbled.
In truth, there was much more
on Raymond’s mind then the cold air. He
had joined the Navy for many reasons, not the least being to “bring down the
Hun.” Much to his chagrin, he had yet
to see any action. After spending weeks
in basic training and officers candidate school, he and his fellow shipmates
had finally set off for France, only to make port in Ireland. His captain had then announced that they
would remain there for at least two weeks, allowed generous liberties, and not
said anymore. All the men had been
disappointed, but Raymond most of all.
Liberty was nice, but he had joined up for adventure, and to please his
considerably naval family. At home in
New York, his family fully expected him not only to enjoy life in the Navy, but
stand out and join the ranks of past Andrews reaching back to the beginnings of
the United States. Now he was stuck on
land, with no adventure other than trying to keep warm. “Some glory,” he muttered to himself
sullenly.
Earlier that morning, Raymond
had joined a group of shipmates for a jaunt into the open market of a village
near where their ship was anchored.
They set off in high spirits, discussing with gusto the local girls with
their colorful dresses, striped stockings, and earthy, flirty manners. Raymond was as interested in conquest as his
companions, but had been distracted by his surroundings. As he walked along with his mates he had
stared at the beauty around him. The
rolling green hills dotted with heather and late early spring wildflowers waved
a welcome in the breeze, and the low hills seemed to call to him. But then, Raymond’s heart held a
secret. He had the soul of a poet, and
the hills offered a romantic diversion harder to pass up then any Irish lass he
had seen thus far.
Because of this, when he had
seen a particularly intriguing path leading up toward one of the heather and
rock covered hills, his ever-present need to see where the path led overrode
his need for female companionship.
After assuring the group that he knew how to get to the market on his
own, he had waved and marched off along the overgrown path toward the top of
the hill. As usual, once his friends
were out of site his mind quickly shifted to the romance of his quest: to see what lie beyond the top of the hill. This caused him to view his surroundings as
more of a painting, or backdrop to his adventure. His senses took in everything, rather than specifics that would
remind him later how to get back to the main road. When he was rewarded with a spectacular view of a purple and
yellow dotted valley below, the path behind him was almost completely forgotten. Wanting to see more, he kept going until
inspiration for a new poem suddenly hit him.
Sitting down on a rock, he pulled out a small notebook and started
writing. When his thoughts finally came
back to where he was, he climbed to what he thought was the correct hill, only
to find himself staring out at an unfamiliar vista. Confused and lost, he now found himself walking along the dirt
road, wet, cold and angry. The beauty
of the quest replaced with embarrassment at having to ask for directions. That was assuming he could find someone to
help him; the road he was on was empty.
His chin was down, in an
attempt to use his wool collar as a warmer.
The wind had gotten stronger, and had he looked up, he would have seen
the darkening sky above him. Instead he
simply trudged along the road head down, hoping that somehow he would find a
village, inn, or some place where someone could tell him where the the devil he
was. He was so lost in his thoughts and
his attempts to keep warm, that he barely noticed when his body seemed to hit
something.
“Ack, Man! Have ya no sense a’tall? Look what ya have done to my eggs!”
Raymond looked up and
immediately wished he was anywhere but on the road. Before him stood a woman, hands on hips, legs spread apart, chin
up and glaring at him. Under normal
circumstances, he would have gazed appreciatively at her figure and red hair,
but her eyes blazed at him from a freckled face full of anger. Beautiful eyes he noted, clear and
blue-green like the sea; but if looks could kill, he would have been slain
where he stood.
“Are ya just going to stand
there looking like a lost pup?” she spat, “or are ya going ta help me salvage
what’s left?”
Raymond came up out of his
musing and started for the basket. He
and the woman knelt down at the same time, knocking heads as they both reached
for one of the few non-broken eggs.
“You‘re really doing well
this morning aren't you?” she said as she rubbed her forehead.
“For my next trick, I will
probably break my leg,” he said with a sulk as he picked up a different
egg.
“Just don’t fall on what’s
left of the eggs when ya do,” she quipped back.
“Hellcat,” he thought to
himself as he helped her put what was left back in the linens lining the
basket. Stepping back from her, he
managed to regain his composure. “I’m
sorry. Do you want me to pay for the
ones that were broken?”
She turned her clear eyes up
to him again and seemed to look right into him. He shifted from one foot to the other, but could not seem to stop
himself from gazing back at her.
Finally, she turned away from him, and began walking down the road. “No, these eggs were just going to buy my
sister a new ribbon for her first dance.”
She added over her shoulder, “She can just wear one of my old ones.”
He watched her skirts swish
around her legs as she walked away, and suddenly remembered where he was. “Wait!” he pleaded as he ran after her. “Are you going to the market near the bay?”
“Yes, the village market does
not have the variety of the city,” she explained as he caught up with her. They talked for a time, about the land, the
flowers and the superstitions that seemed to define Irish existence. Raymond found himself forgetting about the
cold, his wet socks, and the light rain that had started falling. In time, he even managed to forget he had
been lost. He talked to the woman
beside him about America, the wonders of New York compared to Dublin, and how
much he was looking forward to going to France. As they walked, often they said nothing at all, giving him the
chance to muse on how her long red hair would look unbound from its braid, and
how her skirts moved when she walked.
Raymond felt as good as he had sitting on his rock earlier in the
morning. When they finally reached the
bustling market, he was disappointed that they could not talk more.
She turned to leave, smiling
a goodbye as she saw some friends.
Raymond suddenly didn’t want her to go.
“My name is Raymond,” he said
simply. “My friends call me Ray.”
“’Tis a nice name,” she said,
and disappeared into the crowd with her friends.
Raymond spent the better part
of an hour looking for the redhead with the basket, but finally gave up. Finding his friends, he went from tent to
tent, sampling bram brack, and beer, and flirting with many of the girls his
friends brought to his attention. But
he couldn’t help but be disappointed when they didn’t have a pair of blue-green
eyes, as deep as the sea.
___________
For the next few days,
Raymond would go into the city market and spend time ambulating through the
tents, booths and inns. He told himself
he was there because his friends liked the excitement of the bustling crowd and
the boisterous bartering of the people who bought and sold there. In truth, however, he came alive only when
he spotted red hair while looking over the heads of the people who crowded the
streets. He would see a splash of red
under a scarf, and causally make his way to where the woman stood. Nonchalantly he would inquire about whatever
it was she was purchasing, only to be disappointed when the eyes that
indulgently looked up at him were not the eyes of the girl on the road. His friends were entertained by his
single-minded quest, often looking for her themselves. But when four days passed with no sign of
her they began to doubt that she ever existed.
They quietly decided that Ray had invented her in one of his writing
jags.
In time, Ray also began to
believe that he had dreamed the redhead on the road. He stopped looking for her, opting instead to use her image in
the endless stories and poems that were quickly filling his notebook. He had taken to sitting under a large tree
within the large gathering place in the center of the market, watching the
people file by him. Stories of girls
flirting with the soldiers began to fill the pages, as well as some of the more
colorful dialogs between venders and market goers. But even within those stories, a girl with a freckled face and
red braid somehow would appear within the prose.
He knew his mother would
appreciate those stories; she had always loved it when he had described his
days at school, or his exploits during naval training. She loved the way his words made his life
come alive for her. She had told him
before he left home to write of his life at sea. His father on the other hand,
had grunted that he should spend less time writing about the sea, and more on
finding his way to a command. “Andrews
don’t write about naval life,” he would emphasize, “they live it.” The sea was in their blood, as was glory and
honor. Ray’s brow furrowed as he
remembered thinking that his father, and all those other famous Andrews lacked
imagination. What made glory and bounty
so enticing were the stories that came from the adventure. History came alive under the storyteller. Without them, the wonder of the adventure
would be lost.
The only Andrews he truly
admired were the two who had started the family traditions. Helios Andrew’s had been a fearless Captain,
often bucking traditional tactics and behaving more like a pirate then a
military man, his exploits and bounties were known well beyond the coasts of
the United States. He had loved the
sea, the adventure, the discovery.
And, Raymond often thought to himself, he had the tenacity to have
fallen in love with Emerald. She had
been an adventurer in her own right, pressing against the boundaries of social
convention, and was largely responsible for keeping the history of Helios
alive. She had told the stories of his
battles, shipwrecks, and bounties to their grandchildren so often that they had
been passed down and ingrained in the minds and imaginations of their many
descendants. Each generation added its
own successes to the family story with fervent pride. Ray often looked at the portrait of Emerald in the family home,
and could feel that it was her spirit coursing through his veins. His father of course, only acknowledged the
Captain’s importance. As a result, the
Admiral looked at Ray’s writing as a flaw in his character.
He was thinking about those endless
fights over his writing with a frown as he sat against a large tree in the
market’s center. As he looked down at
his notebook, he noticed that descriptions of the hedgerows that filled the
streets of the town with their fragrance were gone; replaced with the words he
longed to tell his father but couldn’t.
He turned the page quickly to a clean one, closed his eyes for a moment
and just listened to the crowd milling around him.
“Why can’t I wear a red
underskirt, Eveleen? ’Tis my first
dance, and I would like to be noticed.”
“Because Muriel, the point is
to make the lads notice you, not the dress.”
“Ha! Like you would know anything about such
things. You don’t even give them a
second look!”
“Aye, but they give them to me,
now don't they?”
Smiling, he opened one eye,
casually looking to see who had made the last comment. The smaller girl looked to be about
thirteen, with a mane of red curls that exploded out of the back of her scarf. She was pink cheeked and had her lips pursed
at the older girl, who stood with arms crossed and chin set in an expression
that he instantly recognized as determination to maintain the upper hand. His mother often held that same expression
with his sisters back home. His
couldn’t help but chuckle as he watched the sisters, and the silent war of
wills playing out between their eyes.
Those eyes! He sat bolt upright. Suddenly he knew that chin, recognized that
stance. She had not been a dream after
all. He laughed as he realized that his
friends were not with him, and likely wouldn’t believe he had found her. Once again, he was alone with no proof that
she was real. Then he realized he did
have something new to add, and quickly wrote “Eveleen” in his notebook.
“And what pray tell, is so
funny?” The younger girl asked him with a huff.
“Oh! Not you ... It’s ... well ... I‘m ...” Ray
was at a loss for words. Silently, he
wondered to himself if all Irish women were as unnervingly brassy as these two
seemed to be.
“Articulate as ever, I see,”
laughed the older girl.
Muriel looked at her sister
in astonishment. “The egg cracker?”
“Aye. but he is safe when
he’s sitting.” She quickly added with a
grin, “I think.”
“Oh come now,” he said with
irritation as he stood up. “I said I
was sorry.” There was something about
Eveleen that seemed to get to him, making him feel as if he was struggling to
keep afloat. He had felt it from the
beginning on the road, and watching those intriguing eyes darken with sly
mischief, he realized that he had a better ally with Muriel. “Your hard-headed sister wouldn’t take the
money I offered her.”
Muriel couldn’t help but
notice the way her sister was looking at the tall American and although she was
only thirteen, caught not only her sister’s interest, but the man’s failure to
see it. As young as she was, however,
she had no idea what to do to help him so she decided to change the subject.
“What’s that you’re writin’
then, that made you laugh so?”
Ray didn’t know what to
do. He was used to his shipmates asking
about the things he wrote, but was never comfortable telling strangers what
filled the pages. But the little girl
had the same eyes as her sister, and when they looked up at him with such
innocent interest, he couldn't refuse her.
“I write about the things I
see, and the people I meet,” he said simply.
“Like a reporter?”
“No,” he laughed. “Reporters don’t write. They drone ... with flourish.”
Muriel laughed, and surprised
him by grabbing the book from his hands.
Plonking herself down under the great tree, she leafed through the
pages. Raymond suddenly went pale. Many of the poems he had written revolved
around her sister. As she read, her
smirk showed him that she had found those entries. Blushing, he squatted down in front of her and put his hand out.
“Do you have a pencil?” she
asked, ignoring the outstretched hand.
Taken aback, he didn’t know
what to do. He could feel the older
girl standing above him, most likely to help him get his notebook back, and he
didn’t want her to know what he had written.
Caught between them, he simply gave up and handed Muriel one of his
pencils. To his surprise, a beautiful
drawing of a mossgrove hedge emerged under the poem written in his haphazard
hand, with a vendor’s tent of woolen shawls beside it. The detail was amazing, and he stared at
Muriel with an appreciation that only fellow artists feel toward each
other. Muriel smiled past him, at the
soft expression on her sister’s face.
“You’re wonderful!” he said
in awe as he took the book from her hands to get a better look at the
drawing. “You captured that scene so
well, I can almost feel the warmth of the wool.”
“Aye, no one captures the
beauty of this place like Muriel,” Eveleen acknowledged with pride. “This land is alive, and only a few seem to
bring that out.”
“Well he can!” Muriel said as
she stood up. “His words paint
pictures. I only drew what he
wrote.”
She moved closer to him, to
see for herself. He blushed, both out
of embarrassment and her close proximity.
Trying to ignore the scent of her hair, and her warmth next to him, he
went to close the book quickly, but the younger girl stopped him, shaking her
head. The twinkle from the eyes so like
her sisters was without guile, and he trusted it. He gave in and handed the little notebook over to Eveleen. Both girls ignored the involuntary close of
his eyes, as if he was being led to the gallows.
She scanned the prose and
smiled. She turned the page, and read
more. Her eyes widened, and her pink
cheeks grew two shades darker. Blushing
more as she read on, she finally looked up into his green starburst eyes so
clouded with worry and embarrassment.
They held the gaze for a long time, seeing for the first time, not a
girl with a bold and often stinging wit and a sailor who seemed somehow uncomfortable
in his own skin, but the man and the young woman who had been looking for each
other for the past few days. In that
gaze, they saw the truth. The smile as
his eyes lost their worry seemed to warm her right down to her toes.
Muriel broke the spell as she
let out a whoop. “Eveleen, look! The musicians came today!”
“The bogmen must have brought
in the turf loads,” she explained to Raymond.
“’Tis always a party when they do that.
They fill up on ale, and play until they drop.”
Sure enough, barrels of ale
were brought out to an open area across from where the three stood. Little chairs were brought out for the
musicians, and people seemed to be fighting over who could fill the players’
tankers the quickest. Laughter filled
the air, as the sound of instruments being tuned mingled with lighthearted
flirting and rambunctious off color jokes.
The group of men in their plain work clothes and ruddy complexions
filled the already noisy square with music that seemed to enhance the joy of
life, and Raymond found himself wanting to stay with the people who understood
the importance of that life.
Irish music is different from
any other. Whether instrumental or
vocal, it is filled with the sounds, feelings and wonders of nature. Fiddles and drums combine with flute to
create the sound of the sea, the quite currents of a river, loud claps of
thunder, even the rain itself. The
singer adds words to the sounds, often paying homage to the land that gives
everything from life and plenty to pain and hunger. The musicians play from the mood they feel at the moment, and all
Irishmen seem to be able to feel it with them.
Raymond, used to the
classical music found in New York parlors watched with fascination as the
people around him began to dance jigs or sing along. He was going to sit and write what he saw, when he felt himself
being pulled into the crowd. Muriel
danced in front of him, skirts swirling around her legs, her curls bouncing
across her shoulders, as she attempted to get him to feel the music with
her. He tried to copy her movements,
but found himself feeling quite silly and clumsy. The little girl finally gave up and danced away with some of the
other children her age. Raymond stood
in the crowd, wishing he could just get back to his tree and his notebook.
The music changed and slowed
down. People still danced, but with
less abandon then the earlier song.
Raymond found he could move easier, and made his way to the edge of the
crowd. He was almost free when Eveleen
stepped in front of him.
“And where do ya think you’re
goin?” she asked with a grin.
“Oh Eveie,” he begged, “I
just can’t dance like this.”
“Everyone can jig, Ray,” she
said simply, silently pleased at the nickname.
“You only have to let go of yourself to do it.”
He looked at her again. She was so calm, and quiet. It surprised him that this was the same girl
on the road who had been so sharp tongued.
He allowed her to lead him to the edge of the crowd, near a tree. He grinned as she lifted her skirts up, to
show her small leather clad feet.
“Do ya never have your mind
on what you’re doin?” she said with a blush and a laugh. “The steps are quite easy, it’s just the
mood of the music that makes it look difficult.”
She proceeded to show him the
steps slowly, hopping from one foot to the other, and making him do the same
thing. He began to get the hang of it,
although his mind often wandered to the way her braid swung when she hopped,
and the movement of her blouse when she lifted her arms. He was feeling quite pleased with himself by
the time the music stopped.
When it took up again, the
singers sang of life on the mountains tending sheep, and the joys of God’s
grace on the land. The music swelled
and sped up, but as he danced with Eveleen, he felt himself keeping pace with
her and the music, comfortably allowing himself to feel the beat and the
melody. They hopped together, even
managing to maneuver a turn or two, and when she pulled out a small scarf from
her pocket and flung out one end, he gladly grabbed it up. Dancing together with the scarf between
them, he found himself changing the tensions to bring her closer to him. She would dance closer smiling, and turn out
from him with a giggle as he had to release the tension to keep the scarf from
being pulled out of his hands. He never
noticed that everyone else was doing the same thing. He only saw the girl before him, and felt the freedom of release
brought on by forgetting himself and just feeling the music. Muriel stood on the edge of a fountain with
her friends and watched her sister dancing with a smile.
“Is that Eve?” one boy
asked. “I have never seen her look like
that when she dances.”
“Aye, Kyle,” Muriel
giggled. “’Tis because she never had
the right partner before.”
“He’s got no grace,” came the
jealous response of a brown haired girl with a pinched expression. “He dances like a pirate.”
“Aye, Fee, and don’t ya wish
there were more pirates in this world?” Muriel said with a grin.
___________
The following days passed
happily for Raymond and Eveleen as they spent time talking and joking with
friends in the market, or exploring the terrain. Muriel would often join them on their wanderings, although he
would have preferred to be alone with the woman who was rapidly becoming as
much of a liberator as his writing.
Discovery and infatuation worked in tandem, generating a creative flow
that intensified every time the two were together. Raymond always brought his notebook, often sitting under trees,
in clumps of clover, or leaning against rocks as Eveie or her sister described
the various legends surrounding the places they showed him. It never ceased to amaze him how connected
they were to the land. It was as if
they were not just living in Ireland, but were part of it. He would watch Eveie as she caressed a tree
or cradled a flower in her hand to show him some new aspect of it, and
described the spirit that embodied it.
He would listen to her, drinking in every word but never truly
understanding her passionate connection with it.
He recognized it to some
degree. The Admiral would talk about
the sea in much the same manner, and Raymond, while liking the sea well enough,
could never quite muster up the same fervor.
In truth, he seemed always to be looking elsewhere, to a new horizon or
shore. He didn’t realize it, but his
connection was to the sky, and the freedom it implied simply by its vast
emptiness. Most of the things he wrote
were about the vistas, skies or birds he saw.
Muriel had seen it when she would sneak peeks when he was busy pursing
her sister for kisses underneath trees, or stokes behind boulders. Eveleen noticed it when those pursuits were
interrupted by a bird in flight, or a new cloud formation. Raymond, however, seemed to be blind to
it.
Sensing that he was not as
blind as he pretended to be, she decided to show him a place where she knew he
could feel it for himself. One morning,
after gently telling a pouting Muriel that she could not tag along, she asked
him to get in the wagon, without any other explanation. She would drive him to Tara, the ancient
place. They drove along the road and
laughed as he moved closer to her every time the wagon bumped over a hump in
the road. Eventually they so close that
they could share the reigns, and he could feel her soft curves against
him. They rode this way until she
finally drew the wagon to a stop. They
silently climbed the emerald green mountain until they were almost to the top. She stopped him just before they reached the
rise, and told him to close his eyes.
Leading him to the top, she
spoke softly. “Let go of yourself and
open your eyes.”
Raymond drew in his breath at
the majesty rolled our before him.
Green grasses, deep and dark in some spots and lighter and longer in
others, stretched for miles, dotted with the purples, pinks, yellows, and
golden hues of wildflowers. Morning
mists rolled down the surrounding hills like great waves from a sea storm. They diffused into strands at the valley
floor below, where herds of sheep grazed on the dewed clover. A light breeze blew across the grass
creating patterns on the landscape.
Raymond stood marveling at both the view and the heady feeling exploding
from his brain. He was transfixed, his
notebook forgotten as he immersed himself in ethereal beauty.
“You can feel them, can’t
ya?”
“Them?”
“The ones who lived here,”
Eveleen explained. “Tara is a sacred
place. St. Patrick himself stood here,
as did all the kings, and knights who fought for Ireland. They lived and loved and fought for her
here, and you can feel their spirits carrying on.”
“No fairies, eh?” he said,
pleased that he could tease her about her narrations. “I thought there were always fairies about.”
Laughing, she simply said,
“no fairy can compete with St. Patrick, dearie. ‘Twould not surprise me to find him here entertaining a few
brownies though,” she added with wink.
He was always surprised at
how the Irish held to the belief that mythical beings and long dead spirits
roamed the island alternating between benevolence and mischief. He did have to admit, however, that Tara did
seem to make one feel as if he were standing in a dream, surrounded by
greatness. It was so overpowering that
he suddenly felt the impulse to write.
He sat on a boulder and wrote while she quietly stood on the rise,
looking out over the horizon. They
became lost in their meditations.
Raymond broke out of his
musing first and quietly walked to where she stood. She was barely breathing, and seemed to be in some far off
place. He put his arms around her, looking
out over the horizon, languidly pulling her to him until her head lay against
his chest so he could kiss her hair.
“I love to come to the high
places,” she whispered, “and watch the sun cast shadows across them as it sails
across the sky.”
“It’s like standing in a
temple, isn’t it?” he sighed. “Somehow
comforting.”
“Aye, and right
somehow.” She turned to him and stroked
his face lightly. “You’re leaving soon,
aren't you?”
He looked down at her,
wide-eyed. “How could you know
that? I only found out this
morning!”
She turned back and looked
out over the horizon. His arms
encircled her again, and although her hands lay softly on his forearms, he felt
her shoulders tense. “The sea always
reclaims what’s hers, Raymond.”
He gently turned her to back
to face him. One hand left her shoulder
to lift her chin. With a long look he
told her, “You must know by now that I don’t really belong to the sea.”
She smiled up at him. “Aye, but you don’t belong to the mountain
either. You’re more like a bird. You soar across the land or the sea,
perching long enough to rest. Then you
must ascend again to find a new expanse to explore.”
“You know you’re more of a
poet than I am, don't you?” He caressed
her hair, lazily undoing the braid, and spreading the curls across her
shoulders and down her back like a mane.
“No, my love. I can’t make words breathe with life like
you,” she said quietly. “I just know
how to hear your soul.”
He searched her eyes and
found that there was no sadness, just understanding. An understanding he had always known, but could never put into
words. He was an Andrews, but he was
not like Helios and the sea. He was
more like Emerald, the girl who ended up a captive on a pirate ship because she
had wanted to see something other than what society offered her; the woman who
often had sailed with her husband before the children came because she too
wanted adventure. The sea didn't own
her either ... it was just the means to discovery. He saw all this truth shining in the blue-green eyes of his
lover. And was mesmerized.
“Eveie...,” he whispered as
he stroked her hair and put a wayward strand behind her ear. “Some birds, such as falcons, mate for
life.” He searched her eyes and saw
what he was looking for. “Soar with
me.”
Eveleen put her arms around
his waist, closing her eyes as he stroked her back and picked at the laces of
her dress. She knew he was serious, and
that he loved her. But she also knew
from his writings and their conversations that he would always have to fight
with the sea. His family would never
agree with a decision to leave the family tradition, even if he argued that
storytelling was also part of it.
“You must give part of
yourself to the sea first,” she said as she felt the laces give. “When the war is over, then you will know
what to do.”
He took her face in his
hands, and kissed her long and deep.
Looking into her darkened eyes, he whispered, “Right now, I know exactly what I want to do. And it has nothing to do with giving part of
myself to the sea.”
___________
The next few days were filled
with conflicting emotions. Knowing time
was no longer on their side, both Ray and Eviee took time to set off alone,
trying not to dwell on their inevitable separation. But often they sought the
noise and distraction of both his friends and hers. Muriel would tag along on these jaunts, often drawing in his
notebook when his attention was diverted.
He would go back to his ship and open the book to revise something he
had written, only to find that she had illustrated his idea, or taken a page
and filled it with images from the day.
He would smile at the pictures at first glance — but often after his
mates were asleep, he would stare down at pictures of Eveleen, tears coursing
down his cheeks. He had no way of
knowing that in the moonlight she would often sit on the banks of the river
near her home, doing the same thing.
The night before the troop
transport U. S. S. Lincoln was due to shove off, the captain took pity
on him and told him he could go to her village and say goodbye. They snuck off in the night (fooling no
one), and climbed to the top of the hill where he had had first gotten
lost. There they held each other, loved
each other, and refused to say goodbye.
Finally, after dawn broke over the horizon, she kissed him and ran down
the mountain. He watched her until she
was out of view and then silently started back to where his ship waited, the
paths and road so well known to him now that he could do it with his eyes
closed. He hunkered down into his
collar, and walked along taking one last look at the hills he would not see
again for a long time. “I love this
place,” he said as he blew into his fingers.
Word came a few weeks later
that the U. S. S. Lincoln had been torpedoed and sunk by a German
submarine, 600 miles off the French coast.
Twenty-six men had been killed.
Raymond Andrews was listed among them.
Eveleen sat by the banks of
the river, fingering a teal colored wool scarf that he had brought to her the
night of Muriel's first dance. She did
not cry or speak; she simply drew breath.
She had been a shell for months, neither crying nor allowing anyone to
comfort her. She did as she was asked,
doing her normal routine, but the light had gone out of her eyes, frightening
everyone she knew. She drew no comfort
from the land, nor from her people. She
didn’t show anything but a crushing apathy.
People left her to herself after while, and she preferred it that way.
Her mother, however, was not
one to let her wallow in her pain.
Alternating between sympathetic words and anger, she had tried to break
through the wall by sheer force of will.
Unfortunately, her daughter had that same will, and each side had to
admit a stalemate. This was not easy
for her to accept. She was used to
bullying everyone to get what she wanted and was usually successful. Muriel had supplied her with a new tactic
however, and she strode out across the yard toward the riverbank with a
determination to finally bring her daughter’s retreat from life to an end. But the thin, silent form on the banks
seemed so small and helpless that her fortitude lessoned a bit.
Her mother stood behind her,
holding a package in her hands, knowing what she had to do. The postman had brought it to the house and
given it to Muriel about a month after word of Ray’s death came, but the little
girl had not had the courage to give it to her sister. To her credit, it had not been opened; but
the fingerprints on the paper clearly showed how often the temptation had been
faced. Finally, she had given it to her
mother in the hopes that she would know what to do. She had been right. He
mother now stood rooted to the ground, and in her sternest voice addressed the
ghostly form before her.
“Eve, there is something I
need to show ya.”
“There is nothing I want to
see Ma.”
“Well you’re bloody well
going to see this, now look at me!”
She looked up, empty
eyed. “What is that?”
“I don’t know, but it’s for
you, so take it.”
“ Don’t want it Ma, give it
to Muriel.”
“Its not addressed to Muriel,
‘tis addressed to you.” Her hand held
out the package, narrowly missing banging her daughter’s nose with it. “Now take it!”
Knowing that she couldn’t win against Ma when she was so adamant,
she silently took the package out of the stout woman's hands. Staring down at the writing on the paper she
frowned. “Why would she be sending me a
package?” she spat as she threw it on the grass. “There’s nothin’ she could say or give me that I would want.”
“Well, it seems to me that a
mother sendin’ something to a lass she never met and more’n likely barely heard
about, at least deserves to have it opened.” He mother scolded. “Honestly girl, I raised ya up better ‘n
this!”
Eveleen sighed. Ma stood before her, hands on hips, feet
spread, and chin out. She completely
had the upper hand.
“Lord, Ma! Allright!
I will open it later.” She
promised.
“You’ll open it now, thank
you.” The package was picked up and
offered again. “I don’t want Kyle
fishin’ it out’a the river at his place.”
For the first time in months,
Eveleen smiled. Her mother knew her so
well. She took the package and after a
long breath, unwrapped it. Her heart
dropped as she looked down at the notebook that had never left his hands in all
the time she knew him. She looked at
her mother helplessly, and suddenly took off for the stable.
“Eveleen!” her mother yelled
in fear, “Don’t ya do anything foolish!” as Eve and the pony tore out of the
yard and up the street.
She rode to Tara. She left the pony at the bottom, and ran
stumbling up the steep incline, ignoring everything around her. By the time she reached the top, her hair
was half out of its braid, her headscarf long gone, and her leggings were
snagged from the brush and rocks she had brushed or fallen against. She looked wild eyed and dangerous; the kind
of person Ma said would “frighten even the brownies.”
She held the notebook in her
hand, and was tempted to throw it down the mountainside. She even had her arm pulled back to do it,
when she heard a bird screech above her head.
Suddenly, she remembered their conversation on this sacred place,
lowered her arm and let out a low, gut wrenching-keen into the sky. Over and over his name was released to the
sky, the wind and the spirits who dwelled there. Months of pent up grief shattered the still morning air, as she
flung herself against the boulder he had once leaned against to write. She didn’t even notice. All she knew was the release of sorrow. Eventually her sobbing subsided and she
lifted her head off of her arms — and saw his notebook lying in the grass.
After she got some veneer of
control, she opened the little book and leafed through the pages. The inside of the front contained a letter
in a looping, feminine hand.
Dear Eveleen –
I know you don’t
know me. I didn’t know about you until
this arrived shortly after Raymond left Ireland for France. He sent this to me, and told me that I was
to keep it and send it to you should he not be able to do it himself. Forgive me, but I had to read it. I wanted to see one last time what Raymond
saw, and feel what he felt. It is
obvious that what he saw was a chance to finally follow his own path, and not
his father’s idea of what an Andrews should be. It is also clear to me that your love was the reason he felt he
could follow it. Forgive me for taking
so long to send this. I couldn’t bear
to part with a son who had finally found what he was looking for.
Sincerely,
Pauline Andrews
He had filled all but the
last few pages with his writings, and Muriel’s pictures. With silent tears spilling over her cheeks,
she continued to leaf through the pages, seeing page after page of Raymond’s
fight with the sea over his true nature.
Each page seemed to bring out a new realization, a new resolve to let go
of fitting into a role he was unable to fill.
She could almost guess when each poem or story was written, so clear
were the memories of their discussions.
Finally she came to the last entry.
Under a drawing of she and Raymond dancing, was a simple poem. It was not his normal style, but was short
and simple.
Studying the inside of my eyelids,
I find you, dancing in the lights beyond
I see you, talking to me
I hear you, loud in my ears,
but speaking truth
and I know, you are there,
a presence of truth –
and I know, because of you
I can let go of myself
and soar.
A bittersweet smile crossed
her lips, and her eyes closed as she felt his spirit brush against hers as it
took off for the horizon.
Tales from the Temple
Don’t let dark clouds disturb you
nor violent currents on the sea.
When waves seem to crash in on you,
think not of them, but me.
Let me be your ballast
Let me be your sail
Let love be your strongest hope,
and watch how you prevail.
Stand firm against the wave-walls
laugh at the fearsome wind.
And as the deck shifts ‘neath your feet,
remember us, and grin.
Let faith be your rudder
Let truth be your mast
Let love be your stalwart line,
and know that you will last.
Take courage from enduring love
that’s stronger than this sea.
The horizon may seem lost to you,
but know that's where I’ll be
Let me be your beacon
a lighthouse beaming bright
The storm will lose its power soon,
keep seeking out my light.
One day we will stand on the shore
locked in love’s embrace
and know there is not any storm
together we can’t face.
You will be my ballast
I will be your sail
Love will be our anchor,
and watch how we prevail.
Tales from the Temple
Hidden In Plain View
Falcons
Lair was the embodiment of the stately, British county manor. Nestled against a thick wood, the large
E-frame manor house rose above the trees like a stone giant. Built in the early 17th century, the house
had survived plagues, fires, murders, fallen fortunes and much more. It mirrored the family that had always
possessed it. The Chatsworths were a
resourceful lot, and had managed to withstand all the tragedies, scandals and
accidents that life had thrown at them.
As a result, when fortuity returned to the family either in love, money
or honor, the house reflected their good fortune. To the people of Suffolk County, Falcons Lair was a house of
legend, and the family inside were looked upon with awe and respect. Visitors to Suffolk were always told by the
locals to go see the house that even God could not destroy, and witness the
family that seemed to be smiled on in all respects. Falcon’s Lair was the County’s connection with a greatness that
seemed otherworldly. To the
Chatsworths, this legend of greatness often came at a great price, but it was a
price they were willing to pay.
Lord
Devon Chatsworth sat on the floor of his mothers study shaking his head. He had been shuffling through mounds of
papers for almost three hours, and had not made a dent in the mess that she
laughingly called “the pile” method of filing.
In the thirty years he had known her, she had never bothered to organize
the piles, claiming that she could find whatever it was she was looking for,
from the historical papers she had loved to read and write reviews for to the
notes that she used when she spoke of her time as an archeologist in Egypt at
the end of the 1940’s. The funny thing
was she was right. Whenever he needed a
book, or a paper, or wanted to use her research for his own papers at
University, she had put her hand on a pile and miraculously produced the item
he needed. The problem this morning,
however, was that she was no longer there to choose the correct pile.
Lady
Audrey Chatsworth had passed over a fortnight ago, and Devon was now sifting
through her papers, attempting to separate the items the University wanted for
the Egyptian wing of the library from the items she had simply enjoyed
collecting over the years. It was a
daunting task, and Devon was beginning to seriously consider telling the
University that there was nothing in her cluttered office they would want. The problem was that Professor Nigel Durham
knew better, and would have insisted on assisting him. Lady Chatsworth had hated Durham when she
was alive. Devon knew that had he
accepted Durham's assistance, his mother would have haunted the house for the
rest of his, and his children's lives.
Audrey Chatsworth had been forceful in life; he had no doubt that her
ghost would be as forceful in death. He
had to smile to himself as he said to the empty room, “Probably more so, aye,
Mum?”
A
lovely blonde woman leaned against the door of the study, watching her curly
headed husband sit helplessly among the mass of papers and books. With the children finally away at her
mothers, she had come down to Falcons Lair to help him get the house ready for
them to move in. She had spent the
morning upstairs, quietly emptying Audrey’s closets of clothes and other things
that could be sent to local charities.
She had stayed away from the office so that Devon could grieve and
peruse in peace. When the need for a
cup of tea had driven her downstairs to the large cozy kitchen, however, she
had decided to bring him a cup too.
Seeing him sitting there shaking his head, Caroline was glad she had. She quietly handed him a delicate white
porcelain cup with a smile. His broad
smile up at her showed her that she had done the right thing.
“Have
you found it, luv?” she asked as she sat in one of Audrey’s overstuffed chairs.
“No,
and I don’t understand it. She always
kept her journals so organized.” Devon
said with a frown. “They were the one
thing she didn’t pile. I know she kept
it with the others, disguised to look like the rest of them.”
“Perhaps
she hid it when she knew the end was near.”
Devon
looked at his wife patiently. “Well,
yes, Pet, that’s why I started in on the piles.”
Caroline
ignored the sting of annoyance that prickled at the base of her neck. “No Dev, I don’t think it would be in a
pile. Your mother was many things, but
stupid was not one of them. She would
not have hidden it from you, she would have hidden it from him.” She smiled.
“And he would go straight for the piles.”
Devon
looked into the blue of his wife’s eyes, and silently thanked his mother for
introducing them at Ascot seven years ago.
Audrey had liked Caroline Mansfield from the beginning, instinctively
knowing that the intelligent young law student was exactly what her son needed. Caroline had chosen to enter the man’s world
of law when few women would have, and shown everyone at University that she had
been more than up to the task. The new
Lady Chatsworth was one of a few women barristers in London. Audrey had seen much of herself in
Caroline. Women in Archeology had been
virtually non existent at the end of the second world war, and Audrey had done
what men in the field had never done; she had found what seemed to be parts of
the sun god Ra’s lapis lazuli and turquoise tree during a dig at
Heliopolis. She had also found a
papyrus containing the details of life as a priestess in the Temple of Ra. Her journal containing the complete
translation of the hieroglyphs on the papyrus, largely ignored at the time she
translated it, was now hotly pursued following her death.
Durham
had been one of the many scholars who had made light of her discovery in the
late 1940s, sighting it as the ramblings of a woman desperate to make a mark in
a “man’s” discipline. Audrey had always
told her son that at the time she found the papers, Durham had tried to claim
the find as his own. When others on the
dig had stood beside her, he had launched into a campaign to discredit the
importance of the find, and had been largely successful. Like most of the top men in the field, he
held firm to the belief that the High Priest of the temple was the only voice
of power. Audrey’s document had proven
that at least once the Priestess had held power far beyond what the high priest
held. In the fortnight following
Audrey’s death, Durham had rang up Devon daily, inquiring as to whether or not
he had found her original journal.
Devon and Caroline both had begun to see why Lady Chatsworth had always
called Durham “that insufferable Git.”
Devon, especially, had a new appreciation as to why his mother did not
like the man.
He
sat on the floor alternately sipping tea, admiring his wife’s slim legs, and
thinking about where his mother could have hidden the journal. Caroline was right. His mother would never have hidden the
Journal in the piles, she would have know that was the first place anyone would
have looked. She had always been clever
in hiding things. He smiled as he
remembered a Christmas when all he had wanted was a game called Monopoly, an
American board game that had become hugely popular. He had searched everywhere the weeks before Christmas, and had
found no sign of the yellow box with the red letters and the bald,
monocle-sporting bank man. When he
unwrapped the present under the huge tree in the sitting room on Christmas
morning, he had looked at his Mum in astonishment and begged her to tell him
where she had hidden it. Smiling
mischievously, Audrey had told him that it had been in the hallway linen closet
for weeks. Devon had been amazed; the
closet had been the first place he looked, and had been peeked in daily. He had not seen it because it had “been
hidden in plain view.” He had seen the
fluffy yellow towels used in the guest lavatory, and had overlooked the yellow
box in the pile.
Thoughts
of that Christmas morning, and other times she had hidden things began to come
to mind. He knew the Journal was
“hidden in plain view” within the office.
That would have been such a Mum thing to do; he wanted to kick himself
for not thinking of it sooner. He
scanned his mother’s office. On all
four walls were bookcases filled to the point of collapse from years of reading
everything she could get her hands on.
Audrey had been an avid reader, and her love of learning had been passed
on to her son. Devon could not help but
remember the afternoons he had laid along the couch in the office lost in one
of her books on the legends of King Arthur or the life of Charlemagne, while
she sat at her desk, preparing lectures for her classes. He remembered how she had always put his
favorites on the bottom three shelves near the door when he was a boy, so that
he could reach them easily. It was a
practice she had continued for her grandchildren, although six-year-old
Martin’s books were mostly Dr. Suess or Nicolbie’s, and at five Bettine had no
interest in books, focusing her attention on Nana’s closets upstairs.
Devon’s
eyes wandered to those bottom three shelves.
On the lower two were the books Martin read now. On the third were older books that Devon
recognized as ones he had loved as a boy.
There were books on Charlemagne and Napoleon he had read almost until
the covers wore down, and the books of poetry he had often mooned over at
thirteen, when the adventure for conquest of nations had been overshadowed by
conquests of another sort. Nestled
toward the end were the books on Egypt he had loved. The last on the shelf was The Curse Of King Tutankamun that
he had bought when monster movies became popular. He had to smile to himself as he remembered his Mother rolling
her eyes and calling mummy’s curses “stuff and poppycock.” When his Mum deemed something “poppycock”
everyone knew she was truly disgusted.
He had taken great care to never bring his book on Tut into the library
after she had decreed it as such. As he
looked at it now, he could not help but be surprised that it had somehow landed
among the “children’s nook” of the bottom three shelves.
Sudden
realization hit and a broad grin crossed his face. Caroline, who had been carelessly thumbing through the large pile
near her feet looked up as Devon let out a loud “Oh Mum! You devil!”
He strode over to the bookcase and grabbed the book on King Tut. Carefully removing the cover, he let out a
whoop that filled the silent hallway beyond the door. Caroline was immediately at his side. In Devon's hands was the old journal; on the cover was the large
red circle and black center symbol of Ra, faded but still visible, along with
his mother’s curling handwriting. In
one corner of the cover was a message that was obviously new. Devon and Caroline both squinted at the
words as they lifted the old book closer to their faces.
“I’m
glad that poppycock was good for something — Mum”
____________
Devon
and Caroline sat on the large flowered couch in his mother’s office. Caroline had snuggled closer to him as they
looked in astonishment at the journal.
Carefully opening it, they scanned page after page of Audrey’s
translations and notes. It told a
remarkable story of a woman who had once been “one who served” the god Ra. The woman told of how she not only served
the god in his House, but had also served him as his Favored One. It was amazing and did show a life where the
Priestess held more power then the Priest.
As they reached the end of the journal an envelope fell out of the page
leaves onto Caroline’s lap. Picking it
up, Caroline turned it over and handed it to Devon. “Shall I leave you to this alone, sweets?” She asked quietly.
Devon
looked at his name written on the envelope, and fought the urge to tear
up. His eyes filled with pain, but he
shook his head and simply held Caroline’s hand. After a few moments, he opened the envelope, and pulled out an
old photograph. It was a picture of Audrey, taken in Egypt when she was around
20. She wore the tan shirt and trousers
that were the standard issue of archeologists at the time, and her shoulder
length black hair was pulled back under a silk scarf with hummingbirds drinking
from delicate flowers. The photo was
black and white, but Devon knew that light blue scarf well. Audrey always wore it when he was a boy, and
Bettine often sported it when she played dress up. His mother stood in front of a very tall man, his arms around her
waist, his fingers laced with hers. His
face was leaned down next to hers; but neither were looking at the camera. His mother’s eyes were slanted upwards and
her smile was one of amusement, as if she had just heard a bloody good
joke. The man was smiling down at her,
with a roguish grin as if he had just gotten away with something.
“Who
is that?” Caroline asked.
“I
have no idea. I have never seen him
before.” Devon studied the photograph
carefully. They were obviously not at
the dig. They appeared to be on a mountain,
its sandy slopes covered with the brown brush so common to the area. Turning the photo over, it said simply, “Rob,
Aud — Manu 1947.”
“1947? Wasn’t that the year she found the papyrus?”
Caroline asked.
“Yes,
a little over a year before I was born.”
“But
...,” Caroline said carefully.
“I
know,” Devon said quietly.
Devon
felt as if the walls were closing in on him, but he fought not to show it. He turned the photo over, carefully studying
the faces of his mother and the man.
Obviously, they had been quite fond of each other. There were pictures of him and Caroline in
their home in London that held the same expressions. He had never heard his mother ever mention a Rob on that dig
before, however, and no one he knew would have had the guts to call her “Aud”—
ever. Finally, he put the photo down,
and looked in the envelope. Inside was
a letter, its white sheets with the gold embossed family crest marred only by
the shaky hand of his mother. He lifted
it out of the envelope, and began to read.
Caroline put her arms around his shoulders, and read with him.
My Dearest Devi –
Splendid job on finding the journal! I knew you would. I came across that horrid book one day as I was clearing out the
shelves in your old room for Martin, and I just could not resist the urge to
use the poppycock of those silly mummy-raisers to hide the truth. Forgive me Devi, but the book has gone the
way of the rubbish bin, only the cover remains.
I know that I have not told you much about the time I spent in Egypt, as my name was bandied about so badly that I have always preferred to keep it to myself. I know, however, that insufferable Git Durham will be sniffing around for the journal as soon as propriety will allow. (Probably sooner, as he has never had any scruples, the sod.) I don’t want you to give it to him, and find myself needing to tell you the whole story so that you will understand why.
Devon
and Caroline had to smile. Audrey was
speaking in death exactly as she had in life.
It was true, Devon had not heard much about that famous dig. He had always assumed that it was her hatred
of Durham that prompted her silence. Of
course, he had never been told why she had hated him, except for the story
about his trying to pinch her find, and his subsequent bashing of its
legitimacy. Even those not in the
discipline knew that competition to unearth the next big find was fierce,
because of the rewards to both reputation and bank account. Durham had attacked his mother and stopped
both. Although she was not in need of
the money, her reputation had been extremely important to her. When Durham had attempted to sully it she
had fought back with everything she had.
As a result, the two hated each other and were not afraid to show it.
When the war broke out, I was teaching
archeology. I had been doing very well,
but travel to digs during that time was nil, and I concentrated more on the war
effort. It was during the war that I
met a splendid Yank named Robert Henderson.
I met him on one of his weekend liberties to Cambridge, where I was
teaching. At the time, I was already
seeing Nigel. Yes, you heard me
correctly. We both loved digging about,
and both came from good families. At
the time, it seemed like a good idea, and I found him to be quite charming and
good fun. It did not take me long, however,
to realize that Nigel was really after Falcons Lair. With no brothers, I was the heir to the family estate, and as the
second son, he would never inherit his own.
Marriage to me would have made him Lord of the Manor.
Your Grandfather liked Nigel, as did most of the
people in our circle in Suffolk. I was
living in a time when good daughters followed duty to the family and not their
dreams. University had been allowed,
but no one really expected me to do anything with it. I had other ideas. Nigel
was not against the idea of a husband and wife team of archeologists. In truth, I believe he saw it as a rather
good gimmick for advancement. I, of
course, did not like the idea of being a gimmick. I wanted knowledge, not reward.
As you can see, Nigel and I were simply not suited for each other. I could see it, and although he could too,
he chose to ignore it. I had been
looking for a way out of the relationship for some time.
Robert was a mapmaker for the Army stationed at
Wattlesham AFB. He drew maps from the
photographs pilots brought back from their flights and was the head of his
department. When I met him at a dance,
I remember thinking what lovely eyes and hands he had. But it were not his eyes that drew me to
him, it was his brain. Rob was
brilliant. He had worked his way
through University in America, and while his drafting skills were amazing it
was his “minor” course of study that caught my attention. He was as fascinated with Egypt as I
was. In fact, he had been planning a
trip to Egypt to draw up maps for a new archeological site when Pearl Harbor
was bombed. He never made it to
Egypt. Instead, he ended up in
England.
Nigel may have been my date that evening, but I sat in
a chair and refused to dance. I wanted
to sit in that chair and talk to Robert about Egypt, archeology and the thing
we both found so intriguing — The Temple of Ra. It was a dream for both of us, to actually find a leaf from the
large tree in the courtyard, or a black column, or the biggest prize of all,
the God’s obelisk. We wanted to see its
beauty, and touch the carvings. Nigel
of course, wanted to find it and sell it to the highest bidder. Robert scowled at Nigel's lack of
appreciation. Nigel just scowled.
While he had a brilliant mind, he had not come from
what your grandfather would have called “good stock.” His father had been a postman.
Because of this, the family tolerated Robert, but my father made it
clear that Nigel was the better match.
I handled this in my usual way.
I saw Nigel at school but saw Rob on the weekends when I was home. The rest of the time we wrote letters. Mine came to a box I purchased at the school
without my father’s knowledge.
Eventually the war ended, and Rob was scheduled to return home. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief except me. By that time, I knew I loved him, and he loved me. The University was planning a trip to Egypt to excavate a site they believed might have been Heliopolis, and therefore contain the Temple of Ra. Nigel had gotten us into the dig party, and I saw this as an opportunity to help Robert. I told the department about his talents, and his lost position before the war, and campaigned vigorously for them to include him. Nigel (the git) was against his being included and fought against me. Rob was against it at first, as he was a proud man who did not want to gain anything on his girlfriend’s money. The school was impressed with Rob, however, and offered to pay him for his talents; he gave in. I remember the day he found out. I was swept off my feet and swung around until I was dizzy. That day, I decided that I was going to marry Rob with or without my family’s permission. The dye was cast, and I always managed to get what I wanted.
Devon
and Caroline had moved to the kitchen for a light tea. They took turns reading the curling script,
laughing at Audrey’s shrewdness. Not
only had she continued seeing the man she wanted, she had managed to keep him
by her side after the war. Devon knew
many of his mother’s friends who had fallen for American soldiers, only to be
left with broken hearts (or worse) when they returned home. Devon told Caroline of his
grandparents. It did not surprise him
that they did not approve of the tall man in the picture. From what Devon remembered of his
grandfather, social standing and good form meant more than anything else,
especially when it came to Falcons Lair.
He could see why Durham would have been the preferred match. The idea of a life with that man as his
father made him shudder.
When
tea was over, they retired to the large sitting room. A fire was already burning brightly on one end, and they curled
up under one of the many afghans his grandmother never seemed to tire of
knitting when she was alive. With a
decanter of sherry on the table in front of them, and soft music playing in the
background, they continued reading.
Oh the time we had in Egypt! We
walked among the marketplaces in our off hours, and watched the whirling
dervish dancers in the evenings. We
would ride out to the valley of Kings and look with wonder at the temples and
pyramids. When we were working, Robert
was amazing. Nigel may have had the
better education, but Robert left him in the dust! No one had ever seen the likes of him. He seemed to be able to find areas that contained artifacts
without trying. Many of the locals who
aided our dig effort would look at Robert in awe, claiming that he must be a
favored one of the gods. That was
poppycock of course, and none of us took it seriously, but he did seem to have
extraordinary good luck.
We had been in Egypt around two months, and had found bits of the black
onyx columns, pottery and carving that showed we were at least digging in the
correct place, but nothing major had turned up. There were plenty of things that people like Nigel appreciated
for their monetary value of course, but none of the beauty Rob and I had hoped
to find. I was with Nigel and a number
of others, searching an area that had yielded up a few things for about a week,
but Rob had gone off with a few of the locals, to plot out the maps for a new
area. He had also taken along a new
assistant that had come from Oxford, named Donald Hunt, a recent graduate who
was quite in awe of Rob’s abilities.
The two of them had been gone about an hour when suddenly Donald ran up
to me and told me that I needed to get to the new area as quickly as possible.
I thought something had happened to Rob, but when I got to him, he was
bent over the sand, digging like he was a mad thing. I ran to him, and the smile on his face said it all; he had found
something. I looked at the unearthed
things around him, and realized that he had stumbled upon a trash heap. You know from years of listening to me that
trash heaps are wonderful. What was
worthless at the time it was thrown away almost always becomes treasure to a
dig team! The three of us spent the
next 3 hours with the locals digging up wonderful things. Rob and I had gone off alone a little bit
away from his first find, and were digging, when I hit something hard. We knelt in the sand, and began brushing it
away from what I had hit. As the sand
cleared away, a long stand emerged with a long horizontal piece at the
top. The entire stand was covered in
turquoise and lapis lazuli. As Rob
poured water over the piece to clean off the sand, the colors sprang into
life. We looked at the stand, then at
each other with broad smiles. I was
having trouble understanding what the stand’s function was, until Rob pointed
out the scratches along the stones. It
was a perch for a bird, and from the deep scratches, Rob laughed that it must
have been a bloody big bird too! As we
kept digging, we found bits of the stones that had worked loose from the stand,
and Rob stuffed them in his pockets, to keep them safe.
News of the stand spread like wildfire, and by the next day, Nigel was
lording over the excavation as if he had been the one to unearth it. I was going to call him on it, as it really
was Rob’s discovery, but Rob wouldn’t let me.
His only worry was that Donald would not get the credit he deserved, and
after a few well chosen words with Nigel, Rob returned to me and told me that
Donald was now Nigel's new assistant. I
was madder then a hornet that Rob was not given credit, but he didn’t seem to
care. He simply reminded me that he was
happy enough to enjoy the beauty of the find; let someone like Nigel gloat over
the monetary value. I argued with him
hard over that decision. I knew that
leading this portion of the excavation and his apparent innate ability to sniff
out quality finds would have made Rob a force within the discipline. I tried everything from yelling to refusing
to speak to him at all. He would not
budge on his decision. He reminded me
that the glory part of archeology had never been what interested him. I couldn’t argue, he had said that to me
from the night we first met. Looking
back, however, I realize we should not have handed the dig over to Nigel. Had we fought to keep Rob in charge, there
would have been no way that insufferable git could have attempted to take
credit for the next big find — the papyrus of Neterka-Bast.
Rob woke me in the early hours before dawn one morning. He loved to watch the sunrise, and often
tossed me out of bed to watch it with him.
I loved to stand facing east, a hot cuppa in one hand, Rob’s hand in the
other. It was always wonderful to stand
there, watching and remembering the myth of the daily travel of Atum-Ra, over
the horizon in Manjet. This morning
there was no leisurely cup of tea; we walked out to the dig site with shovels
to watch the sun come up and see what we could find. I loved those quiet digs with Rob. Some days we found nothing, some days we would find little
things. It did not matter if we found
anything. What we had really found was
the time to enjoy each other, without the scowls of Nigel, the pestering of
Donald, or the noise of a crowded dig crew.
In the early hours watching the sunrise, or digging among the dunes,
there was a quiet serenity and bliss.
I was a bit surprised at the spot Rob chose to dig. My knowledge of trash heaps was such that I
knew the place he had chosen was a bit to far from the original finds to yield
anything. It would have been the
outermost perimeter at best — in all likelihood there would be nothing here but
traces of the bonanza of the center.
Because of this, I smiled to myself, knowing that what Rob was really
after was a chance for us to be together.
The digging was slow and pleasant, as we enjoyed the coolness of the
blue time before the hot sun baked the sands under our feet.
As we dug, our conversation turned to the wonder of us. We were together, happy, and connected not
only by love, but by a purpose. We
wanted to find beauty and truth, and the months we had been together had
yielded both. That realization had made
us even more determined then ever to marry, and we had decided to do so in
Egypt, where the arm of my father could not stop us. I was bound and determined to make the letterhead back home read
R~A of Falcons Lair, even though the prospect of being thrust into the role of
a Lord was a bit unsettling to Rob. I
simply reminded him that we would most likely be off on digs most of the time,
thus the title would simply mean better seating at restaurants, and better
staterooms on ships. He laughed at that
description, telling me that most Yanks assumed that was all the Lord was good
for anyway.
Devon
had to laugh: he had faced that
particular belief many times with Americans at the various schools he
attended. They always assumed that his
life would be one of endless parties, glamour and nothing of substance. They never took into account his mother’s
own success and ambition, or his father’s.
Both of his parents had been hard working, industrious, and while they
took the upkeep of Falcons Lair very seriously, it was second to their
careers. As a result, he followed his
own dreams of becoming an author, while also taking the necessary courses to
insure the estate’s future. He and
Caroline were both successful in their own fields, and were raising the
children to be the same way.
The morning sun was just beginning to peak over the mountains when Rob
stopped digging. I did not notice at
first, but when I looked at him, I noticed that he was smiling skyward. I followed his gaze, and saw a huge falcon
soaring overhead, its brown feathers silhouetted in the pinks of the
approaching dawn. Rob never took his
eyes off the beautiful bird as it flew toward the mountains. I kept digging, amused at his ever-present
appreciation for beautiful things. He
was still watching the falcon when I suddenly felt my shovel hit something
hard.
I stopped digging and saw the brown edge of a box sticking up out of
the sand. Bending down, I scraped the
sand away. I was a bit disappointed as
I pulled it out of the sand. It was a
simple box, with no carvings or markings.
I turned it in my hands, more out of interest in its construction then
anything else. It was rough, not the
usual smooth surface found in most temple or tomb containers. I remember thinking that we must be digging
outside the temple trash heap for such an obviously poor piece to appear. I was not surprised when the lid of the box
fell apart in my hands. I had expected
to find the box empty, but it contained a papyrus, its thick sheets still supple
because of the natural dehydration of the sands.
Rob joined me in my tent as I carefully unrolled the papyrus and pulled
out my journal. You already know what
was written on it, but let me tell you, Devi, the excitement around the camp
grew with each passing hour. Soon
everyone was in the tent, “helping” me translate the remarkable story of
Neterka-Bast. Rob just sat in the
corner, watching the chaos and grinning.
Next to me stood Nigel, his eyes scanning the symbols with a look that I
recognized as greed, not appreciation for the content. He saw his name in lights. His arm went around my shoulder, and I
cringed. I knew there was trouble
ahead.
Telephone calls were made to the University, and a whirlwind of press
descended on the site in a matter of days.
Nigel was beside himself — as the leader of the dig, he would be
interviewed by every major newspaper, news service and archeological
publication on the planet, as would Rob and I.
Nigel tried to keep Rob out of it, stating that I had been the one who
found the box, not him. I was
livid! Had he not tossed me out of bed
that morning, no one would have ever dug in that spot, and I told Nigel
that. Donald too, fought Nigel’s
decision, but it was no use. Nigel
simply chose a new assistant. Rob
seemed to take all of this in the same annoying manor he had accepted the situation
with the stand, and refused to fight for his due. This time, however, there was no way he could stop me from
digging my heels in. Robert or not
Robert, Nigel was going to be put in his place!
I became more stubborn and protective of my find in the days before the
press arrived. I kept the box and
papyrus in my tent, locked away under the cot, unless I was translating
it. Nigel had wanted me to hand over
the box to him but I refused. One
night, I was awakened by a noise in the tent, only to roll over and find
someone on the floor, attempting to pull it out from under my cot. I was groggy, but I saw a second form in the
shadows move forward and then heard a loud clang. By this time, I was terrified and scrunched in the uppermost
corner of the cot, holding the sheet to my chin like a shield. Looking back, I must have looked like an
idiot.
Devon
had to laugh, it was so like his mother to think not of the two interlopers in
the tent, but of appearing not to be able to take care of herself.
I heard the sounds of the camp descending on my tent, and when my lamp
was lit, everyone saw Rob standing over Nigel holding a metal scoop used for
sifting out small bits of potter and such.
As the excitement mounted, I could not help but notice the raised
eyebrows of some of the people. The
sight of Rob in a dressing gown and me under a sheet was going to cause the
rumor mill to go into a tailspin when Nigel woke and everything was explained.
Nigel’s goose was cooked, Devi!
He knew he could not take credit for the find; he had been caught trying
to steal the papyrus from my tent. He
did not back down, he simply changed his tactics. Instead of touting the find as the proof of a High Priestess
power, he attacked its legitimacy, citing the good condition of the sheets, and
the fact that I had found it alone in the dawn. Everyone who had been in my tent that first day stood behind the
assertion that it was legitimate, but it was no use. While the press liked the idea of proof of life in the Temple of
Ra, the written in stone rule that only men held power could not be
broken. Nigel made sure that if he
could not get the credit, then neither would I. Photographs were taken of the sheets, articles were written, but
there was always the inclusion of its doubtful validity included in the text.
Neterka never got the attention she deserved.
Devon stopped reading and rubbed his eyes. The hour was fast approaching midnight, the sherry was long gone, and the fire glowed low in a futile attempt to keep going. As interesting as the story was, both he and Caroline were quite done in, and his mother’s swirling letters were beginning to swim before their eyes. Taking the letter with them, they retired to his mother’s room, emptied now of all her clothes and small possessions, although the furnishings had not yet been changed. As they pulled the covers over themselves, Devon looked around the room he had been in so often as a boy. Neither of his parents had been the types that kept him from them in a far off nursery. He had often sat on the edge of the big bed, talking to his mother as she got ready for some function, or had sat in one of the big wing chairs by the fireplace, talking to his father while she was locked down in her office. He was as comfortable in this room as he had been in his own.
He
noticed, perhaps because of the descriptions in her letter, how many Egyptian
pieces there were in the room. The
bedroom was not done up in the country or elegant styles of most estates. His father and mother had decorated it
sparsely. As a result the room was
light, airy, and deceptively simple.
The room had a mixture of real pieces as well as reproductions. The falcon’s perch, in one corner for
instance, was a reproduction so close to the original in the Royal Museum that
an untrained eye would have thought it was the original. His parents had always used it as a clothes
press. Caroline’s dressing gown was now
hanging off the end. On the dressing
table, however, were two small lamps for holy oil that were originals found in
the Temple of Bast. His mother had told
him that these lamps were in all the temples.
Neterka’s story corroborated that belief. Kissing Caroline, and cradling her in the nook of his arm, he was
asleep almost immediately.
Caroline
could not sleep. When the heavy, even
breathing against her hair told her that Devon was finally asleep she quietly
slipped out of the bed. Taking the
letter with her, she curled up in one of the wing chairs in front of the fire,
and continued reading. She could tell
how much Audrey had loved her American; she felt the same way about Devon. She was anxious to know why two people so
determined to be together had not followed through with their plans.
Rob and I decided to get away from the site after that. We packed up some things and took off for
the Mountain of Sunrise. Rob stopped at
a market in Cairo for supplies on the way, and we were soon on top of Manu,
just drinking in the view and the magic of the spiritual place. On the morning of the second day, Rob handed
me a package with my cup of tea. Inside
was a beautiful blue scarf with hummingbirds and flowers, an Egyptian symbol
for life. When I went to put the scarf
on, something heavy fell into my lap.
It was a necklace, made from the pieces of lapis lazuli and turquoise
that had worked free from the bird’s perch.
I marveled at the workmanship, and the stones. When he put it around my neck, the stones warmed my skin. As we stood in front of the tripod for one
last picture before we left the mountain, I asked Rob about the stones. He smiled and said that only Donald and I
knew about those loose pieces, and profit be damned. The thought of Nigel’s face, had he known that I held around my
neck enough “glory” to fund the dig for another year made me giggle with
vengeful glee.
When we returned to the dig site three days later, there were two
messages waiting for us. The first was
one informing Robert that his mother had gotten herself into some nasty
business at home, and that he was needed.
While naturally upset, he asked me if I would go to the States with
him. I told him that wild horses would
not keep me away! My own message
forgotten, we made plans to marry once we got there, to give his mother
something pleasant to look forward to after her string of bad luck. I told Nigel I was leaving the dig within
that first hour back, and when he tried to force me to hand over the papyrus, I
reminded him that such a worthless piece should remain with its owner. Since he had already told everyone it was
worthless, he could not argue. I smiled
broadly as I walked out of his tent, broader still as I watched his scowl
darken.
When I rejoined Rob, I opened my letter. My heart stopped. My
father had suffered a stroke, and while still alive, he was in such a weakened
condition Mum said there was not much hope for him ever living a normal life
again. Mum begged me to come home,
seemingly for support, but I knew she wanted me to take over the daily running
of Falcons Lair. She had been lady of
the manor; Father had taken care of everything, and had taught me how to take
care of the estate. He may have wanted
a suitable Lord for his house, but he wanted a real Chatsworth running it. I realize now that his allowing me to sit at
his feet in the office for hours had allowed me to learn the inner workings of
taking care of an estate without outwardly appearing to.
I knew, as did Rob, that we would each have to go home. We did not want to be separated, but both
felt the duty to our families. Rob left
the next day, insisting on leaving alone rather than suffer through a long
goodbye at the airport. I watched from
my tent as he walked across the sands to the waiting jeep in the early dawn we
treasured so much. I spent the day
packing and commiserating with Donald, who had decided to go back to England
with me. We sat in silence the entire
flight, and went our separate ways at Heathrow.
Caroline’s heart was heavy. The words were so poignant, and she already knew what had happened — or more accurately what hadn't. She looked at the photograph again, and noticed for the first time the worn edges. Audrey must have looked at that photograph daily, judging by the wear. She also thought of the scarf. Devon had said she wore it all the time when he was growing up, and when Bettine had taken such a liking to it, she had given it to her with a wistful smile to play with in the house, but had not let her take it home to London with her. Caroline felt a pang of guilt when she thought of how she had complained to Devon about the pettiness of not letting loose a “silly old scarf.” Those two things were all she had left of her deepest love and greatest adventure.
Caroline
dropped of in the chair and never felt Devon cover her with a blanket at dawn
when he awoke. He took the letter from
her lap, and sat down in his father’s chair to continue reading.
Rob and I wrote letters for
months, but the problems we had with our families worsened with time, and as it
became clear that circumstances were keeping us apart, the letters dwindled,
and eventually stopped altogether. My
father became more frail as well, and began to worry about Falcons Lair and the
lack of a Lord. By that time, I was back teaching classes at the University,
and Donald had been hired in as an adjunct.
While in Egypt, I had gotten to know Donald, but, basking in the intense
sun that was my Robert, I tended to treat him as if he paled in comparison. We
started meeting for tea each day, and would chat away about the new digs that
were coming up, or the strides Nigel seemed to be making within the
discipline. We scowled as his picture
began appearing in the papers more frequently, but were also thankful that his
new found fame kept him away from the University most of the time.
It was during those quiet
afternoon teas, that I began to appreciate the stillness of companionship, the
comfort of a shared history, and the security of being able to let a thought
cross my face that was understood and not commented upon, because he knew. I began to see Donald with a new
appreciation. He allowed me the luxury
of grief over my past love, while making me see that a new one, while
different, was possible. We sought out
each other’s company more and more. I
could go to events that touted Nigel's success, and make it through them
without killing him, because Donald knew the truth. I could stand the continuing bash against Neterka, because he had
been there when I found her. In time, I
married Donald, not simply because he came from “good stock” and was accessible,
but because in his quiet acquiescence of my past, I knew I could love him for
himself. I was happy being his wife and
your mother Devon. The two of you gave
me so much more then love; you gave my life meaning. I know what you must be wondering Devi, and the answer is
no. Donald is your father. You are the legitimate heir to Falcons
Lair.
This is everything you need to
know about the events surrounding the journal.
It is my belief that Nigel will look for the journal, in an attempt to
“re-translate” it and take credit for it.
Now you know that this papyrus is more then a glorious find to me; it is
my one link to a love that I have taken with me into the next world. I loved your father, but I loved Rob with an
intensity that transcended our separation.
He was responsible for the miraculous story of Nerterka being unearthed,
and was my biggest supporter when her story was threatened. I don’t want the University to have the
journal. You are a published
author. If you feel the need, then publish
the journal yourself. Or better yet,
use the papyrus and my notes, to write her story yourself.
As for the necklace, Caroline
will know where to find it. She’s a
quick one.
All my love,
~Mum
Caroline
awoke to the familiar strains of Mozart.
For a moment, she thought she was back in London, waking from a vain
attempt to stay awake while Devon furiously wrote in one of his endless
notebooks. He always wrote to Mozart,
claiming that it focused the “zones” of story ideas that often overtook him. He was listening to the “Ode to Joy” tape at
the moment, and she knew from years of loving him that he was writing from
instant inspiration, and not composing an outline. She quietly hugged him from behind the small desk in the room,
and saw that the journal was beside him, as well as the lamps from the dressing
table. The letter was also there, and
she silently read the final few paragraphs.
Her
brow furrowed. Why on earth would
Audrey assume that she would know where the necklace was? she had never seen it before. Quietly getting dressed, she started
downstairs to bring up some tea. She
stopped at the chair she had been sleeping in, and once again studied the
photograph. She knew Audrey was wearing
the necklace, but her position within Roberts arms, and the bulky sweater she
was wearing obscured the necklace.
Giving up, she walked downstairs.
As
with most manor houses, Falcons lair had an extensive gallery of artwork. Along the walls of the staircase were many
pictures of past Chatsworths all looking grand and successful. Audrey had often remarked on the “pained”
look on many of the faces. Being a
Chatsworth, she often told Caroline, meant you had to sit and look as if you
had eaten sour pickles. At the landing
below was the place of honor for the current lord. Devon’s and Caroline’s pictures had both been hung years ago,
after the wedding. Audrey while still
called Lady Chatsworth, had wanted to show Caroline that she was not hanging on
to her title, but was willingly setting herself aside. Audrey’s portrait had been moved into the
office, the only place Devon said she belonged. Caroline stood in the office looking at the lovely black haired
woman, in her seafoam gown.
Caroline’s
eyes widened as she looked more closely at the portrait. It was not the loving expression on Audrey’s
face, but her neck that suddenly caught her attention. At Audrey's neck was not the usual family
jewels that graced all the other portraits.
Her necklace lay slightly lower, above her breasts, and was alternately
what looked like small turquoise leaves and thicker points of lapis lazuli that
were slightly shorter then the points of the leaves. All the pieces were attached to burnished gold filigree, its
delicate twists peaking between each piece.
The result was a piece that exquisitely balanced both weight and
texture. Against her pale skin and the
seafoam bodice, the streaks in the lapis lazuli were more pronounced, giving it
the appearance of dancing against the skin.
Caroline understood Audrey’s reference to the value of the piece, but
silently wondered how the son of a postman on a university salary could have
afforded something with that kind of workmanship, forgetting for the moment the
stones’ origination at the dig. “And,”
she said aloud, “where could you possibly have hidden that in plain view?”
When
she returned to the bedroom with the tray of tea and morning scones, she found
that Devon had pulled down some of the photo albums and was looking through
them. He was looking at pictures of the
dig, seeing many of his mother and father and various people he knew among his
mother’s friends, but both Robert and Nigel were glaringly absent. Silently he wondered if the negatives of the
rolls were around somewhere, hidden away and forgotten. After studying the landscape surrounding the
people in the photos, he went back to his notebook. Caroline turned the pages of the albums, perusing the cuttings
and photos of the premiers of the exhibits following the digs. In one stood Audrey and Donald, smiling between
the falcon perch found at the site, and other stands already on display from
other expeditions. As she looked at the
picture, she noticed a difference between the stands, and her head snapped up.
“Devon! Oh, she was a clever one!” She cried as she knelt at the base of the
perch.
Devon,
lost in his zone, was taken by surprise.
“What, Pet?” he asked distractedly.
Rolling
her eyes, she let him keep writing.
Looking again at the picture in the album, she knew she had to be
right. The older, plainer stands stood
on three or four legs, while the Perch had a circular base, with the long post
fitting expertly into the center hole.
This allowed the gemstones to be attached in an elaborate mosaic type of
pattern. This had to be it, Caroline
thought to herself, and began to run her slim fingers along the patterns of the
stones. Finally she felt a stone move
slightly. Looking closer, she could see
the small bits of burnished gold that circled around the smaller area
surrounding the posthole. The clasp was
skillfully hidden under one of the lapis lazuli bark pieces. The necklace had been worked seamlessly into
the design of the base.
Caroline
was beside herself with awe at Audrey’s cleverness. Devon, finally realizing that his wife was up to something, was
on the floor beside her.
“Dev,
do you know when this stand was commissioned?”
“Around
my 10th birthday, if I recall. Around
the same time she finally gave in to having her portrait done again.” He giggled at the memory. “She said she was finally ready to wipe that
pained expression off her face,” he said, referring to the earlier portrait
that was now safely hidden away in the attics.
Caroline
suddenly understood. After ten years,
Audrey had been ready to put her pain to rest.
Allowing herself the small pleasures of the scarf and the photo, she had
put the stones back where they belonged:
into the beauty of the past.
Knowing that she could not give the stones to the museum, she had
commissioned a replica of the perch in order to keep Robert’s quest for beauty
close to her. Devon, excited about her
discovery, was attempting to loose the stone so he could remove the necklace
and place it around her neck. Her hand
closed around his as she shook her head.
____________
One
month later, over a cup of tea, Caroline sat in the chair by the fire and
listened to Devon excitedly read his newest story to her. When he finished, he laid the notebook on
his lap, and looked up. Her eyes were
glistening as she fought the urge to cry at the beautiful love story of Neterka
and Ra. “Have you a name for it yet?”
she whispered.
“I
was thinking, perhaps, Sand, Blowing Across The Dunes.”
In
the well-manicured circular garden outside the stone walls of Falcons Lair,
stood a small stone building, its columns made of black onyx. Atop the flat roof sat a falcon, its brown
head facing toward the house that bore its name. With a screech, it soared upward, its brown wings crossing the
warm yellow sphere of the sun as it flew off over the thick woods.
Tales from the Temple
|
Two Darkened Rooms |
Tales from the Temple
Symphony
Solitary instruments,
a French horn and a violin.
Isolated musicians,
each playing a lonely solo
with strangely similar melodies
surrounded by an orchestra that
could not, would not
understand their refrain.
Their notes went unnoticed
by an orchestra so immense
and a composition so dense
that it seemed that so simple a
tune
would forever be obscured.
Solitary instruments,
their notes floating across the
air
reached the ears of
the isolated musicians
who stopped for an instant,
amazed at how their notes
could blend, would blend
to create a refrain
unlike any ever heard before
by an orchestra so inharmonious
and a composition so complex
that it seemed that so simple a
tune
would forever be unappreciated.
Solitary instruments,
a French horn and a violin
at pianissimo
began to play the melody again
each measure was lovingly played
similar notes created a harmony
that
could, and would
create a refrain
of beauty that was noticed
by an orchestra so dissonant
and a composition so lifeless
that it seemed so simple a tune
might just become appreciated.
Solitary instruments,
played on at their own pace
creating a haunting harmony
that with each crescendo
built toward a richer dynamic,
a sweeter chord, that
could not, would not
remain a single refrain.
The notes were received
by an orchestra so vast
and a composition so inert
that it seemed so simple a tune
would capture their
imagination.
Solitary instruments,
a French horn, and a violin.
Musicians, no longer isolated,
played a tender duet
as the other sections joined
in.
Surrendering themselves, they
could not, would not
diminish the sweet refrain.
Their notes wafted above the
rest
of an orchestra so enraptured
with the new arrangement
that such a simple tune
became a beautiful symphony.
Tales from the Temple
Legend
Twice a night in the
darkness, two souls met. For a brief
moment, while in a conscious state, they reveled in the bliss of the
connection. The second meeting was in
sleep, separated by great distance physically, but connected in dreams where
time and distance mattered not. They
did not share dreams, they simply dreamed of each other, waking with smiles
that needed no explanation. They
KNEW.
One night, as they both
drifted off with satisfied and grateful hearts, they felt their souls lift from
their beds in wisps of gray mist.
Neither was afraid, but intrigued by this new adventure. Both loved the experience of the unknown,
and simply allowed themselves to be carried along the vapor. They were unaware
that they would soon meet, and they would not be alone.
Neither knew time, space, or
distance. They simply knew that they
WERE. When the feeling of movement
finally stopped, they found that they were standing side by side. They did not know this by sight, but by the
recognizable tug as their souls reached for each other, for comfort and
peace. When they connected they looked
out into the mist and found not the unknown, but spirits that were somehow
strangely familiar. For one, there was
the smell of the sea, and a presence of an old soul, one that had brought a
great and unconditional love. For the
other, the smell of pine trees and libraries, as the presence of two much
younger souls reached out. There were
others present as well, each one less and less familiar, but both visitors knew
that they were connected to this mist of time, energy, and spirit.
Never one to stay silent for
long, one soul asked of the mist, “Why have you brought us here? For what purpose have you pulled us from our
dreams?”
A chuckle came from the
mist. “You, who are so good with
words, who live your dreams in your waking hours, already know the answer. You are here because your mind disbelieves
your dreams.”
“But what of me?” The other
soul asked. “I believe in dreams, I
understand their power. Why then, am I
here?”
No chuckle came from the
mist, but the smell of ancient dust wafted in the mist. “You, who are good
with people, who understand the human condition, your heart does not believe
what your mind tells you is the truth.”
The two souls stood
motionless, pondering what was said, each one fighting the urge to argue with
the mist. Both believed that they did
understand, but now knew that the voices hidden in the mist knew better, and
were not going to stay silent any longer.
Feeling in their hearts that they needed to stay silent, they tried
waiting, but the impatient nature of the one soul, who always craved clarity,
could not stay silent.
“You speak of heart and mind,
and understanding. I do not
understand. If we love, and you know we
do, then what else is there to understand?”
A sigh came from the mist. “Do
you not wonder, why you love? Why you
would love that which is unseen and untouched, yet draws you to it like a
magnet?”
The soul of the one felt the
other reach out and plead for silence.
It was accepted, because it was done not out of a need to quash its spirit,
but out of love and devotion. The quiet
nature of it soothed the impetuous spirit, as it had so many times before. They waited for the mist to continue.
“Your silence is
commendable,” the Voice said. “It shows that you are able to accept
what we shall tell you. Many have heard
this story; it is old as time itself.
They refuse to believe, however, and the message goes unheeded. You, who are both so good with words, are
being told this story because we believe that you will understand its power. This understanding is a great gift, and
rarely given.”
The two waited for the mist
to begin. Once again, the mist took on the smell of ancient earth, as if time
had gone back to some natural place, before the smells of humanity had begun to
overtake the beautiful odors of nature.
“Once, you were not two
souls, but one. When or where is not
important. Suffice it to say that your
soul was happy, centered and balanced.
You were in harmony with nature; you had respect for others, purity of heart and mind, and tranquility. You loved, and were loved by all. One day, for a reason that has been lost
over time, you lost that harmony, believing that you could find a thicker meadow,
a better path. You lost your balance,
and while your center fought to maintain its position, you could not last. In an attempt to find itself again, your
soul split in two. Not, as many
believe, into good and evil parts, but into strands that contained both,
unequal but still held within. The two
separated, one going east, the other west.
Never looking back, but always forward to the greater path each
sought. Neither realizing that what
they were already seeking was each other.”
The mist once again
changed. No longer was the ancient
smell noticeable, but instead the smell of damp morning air filled the nostrils
of the two listeners.
Another Voice came from the
mist, and continued with the story. “For
years upon years, your souls have searched for the lost connection. During many of your lifetimes, they never
connected at all. It was during these
times that your resentments built, that your spirits became despondant, that
you lives took devastating turns. When
you took on new lifetimes, your spirits reflected the previous loss. It was during these lives, that your spirits
briefly swept against each other like a cool breeze on a summer’s day. Your lives then would find renewal,
momentarily finding peace. But, not
believing your own hearts and minds, you would separate again allowing the
cycle to continue.”
“Still other times,” another Voice said, “Your spirit would try and find
what it lacked in others. For one, it
might be the need for structure in a life of impulsiveness. For the other, it might be the need for strength
of spirit in a life of diminished self-esteem.
Whatever the reason, your soul would be drawn to the characteristic you
lacked, only to become discontented when other aspects your split soul equally
shared were not present in your choice.
Recognizing the strengths you lack, you believed this would suffice. Your lives were not unhappy, simply
unfulfilled. You were still not
balanced, and you set out to find it.”
The mist became silent. The listeners, still connected to each
other, let the story wash over them like the soft rain shower of a spring
day. Neither spoke, they simply allowed
themselves to immerse themselves in the truth of the story. Neither remembering when the split took
place, but knowing that it had. The
strands of their linked souls began to hold tighter, to fuse into one. But still, they resisted. They still waited for the final proof they
needed to know that what they heard was true.
“Time and technology
finally came together in one brief moment, to find that which you were looking
for,” a Voice from the mist
intoned. “Have you not said this to
each other, on countless occasions?
Have you not put a name to this truth?”
The listeners were
amazed. Both knew the name the Voice
was not willing to say. Both knew that
each had told the other that they seemed to have found the missing part of
themselves, one that they never knew was missing. Both knew this to be so, even
as they felt their strands fuse tighter, but still they refused to give in.
Finally, one could hold back
no longer. “I love, and am loved. I understand, and am understood. “But,” the soul said, “is that enough?”
Before the mist could answer,
the second soul spoke in a soft whisper, one that always brought peace to the
first. “I love, and am loved. I understand, and am understood. It is enough.”
The Voice spoke again, this
time in a familiar tone. “What you
have is better then understanding. It
is acceptance. With acceptance,
comes patience, with patience, wisdom.
You know what you desire, and yet neither of you put a voice to it. This is the beginning of wisdom.”
The second soul cried out in
pain, sending a shock through the first.
A Voice that soothed the second’s soul said softly, “Do not
despair. You are already connected;
your soul has fused into being without either of you knowing it. You are already whole again. Once you accepted, you were one. Do you not already feel it? Sensing what was troubling the two
souls, the Voice spoke again. “I
will not tell you what you seek to know.
You will find the answer together, when the time is right. You are both wise, and patient. You are already one, and draw strength from
each other, without the other one realizing it. You seek each other out when you feel the need, and are rewarded
with a connection. You have already
called this ability by its name. You
have been and forever will be connected by it.”
As the last echoes of the Voice ebbed away, the
souls felt again the movement of the vapor, but this time, as they drifted down
towards their beds, they were acutely aware of each other, as if they were
still standing before the mist containing the ancestors. They slept deeply, and awoke the next
morning with the same smiles they always awoke with. This day however, the sudden desire to leave the other a message
drove each of them to their computers.
Each sent the other a message of 5 words.
Soul Mate, we are one.
Tales from the Temple
Whispers from the Temple
Two lovers met
in the cool of the evening
as they had so many times
before.
In a secluded room that had
long been declared "theirs"
they spoke and wooed and kissed
and cuddled
not talking of the future, but
of the now.
For now was perfection,
was bliss
was ... everything —
and so much more.
Two lovers spoke
of days spent in warm embraces
of nights spent in enthusiastic
fervor.
Under an eiderdown comforter
that was amorously rumpled
she turned to her lover and
asked
half in jest, half in
seriousness
How do you love me?
She did not expect a reply.
For his love was perfection,
was bliss
was ... everything —
and needed no explanation.
Her lover spoke
in an earnestness that
surprised both:
I love you in the morning
mountain mist
I love you with your elegant
hair up as we dance at the ball
I love you in my pajama tops
I love you as you rise up on
your toes to give me a soft, lingering kiss
I love you that you always have
an answer to my every wish, my every line
I love you that I learn from
you
I love you that I can make you
smile
I love you that you make me
smile
I love your movement when I
touch you
I love your breath on my neck
I love you that when I hold
you, we are in heaven together.
Two lovers cried
over a love that knew no
boundary
and a bond that could not be
severed.
Looking down into her shining
eyes
He smiled at his lover and
asked
half in jest, half in curiosity
How do you love me?
he waited for her reply.
Even though he knew her love
was perfection,
was bliss
was … everything —
and needed no explanation.
His lover smiled
and answered in barely a
whisper:
I love you in the soft velvet
of a moonlit night
I love you with your arms
around me, dipping me in a dance
I love you reading the paper,
snuggled with me
I love you as you lift me and
give a twirl when you kiss me
I love you writing stories and
poems that proclaim to the world how much you love me
I love you building a temple,
where not only we love, but others find love as well
I love you that you come to me,
to sleepy to say anything but "I love you"
I love your jeepers
I love your breathing my name
into my lips
I love you that when I hold
you, we find bliss together.
Two lovers embraced
in the cool of the evening
as they had so many times
before.
In a secluded room that had
long been declared "theirs"
they took pleasure and comfort
in their devotion
In the past, in the present and
the future
This is perfection
is bliss
is ... everything
and so much more.
Tales from the Temple
I
hate this place, and I was born here. I
am the third generation to be born in this compound, and for all of my 25 years
of life here I only knew 5 years of happiness (whatever that word means). It is gloomy here. There is nothing of beauty, or peace or tranquility. There is only the stark reality of life where
there is nothing to live for, a day to day drudgery that permeates my very
existence. That is all it is for me:
existence. I look out from my concrete
and alloy cell, and see miles and miles of the same type of buildings. There is no variance. Everything is ... the same. This place was built for protection —
nothing more. It is efficient,
practical, and safe. We all live here,
and while some pretend to be happy, they are deluding themselves. I see that, but they refuse to. But then, I see a lot of things that others
do not, and that is why I have been put here in this asylum. I am different,
and if you want to survive and keep your freedom here, you must be the same as
everyone else.
We
live in a dark place. There is a
covering over the compound that keeps us safe from some sort of sickness that
we are not told the name of. We all
know that the sickness exists, however, because we still carry its scars. We are all smooth-headed with eyes that are
translucent blue rimmed with red. This
forever reminds us of the dangerous time before the compound. There are pictures of people who lived
before the compound was built, and they have a fur like growth on their heads
and bodies that we do not have, and their eyes vary in color. The Leaders tell us that these people
created the sickness, and the need for our compound. They tell us that the ones with the colored eyes refused to see
what was coming and stop the weapons that destroyed the world. They also tell us that we now see with
clarity and wisdom, and that is why our eyes have lost their differences. They place the old pictures on the walls of
the food depositories, the hospitals and the buildings where we assemble to
learn the rules. They are not on the
walls so that we might enjoy their beauty; they are there to remind us that
those who are different create chaos and destruction. We do not think of ourselves as ugly, we are simply the
same. Like everything else here, there
is unity, of appearance as well as thinking.
I
am known as 3. I do not have any other
name, as I do not have a purpose in this society. A long time ago, I had a name.
When it became obvious that I held no special talent or purpose,
however, I was designated as the third of four siblings. I don’t know where they are now. I was sent away from my family when I was
six, to a special school for those whose purpose was “yet to be found.” I hated it there. My classmates and I were taught the rules of the compound, to
read and write, and to do the mindless, simple tasks that those who had talent
and purpose were too busy to do. I was
luckier then most of my male classmates.
Females do at least have one talent that is needed when they get older;
they are needed to replenish society. I
was sent away to another school at age 12 to begin my training. It was hoped that I could at least be of use
as one of the procreators, but alas, my body could not even accomplish that
outwardly simple task. The doctors
tried to find what was wrong with my body.
They insisted that there was no reason for me not to bear children. No matter what they did, however, my body
refused to bear fruit. I was sent to
the asylum before I reached my 14th birthday in disgrace. I was useless. It is amazing that I was not disposed of. I often wish I had been.
I
do have one talent, or rather, a curse that made me useful for a time. I see things. I do not control what I see, the images come rushing into my head
and leave me breathless, only to retreat after a time as quickly as they
appear. I don’t understand what I see
most of the time, but the images interested some of the Leaders that are in
charge of our compound. I see things
that are outside any of our understanding.
For instance, I often see a bright yellow ball that lights the streets
of the compound. This ball has never
been seen by anyone here, but the Leaders seem to hold it to some importance,
although they do not bother to tell me why.
I also see strange creatures that glide, or float in a clear liquid, or
crawl. These have never been seen
either but the Leaders are not interested in them. They were, however, interested in the images of compounds I could
see. I remember seeing others like us,
although they live in dwellings that are not always like this one. Some of them live in great domes, their
shiny surface glittering under the great yellow disk. Other dwellings are shaped like ours, but the people inside them
speak languages I do not understand.
The Leaders would listen to my descriptions with great interest and ask
me relentlessly what the words meant, but I could not tell them. I did not have the talent for language. Since I could not tell them what the images
meant, they soon lost interest and sent me back to the asylum. I was forgotten. Until I met 9. He changed
everything for me.
9
was different. He refused to walk with
the stooped scuffle so many of those in the asylum did. He refused to lower his head, or even his
eyes. It was the first thing I noticed
about him. He had bearing- something
that seemed out of place not only here, but also in society as a whole. I noticed this, because while I am just 3, I
tend to do the same thing. It allows me
to show those that would discount me that I am indeed here, and exist. But for 9 this was no show. 9 was a force, and you could feel it. Before
I knew his number, I used to watch him walking among the others during meals
and communal times. He was taller then
most, and I often saw him bend to listen to one of the tortured souls
here. He always wore a look of
compassion on his face so intense that it was as if he was attempting to absorb
their sadness into himself, to somehow release them from their pain. I remember thinking to myself that he was
being foolish. There is too much pain
here for anyone to ever find relief.
9 had something that set him apart from the
others, which made him instantly recognizable.
Although his eyes were translucent, they were not blue but green. I
heard about his eyes from others who came to my room each evening to talk about
nothing in particular. I don’t separate
myself from anyone here; I have a terrible need to serve others. This is one of life’s cruel jokes I
suppose: giving the need to serve to a
soul that has no purpose and no way to satisfy that need. It is never satisfied, but the stream of
people who come to my room do slake it somewhat, and I also find out what is
going on around me. That is another
need of mine; I love to know, to learn and to grow. I don’t consider my “education” under the society as learning;
they only teach what they deem necessary for us to know. Until 9 turned his eyes on me, my need for
knowledge was never satisfied.
I
finally met 9 in a garden within the walls of the asylum. The garden is another melancholy place
designed to remind us that we are not needed.
There are rocks on the ground and pieces of statuary that were unearthed
during the original construction of the compound, and have been hidden away
like the rest of us who are of no use to this existence. There are broken statues of people no one
knows now: a man with long fur on his head in a long coat with a ruffled shirt,
and another man sitting in a chair looking as if the weight of the world lies
on his shoulders. Perhaps he is the
most at home within this garden; his expression mirrors our own. There were once inscriptions beneath many of
these broken people, but time, explosions, or the Leaders have scratched them
off. They are nameless, faceless,
unknowns like the rest of us.
In
a dim corner of this garden, stands a statue unlike any of the others. It is black, and has features that I don’t
understand but find beautiful. It is
partially a man, wearing nothing more then what appears to be a skirt, and a
long creature is coiled around him as if it protects him. But his head is not a man. It is a creature I have seen before in one
of my sight states. When I see it in my
dreams, it glides through the air and has a long pointed nose for killing its
prey. There is something about this
smooth, black figure that has fascinated me from the moment I saw it. Perhaps it is the fact that it does not fit
with the other broken figures. It is
the only figure not a man, and is the only one that is complete; its smooth
surface is scarred, but not broken. I
only know that I am drawn to its corner of the garden whenever I go there.
I
was under the black statue one morning, touching the smooth cool surface of one
of his arms. I often caressed the black
stone — it was always cool, and was smooth in spite of the scars that ran
across it. While I was doing this, a
hand silently covered my own on the black arm.
I tried to pull my hand back, but found that I could not move it. I turned my head to glare at whoever the
interloper was, and found myself looking into the green translucent eyes of
9. He was smiling down at me, amused at
my anger. I forgot my irritation for
two reasons. First there was a look in
his eyes that was completely peaceful, and second, I have not seen many smiles
in my lifetime. His smile held no
malice; it was a true smile of pleasure.
No one had ever looked at me that way before and I was stunned. To this day, I wish I had smiled back at
him.
We
talked under that black figure for hours.
I found myself telling him about my sights, about the yellow ball, the
orange cloud that seemed to grow ever upward and spread for miles on the
ground, and of the strange creatures that roamed a world that I did not
understand. He in turn told me that the
ball was the sun, a warm disk that warmed the outside world. I was shocked. I had never contemplated a world outside the compound. I had just blindly accepted the Leaders
assertion that there was nothing outside the thick walls and roof except
danger. He told me that there were
names for all the creatures I had seen.
I was amazed at his knowledge. I
was like a sponge, absorbing everything he was telling me. Unlike a sponge, however, I knew I would
never be able to absorb everything he was so willing to teach me. When the meal chimes went off that evening,
I was surprised at how quickly the usually endless day had passed. We turned in silence, and walked together to
the room where all the meals were served.
We
were never separated after that day in the garden. 9 not only taught me about my sights, he allowed me to walk with
him among the other residents, talking to them, listening to them and helping
them whenever I had an opportunity. I
suddenly had a purpose; I could help simply by listening, or smiling, or
handing over some meager belonging of my own that would bring pleasure to
someone else. The smile I had been
unable to muster on our first meeting hardly ever left my face while we were
together. There was a joy in serving
the others that brought my smile out. 9
always told me that I had a beautiful smile.
I don’t know, I never saw it.
And when he was gone, I never smiled again.
My
days and nights were filled with such joy!
It was as if the roof had been lifted off of the compound, and the sun 9
spoke of so often was warming my heart and body. We ignored the rules of Society; indulging in the pleasures of
procreation I had thought was useless to me.
9 fought this at first, looking at me with a worry that I did not at
first understand. I am not ashamed that
I was so persistent. It was the one
gift I could give to him that was truly mine to give. I was unable to have children, so I thought the risk was
minimal. Whenever I told him what the
doctors had told me, however, a shadow always crossed his face. Those looks were always forgotten however,
in the safe haven of each other’s arms.
We knew only joy in this dismal place for 4 years. I should have known it was too good to last.
In
his arms at night, the dreams that usually plagued me seemed manageable. I would waken, shaken and afraid, and he
would stroke my face and explain them to me.
Unfortunately, there were those that worked at the asylum who reported
to the Leaders anything strange or changed in our usual behavior. In 9 and myself, there were both. After 4 years of clandestine observation,
the Leaders finally called us in front of them. I was frightened over having to reveal my sights again, 9 was
not. He was however, concerned over my
thickening waistline. I had not noticed
it myself, but when the orders for transfer to the Leaders Facility came to us,
9 looked at me with sadness. I had
never seen his green eyes look that way before. That look never seemed to leave him in the month we waited for
the transfer. But one morning he put
his hand over my belly, and I felt it leap under his hands. I suddenly understood. My useless body had produced what it had
refused to when I was younger. That
leap temporarily lifted the sadness from his eyes and for one brief moment, we
gave into the joy of knowing that there would be another like us. I wore the baggiest clothes I could find
after that morning, and stooped and scuffled along to hide the fact that I was
beginning to bulge in the front. It
worked at first, and the Leaders had no idea of our secret.
Apart,
9 and I were inconsequential. Together
we were suddenly needed. With my sights
now having an interpreter, the Leaders were eager to know everything I saw. The problem, however, was that 9 would not
lie to them. He told them what my
sights meant, even when they did not like his interpretations. When they argued
with him, he refused to change his words.
When he told them that they were not wiser then those who went before
them, they beat him. When he told them
that the cloud I saw was a premonition of the end of the world, they would not
believe him. When they got tired of
hearing him, they sent us back to the asylum.
I was (surprisingly) happy to go back, foolishly thinking that we would
be safe. 9 was never the same
though. It was as if my sights and the
baby had motivated him to stop his usual practice of bringing peace to others,
and had replaced it with a need to get anyone who would listen to rise up against
the Leaders before it was to late. He
talked to everyone, including the workers, about the Leaders being wrong. He spoke his mind continuously for months,
and I knew it was only a matter of time before the Leaders would hear about
it. I was right. Discontent was spreading outside the asylum
as the workers went home and shared his ideas with their families and
friends. 9’s days were numbered.
Every
morning, we would go to our statue in the garden, and enjoy the growth of the
baby in private. In the shadow of that
black figure, 9 would take my hands in his and place them on my bulge. We would giggle as the baby moved against
us. We would give into the dreams of a
baby with his green eyes and my smile.
He would insist that our baby would be the most beautiful, the smartest,
and the start of a new society that would be able to finally bring about peace
and joy. We were happily contemplating
that future when we noticed that the shadows around the corner of the garden
were deeper and bigger. Looking up, we
saw eight men, dressed in black and holding weapons we had never seen
before. 9 put himself between me and
the men, but it was useless. A big man
grabbed my arm and yanked me away from 9, while at the same time the other
seven opened fire. 9 dropped at the
base of the statue, his blood and organs strewn over its base like some
sickening sacrifice. I wrenched free of
the big man and fell at 9’s side, cupping his face in my hands and looked into
those wonderful green eyes for the last time.
He was already gone, but I swear his eyes looked at me with a peace that
I will never understand. I was forced
to get up and was taken to the hospital where they “relieved me” of what they
deemed was a deformed child. I was
lost. I was ... am ... useless.
Five
years. In twenty-five years, I have
only known five years of true happiness, true joy. For the last five, all I have known is hate. I hate the Leaders, the people around me,
and the sight states that occur with more frequency now. I hate the fact that I did not follow 9 and
our daughter into the merciful oblivion of death. I hate that I am such a coward, that I could not take my own
life. I don’t smile. I serve only my ever-increasing need to lash
out.
I
am the personification of hate.
____________
“3,
GET UP! GO TO THE PLACE I SHOWED YOU!”
I
awakened in terror from a sight dream.
Confused by the dream, and from the voice I had not heard in five years,
I was still lying in the cot of my cell.
Why bother? I thought to myself,
and rolled over to face the wall, tears running down my cheeks.
His
voice became sterner. “Go now, 3.… NOW!”
I couldn’t stop myself. I did
not remember the dream, but his voice would not be silenced. I found myself pulling on my clothes,
leaving the cell, and creeping silently out of the building. He said that he had showed me where to go,
but in all honesty I couldn’t remember what he was talking about. I simply wandered around the asylum grounds,
trying to get his voice to leave my head.
I eventually found myself standing at the garden fence, refusing to go
inside. I had not stepped foot in that
place for 5 years.
“Yes
3 ... go in, go to the statue!” I
recoiled at that command. I hated this
place. I would not go in, even if that
damn black statue suddenly came to life and ordered me to come to him. 9 should have understood, I thought to
myself. He should not have asked me to
do that.
But
9 kept insisting. “Go to him now
3. He is the way out!” I had never heard 9 speak with such urgency
or fear before, even when he was facing the Leaders threats and beatings. I couldn’t stop my self, and I entered the
garden, if only to alleviate his fears.
I found myself standing in front of that ugly black creature and wishing
I could push it over. In fact, the
desire to do just that was overwhelming.
I
was surprised to hear 9’s laughter, a sound that always surprised me when he
was alive. “That’s my girl! But look
behind him, my love!” Wrinkling my nose
at his laughter, I stomped around to the back of the statue.
I
found a hole, a crawlspace really. It
was dark and small, cut into the back wall of the compound. The fact that no one ever noticed it behind
the base of the statue is truly amazing.
9’s voice insisted that I had seen this hole before, but I don’t
remember it. Giving into his
persistence, I found myself squeezing through the wall, pushing myself along
with my elbows and my knees, while the skin of my head grazed the top of the
hole. I could see light at the other
end. Not the light in my dreams, or the
light cast by the lights in the compound.
This was real light casting shadow along the exit I was crawling
toward. I finally reached the end of
the tunnel and pulled myself outside of the compound, coughing out the dust
from my lungs and gasping for air.
Once
I was free of the dust, I sat up on my knees and look around. High in the sky, I saw the sun, the disk I
had seen in my dreams and sights for so many years. 9 was right, it was warm and illuminated the world underneath
it. I looked around, and saw soft green
stuff around my knees that stretched for miles around me, except where the gray
walls of the compound lay on it. I saw
tiny spots of color, each delicately waving in something that blew in my face
but could not be seen. I got down on my
belly to look at that wonderful thing, and saw that it had delicate little
parts and a center of yellow. I could
not help but smile, as 9’s voice told me that I was sitting in grass, and
admiring a flower blowing in the wind.
This world is a marvel, I thought to myself. My sight did not do this world justice.
I
rose to my feet, walking and following the voice of 9, no longer caring if he
was real or not. I took off my shoes,
and giggled as the grass tickled my feet.
I was amazed at my laughter and smile; I had not felt the desire to do
either for five years. As I walked, he
told me about the large leaves that feed the sun’s rays to the trees they are
attached to. His voice lead me toward
what he called mountains, their large mounds reaching toward the sky. I saw creatures walking and crawling among
the rocks and grasses. I heard a
screech above my head, and looked up to see one of the gliding creatures with a
head like the black statue. 9 told me
that this wonderful creature was a bird — a falcon. I watched with fascination as it swooped and soared ahead of
me. Farther ahead was another creature,
with white fur, long ears and a fuzzy ball at the back. 9 laughed again and called the little animal
a bunny. I saw the falcon swoop toward
the little thing, and was suddenly frightened for it. I didn’t need to be. The
falcon did not hurt her, but simply knocked her over, and landed in front of
her, fluffing out his feathers. I
watched the little creature wait patiently for the bird to turn his back on
her. The minute he did, she hopped
toward him and pounced on his tail feathers.
The falcon did not hurt her; he simply flew off with a screech of indignation. I giggled at the playfulness of the animals,
although in my dreams that bird would have killed the bunny.
This
is a wondrous place, and I couldn’t help but think with anger about the lies of
the Leaders. To deny this world’s
existence was a crime. Perhaps the
furry-headed ones had almost destroyed it once, but it had lived through the
sickness and devastation and was now lush and beautiful. I found myself drinking in the smells and
the feel of the wetness on my skin, as I became warmer.
The
voice of 9 became insistent again. “You
have to get to the river, 3. You need
to run!”
I
did not want to run, but the urgency in his voice caused me to follow his
orders. Oh, the glory of that run! To feel the wind in my face, the grass under
my bare feet, to smell air that was not filtered through ventilation
shafts. Even though I know he was still
fearful for me, I enjoyed the new sensations.
I had no idea what a river was, but I know he wanted me to find it, and
that he was pulling me along in the right direction with his voice. Finally I ran around some trees and felt my
feet suddenly go cold. I was standing
in what he called water, and it rushed past me with frightening power. I now realized how close I was to the
mountain. I was amazed to see it loom
up above the river upstream. What a
remarkable place, I thought to myself again.
But the run had made me thirsty.
Suddenly I no longer cared about the mountain, but about satisfying my
thirst.
I
panicked. In the compound, we were
given liquid to drink that satisfied thirst, but I did not see anything that
remotely looked like the greenish goo we were given at home. What am I going to do? I wondered to myself. There is no way I could survive without some
sort of liquid sustenance. I waited for
9 to say something, but he was silent.
I looked at the river, with its clear running water, and was hit with an
overpowering need to drink. I fought
the urge, and moved farther toward the mountain, looking for something that
looked like the goo from home. There
wasn’t any; and the need to drink overshadowed the fear I had of the
water. I bent down at the edge of a
rock, and stuck my hand into the cold water.
I
heard a noise from far away, in the direction of the compound. I ignored it, intent on savoring the taste
of the water on my tongue and lips. I
never saw the large cloud from my dream fill the sky, nor did I notice the
strong, wicked wind that made its way toward me. I never noticed it, until I feel it push me into the river. I was so cold, and my head hit something,
making my thoughts muddled. I was swept
along the river currents, sputtering water and flailing my arms. There was no way to save myself. I watched the falcon flying above me,
screeching. I called to 9, but that
only filled my mouth with water again.
My last thought, as I gave in to the blackness, was one of anger.
“9
... Why?”
____________
All
is darkness and wet.
I
felt myself floating, swept along the currents of a dark and strangely familiar
river. I awakened once or twice in this
dark cavern, but was not able to remember anything. Not my name. Not how I
got here. Words came to me but there
was no coherent thought, only confusion.
I gave myself up to the darkness again, and slept. There was peace in the blackness, so I
retreated again to the void.
I
finally woke again laying half in and half out of the river, my arms lying on
the stone of a small platform. I lifted
my head and saw that the platform was not very big, but had steps on one side
that were lit with torches, leading to a cave.
After a few minutes, I stood up in the water, and stepped up on the
platform. The water dripped off of my
naked body in a pool at my feet. I
stood beneath a torch, partially to warm myself, but also to peer up the path that
was lit for me. I do not know how I
knew that this path was for my feet alone.
I only knew that I needed to follow it.
When I felt warm and dry, I began to walk up the steps that were carved
out of the stone.
The
steps were steep but each time I was out of breath, and needed to rest, there
seemed to be a flat place for me to rest under a torch. The first flat place I came to had a vivid
picture painted on the wall. It showed
a bald woman, cradling a crumpled and gory form by his face. I did not know the
woman, but the pain on her face as she knelt beneath a black statue was so
vivid that my own heart cried with hers.
A second picture showed the same woman floating away in a vast
underground river, her cloths gone and her lips blue. There was something familiar about the image, but my mind refused
to understand it. I could not stand to
look at the images anymore. I resumed
my climb.
Each
landing brought with it a new picture.
The same man and woman appeared in each one, their faces remaining the
same while their hair, clothes and setting changed. In one, they sat at tables, looking at words on a strange
box. They did not look at each other,
but at the words written on the boxes.
I could not understand the words, but the expressions on their faces
were the same. On yet another wall, the
man was dressed in some sort of uniform, and he stood with his arm around the
woman, her hair blowing in the wind as they stood on a ship that sailed a vast
blue-green sea. Another showed the man
bearded, wearing a crown and armor kissing his lovely woman who had the longest
hair I had ever seen. As I looked at
this painting, something fell over my eyes, obstructing my view. When I brushed it away, I felt a tug on my
head. It was then that I realized that
I had hair similar to the lady in the picture, but not as long.
I
ascended to each landing with anticipation, and a feeling that I should know
the people in the paintings. There was
something so familiar about each one.
With each picture, new knowledge seemed to fill my head. There is no reason that I should know the
words ship, sea, crown, or king. I just
knew that each time I looked at the pictures, a new word sprang into my
head. While most of the pictures gave
me joy to see, like the king and his queen, others made my heart heavy, like
the first one of the bald woman. These
pictures also gave me new words. In
one, I saw the man’s head lieing in a basket, under a guillotine, but the woman
was not there. She was in another place
in a strange robe, her face painted white as she served tea. It was as if they had never met, but their
lives were still depicted together. In
another one, the two were together, but facing opposite directions, as if they
had simply passed each other briefly on their way to somewhere else. I struggled to understand these things, but
the understanding would not come.
Finally
I reached a landing with no picture, but which had columns along the long
corridor that were black, and shiny.
The torches were not burning as brightly, and as I passed the columns I
could see the flames reflected in the black stones and licking the walls and my
skin in shadows. I could hear music ...
no ... not music, but the soft melodious words of many speaking at once. It was a language I did not know, but the
tones seemed to fill me with anticipation.
I was listening to the chant and watching the flames reflected on the
columns when I stepped down on something sharp, causing me to cry out in shock
and pain. I sat down on the stone path
and inspected my foot. It was nothing
serious, and I simply wiped the blood off my sole and cradled my foot for a few
minutes. It was then that I noticed the
small object I had stepped on. It was a
strange blue color, and shaped like a leaf.
I put my hand around the small leaf to pick it up, and suddenly I knew.
Turquoise! This leaf was turquoise, and it came of the
tree in the temple! My brain screamed,
my heart leapt in my chest. I suddenly
remembered the river below. It was the
river of the underworld, the one I had sailed on for a brief time with
him. It was as if I suddenly was alive
again. Names, places, things came
rushing back to me in waves. I knew the
captain of that ship, and the woman beside him. I knew the King and the Queen; I even knew the name of the Spy
and the Secret Agent, and the two people in front of their computers. What joy I felt, and ... as I thought of the
other pictures showing a life separated from him, what sadness as well. There was one joy I knew I would never know,
and while I was glad to know myself again, I knew that a shadow would cover my
heart whenever I thought of her.
I
stood, and prepared myself for the next adventure. I had been through this before, you see. As I walked toward the end of the corridor,
I became more anxious. I knew that the
end of this corridor would bring me to him, as he smiled and sent us off on a
new adventure, a new life. How I hated
the thought of seeing him only briefly before he sent us off to find each other
again. How tired I was of it. I loved him, but the pain of what I had lost
in my last life had hardened me somewhat.
I wanted him to finally give me my new name. But still I walked toward the cave opening on Manu, the mountain
of sunrise. It’s funny. I can remember the name of his mountain, but
not his name. There have been so many
names for so long now, it won’t come to me.
I
reached the top of Manu, but something was not right. There should have been dunes of sand as far as the eye can see,
but I did not see them. The mountain
seemed the same, and I recognized the path leading to the temple, but something
was wrong. It was not the time of
day. The blue time before sunrise
always makes the sand shimmer in a strange blue light, until the pinks and
yellows of Manjet begin to fill the sky.
I saw the familiar hue of the sky, but there was no shimmer on the
sands. Manu looked as though it was
floating.
I
heard the familiar screech of my beloved falcon, and held out my arm with a
smile. He landed, and let me caress his
feathers and kiss his head, before taking off toward the end of the path again. I could not stop myself, I took off in a run
behind him up the mountain path. I knew
this path so well that had it still been dark I would have made it to the
temple steps. As it was, the pinks and
yellows were just beginning to peak over the horizon when I saw his silhouette
on the temple steps. I was surprised
when I saw him run toward me. I had
never seen him do that before. We met
on the lowest step of the temple and embraced.
He gazed at me with those green starburst eyes, and I loved him again,
and knew I would go anywhere he decided to send us. But he seemed to be in less of a hurry this time.
He
was quiet, and gazed at me for the longest time. I could tell that the last adventure had taken its toll on
him. He took me by the hand and led me
to the central courtyard of our temple, and we stood beside the cauldrons of
holy oil that I had always loved.
Looking at me for one last time, he turned away from me, and called out
a name.
“Habibah-Kamilah!”
Now,
this was a name he had given me in his temple many centuries ago. It was not my new name, and I did not
understand what he was doing. I knew
this would not be the name in my new life, and I could not imagine him wanting
to go back to the old one. I waited,
staring in the direction he was looking.
From one of the chambers of our temple, I saw a child emerge. She was beautiful, with long curls, green
eyes, and the most radiant smile I had ever seen. She truly was perfection, and suddenly I knew. The child ripped out of 3 and sired by 9 was
now standing between her father and mother.
He had saved her, and named her Loved Perfection. I suddenly knew his name again. This was the soul I had loved my entire
life, long before the House of Ra. He was my Al, and I was Betty, the girl who
had played with him in the sand and the sea for as long as we could
remember.
The
sun is rising over Manu as we sit on the steps watching it. We will never again ride Manjet, as Ra has
decided that he no longer has the taste for being the one who is served. He has left the creation of the new world to
another God, one who will create from dust rather than tears. We have been left to live on Manu, now
surrounded by the sea my illuminated one has always loved so much. We live peacefully, Ra and I, with our
children in a home built by years of love and devotion. We have built our temple.
May
you all find yours.
Tales from the Temple
During
my days, sometimes, I had a maudlin habit: at some point during the evening I
would find a tribe's or band's mawkish ballads being played, and I would settle
in to wail my accompaniment. After a
few songs, and a few joinings with fellow sufferers and their offers of some
concoction vegetable fruit or grain, I’d have a steady stream of tears coursing
across my cheekbones and rolling wetly over my lips as I agonized and
empathized with the heartbroken vocalists and musicians.
I
am grateful for one thing: I did get to be friends with Miguel de Cerventes y
Saavedra during those torturous times and play The Man of La Mancha on
Broadway, and still feel the old familiar longing for the lovely, perfect
things — heroism, chivalry, nobility, all the beauty of life’s things.
I
suspect it is a siren song for many of our sort, because most of us cherish an
impossible dream. Perennially immature
as we move from one incarnation to another, we share with true children an
unshakable faith that only if we should find the magic word, the magic name, we
will get the moon and the stars for Christmas. Like children, we are prone to tears and tantrums when we don’t.
During
my early years, I was a lucky one. And
I thank the House of Ra for teaching me and training me. I can remember the release: shyness
dissolving, love welling up toward everyone, even myself. I stopped judging and criticizing; I had no
self-defense chip on my shoulder because I was weightless and free; the moon
was mine at last, shining silver in my arms.
And the stars were in my eyes.
But
then inflation sets in on the impossible dream stock market. Too soon, the price skyrockets, as we absorb
and take the pain of every loss, of every isolation from our children, every
wish unfulfilled, accidents, illnesses, hatreds, deaths. The list goes on; the beat goes on, with
copyrights even. “Why don’t they stop?” we sometimes ask among ourselves. We shrug, and we smile with the charm
mustered when necessary, and we change the subject. We are not the only ones
who have tried.
In
my opinion, there is an answer — an answer we don’t want to face because it has
a high price tag: we must give up the impossible dream.
For
each of us, the impossible dream differs.
For one, it may be great wealth, or great thunderbolts, for another, a
dramatic rise to fame. For me, it was a
world in which love, joy, beauty, and truth (to name a few things) were the
rule, not the exception. But for all of
us who cherish the impossible dream, it has one common denominator: it is, as the name indicates, a totally
unrealistic demand for perfection in one form or another, and it requires of
its disciples a fanatical devotion that permits no compromise.
I
have looked with amused or bitter condescension at the lowly earth people who
actually enjoy the mediocrity of their surroundings, their friends,
their jobs, their children. I have enjoyed my perception, my ability to spot
the manifold flaws in our environment and my sensitivity to be miserable
over them. Never let it be said that we with special gifts are so lacking in
discrimination that we would permit ourselves to enjoy imperfection.
But,
after a reasonable number of lifetimes, I have begun to realize certain
truths. And they become stronger with
each new life. It is not admirable to
rush in where angels fear to tread; it is stupid and self-destructive. It is not heartwarming idealism to hate life
for its imperfections; it is rank ingratitude.
It is not intellectual superiority to single out the shortcomings of the
world; it is a self-inflicted, selective blindness.
Eventually,
I had to free myself from the impossible dream of a perfect world in order to
love and accept the real world in its totality. Judged by human standards, life is not perfect; to demand
perfection of it is asking the impossible.
Life is an incredible totality that ranges from good to evil, from
beauty to horror, from bliss to agony.
One extreme cannot exist without the other. There would be no music if high C were the only note, no art if
red were the only color, no joy in pleasure if pleasure were the only feeling —
and, paradoxically, there would be no perfection without imperfection.
What
does this mean to me? Well, first it
means that I don’t have to be perfect.
All I have to do is grow at a pace natural to me — and that is all I
have a right to expect of others, no matter how I might teach or favor. It is not stupid to accept myself and others
complete with our imperfections. It would be stupid not to. All I can ask is to give progress a chance.
It
means that I am free to like and enjoy what I have now. I don’t need to exhibit my high values by
hating my rowboat for not being a yacht, my house for not being a palace, my
child for not being a prodigy. In all
aspects of my actual life, there is room to grow. More important, my appreciation of what they are now has
room to grow. I will be with Neterka,
as we have been over and over again, and we will continue to learn to grow
together — on our mountaintop, in our temple, with our children and descendants
and inventions. We will learn more levels, more lessons of love. Maybe I’ll invent a space-yacht. And, I chuckle to Imagine, I think we will
still change forms once in a while for the fun of it. Ruffle a few feathers, you might say. Perfection would limit me; imperfection offers me the freedom of
a million potentials. All the
excitement and interest and wonder of adventure are mine still to explore,
ever-new, ever-changing, ever-becoming, ever-now. For if we do it not now, when?
Now is better.
Thank
the Gods that I can be liberated from dreaming the impossible dream and
free to start living the possible dream. I’ll let somebody else be the big God now.
Tales from the Temple
Sometimes,
when Ra was off looking too his musician friends for comfort, I would indulge
myself in a rather self-serving passion.
I would find a group of travelling actors and for a time would loose
myself in someone else's life. I could
kick, scream, carry on and go back to the temple refreshed and pleasant
again. Acting afforded me the luxury of
saying "at least my life isn't that bad."
And yet for
all of us, mortal or otherwise, life is that bad at times. It seems to toss us
all into the wind when we get to comfortable and forget certain truths. We ball
our hands into fists, rail and scream, "it's not fair!" like
kindergartners on a playground. And why not? As a wise person once said
"all I ever needed to learn, I learned in kindergarten." One of those
first lessons is that we are not always going to get what we want, never going
to always be the favored one, never, never, never.
And yet, we
still try.
I am
grateful to ole Wills for allowing me to be part of his little band of
players. He never knew that my life
really was an enormous stage in which I played many parts. He never knew that I had been many of his
characters, from the absurd to the tragic.
No, I was neither Prince Hamlet nor Ophelia, but I could find pleasure
in being the grave digger. And there,
my friend is the secret to the thespian.
Find the joy of being not the leading role, but the one scene
wonder. Because sometimes the beauty
and simplicity of a single scene can define the entire production.
My life has
been a succession of one scene wonders.
I may have often been thrust into what appeared to be the biggie role,
but for me it was the times when I could barely be called the scenery that
allowed me to truly shine, to learn, and to grow. My life in the House of Ra was one such scene. What started as a bit part where I was
simply happy to serve, bloomed into a role that gave me the reward of a love
that sparkled more brilliantly then the cobra on the Uraeus. I was free.
Free to love, free to be myself, and free to give him whatever he needed
to make him feel as liberated as I did.
I loved to see the stars in his eyes burst with pleasure. It was the simplest of pleasures, but one
that defined my love for him.
And yet we
all forget that. In the imperceptible
simplicity of love lies truth. It is
there for all of us to see, but we let the details stand between it and us. If only ... becomes the battle cry of our
souls. If only what? We had a bigger bank account? We didn't have to deal with people who dare
tell us we are crazy? How about if
people would just get out of our way and let us live? All are great drama, but they cloud the truth. We don't need the money, and the people who
tell us we are wrong are actually needed to keep us fighting for what we
want. I learned long ago, not to ignore
the villains, but to use them to remember what it was I was fighting for — the
simple freedom to love who I wanted, the way I wanted.
Tales from the Temple
You
are sitting on the steps of a temple of your own design. A temple not made of mortar and stone, but
of the things that last: Truth,
Respect, and Love. These create the
foundation, the columns and the cauldrons.
The steps that lead you to the cauldrons are created naturally from the
progression of the life that brought you here.
If
you are very lucky, your temple sprang up long before you actually reached the
top. You saw it, always within view as
the wilderness surrounding it slowly began to change into a lush meadow, a calm
sea, or a rugged mountain. The soul
understands where its source of strength originates. This is why we are drawn to certain types of terrain. Our soul understands what refreshes and
renews it. At the heart of that
refreshment stands your temple.
You
are not alone, there is one who shares it with you. For me, the one is and has always been Ra. I began my life in the magic of his temple;
it is fitting that in the end, I found him sitting in mine.
This
is a new temple, one that draws from the strengths of both of us. What started as a temple on the top of a
mountain surrounded by lush meadowlands is now surrounded by his vast, calm sea. This is fitting. The land was once encircled by the loving embrace of the sea in
pangeon splendor. The sea constantly
caressed the mountain, and the mountain gave back with every lick of a
wave. Our souls mirror the earth.
Find
your temple path. Once on it, you will
find peace. Along the way your paths
will cross. Trust that there is no
better path then the one you walk together.
Your new temple will emerge beautiful, serene, and perfect. Once there, you will find the one truth.
Sit
on the steps, watch the sunrise, and hold its hand.
Tales from the Temple
I
drew my strength from my mountain.
You
drew your strength from your sea.
Connecting
for brief moments upon the shore
We
reveled in the sheer bliss of the fleeting connection.
Time
passed, we shifted
My
strength began to grow and pound like the surf
Even
as yours began to reach ever higher like the proud mountain peaks
We
shifted again
Becoming
as eagles, needing neither surf nor peak, but the wind
To
soar to new heights, to dance among the clouds,
To
finally find our union of strengths together, in the heavens
Tales from the Temple
A Bit of Fun for the Sun and His One
(or proof I have an answer for everything)
* with apologies to Lewis Carroll
“You’re so small, Sunny Bunny”
the Sun-God said
and your fur is incredibly white
Yet you stand in my rays
day by day in my light
do you think, (with a laugh)
this is right?
“Of course, Your Brilliance,”
the S’bunny said
Your beams are incredibly light
and I can’t get enough
of the warmth from the sun
(funny though , cause we just
meet at night.)
“Your a brat, Sunny Bunny”
the Sun-god hissed
and your ears are incredibly long
Yet you tend not to listen
to my jokes anymore
don’t you think (with a glint)
this is wrong?
“You are wrong, Your Brilliance,”
the S’bunny said
(and your jokes are incredibly bad)
Yet I sit at your feet
and I laugh like I’m mad
don’t you think (with a sob)
that is sad?
“Your a flirt, Sunny Bunny”
the Sun-god said
and your tail is incredibly fluffy
Yet you come back to me
with a kiss and a smile
don’t you think, (with a wink)
your a hussy?
“Like your not! Your brilliance”
the S’bunny said
your flirts are incredibly strong
yet it’s me that you come to
when the chatting is done
and I know, (with a wink)
I’m not wrong
“Jeepers, Sunny Bunny”
The Sun-God said,
my heart is incredibly full
yet I still don’t quite know
how we came to be here
and I ask, (with a smile)
if do you?
“Not a clue, Your Brilliance”
The S’bunny said
But it’s been an incredible ride
yet I know it’s not over
and I know that it’s right
and I’ll stay, (with a sigh)
by your side.
“Your my love, Sunny Bunny”
The Sun-God said
and your heart is incredibly true
your my one and my only
your the love of my heart
please believe, (with a smooch)
I’m for you.
“Your my love, Your Brilliance”
The S’bunny said
And your heart is incredibly true
you're the one that I orbit
your’e the one I adore
and I know, (with a smooch)
I’m for you.
Tales from the Temple
Oh the twilight, it calls to
me.
It fills my heart and mind
with peace.
It fills my senses with
anticipation.
The wind sighs your name as
the moon rises.
The night birds sing songs
of love,
that grow in volume as the
hour approaches
when anticipation becomes
the reality
of your arms, your kiss,
your strokes.
You are there,
a combination of so many
things,
Perfect words, Perfect music,
Perfect soul, melding,
stretching into mine.
We become like dancers,
gliding over each other like
ice skaters
over the frozen mountain
lake,
fingers and hearts hooked in
synchronization and perfect
rhythm.
To finally come to the
come to the come to the
now. We have found the NOW!
In the now, in the past, and
the future
We found our own universe
and our own time.
Tales from the Temple
The space yacht
of a smiling god
forever searches
for more adventure,
more truth
more beauty,
But there is one
who sails with him
who brings with her
adventure, truth, beauty
and peace –
Bliss amid the stars
Two, dancing among the heavens
live the adventure
Learn the truth
Love the beauty
find the peace
Tales from the Temple
Simple Pleasures
Ah! A sweet hummingbird
piercing a dew lined flower
in the morning!
Such sweet nectar flows both ways.
Oh! A painters brush
floating along the canvas
at the painters whim!
Such delicious colors are produced.
My! A mighty obelisk
straining toward the heavens
at the gods’ insistence!
Such beautiful carvings are imbedded.
Ah! A magic wand
waving gently over a hat
by the master magician!
Such wondrous illusions, are reality.
Oh! A fiery torch
lighting the way of a cavern
by the adventurer!
Such rare treasures are unearthed.
My! A roman candle
exploding into the velvet
of the night sky!
Such beautiful patterns are revealed.
Ah! A rosined bow
gliding across taut strings
by the master musician!
Such intricate chords resonate.
Oh! A stout lighthouse
Shining
through the fog of night
to guide the seamen
To the comfort of a safe
harbor.
My, such is the beauty of
the simple pleasures
to be found!
If you know what you are looking for.