Mother's Embrace

          I’ve always wondered what my life would have been like if I had been born a bird rather than a premature baby girl.  The first month of my life I survived through sheer force of will, and the implementation of modern technology.  My mother says she safeguarded the flame of my life with her physical presence and spiritual prayer.  Since I left the hospital eighteen years ago, she has safeguarded me with the walls of our home as well.

            I’m not allowed out of the house after dark, or outside the wrought-iron fence surrounding our property without my mother’s presence at my side.  My mother has been a stay-at-home mom since she printed my name in capital letters on my birth certificate:  ANGELICA BELLE WASHINGTON.  I want to be a Robin so I can fly free of her embrace, but then, I think, shouldn’t Angels have wings too?

            My father’s key to escape my mother’s cage is the same reason she is able to keep me locked in.  His position as a lawyer for West Virginia’s Senator James Weston provides him with the money to keep my mother in the debutante lifestyle she was raised to expect—enabling her to stay with me every moment of the day.  His career equips him with a more than adequate supply of excuses with which to evade my mother’s clutches, because of course a Senator requires the excellent advise of his lawyer quite regularly and this advice must be presented in person if it is to be understood clearly.

            I’ve been homeschooled my entire life, a new tutor each year to diversify my education, and ensure that my mother will always be the rock in my existence.  The only times I am allowed out into the world are for my mother’s society meetings.  Tea with the ladies and their daughters at Bridgeport Country Club.  Brunch with Mrs. Weston, and rarely her married daughter, Martha Rothschild.  Although eight years my senior, Martha is the closest friendship I can claim.  Occasionally, she will visit me in my unnatural habitat.  Sit across from me in the over decorated sitting room on the first floor of the cage I call home.  Perch on the soft chairs which try to remind me with their quicksand embrace that I am trapped here.  I envy her freedom even though she has little more than I.  The chains of marriage and motherhood hold her almost as tightly as parental obligation shackles me.

            Today, she faces me across the expanse of the sitting room’s massive oak coffee table.  We both focus the subjects of our conversation on pleasantries while my mother hovers in the seat beside my own.  The almost silent sound of my mother delicately nibbling on a cucumber sandwich is the most interesting sound in the room.  I see Martha struggling to find something more to say, and I know that she will leave soon.  Although I normally await this signal with dread and compliance, this day I feel an unbearable urge to act.  Once Martha has completed her recitation of baby Gregory’s newest accomplishment, grasping his own spoon, I make my move.

           "Mother?  Were you wanting to show Martha your newest embroidery?  The one father suggested you take up?"  My mother's expression changed from one of genteel calm to a rather rapt expression of interest.  Expecting me, her embroidery was by far her greatest passion.  After my mother excused herself to fetch the embroidery hoop, I moved around the oak monstrosity to perch on the chair next to Martha.

           

Tree-lined Hills

I have ever been afraid of the tree-lined hills around my town.  The starkness of their limbs seems to scream at me, for even in the height of spring they barely hold a hint of green.  No one else ever thought it strange and seemed quite taken aback anytime I happened to mention it.  I have always believed that those hills are the reason that we never acquire new town members.  Travelers pass through and look around at the barren trees on the glassy slopes of the surrounding hills and turn quickly back the way they came.  I can see it in their eyes, the acknowledgment that there is something wrong with that landscape.  No one else notices.  No one else believes. 

I blame the first disappearances on those hills, and the ones after on the fact that people went out into the tree filled, rolling landscape to look for the missing.  Their mistake for ignoring what I could see. 

There are currently twenty-three people missing.  That may not be a large amount to any other town, but Alcot can only lay claim to a couple hundred individuals.  It is quite a punch to us, and more people disappear as the days go by.  Some can be seen wondering off of their own accord, but others simply vanish without a word or witness.

The sheriff refuses to call for state or federal assistance, even though he has already lost both of his deputies to those hills—the first his own flesh-and-blood son.  It is passing strange that the sheriff never went to look for his son.  It is even more strange the power these hills have over a community which refuses to acknowledge the existence of any power, save that of God.

Their mistake, and no one but me to correct it.  And what am I to do about the matter?  I may be the only one in my town with the power to sense the wrongness of the hills—and their ghostly trees—but I hold no other power, not even that which is granted with adulthood.  I am seventeen years old, and my right of passage lies seven months away—if there are even any of my townsfolk remaining by then to see me through it.  I cannot wait that long to enter the woods. 

I toss my hair behind my shoulder with a quick shake of my head.  No, I cannot even wait until the coming day dawns—my dreams have told me this much.  If I do not enter the hills tonight, my mother will be the next to disappear.  I do not question this knowledge.  I have always had unexplainable knowledge, and it has never failed me in its truth.  I no longer question why I have it.  The answer is quite simple really—all knowledge is given so that it can be used.  I am given this knowledge because I am the only one who will act on it.  The only one with faith in ungodly things, which can be sensed simply by looking at those tree-lined hills.

Rumor Mill

          Lia pondered the question for a moment before she answered, “He kinda reminds me of an owl.  He’s got this fluffy tuft of white hair framing his face, and his eyes always seem to be open just a little too wide.  And, if you watch closely, he moves his arms like a bird resettling its wings.  They even make weird fluttering movements when he talks.  He also poofs his mouth out—not the exact shape of a beak, but close enough considering.”

            Jules tossed her hair off of her shoulder and tucked her hands into her jean pockets.  Lia could not help but admire the cascade of silky black hair which fell to Jules’s waist.  The quick spark of jealousy sent her left hand up to finger her own locks.  Her hair felt smooth beneath her fingertips, but every time she looked in the mirror, Lia was confronted with the truth of her wild and frizzy mouse brown curls.

            Jules voice interrupted her thoughts.  “I’ll give you that one.  I always thought a squirrel fit him better—bushy tail coming to attention every time a student speaks.  I can definitely picture Professor Gillard as an owl though.”

            “Kind of rings with the whole questioning act of philosophy too, doesn’t it?  Who? Who? Who!”

Gift

          The incident began in late October.  Camille was taking her usual early morning walk around the lake just west of her family’s farm.  The walk had been a habit of hers since she was old enough to be let out of the house alone.  She found comfort in the sameness of each trek.  She knew the feel of the dirt on the west side close by her father’s barn, the sharpness of each rock on the north side, and the swish of the knee high cattle grass as she crossed the pasture on the southern slope of the lake.  No matter what time of year it was, whether the crystalline quiet of winter or the waiting silence of spring, the only noises were the sounds of her footfalls, the whistles of the wind through the grass, and the songs of the grasshoppers. 

The cows had been gone since before she was allowed out on her own.  Everyone in town scratched their heads at a farm-wife who was afraid of cows, but Camille’s mother had barely survived a stampede in her teens—as soon as Camille was born, the cattle were sold.  She knew her father wasn’t much bothered by this.  The main source of the family’s income came from the fields anyway.  Camille’s father, Harold Grover, put love into his crops, and that feeling gave them flavor.  You could tell when a farmer didn’t care about their produce—a certain blandness always pervaded the vegetables of those who were simply out for a profit. 

The smell of the pumpkins seemed to wrap her in comforting arms—her father’s love protected her here; the farm knew she was his cultivation as much as it was.  As Camille started down the western rise of the three square mile lake, she was thinking rather strongly of her father’s love.  He had known from his early childhood that his Gift was a love of growing things, vegetables in particular.  His parents had purchased this farm as soon as the manifestation was confirmed by a Placer.  They hadn’t been exactly pleased with the route they knew their son’s life was going to take, but they had accepted it because it was such a rare thing for a child’s Gift to reveal itself before the child reached puberty.  Camille was turning seventeen in less than a month and her Gift had yet to reveal itself.  The whispers in town now spoke more often of this than her mother’s fear. 

Occasionally, children were born Giftless, but it was such a rare occurrence that they had only just now started wondering if she was Giftless.  Camille wondered what it would be like to live her entire life without a Gift.  Her mother’s Gift was weather prediction and her brother was already showing signs of being a veterinarian—he was only twelve.  Camille tossed her hair over her shoulder as she rounded the curve of the lake and started across the gravel laid down for the railroad on her left. 

Today, she couldn’t take comfort from the sold impact of her bare feet on this rough terrain.  Each sharp edge felt like the questioning stares of the townsfolk.  Camille swerved to her left and walked in a line with the railroad rather than the lake.  She felt exhilaration at stepping apart from certainty.  She had never felt the contours of the railroad against the pads of her feet before.  The metal felt cool but strangely alive.  Settling into an easy rhythm, Camille decided to walk the railroad the three miles it would take to reach Bell’s Sound.  Each step she took was silent, and this silence was the reason she decided not to return to the house for her shoes.  Today was Saturday, so she knew her family would wake only long enough to eat and check on the fields before going back to bed.  After all, a farm run by a man with a Gift practically ran itself.

A Little Worn Path

          It was just a little worn path to the south of her house, but it fascinated her.  Her mother always warned her away from it, saying a little worn path into the woods was more likely full of bears than not.  Chera really didn’t care.  One day, she would follow that little brown worn path into the inviting green woods but that day would not be today.  Today was her 10^th year since birth.  Today, she would be accepted into The School, where she would begin her training.          
          In a few years, maybe they would decide what profession she should train.  Or maybe she would stay longer.  There were those who remained at the School until they reached womanhood on their 17^th year.  She approved of those women more than the others, even though her mother was one of the girls sent away early.  The girls who graduated earlier never seemed quite satisfied with their lives, and Chera wanted to exult in hers.          
          She could hear her mother calling her now.  It was finally time to go.  She wasn’t going far, but a journey could never end if it was never begun.  Quickly, she stood up from the gnarly old stump upon which she had been sitting and straightened her pretty pink gown.  It was made of wool—she was used to less expensive fabrics, but no one went to school in old, scratchy clothes.  The dark rich pink of the gown contrasted especially well with her pretty green eyes and soft, dark brown hair.  Or, at least, that is what the seamstresses had told her as they adjusted the cloth around her during her fitting a few short days ago.  Her mother had simply smiled and clasped her father’s hand tightly as they stood side by side watching the fitting progress.       
          Chera's parents didn't own a mirror.  She had never asked why, since having a mirror seemed like a selfish thing, but she couldn't help wishing that she knew what the other girls would see when she entered the School's grounds.

            

Pearl

Pearl

The garden was exceptionally beautiful this year, but now most of the leaves have browned or fallen.  The roses are the only plants still thriving.  Their leaves and stems are green as the summer grass, yet not near as cheering.

                  Today is October 31^st; the day of the Harvest Festival, and the day of my birth.  Today, I am sixteen.  From now onward, I shall be considered an adult, one who is old enough to marry.  I no longer doubt that I will marry, for now I know that I will not.

                  My mistress, Lady Loreanna, whom I love as a mother and who has said she loves me as a daughter, has guaranteed my freedom.  In two months, I will no longer be a slave.  Even though I have never been treated as a slave, freedom means as much to me as it would to any other.  I have assured my Lady that I will continue my work here with her.  I suppose I will do all of the same chores and have all the same duties, but my status will be higher, my spirit more free.

                  If not for my lady’s decline in health, I might have made a match over the course of the next year; however, I do not blame her.  I can remember being the ugly duckling as a child, and, as the years have passed, I have not turned into a swan of any beauty.  But, enough of this, journals are for hopes and dreams, not sorrows.  So here, I bid goodbye, with a promise to write again.

                  Pearl closed her diary and settled back into the comfortable library chair.  The secluded window seat beckoned, but she knew that she did not have time to succumb to its luxuries.  Glancing at the timepiece on the fireplace mantle, Pearl quickly unwound her legs and headed for the door.  She ran through the long, shadowed hallways to her room, and hid the diary under her oak dresser, before quickly running a brush through her soft black hair. 

Pearl’s mind wandered as she straightened her tangles.  What was Lady Loreanna going to announce?  The lady had never before wished to make an announcement that she could not send by word of mouth.  Pearl had been in the household for more than five years, and she knew the Lady well enough to understand that making public announcements was very unsettling to her.

Placing the brush back on top of the dresser, Pearl hurried down the hallways to the ballroom.  The clock in the library started ringing the approaching hour, but Pearl had firmly planted herself on a bench by the twelfth gong.  Her friends, Dorthia and Cristeal, were seated on either side of her.  Dorthia took time to send her a reproachful look before turning back to face the platform.

Pearl’s eyes searched beyond the platform for the study door and settled on the knob, willing it to turn.  Exactly ten seconds past noon, Lady Loreanna opened her study door.  Walking to her stand, the lady surveyed her staff.  She took in all of the curious looks and took a deep breath while she rested her hands on the curved top of the podium.  Plans would be set today, and all the wishes in the world might not be able to keep them from going awry.

Pearl watched her Lady and could not decide if she was using the stand for support or to keep herself planted firmly on the ground.  It surprised her to find that she could not tell what her Lady was feeling.  Looking closely at Lady Loreanna’s hands, Pearl saw that they were not just holding the wood, but rather, they were gripping the carvings tight enough to turn her knuckles white.

“I do hope that everyone has gathered for this announcement, for it is one that will affect the entire household,” said Lady Loreanna.  “It is also something that you need to know if we are going to be prepared in time.  Yesterday, I received a letter which literally stole my breath.  My son, who has been studying at the University of Colnbidge for the past ten years, will be coming home for his 21^st birthday, which falls on November 5^th.”

Shocked silence lasted for a few moments before the entire room erupted in barely controlled whispers.  Lady Loreanna watched this with an amused glance for a few moments before motioning for silence.  She called out the name of the housekeeper, Clarina, and began the tedious process of instructing the servants on their preparatory tasks.

When only Pearl, Dorthia, and Cristeal remained, she motioned them to follow her into the study.

Rose of the Ever

Rose of the Ever

She was seventeen and alone in the dark cell, surrounded by the grief of the prisoners in the cells beyond her own.  Some were crying; others moaned; and, the rest sat in silence, accepting what awaited them.  They all knew what would come and dealt with it in the only way they could.  Either by telling their small world or bottling the horrors inside, every prisoner added to the atmosphere of grief and fear that hovered above them all. 

She did neither but rather drew from within herself the courage to face what would come.  What would happen next she did not know, nor did she wonder about it.  Destiny pushed her onward, and this was but a step on the way.  She could find a way around the fate this prison pushed her toward and would, without a doubt, benefit from this lesson.  Neither brooding nor wondering she traveled through her thoughts, analyzing them for the fear and doubt she knew would soon come.  She could afford no weakness. 

 

Burning.  Scorching.  Flaming.  Blistering.  All described his state of being.  From the merciless sky, the sun beat down upon him.  The rock strewn ground scraped, scratched, and clawed at him as they dragged him through the desert--his thoughts festering behind a foggy mask in his mind.  The time would come when he would escape.  Months had already passed, but he would not give up hope.  They would make a mistake, and he would make his escape.

The search must continue.  He couldn’t stop now – now that his search had barely begun.  He would find Him and return in triumph.  He would prove that he could be trusted with the knowledge the monks had imparted to him.

A rock drove its sharp edge into his back and he gasped aloud.  A large sooty hand appeared before him, striking him across the head.  Once again, he was lost to the world, drifting through the vastness of his mind.

Good Intentions

  Good Intentions        

          I’ve often wondered if it matters that we attempted to do the right thing, when events later turn out in the wrong.  Like a person who tries to rescue someone who isn’t even drowning, and one of the other of them gets hurt in the process.  I can see metaphors like that in my mind quite clearly.  The lap of the blue water on a rocky beach.  Sighting someone with an arm upraised and waving as their head sinks below the water.  Running across the beach, leaping out into the water, and furiously stroking your way towards them.  Not caring that your foot was cut on a sharp rock or that your blood is leaking out behind you and the salt stings it with every stroke.  Arriving where you last saw the person to see that they are perfectly fine.  Your blood pooling in a circle around you and death drawing closer.

            Good intentions can be just as dangerous as bad ones.