Around the World in 80 Pages: Ten Short Stories by Sharon E. Cathcart
Published by Sharon E. Cathcart at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 Sharon E. Cathcart
Books by internationally published author Sharon E. Cathcart provide discerning readers of essays, fiction and nonfiction with a powerful, truthful literary experience.
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Contents
Counting Blessings Along the Horseshoe Canyon
Originally published in Sui Generis, 2010
It is their job to watch.
From high above, in many cities, stone-gray eyes gaze out on the horizon. From the rooftops, they survey their domain.
They watch, and sometimes they protect. Theophilus thought that was the most important part of the job: to protect.
He had, in fact, protected the building where he lived since the day it opened. He had watched residents come and go, even pass away. He was a part of the landscape to them, always watching from a corner of the roof.
He was posed much like Rodin’s famous “Thinker,” his chin on the back of his hand. His wings spanned out from a back carved to show rippling muscle. Some might have thought Theophilus was a stone angel, but those wings were smooth and bat-like.
Theophilus was a gargoyle.
One of those whom he watched was a young woman. She was the one who had called him Theophilus; before that, he had no name.
She came up to the roof one summer morning to read her book and drink her Jamba Juice. She had already brought a lawn chair, some cushions and a small table, carving out a tiny space for herself. She arranged her furniture near Theophilus, taking her time to find the best light by which to read. She put her juice and book on the table and came over to the wall, gazing out over the horizon.
Placing a gentle hand on one of his carved wings, she gave Theophilus his name and said she would always feel safe with him there.
Eventually, he learned her name. She answered her cell phone by saying “Hello, this is Anna.”
Anna had reddish brown hair that reminded Theophilus of warm bricks and blue eyes that made him think of clear summer skies. He came to know her step on the stairs and wished he could smile to show how glad he was for her presence.
“Hello, Theophilus,” she always greeted him as she settled in with her book and juice. “It’s another beautiful day in the city.”
If it was rainy or too windy, Anna did not come to the roof. She stayed indoors, while Theophilus watched.
Anna sometimes read aloud; she was an actor by hobby and she liked to practice. Theophilus learned a great deal by listening to Anna; he wished that he could speak, so he could thank her.
Theophilus grew concerned when Anna did not appear for a few days. When she came back to her little rooftop space, Anna’s eyes were red and her cheeks tearstained. She paced back and forth for a while, then sat on her chair. She wrapped her arms around her body and rocked, finally permitting miserable sobs to escape. At last she leaned forward, covering her face with her hands.
“I’m such a fool,” she muttered.
Theophilus had never thought of Anna as foolish. Some of the people whom he saw on the streets or who had lived in the building, certainly, but not Anna. She was not like the others; he wished he could tell her that.
She stood up from her chair and walked over to the ledge. She put one hand on Theophilus’ knee and looked over.
“I can’t take it anymore,” she sighed.
She thought about how easy it would be to lean further over the edge: to leap off. About how the pain would finally stop. About how no one would care or even notice if one more would-be actor who had faced one too many rejections just never showed up at another audition. Her office colleagues -- she could not call them friends -- would only care insofar as they would have to cover her desk until a temp could be called in.
She could just keep leaning ...
Theophilus had to do something. Perhaps, this once, he could make himself heard.
A warm, deep voice echoed in her head: “Please, Anna, don’t do it.”
“Great,” she sighed aloud. “Now I’m a loser who has auditory hallucinations.”
“You’re not a loser, Anna.” A gentle, masculine voice ... a comforting voice. And yet there was no one on the roof but Anna.
She backed away from the ledge, her eyes wide with fright. She sat down on her chair and pinched the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger as though massaging away a migraine.
“This is not happening to me,” she moaned.
She stood up, shoulders slumped, and went back to her apartment. She did not notice that Theophilus’ eyes were no longer a stony grey but now glowed green.
Anna stopped at her apartment only long enough to collect her jacket and handbag. She caught the number 6 cross-town bus from the stop in front of the building. Theophilus watched her board the conveyance, wishing he could extend his circle of protection beyond the building to anywhere that Anna might go.
For her part, Anna wanted nothing more than to forget the humiliation of the day -- the casting director telling her, before she even finished her monologue, that she was “all wrong for the part” and to go home. She leaned her forehead against the bus window and watched the scenery go by until she reached the stop she wanted.
Bowers Park.
Anna’s fondest memories from girlhood seemed to focus on Bowers Park, with its duck pond, tree-lined paths and picnic grounds. She made her way to a favorite spot, a little playground just off the path. No one was there, so she sat on one of the rubber-seated swings. She had loved the swing set as a child, sometimes imagining that she was flying through the sky to a magical land where there were friends, plentiful food and warm clothes.
In short, a place that was not her childhood home. Her parents still lived in the same little frame house around the corner, but she could not go there without having bad memories flood up or new ones made.
Little wonder that she had chosen to travel and study as far from home as she could ... before coming to rest just across town. The irony of her situation had not escaped Anna. Certainly there were warm clothes and plentiful food, but the closest thing she had to a friend was Theophilus.
Anna was determined not to cry, but an errant tear escaped and trailed down her cheek. She swiped it away with the back of her hand. She had thought to escape momentarily, but her problems came with her.
“I’m such an idiot,” she sighed aloud. At the same time, she pushed her feet into the dirt and started to swing. Just for a minute, she told herself.
But the soaring feeling felt so very good; she was transported, just as she had hoped she would be, for a few brief minutes. She smiled in spite of herself as she stood up from the swing set and collected her purse. She caught a return bus and went back to her apartment.
Honestly, it was too quiet inside. Anna turned the radio to a classical music station and went about making her solitary supper. She imagined having a guest across the little gate leg table from her, perhaps even a gentleman caller. She would lay the table with care and they would have a nice meal. Maybe they would take a bottle of wine out to the living room to watch a movie.
She shook her head.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Anna. No one is interested in you that way.” She cleared up her supper things and went to bed with her book.
Far above, Theophilus looked out over the city. He had seen Anna return, of course, and wondered whether she would come up to the roof. It was a temperate evening; she would not be too cold.
He closed his eyes ...
Wait, he thought. I don’t do that. And yet, it was true; lids slid up and down over his green eyes. Impossible.
Impossible or not, he closed his eyes and slept, dreaming of Anna’s warm hand on his wing and on his knee.
Anna went to work the next day, as usual. She completed her tasks with the same quiet efficiency she displayed from day to day. She ate her solitary lunch. She returned home. This was her routine, and one of which she had thoroughly tired. She went to the rooftop where she had created her bower, this time with pad and pen in hand to make new plans. Something had to change.
Theophilus noted Anna’s demeanor when she sat down. No longer sad, no longer thinking of flinging herself from the roof: determined. She was writing things and striking through them almost as quickly. Eventually, she clicked her pen shut and sat it on the table next to the paper. She stood up and walked over to the wall, putting her hand on Theophilus’ wing.
“I wish you could talk to me, Theophilus,” she sighed, and leaned her cheek against the stone.
“I can.” Again, the gentle male voice echoed in her head.
She stood upright, pushing her red hair behind her ears and shaking her head a little.
She came around to look at the gargoyle from the side, and noted that his eyes were now green. How could that be? It was, in fact, impossible. She knew that. And yet ...
Echoes of every fairy tale Anna had ever read ran through her memory and, before she could think twice about her actions, she stepped up to kiss Theophilus gently on his stony mouth.
She stepped back and squeezed her eyes shut tight, thinking that she was foolish and yet wondering what would happen next.
“Anna.”
This time the voice was not inside her head but directly in front of her.
She opened her eyes.
“Theophilus?”
He was beautiful. His eyes were the green of firelight seen through emeralds. His mouth was soft and almost feminine, yet his face was masculine and angelically handsome. He was arrestingly well-built, and very much naked -- just as he had been sculpted so many years before.
“This is impossible.” She shook her head, even as Theophilus stepped off of the pedestal to stand next to her. His arms wrapped around her and he kissed her forehead; he wrapped his leathery wings around her protectively.
“My Anna,” he whispered, stroking her hair.
Anna wrapped her arms around Theophilus’ waist and laid her head against his chest. Where she expected to hear a heartbeat, there was nothing.
“This is not going to last, is it?” she whispered.
Theophilus shook his head. “I don’t see how it can. I am not even sure how you made this happen.”
“You are my only friend, Theophilus.” She looked up into eyes. “I am sure that I am dreaming now, and that I will wake up in the morning and nothing will be different. No matter how much I want it to be different. No matter how much I want my life to have a purpose again.”
“Oh, my Anna.”
Her name was a gentle sigh on his beautiful lips. She reached up to kiss him again, with more passion than she had ever kissed before.
“My Theophilus.”
She felt so safe and secure in his arms. She wished that the dream would never end. That she could be held in his arms forever. A single tear drifted down her cheek and touched grey stone.
On the corner of the roof of a downtown apartment building, there is a particularly dramatic granite sculpture. A handsome man with bat-like wings stands, looking out over the city. In his arms is a young woman, her head leaning against his heart. Residents of the building say that their gargoyle is the most beautiful one in town, and that the sculptor had captured the radiance of a couple in love.
Anna and Theophilus watch.
Originally published in Bestseller Bound Anthology Vol. 1, 2011
Gilbert Rochambeau first appears in my debut novel, In The Eye of The Beholder. He also plays an important role in the upcoming sequel, In The Eye of The Storm.
Gilbert’s cravat hung loose, his shirt collar open. He dried the pen, closed the inkwell and sighed. His handsome face was tired and drawn in the lamp’s glow. Outside, the rain fell on dark London streets; it was late. He ran his fingers through cropped curls the color of old Roman coins and willed the tears to remain in his dark brown eyes as he reread the letter he would never send. He absently rubbed his leg with the other hand; the damp English weather made the old injury ache.
“Dear Claire” ...
So innocuous. How could such a simple salutation say so much and so little at once?
He read on, the words flowing in his native French.
~~
I watched your carriage drive away today, standing at the window until it was out of sight. There were so many things that I wanted to say to you, but you were gone.
I wanted to say those things when you stood in front of me, saying your farewells. You looked so beautiful in your blue cloak, its silver fox-furred hood lighting your eyes. Did I ever tell you how much your eyes reminded me of the Camargois sky?
No, I don’t believe I ever did.
Your glorious chestnut-colored hair was styled in an elaborate coil of braids: very fashionable. Yet my fingers recall its weight as I held those locks to brush them.
And my lips recall the kiss I stole that night. Did you feel what I did?
I wanted to speak so many times when I escorted you around London or Paris. Restaurants, museums, shops; we went so many places together. I wanted to be much more than your majordomo, but you never knew.
You encouraged my drawing, but you never saw the dozens of sketches I made of you. Some were from memory, from the days in Paris. You riding your fine horse; I know how you have missed that black mare. Many of them were made while you lay ill; I feared for you, as did all the household.
I wanted to whisper to you then, but I said nothing. Instead, I brought a black velvet toy mare and gave her to you. Your quiet smile was thanks enough.
I understand so much better now how a sadness of the heart sickens the body. The doctor called your illness hysteria, said you were mad. How wrong he was. You have ever been sane, even in the darkest times. Perhaps I could have done more to ease your burdens; I will never know. But I did what I could.
I wanted to speak when you befriended Joseph Merrick, and when you railed at Doctor Treves, my benefactor thanks to you, for the way he treated Joseph in death.
I thought about speaking up when the English ladies decided not to receive you anymore. You tried so hard to make things right. I wished, many times, that we could all go back to France. Now you are going, and I am staying here.
I wanted to say something the night you made sure, for the first time in years, that I was dressed and barbered properly. Your eyes were the first to look upon me as a woman looks upon a man whom she admires.
I wanted to tell you whenever I watched your kindness to the people of the Opera Garnier. You never failed to smile and say a kind word, even though I knew your misery.
Oh yes, I knew your misery. I watched your cousin Francois ... my brother-in-law ... take everything you had. He did the same to my sister; she died giving birth to his child. He lived in my home, but made it clear I was there at his sufferance. I became a servant in the home that should have been mine: your cousin’s valet. After all, how could a man with a twisted leg manage the affairs of a cattle ranch?
I watched Francois beggar and ruin you, and I could say nothing. He sold your home, just as he did mine. Damn those laws that say a man must control a woman’s property. Those same laws gave my sister’s inheritance to Francois; he squandered it all.
The closest I ever came to speaking my mind was the night I learned you were married, when Erik pressed his wedding ring into my hand and sent me to the little cottage where you awaited your newlywed husband’s return. Francois even tried to take him from you.
That night, I said that I was your man. You presumed that I meant only to help you. The truth was, I meant that and more. I wanted to be a bold chevalier: a protector. Yet, you barely knew me; I was your cousin’s valet, after all. It would have been unseemly to say more than I did on that night.
As it was, our lives were never the same.
Claire, I said nothing because I am a coward.
How could I say “I am in love with you,” even as you were preparing to return to France with your dying husband? Erik was as good a friend to me as he could be, and you chose him.
How could I say “I have loved you from afar,” without looking like a madman?
How could I consider casting myself at your feet and begging you to stay in London? And yet, that very thought crossed my mind as I watched your coach disappear.
How like you, in your compassion, to ensure that I would not be destitute in this strange land, since circumstances prevent me from going back to France with you.
There were times when you thought me so brave, Claire, but I am not. Only a craven would fail to speak these simple truths.
So, now I have done so, in a letter that no eyes but mine shall see. Perhaps one day, when I am in my dotage, I will tell my grandchildren about it. Perhaps, by then, I will be brave enough. I will live without you because I must, but your face will always live in my heart.
I am, your humble servant,
Gilbert Rochambeau
~~
Gilbert blotted the ink and folded the paper carefully. He swiped a hand across his eyes, wiping away tears of regret, and tucked the letter into a desk drawer. He thought of glancing through the sketchbook there, but had felt his share of melancholy for the night.
Using the blue-knobbed walking stick, a gift from Claire at Christmas, he rose to his feet. He tried to keep his halting footsteps quiet as he made his way to the bedroom where his wife slept, peacefully unaware.
This story was born of a challenge from one of my colleagues in the writing world: what if the so-called “End Days” were actually a good thing? The only rule was that our stories all had to start one minute after the Rapture was predicted to occur.
"Wouldn't it be neat, if the people that you meet, had shoes upon their feet and somethin' to eat and wouldn't it be fine if all humankind had shelter" ~ Wavy Gravy
Saturday, May 21, 2011, 6:01 PM
Living near a freeway means that you hear a lot of sounds, like backfiring vehicles or accidents. I didn’t give it a thought. We ate dinner, watched a movie and went to bed.
Sunday, May, 22, 2011
I awoke at the usual time, 5:45 AM. It’s a well-known fact that cats a) have no snooze alarm and b) do not understand that one might wish to sleep in a bit on the weekend.
I fed the cats, let one of the dogs outside (the other was doing his best impersonation of a cushion, snuggled up with my husband and trying to be invisible).
I blearily switched on my laptop to do my regularly scheduled book promotion activities and made an astonishing discovery: the so-called “rapture,” despite my most cynical beliefs, had actually happened as the fundamentalists predicted.
Among those reported to have disappeared without a trace were leaders of the so-called National Organization for Marriage, the unfortunately bigoted niece of a civil rights leader, two industrialists well known for “astroturfing” antigovernment organizations, father and son “Libertarian” politicians, numerous Grand Dragons of the Ku Klux Klan; it was an altogether astonishing list. Also among the missing were a well-known antigay church official, the author of California’s Proposition 8, and the Palm Springs Cross Lady ...
I didn’t understand. How could these folks, who in my mind represented the antithesis of what Rabbi Yeshua taught, have been taken up as the Elect?
I had no doubt that my friends at the Metropolitan Community Church would still be here; given the list of the Chosen and their beliefs, I couldn’t imagine anything else. So, I dressed and went to morning services -- which were just as warm and joy-filled as ever. We made plans to share “first fruits” again in a couple of weeks, to replenish the little food pantry we operated for locals in need.
When I got home, my husband was watching the television news.
“Sit down, he said. “You have got to see some of this.”
The storehouses and granary at Salt Lake City’s “Welfare Square” were opened up and food being given away to anyone who was in need -- without requiring a voucher from some church official to say they were a member in good standing. The hoarded food was being handed out by many who had stood against the prophets’ positions on the Equal Rights Amendment, marriage equality and the late 1990s purge of feminists and intellectuals. One person interviewed said, “I knew that if I waited long enough, the church would come around. I’m just surprised that it took an event like this to make it happen.”
Similar stories were all over the news as more liberal and progressive ideas were being discussed without fear tactics and lies being spread by the opposing side.
Proposition 8 was rescinded by Monday afternoon, since the citizen-interveners disappeared. Without the leadership of the National Organization for Marriage around to prop up or agitate for another intervention, marriage equality was restored.
Within the week, all of the anti-science educational doctrine proposed by Raptured school board members was off the table. Comprehensive and age-appropriate biology lessons, including sex education, reentered curricula all over the nation.
We even did a better job of reaching out to those of other cultures and belief systems. World peace looked like a foregone conclusion as we all worked together on alternate energy sources, sharing technology and making sure that everyone had enough food, clothing and shelter.
One of my friends sent me an e-mail about the GLBT support group that an anti-equality church started for its members, with emphasis on helping the youth accept that who they were was just fine and that they did not have to be closeted and lonely.
All in all, it was an amazing time of peace and prosperity on Earth.
Meanwhile, in Heaven ...
The female head of the National Organization for Marriage took off her shoes and put her feet up on the seat in front of her. She leaned over to her counterpart as they watched Earth on the big-screen TV, just like a certain “Left Behind” author had promised they would.
“I don’t get it,” she said. “Where’s the fiery torture? Where’s the misery? Those Left Behinders actually look ... happy! And prosperous! That’s not how it was supposed to be.”
She turned to glare at the author, who was passing a box of tissues to a clearly disappointed and sobbing member of Concerned Women for America.
“Yeah, what gives?” The ultraconservative television commentator turned to look at a quiet man standing in the back.
The man smiled at him beatifically before adjusting the yarmulke on his curly black hair. His brown eyes and olive skin betrayed his Middle Eastern origins. The plain sandals on his wounded feet slapped the floor as he walked down the aisle. Unlike those in the seats, his clothing was simple; he didn’t seem to own much of anything.
“I am so glad you asked,” Rabbi Yeshua replied gently. “You see, I had to get all of you out of the way so that the others could get on with doing my work. Isn’t it marvelous that we can watch it happen?”
Originally published in Sui Generis, 2010
He came to me in my dreams.
At first, there was only a fog ... a cool mist ... and yet, in my dreams, it seemed almost sentient. I would awake with a surprising melancholy, as though I had been abandoned. And yet, I had dreamt only of fog ... a fog whose tendrils caressed my skin with a lover's touch. A fog that whispered my name, even though I knew it to be impossible. On the nights that the fog did not come, I dreamed of the distant, mournful howling of a wolf. Again, I could hear my name borne on the wind, discernible in the animal's cry.
The first night I dreamed of his face will be with me always. Pale skin, green eyes, cascading black curls: his was the face of an angel. How I longed to kiss his full, red lips, entangle my fingers in his raven locks ... to feel him at my very depths. I awoke in a tangle of bed sheets, awash with disappointment that my dream was quashed by the light of day. I went about my morning routine, haunted by the memory of my dream lover's eyes.
To me, this entire sequence of nighttime phenomena was best ignored. I shook my head, hoping to physically cancel the reverie that I entered yet again. A stranger's face could not possibly have meaning, any more than my name could be whispered by a teasing curl of mist outside the window.
I turned my attention once more to the scientific journal in front of me. This was my weekly time set aside for catching up on anthropological literature; my assistants knew I was to remain unmolested absent dire emergency. I suspected that they departed early on Friday afternoons whilst I was thus occupied, and I did not begrudge them. I, on the other hand, sometimes found myself looking up at the clock to find that it was after dark. The museum's guard had walked me to my car more than once; he thought it unsafe and unseemly for a woman to venture out into the lonely lot after dark. That I had distinguished myself both academically and in anthropological fieldwork made no difference to him. To him, Elena Pritchard, Ph.D., was just another woman in need of protection.
I gave up on the journals, unable to focus my attention. I had a stack of correspondence to review as well; that ought to suit my poor concentration, I thought.
I signed several letters and placed them in my "out" box to be sent on Monday; they were all routine letters of appreciation for donations to the museum's collection. Many of the items in question would be consigned to storage rooms, but the donors would have our thanks ... and a tax deduction.
What a cynical creature you're becoming, I thought. Where on earth had that come from?
I checked my e-mail and made the appropriate responses. Yes, I could attend that meeting, speak at this luncheon, participate in a panel. Sometimes I wondered what motivated me to stay so busy. I denied to myself that it was because of a lonely apartment. I had no need of companionship; anyone could see that I was occupied by my work and had no time for such frivolities as dating or romance.
At least, that was what I told myself.
What had Percy Shelley written about that broken statue? "I am Ozymandias, king of kings"? Who was fooling whom, I laughed wryly to myself.
Again, time had passed and it was later than I thought. I had found a good parking spot near the museum's back door, so I did not call the guard.
I slipped into my jacket and stepped outside into the foggy San Francisco night. Mist twined around my ankles and limned the parking lot's lamps in a dull, golden twilight.
Someone was lounging against my car; he was tall, dressed in snug-fitting jeans and a black leather motorcycle jacket. His back was to me, and I saw raven-black hair curl around the coat collar.
I called out as I approached. "May I help you? That's my car you're draped on."
He turned to face me and I looked into a stranger's green eyes ... a stranger of whom I had dreamed.
"I know," he responded, standing away from the vehicle. "I've been waiting for you for a very long time."
"Have you?" I whispered, unable to tear my eyes from his gaze.
"Oh, yes. I have." He extended a pale, graceful hand to me and then drew me into his arms. His hands were cool as they caressed my cheeks, cupping my chin and tipping my gaze upward to meet his eyes.
I caressed his silken curls as I whispered, "Who are you?"
As his lips touched my throat, I could have sworn he said "Judas.
Counting Blessings Along the Horseshoe Canyon
In September 2006, I took advantage of an opportunity to visit Albuquerque, New Mexico. Along with investigating the city proper, I went to Horseshoe Canyon to photograph the pictograms and petroglyphs left there not only by the Anasazi peoples but, to my surprise, the settlers. That visit inspired this story.
“Get you back in the wagon, Hattie.”
Her husband’s voice was harsh.
“Yes, Mister Johnson.” Her voice was listless.
“Told you to call me Dan’l, gal. This ain’t your fancy East coast parlor.”
No, it wasn’t, Henriette thought as she dragged herself away from the ancient carvings. She was fascinated by all of the symbols carved into the rock walls of the arroyo. Horseshoe Canyon, it was called. Her husband, Daniel Johnson, had plans to turn his now-ragged herd of cattle into a vast empire here in the New Mexico gulch. He’d scratched his own name amongst the ancient symbols.
Johnson’s promises of wealth and prosperity had impressed Henriette’s father so much that he’d essentially sold her in marriage.
“He’s a solid man,” Papa had said. “You, with no prospects to speak of now, should count yourself fortunate. It’s all arranged with the parson for tomorrow.”
Counting, indeed, just as Papa was counting on his share of profits in the ranch; Johnson had given him a deed the day the betrothal was sealed. In the saloon, of course.
Henriette swiped a hand across her reddened brow. If Mama were still alive, she’d have spoken up. Instead, Henriette was in a wagon train from Cincinnati to this strangely beautiful place. Her fair skin was sunburned, her pale hair dry where it was uncovered by her hat. Johnson had given her an enormous calico sunbonnet after a while; she eventually gave in and donned the horrid thing. Likewise the plainstuff dress that Johnson deemed “ a sight better than them furbelows.”
He was rough ... callous. He was also nearly twenty years her senior and clearly though himself quite the fellow for getting the hand of the “uppity” twenty-three-year-old.
She looked despairingly at her roughened hands as she climbed up next to her husband. Her gloves had worn through some time ago. Johnson mocked her over them anyway.
“You’re gonna be scrubbin’ clothes on a board with lye soap, Hattie. Ain’t no call to be worryin’ about your hands.”
“I don’t suppose, Mister Johnson, that you could call me by my proper name?”
“Don’t sass your husband, gal. I ain’t going to call you a fancy name like that. You’re Hattie.”
God, how she hated him. She especially hated the nights when he would roll over in the wagon and do what he called his “manly work” -- always without preamble. No kisses or caresses for Daniel Johnson. Henriette lay still during those times, grateful for their brevity. Now that she’s seen the stone pictures around Horseshoe Canyon, she was determined to pretend she was one of them when Johnson came to work. Not a real woman, just a stone image.
:”Thought I was gettin’ a better bargain to wife,” he complained as the oxen shambled along in the wagon traces. “You’ve said hardly anything since the weddin’ and you won’t call me by name.”
What was there to say? Johnson boasted that he’d taken his annual bath the day they married. He could read, write and figure but had no use for refinements. Henriette knew that he saw her as a trophy that he could turn into a workhorse, and her own father was happy to see it happen.
Henriette looked at her husband, trying to keep the disapproval from her face. He had taken off his shirt; his red Union suit top covered his chest and one suspender strap had fallen down his arm. He needed both shave and haircut; on his head he wore something that was a hat in name only.
“Daniel,” she ground out miserably.
“That’s more like it, gal,” He cuffed her shoulder so hard that she winced.
Henriette could not help thinking of another man called Daniel. One who was handsome and refined. One who was clean and well-dressed. One who, before he died of a cancer no one knew he had, had asked to marry her. One who had been the first to do his “manly work” with Henriette -- but with gentleness and care.
She could only hope that Mister Johnson’s figuring abilities were poor when she gave birth to the other Daniel’s child in this harsh, new place.
As an anthropology student, I was taught never to interfere and only to observe. Yet, we know from quantum physics that the mere act of observing an event alters it. Maddy winds up more deeply entrenched than she plans in this story.
“I was just supposed to observe,” Maddy thought as the small, dark women attached silver ornaments to the auburn braids at her temples. The ornaments had come from every household in the village, to honor her. “I wasn’t supposed to participate.”
The weight of the metal-adorned braids gave her a headache. The back of her waist-length hair was painted with clay pigments: green, black, yellow, white. The tribal women decorated their own hair in just such a fashion.
She had reckoned without Ayela, the tribal chief, with his close-cropped golden hair and blue eyes. An adopted son of the previous chief, Ayela stood literally head and shoulders above the rain forest indigenous folk.
Ayela had no clear memory of his birth family, but he remembered enough English to answer Maddy’s questions. He asked questions of his own, too; like, why did Maddy not wear her bride price in her hair as the young women of his tribe died. When their moon blood came for the first time, he explained, a girl’s mother would bring her to the village center and cut her hair -- except for two braided locks at the temples, which the father would adorn with silver beads and ornaments. Each year until her marriage, more silver would be added.
Somehow, over the course of their conversations during Maddy’s time living with and learning about the tribe, Ayela fell in love. Now, Maddy would have firsthand knowledge of the group’s wedding rituals.
The women, whose names Maddy realized she did not know, decorated her upper body with the same pigments, drawings whorls and patterns. She wore only a soft, chamois-like skirt -- the traditional wedding attire for a tribeswoman.
Her face was decorated last. She longed for a mirror, but that was forbidden as unlucky.
After a long while, the women led her to the village center, where Ayela stood waiting. His adoptive mother, Xilia, stood next to him. Ayela was painted and decorated as well; a pattern of spirals on his body and angular lines on his face. Maddy presumed they echoed her own designs.
Ayela said a few words to the crowd in his adopted tongue. Xilia did the same. She then held up an obsidian knife to show everyone.
“Now this woman surrenders her girlhood,” Ayela translated.
Ayela told Helen to kneel and she did so. Xilia lifted the heavy hair at the back of her name and gathered it into one hand. Maddy felt the quick jerking of the knife sawing through the long, decorated locks, baring her nape as her hair was roughly cut away. Ayela had not prepared her for that; she reached a hand around to touch the uneven ends. She held back her tears as Ayela helped her to stand and led her through the cheering crowds to the bridal bower.
There, he sawed through the two temple braids and tied them to his sash; now she understood why she’d seen men carrying long ropes of silver with them. She could only imagine the picture she presented now. Yet, Ayela was kissing her passionately.
They smeared the pigments on one another’s bodies as they came together; the perfect designs were ruined.
This was also a tradition, Ayela explained. They would show themselves the next day, paints awry and her hair cropped, as proof that the marriage was consummated.
Maddy wept as Ayela ran his pigment-smeared hands through her rough-cut hair, leaving swatches of color all over the strands.
It would be an amazing article when she returned home. Her hair would grow again. She swallowed and smiled at her husband.
This story was born of a conversation I had with a friend. It was one of those ‘”careful, or you’ll end up in my novel” things.” When he asked what kind of character he would be, I told him that I saw him as a Roman centurion. He countered with “What about a veteran of Kitchener’s wars?” My response was “Which one?” With the Second Boer War under my belt, I came up with a story idea -- and lost the notes. The good news is that I was able to reconstruct most of it. The better news is that the story is much improved since the original concept.
Billy Edwards gathered his pensioner’s blouse and dignity about him as he was pitched out of yet another London pub. ‘T ‘weren’t right, he thought. All he’d asked of the landlord was a pint, for which he’d gladly show the Victoria Cross in his pocket.
‘T ‘weren’t right. He’d lost everything as it was, haring off to Kitchener’s South African folly. He’d lost his dignity, standing guard over starving Boertrekkers. And he’d lost his Bessie.
At least, she’d been plain Bessie Allen when he’d left for the war. Now, her father had told him, she was Isabeau.
Bessie had always longed for more than a quiet life as a Kentish farmer’s wife. Billy had hoped to make his fortune and come back for her.
“Bessie, there are diamonds just lyin’ there for the takin’. You wait and see; I’ll do right by you.”
Bessie’s blue eyes were troubled.
“William, I don’t want you to go. I think things will be very different there.”
Billy had kissed her and promised to return. She snipped a lock of his golden hair with her embroidery scissors and vowed never to forget him.
Bessie’d been right, of course. There weren’t any diamonds scattered around for the taking. But there was dysentery. And hunger. And hate the likes of which he’d never seen. There was no valor and honor to write about from the concentration camp at Bloemfontein. But he tried.
After a while, Billy didn’t want to write to Bessie about the horrors he was seeing. The people he guarded were dying of starvation. So, he stopped writing all together.
“Broke her damned heart is what you done,” Bessie’s father huffed at Billy when he’d come home.
Billy took off his spectacles and wiped them on his blouse.
“I told her I’d be back, sir.’ He put the glasses back on and his green eyes were better able to focus.
“After a while she stopped believing that. Took up with some fancy man from London and gone up to the stage.”
Billy swiped a hand through his hair, which early threads of grey had begun to show during the war.
“Did she leave an address?” Perhaps it wasn’t too late.
“Nah. She moves ‘round a lot, near’s I can tell. Calls herself Isabeau now. Ask around the theatres, boy. She’s dead to me.’
Ask around the theatres, indeed. That had been months ago.
No, sir. She’s gone on to Blackpool. To Manchester. To France. To Brighton. Everyone seemed to know her, but no one could say when she’d be back.
Billy took to drink, and to staying in the meanest of hostelries. His pension was little, but he found many who would stand him a pint in honor of his “bravery” under Kitchener. He’d half a mind to pitch the damned medal into the gutter.
He had no money for a hotel, and it was cold. At least he could sleep in the alleyway, out of the wind. Maybe tomorrow he’d find her.
Or find another drink.
This brand-new century, just three years old, sure as hell made him wish he’d never left Kent. He should have stayed home and married Bessie instead of trying to make a hero of himself.
~~
Isabeau could hardly believe her eyes. Surely that was William Edwards, sleeping in the alley without so much as a cloak to cover him. She’d thought he was dead in South Africa. She must be mistaken.
She drew nearer, her black silk dress barely swishing around her high-heeled boots. These new hobble skirts were hell to walk in, much less kneel, so she squatted as best she could next to the exhausted soldier and touched his cheek with her gloved hand.
“William?” she whispered. She stroked his hair gently. His cheek was stubbled, and his face bore the signs of heavy drink, but it was indeed her William.
He barely stirred.
“William, you need to get up.”
“Bessie,” he muttered.
“Yes, it’s me. Get up, darling.”
She stood up as he woke and struggled to his feet.
“I’ve been looking for you, Bessie ... Isabeau.” He coughed a little.
“I’m here now, William.”
He took in her appearance; the long auburn curls were pinned up under a fashionable hat. Her walking suit was the latest cut and made from heavy moiré voile. A jet pin adorned the throat of her white blouse. These were costly clothes of the sort he could never give her.
“Oh, Bessie. I am so sorry.” He would not weep in front of her. ‘T ‘weren’t right. If he was weak, he wouldn’t have a chance with her.
“My home is nearby, William. Please come in with me, out of the cold.”
“What about your gentleman? Your father said ...”
“Never mind about that,” she interrupted. “Just come with me.”
Billy trailed after her to a nearby house. The outside was modest, in keeping with the quiet side street. Inside, it was beautifully furnished. Isabeau’s portrait, showing her in an elegant blue evening gown, hung over the mantle.
The lady herself unpinned her hat and sat it on a table. Her kid gloves followed suit. Billy noticed that she wore no rings.
“Billy, darling, would you please light the fire?”
For indeed, a fire was laid. It took only a lucifer to add its warmth and light to the room.
She called me Billy, he thought. I always wished she would.
Isabeau removed her jacket; the blouse beneath it was a tailored shirtwaist. Her only ornament was the jet brooch: a locket that contained a snippet of Billy’s hair.
“Give me your coat, Billy; I’ll brush it for you.’
He handed over the fraying blouse, embarrassed at how shabby he was.
“Just keep warm, Billy,” she said. “I’ll be back directly.”
She stepped into the bedroom to get the clothes brush. It was there that she found the Victoria Cross in the pocket of his worn coat. She wanted to weep. How could she have been so foolish?
Well, now was now. She took off the brooch and put it in the pocket that held the medal. Once Billy saw what was in the locket, he would understand.
She ran a hot bath and gathered shaving things. Bertie had left them here; he’d moved on to yet another actress but had kept up the house for her. Surely he wouldn’t care if Billy used his things. He would never know.
When she offered the bath to Billy, he was surprised -- even moreso when she rolled up the sleeves of her costly blouse to wash his back and to shave his face. This was not the modest and proper Bessie he’d left behind. When she leaned over the steaming tub and gave him a lover’s kiss, he found that he didn’t care. He could love Isabeau, just as much as ever.
While Billy dried himself and donned a lush Turkish towel robe embroidered with three ostrich feathers (there was now no mistaking whose mistress she had been), Isabeau unpinned and brushed her hair. She had donned a nightgown and stood in front of the looking glass. Billy came up behind her and gathered a few locks in his hands, kissing her hair and inhaling its perfume.
“Can you still love me, William?” She watched his reflection in the mirror.
“Isabeau, say you’ll be with me always.”
“I promise, William. We’ll never part again.”
She turned and put her arms around him.
“Now, let’s go to bed. I’ll keep you warm.’
She kissed him again and Billy sighed.
~~
The constable found his body in the alleyway the next morning.
“Damme if that ain’t Billy Edwards,” he said to his partner. “Hero of the Boer War, he were.”
“Sad thing, him dyin’ out here like that.”
“Aye. You know he was always lookin’ for Isabeau.”
“Bertie’s mistress? The one as died in Brighton a few months back?”
“Aye. Never had the heart to tell ‘im. Seems she was his sweetheart once. Couldn’t do no good to say she was gone.”
The younger man reached into Billy’s pockets.
“Naught here but a brooch locket and .... blimey. A Victoria Cross.”
“Aye. Told you he was a hero. Pity that when he got home he didn’t have a ghost of a chance.”
This story was born from a single phrase that occurred to me in 2006 (“Today, she aches without reason”). I made a note of the phrase, thinking I might use it one day. That phrase resulted in a so-called flash ficlet. I expanded on the original to create this tale.
I hear them speak as I pass. I pretend not to notice.
"Today," they whisper, "she aches without reason."
As though I had not known his love. As though I am a Stoic.
I would never have guessed that I would come to love him. And yet, I had.
~~
Sold in marriage by my father to assure peace in Gaul! Was there no end to my humiliation? I prepared to loathe my filthy, barbarian husband, sight unseen.
“Drusilla,” my father warned, “You have no choice. You will go.”
“I will not,” I shouted. “I would rather be dead.”
I yanked the jewels from my neck and tugged them from my blonde hair. I threw them at my father’s feet.
“I don’t want your wealth if it means being sold into slavery.”
“You will be no slave, Drusilla. You will be queen. I have already given him your dowry; you will go.”
I should have known. A princess of Gaul has no choice in marriage; choices are for peasants. How many times had my mother, God rest her soul, told me that very thing? I was old for a bride, nearly nineteen summers, and I think they despaired of finding a husband willing to take my sharp and educated tongue.
I had cast my eye on one of the courtiers, Alaric. He was fair, handsome and intelligent. I believe to this day that he returned my regard, but Father disapproved. Before too long, Alaric was gone from court; I learned subsequently that he had married another woman. I was heartbroken, and angry. Perhaps I would never marry; there were days when I devoutly hoped for that -- to no avail.
My father would choose the most advantageous match for me for political reasons, and I would go humbly and gratefully. At least, that was what they expected.
I plotted to run away, to escape. Yet, my father foresaw this and I was guarded every ridiculous mile of the journey to Hunland. I didn’t care about the landscape around me. I didn’t care about anything.
A group of Hunsman met us a few miles from the village, at which time I learned that I would not be queen as my father had promised, but one of many wives. The men smelled horrible and their Latin vulgar at best. How could my father have done this to me?
“Lady Drusilla,” one of them said to me. “You are quiet. I was led to believe that you were seldom silent. Your father told me you were a great conversationalist.”
I turned to look at him; his clothes were clean and made of fine fabric. Unlike many others in the party, his teeth were good. That surprised me. So did his perfect Latin, so unlike that of the other Huns. I would later learn that he was educated at the court in Rome.
“I am silent because I am preparing myself for a fate worse than my own death, Hun.” My tone could only be described as haughty.
The Hunsman raised his hand and the entire party stopped, horses pawing the ground.
“Is it as dire as all that, Drusilla?”
I nodded.
“And why is that?”
“Because I am to marry a filthy barbarian.”
The Hun took off his helmet.
“I am sorry that I do not please you, Lady Drusilla.”
~~
No one could have prepared me for the wonder before my eyes that day. His dark hair hung in ringlets to the middle of his back. His eyes were a changeable blue-green. I had never seen so handsome a man, even in the court of Gaul.
He was intelligent and well-spoken. He was a brilliant horseman; to watch him ride always reminded me of home, for we Gauls are noted for our horses. He was fastidious in his person. He was devout in his faith.
He was a gentle and generous lover. While I was one of several wives, I never felt slighted. I came to love him so deeply that Alaric was all but forgotten.
Ache without reason? Not I. Even as his seed grows in my belly, on the day after he took yet another wife ... today, they are burying Attila.
In 1798, French soldiers in Egypt during the Mameluke Wars unearthed a broken piece of black granite while digging a trench near Rashid in the Nile Delta. It was covered with lettering that none of them could read. The stone was given to the British after the Napoleonic Wars. It took a young French scholar, Jean-Francois Champollion, to translate the Greek text on the lower third of the stone and create a key to the demotic Egyptian and hieroglyphs.
No one knows which scribe carved the so-called Rosetta Stone. The Scribe of Rashid is my imagining of events.
Sadji put down the tiny chisel and hammer to wipe his brow. It was hot and humid; he wore only a pleated linen breach clout. He needed a moment to rest; it was long and difficult work creating a dedication stele. Only the most talented scribes were given this honor. Carving the newest decree from Memphis, as directed the sacred pharaoh Ptolemy (fifth of that name) was a gift from Thoth himself.
The work of Egyptian scribes seemed endless. Sadji collected taxes, read the law, wrote letters and legal papers for his neighbors in Rashid and even resolved disputes at times. He was the best educated man in the Nile delta town, leaning to read and write in the scribe schools starting the year of his fifth flood.
Scribe school was brutal. The masters said that boys’ ears were found on their backs and that the only way to make them hear was to beat them. Sadji had his fair share of beatings, that was certain. He was driven by fear of punishment to constantly improve his skills.
Sadji practiced writing on broken pots, scraps of fabric, stones ... anything he could find. Papyrus writing paper was too precious for rehearsal and could only be used for final documents. Writing had to be clear, perfectly sized and correct; otherwise, the masters might think his hearing needed more improvement and lay about him with the flail.
Sadji learned to mix pigments as well. Cobalt for the blue. Cinnabar for the red. Lead for the black. He learned how to make and care for brushes, and had a collection of cases and palettes.
Eventually, Sadji was chosen from among his fellow students to learn the sacred picture-writing: hieroglyphs. Only the most advanced students were chosen for this honor. It was a gift to deliver messages to and from the gods. Thoth, the baboon-headed god of the scribes, had surely smiled upon Sadji. He could now write not only the three versions of his native language but also in Greek.
Sadji had hoped to be assigned to the Prince’s School, to teach Pharaoh’s sons to read and write. Instead, he was sent to the city of Rashid, where he now dwelt.
He was no longer young: an old man of nearly thirty floods. Like most men of his craft, his head was permanently bowed forward. Years of bending over the work in his lap to write, or mixing pigments on a soapstone palette, had put a curve in his spine.
Yet, Sadji considered himself blessed. He had only one wife, Aishe, but she was beautiful and fertile. She had given him a son, Khnum, who was two floods this year, and two daughters, Amri and Jana. Aishe directed the servants kindly and Sadji’s house was orderly. He hoped to have another son in this fourth Xandicus year; Aishe had already moved o the birthing room. Sadji prayed to Bes for a safe confinement and delivery.
And of course, there was the stele. In three languages -- Greek, everyday Egyptian and the sacred hieroglyphs -- it announced the divine cult of Ptolemy V, gave a tax exemption to the resident priesthood, and stated where the river was dammed in order to help farmers. With its three languages, the important Decree of Memphis could be read by anyone who understood but one type of writing. Those who had no reading at all could find someone to tell them what it said.
Sadji was the best of the scribes, which was why he would create the stele. This work had to be perfect, and he knew that Thoth would guide his hand so that men might forever know of Pharaoh’s generosity.
He picked up his tools again and reviewed the text. This would be his finest work.
This is all her fault, he thought. He closed the door behind him and hung up his jacket. The only thing that greeted him was his quiet, perfect apartment. The plants were silent, as usual. No one but him and his quiet, perfect solitude.
Which was all her fault.
Oh, he had office friends on the new job, but none of them were like her. If only she’d been obedient when he told her how and what to believe and speak, why, they might be talking right now!
He turned on the radio, which was set to an easy listening station. He made and ate his solitary supper and tidied up after himself. Everything had to be in its place, all the time.
Her house hadn’t been like that. He’d spoken to her more than once about the unacceptable chaos, but she’d laughed and said she’d just come to his house if it bothered him that much.
How could she not understand a boundary that simple? Her home should always meet his standards. It wasn’t difficult to comprehend, was it? All she had to do was correct her flawed ways and thinking. Criminy.
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