The knocking woke her! Dazed from the unexpected rousing, she checked the clock. The numbers looked hazy. Had she forgotten to place the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door? Didn’t matter. She had examined the lock the required number of times. Even if hotel staff tried to get in, she had also bolted the door. Who could be bothering her?
Her mind raced to another place where there had been a knocking. It too had been a surprise. New in St. John’s, only the administrative staff at Memorial had been given her address. She had found a charming house on Water Street: one of the brightly coloured attached buildings. She was thrilled that hers was maroon, her favourite colour. She had been told that the name for them was Jellybean Row. The legend was that the luminous colours shone like a lighthouse. That way, fishermen could find their way home. And then she realized this legend was exactly the same she had experienced while visiting the Venetian Island of Burano in Italy, on another trip with Malcolm. There too, fishermen could see the vivid, different colours of each painted building even through thick fog and thus avoid crashing into the shore.
At that instant, the buildings were as clear to her as if she was walking on the very streets of the colourful row houses. Such fanciful folksy tales, so typical of both these friendly places. “Good morning to you!” greeted the voices of two young girls with their lilting accent. Everyone had that accent – except for Edwin. His was British. Like her, he too was a visiting professor. She was a little disappointed in him when he disclosed why the houses were really painted that way. The legend had been simply that ˗ he had told her ˗ a legend. In fact, the Jellybean houses were part of a 1970 heritage project to restore Victorian homes.
The knocking bothered her at the Water Street house. Her bedroom was upstairs on the second floor. Although she knew the front door had been triple tested, she couldn’t help wondering how safe the locks were on these old houses. The knocking persisted. Finally, she screwed up her courage. She pulled on her jogging pants and tee shirt and went down the stairs…. She remembered being terrified to open the door.
Her fear stemmed from another image ˗ a passage that floated into her thoughts of Tolstoy’s War and Peace. Natasha was still in the room nursing the wounded weak Prince Andrei. He was dreaming that he was lying in a room with a closed door. He too had gone to the door to bolt and lock it. But had he been in time to secure it properly? He was in agonizing terror. Something on the other side was pushing against the door, trying to force its way across the threshold. With all his strength he thrust his suffering body against it – to no avail. The door opened. It was death. Prince Andrei was dead. That haunting story was as real to her as if she had stepped into the very pages of the epic novel.
Stirred to reality, she could not avoid the knocking that persisted at her hotel room door. There was nothing else to do but to see who was causing it. She found her glasses and pulled on her overcoat at the desk chair. Slowly, cautiously she peered through the peek hole but could not distinguish anything. The knocking continued. She unbolted, unlocked and slowly opened the door ˗ to darkness, to a black empty hole ˗ into which she fell with a thump ˗ and woke with a start, to the knocking!
If you were to journey to her haven, far from the city gates, what questions would you ask of her? And if she were to look deep into your eyes with her piercing dark ones and respond with that enigmatic smile, how could you be satisfied with her words, “It was long ago. It no longer matters.” Instead, I believe you would persuade her with other questions, until she would finally relent and tell her tale:
I was born in a fishing town where my father held a prominent position. Being the only child, he encouraged me to study as though I were a boy. I learned the languages of those who sailed to our shores and heard their stories about far off lands.
It was how I met him. His party of followers landed the small boat. He led them to the hillside. Then the strangest occurrence took place. Masses of people from other boats and from the town made their way to be near him. I saw him from afar in his long cloak, arms outstretched and welcoming, face glowing not from the sun but what seemed like – from within. I meandered through the seating multitudes and found a place close by. His words were simple but powerful. I was touched by his sincerity.
My father later sent me to his brother’s home in the city, to further my education about the real world. My Uncle Joseph was learned, honourable and also well off. When I asked him about the man on the hillside, he was aware of him. “A Teacher“, he told me. My uncle feared for him. The times were difficult with the occupation of the army. Rebellion and chaos were imminent.
One day, I heard that the man whom I had seen on the hillside had also traveled to Jerusalem. My uncle knew I wanted to hear him once more; he went with me to the city square where again a crowd surrounded him. His words of meek wisdom still cling in my heart. After the others dispersed, Uncle introduced me. In our private talks I learned from the Teacher about his joys and his struggles.
He had spent several years in the desert, living among the Essenes. He revered their humble, pure and spiritual life. They were well versed about Hebrew Scriptures. They taught that there was virtue in poverty, honouring the Almighty above worldly riches. They did not worship in the temple, considering the priests to be negligent in spiritual discipline. He respected many of their doctrine including that they would help usher in a new era. One aspect of their teaching which he rejected was celibacy.
We were wed in Canaan. I too became his follower. He encouraged me to understand the authentic meaning of his teachings. His male supporters either ignored me or were jealous of me. He knew them to be unaware folk who nevertheless championed him until his final hour.
He died. A horrible death! Mistaken identity or martyrdom? His devotees all scattered to distant parts. Fearing my life to be in danger, my Uncle Joseph of Arimathea sailed me to this place where I have now lived for over thirty years. I teach his words to all who will listen. Our child chose to return to the land of her father – where she lives in anonymity.
I hear that his disciples, including new ones, relate their stories ˗ keeping him alive. Many of these accounts will become retold and eventually some versions will be written down, including perhaps by me.
It has also come to my attention that references about me are varied: that he performed a miracle by releasing seven demons from within me; that I was a sinful woman; that I was saved from stoning having been ‘taken in adultery’; that I was a harlot ˗ and that I was a witness of his crucifixion and his burial. No mention ever ˗ that I ˗ Miriam of Magdala was his beloved wife. Where else would I have been, but by his side?
As time goes on, there will continue to be many speculations. Keeping him alive may become the ongoing mission of some who come after me.
And so my friend, to answer your very first question, “Is the story a myth or is it the truth?” my answer is still the same. “It was long ago. It no longer matters”. You must be the judge.
She used to love old black and white films: especially the horror ones, produced in the late thirties and forties. By the time they were released for television, the sound was slow and eerie and the character movements were jerky and mechanical. The most intriguing, scary aspect of these films was the interaction among the various ranges of the colour spectrum – from white to grey to black. All these traits were precisely part of the attraction. When the production worked most effectively, with hovering, menacing shadows and piercing shrieks that penetrated her entire nervous system, she would grab onto her father with one hand and shield her eyes with the other. It was this unexpected thrill of fear that kept her body glued to the sofa and her eyes to the television set.
Saturday afternoons were the best time for watching these movies. For one thing, prowling, creeping silhouettes were not as foreboding in daylight. For another, her father was a willing partner, ready to humour her. He too enjoyed haunting movies. He was a connoisseur of the works of such actors as the Hungarian Lugosi Béla, most notably famous for his portrayal of Dracula. He admitted, however, to draw the line on watching the 1922 silent film Nosferatu. That one, he was confident, slithered from the energy of another world.
A highpoint of their comradery in this venture was that her father knew her triggers – those delicate moments when she was most vulnerable to be spooked. “Watch out!” He would yell. Afterwards they would laugh and laugh about the absurdity of a harmless scare – until their sides were near to bursting.
But that was then… another lifetime ago. There came a day when she could no longer watch any film that included ghostly, frightening themes. Even the idea of watching one worried her; she could not deal with the possibility of having a nightmare resulting from a monster movie. She had enough nightmares already. These were strange dreams that intertwined from slivers of images or experiences she had encountered.
They were often of daunting women trying to subject her to suffering. Sometimes the dreams were about searching for a place and sometimes about almost getting there – but something always blocked the entrance.
And yet, for whatever enigmatic reason, her life-work was about mythology and superstition: probing the various folk tales ˗ often dark tales – from different cultures and identifying their root beginnings and ongoing influences.
Against her father’s persuasion, she was convinced she was called to this field of study, by some force she couldn’t decipher.
Perhaps it was Malcolm’s influence that lead her to this domain. “Look for the essence of the thing” he had instructed. That had also become her philosophy. From the moment they met, she grasped that the two of them had a connection. The eerie part of her intuition was that she also understood they had known each other ˗ forever. She clung to him as her rock, whenever her life shifted. Where was he now? Not knowing was her darkest fear.
About the Heart
They often squabbled. She had inadvertently overheard them, a number of times:
“You didn’t let me buy anything – again!!”
“You’re so mean! I really, really wanted to go on that Ferris wheel with you.,,,”
“Stop treating me like a child!”
“I know you’re not a child – you’re my bestest bride.” Following each row, he seemed to know precisely how to appease her – until she would positively purr:
“Oh, I do love you – with all my heart!” Then they would cuddle all snuggled under her draped bulky sweater, doing goodness knows what else.
Don’t people realize their voices and their sounds carry? Sophie asked herself the rhetorical question. Sitting directly in front of them on the coach, the only way to avoid their banter was to tune them out, by tuning on her MP3 player. Yet, she couldn’t help but smile. Kate and Peter were so very young. And for the very young, each condemnation was proof of a burnished bruise which would magically disappear by the utterance of the sacred confession – I love you with all my heart. Those were also words stowed in Sophie’s memory, which at times swirled to the surface.
“You talk about the heart as though it was some entity, existing with a life of intelligence and insight.” Malcolm had mocked. Sophie had responded perhaps all too quickly, all too defensively:
“Literature and famous people throughout the centuries have given great credence to love and the heart comingling, like Ovid for example: Whether you call my heart affectionate, or you call it womanish: I confess, that to my misfortune, it is soft.
“How like you to quote from a classical mythologist!” He argued, the way he sometimes did, dredging out more than the point in question. “I concede,” he went on with that hint of sarcasm which she occasionally championed. “Indeed, much has been attributed to this vital organ ˗ linking it to a wise persona. Really!?” This time, however, she wouldn’t let him get away with it.
“You seem to forget that even your esteemed Dante Alighieri had said: Love and the gentle heart are but the same thing. She still recalled the sudden pink hue which overtook his face. But, she was relentless as she had continued. “Then of course there is the renown mathematician and physicist Blaise Pascale who had coined the often-quoted phrase: The heart has its reasons of which reason knows nothing.
He recomposed himself. “You are missing my point. The heart is nothing more than a tangible muscle which ticks and keeps us alive until it stops forever – bringing our body to its ultimate finale. So, don’t tell me that you love me with all your heart …,” he paused and took a deep breath. His voice dropped to a near whisper as he resumed with a tone that she could only describe as pleading. “Tell me instead, that you love me, the way I love you ˗˗ with all my soul, because the soul is an ethereal mystery that is ˗˗ eternal.”
She remembered so many words from him, but these were the ones ˗˗ permanently etched – yes, in her very soul.
Written in the Stars
She had tried to reach him for days. In fact, she had already warned him two months before. He hadn’t listened then, and apparently, he was shutting her out now.
Several years before, she had unearthed interesting information about him. Although these might have been well kept secrets, they were not as deeply tucked away as they have since become. For example, it was never discussed that his first wife held serious superstitions. No surprise. People from Eastern Europe are still very much enmeshed in ancient folk lore, fantasy and ritual. Add to this, his own grandfather was born in Germany. With these two significant links, it is small wonder he too has fundamental ties to outer world related peculiarities. Not only has he become an avid student of the occult, but he is also an accomplished numerologist.
It was reported that the number 45 is of grave concern to him. He had been recorded to say the following: “Most people know that 45 is the smallest triangle number, after 1, which can be written as the sum of two squares. This is generally considered a worrisome sign.” He went on to relate that it is the .45 caliber revolver which has been the most often used weapon in assassination attempts against U.S. presidents. A reporter further pursued his fear of the number 45. Was his apprehension a foreshadowing of him becoming the potentially ill-fated 45th leader of the free world?
Given his seemingly superstitious background, she simply couldn’t understand why he was not responding to her contact attempts. She considered using Twitter, but 140 characters would not be sufficient to warn him. And besides, he wasn’t one to read Twitter as much as to write it. So, the challenge was on: a delicate dance to engage his attention.
Shortly after his birthday in June, she had warned him that thousands of witches throughout the world united to cast spells against him. It wasn’t that she wanted to scare him, merely to advise that his actions resulted in consequences. Yet as he ignored her efforts, who could she engage to convey her message? There were too few now, whom he trusted to be at his side. If any. And it was unlikely he would want it to be known about consulting with clairvoyants and astrologers ˗ like herself.
The environment in Reagan’s time had been quite different. Nancy, in fact had been the one to seek her out, heeding her advice through the President.
Perhaps that was the route by which to proceed. She needed to reach the current First Lady. After all, here was another Eastern European who might prove to be sympathetic. The time was drawing too near. She had to somehow warn him about the impending effects of the blood moon and solar eclipse.
She had read when eclipses occurred, ancient peoples believed the world would come to an end or that a great evil would follow. Myths often involved a beast trying to destroy the Sun with the fate of Earth hanging in the balance. In Transylvanian folklore, an eclipse was said to stem from the angry Sun turning away and covering herself with darkness, in response to men’s bad behaviour.
She was aware that some astrologers were saying the attainment of his exalted position was written in the stars ˗ because he was born during a lunar eclipse. She knew this factor made him more susceptible to the power of eclipses; even more so to the rare total solar eclipse.
She already witnessed the devastating effects of this imminent eclipse. Wasn’t the country being torn apart, by what might culminate in a civil war? She was desperately determined to make him understand: He was on the verge of a major reversal of his previous good fortune ˗ unless ˗ he stopped twittering, talking and stepped back to listen and respect the advice of intelligent counselors. But just as his astrological chart was filled with ‘fire and fury’, which in the past had facilitated his rise to power, she also realized it might be these very characteristics which could potentially dictate his defeat. Would that be such a terrible tragedy? she considered. Well – perhaps not.
From Acts 2 she remembered: “I will pour out my Spirit in those days, and they will prophesy. I will show wonders in the heavens above and signs on the earth below, blood and fire and billows of smoke. The sun will be turned to darkness and the moon to blood before the coming of the great and glorious day of the Lord.”
And with that insight, she stopped fretting, closed her laptop and waited for the momentous solar eclipse to foretell ˗ whatever the future would bring.
That which lies within
She doesn’t know my secret name; nor therefore, the power of its magical spell. I told her once, shortly after I came to her, in this my sixth life. Sometimes when she stares deep into my eyes though, I sense that she knows. For a minute-second of intense concentration I grasp that she connects to the magic. But then it is gone.
I came into existence in my natural form, from somewhere long ago. Then I was revered. I was worshiped by Pharaohs. Even when they buried me in the far-reaching caverns of their tombs, my blood flowed thick and alive. All that is still in my memory, keeping me nurtured through these voiceless days of waiting for adventure.
Admittedly, the time I spent in China was less than agreeable. I was confined to hiding in constant terror of being captured or worse still ˗ of being consumed. Once that happens to the likes of us, there in no revival. “Oh, how the mighty can fall,” was the lesson that churned in my being, when I stowed away in the bowels of a merchant ship leaving Canton to whatever destination. I didn’t care.
Then, my fortune turned as I stumbled into my third life. I came under the protection of a young Indian Prince, who like me was searching for his identity. It was he who was kind enough to gift me a talisman. And together we explored our inner worlds. Together we invented other entities. I became a fearsome, fire breathing dragon and he ˗ a timeless prophet. The blood of that dragon still burns in my being as I remember my Master’s last words: “Ardently do today what must be done. Who knows? Tomorrow, death comes.”
My subsequent keeper was a young Libyan Princess. She was a tragic beauty who was enchanted to become the monster Medusa. As she clung to me in her last moments before she was beheaded, she turned me into Pegasus, a winged horse. Countless tried to ride me in the sky, but met their death. When the mighty god Zeus attempted to retain me in the night sky among the constellations, I escaped back into my natural state, with the help of Buddha’s talisman.
I was next adopted by a great Scottish Wizard. He took pleasure to indulge in my desires. As I enjoyed being a creature of flight, I combined my past lives and took on the form of the proud Phoenix with peacock like colouring and the wing-spread of an eagle. My daily ventures were high and far, always returning to my perch. The Wizard assured me that as a phoenix I could live forever: first bursting into flames and then rising from the ashes. A glorious notion. But then he died. I took my talisman, donned my natural state and departed.
In this my current sixth life, I am the familiar of a white Witch. Like me, she struggles with her identity. We are thus kindred spirits. She knew what I was when I came to her. Defiant. A decade of captivity under her intuitive spells has calmed my burning blood to accept her quiet, thoughtful ways. For now, I remain her faithful Cat.
I humour her each day as she harnesses me and my talisman for our walk outdoors. For now, that’s all I live for: to stalk sprightly squirrels, to hiss at chirping birds, and to show my savage fury at others of my kind, who dare infringe upon my territory. Memory of the untamed cannot be eradicated.
In my time, I have assumed many identities, all the while searching for who I truly am. Magic has allowed me to become fierce and bold. But it is that which lies within my inner being that preserves me as trustworthy and dependable. And this is what I bring to her.
If the truth be told, the days of magic are fleeting. My Mistress’ belief in her powers is erratic as she grapples with the mundane. That is why I think she has difficulty remembering my secret name. Sometimes she confides in me that she fears the hovering shadows which envelope not only the thoughts but also the deeds of human beings. I know something about those dark days of the soul. At night, as she holds me close, I try to transfer the fire of my dragon-soul into her. I try to convey my Pegasus strength and potency. How can I help her become a Phoenix? How can I let her know that magic comes from within our own secret name? I know. I have been a god – worshiped by Pharaohs. I cling to my talisman. I will have other lives.
She was glad to see him. The morning tour guide had left the group at Grand Place. It was the intoxicating aroma which had drawn her to the Neuhaus chocolate shop. While heading back outside with the delectable package in hand, Sophie had bumped into him. He politely asked if she minded him tagging along.
“Not at all!” she had answered, much to her surprise. She generally liked being alone.
But from the time she had boarded the tour coach in Calais, she had noticed something about this man that had intrigued her. Perhaps a long ago memory? Now in Brussels for an entire day, it might be nice to wander about with a companion.
“Will you join me for lunch at La Brouette?” he had invited.
Her feet already hurt. She hadn’t been prepared for the cobble stones. She agreed. The waiter led them to an outdoor table at the bistro’s terrace. John was a charming older man, likely pushing sixty, she considered. Safe – by her standards. He suggested the croque-monsieur and recommended she try the local beer. She thanked him for finding this eatery, from where they had a superb view of the entire square. Before he could comment, they were interrupted by another from the tour, whom Sophie unhappily recognized.
“Good to see familiar faces!” She greeted them almost brashly, plunking her exhausted body on the other free chair. “I was going to settle for a bench and a decadent waffle, but this place is far more interesting,”
Sophie was flabbergasted! Didn’t people on tours respect personal space and privacy? Hadn’t she worked diligently at avoiding this boisterous older woman, from as far back as London? No boundaries! A perfect day ruined.
Alyson was tired of tramping about alone. As soon as the city tour was finished, everyone around her headed off in different directions ‒ all to avoid her. She had no delusions. It was something she had gotten used to on these trips. Even the shared roommates, arranged through the company, were relieved to leave her on her own. It was a challenging way to travel; certainly a hell of a come down from the days of gallivanting about with Alfred, her fifth husband. He had left her nothing ‒ but the yearning for adventure. Her friends back home were far too few now: some still married, some widowed like her and others, with little income ‒ or so they said. Well too bad! An excursion a year was her annual resolution ‒ and just maybe, finding another mate. She had immediately liked the look of this man, John Knight, who had helped her with her luggage last evening. She made note of his name when the guide called out their room numbers at the hotel. What on earth was he doing with this young hussy half his age, she wanted to ask him. And such a miss snooty, snob at that! Yes, attractive by all counts, maybe even beautiful with that head of red cascading hair. She enviously remembered her own good looks, back in the day. Now it was more about being bold to attract attention, and counting on people’s good manners to include her.
He couldn’t very well tell her to leave, though it was his first instinct. His young guest was clearly uncomfortable having her there. As was he. John chided himself for having been helpful with her luggage. Dumb move. It was likely an innate habit, from days gone by. How many of these older women had he encountered over the years, feigning helplessness? Right on cue, he had performed the job – now the act of chivalry ‒ expected of him. Women seemed to recognize these types of females, for who they were. Hunters on the prowl? But men, were they destined to fall into their trap? The best he could do now was to engage them in polite conversation about the tour: the silly Manneken Pis, that had become the emblem of Brussels and about the surrounding buildings ‒ the Town Hall, Maison du Roi and the opulent guildhalls. He informed them about the magnificent Grand Place Flower Carpet that would be on display in August. All the while, what he really wanted was to spend some alone time with Sophie. He needed to find out if his hunch was correct. Had he in fact met her years before on another tour ‒ with her father? He had detected a familiarity in her lilting voice that led him to this reflection. Once free of the grappling female, he was determined to invite Sophie back in the evening, to again view Grand Place ‒ all gloriously illuminated in brushed gold.
It was a spontaneous decision. A surprise by all accounts. Wanda hadn’t the remotest notion to travel to China.
Previous trips had been painstakingly planned for months ahead. Not this time. This time she threw all caution to the wind and grasped the opportunity presented.
“Just go!” Her reckless Inner Child had commanded.
And here she was at the Great Wall. She took a deep breath, intentionally feeling the moment. Intentionally storing the feeling in her memory for future reference.
The trip was more difficult than she had anticipated. The stairs, the climbing, the smog! On the positive side, sites were grand and indescribably spectacular. The petite tour guide Gloria was informative, humble yet firm. Meeting times and locations were specific. After all, who would want to be lost in such a vast country?
As was her custom, Wanda traveled alone. For a while, she shuffled along with the crowd heading up the recommended block of the Great Wall. But what was the adventure in avoiding uneven stone slabs beneath her feet? Or avoiding the bumping and squeezing among bodies heading upwards on slippery slopes and steps? She looked at her watch. Two more hours until the meeting at the mammoth visitors’ centre. Too much allotted time! She took a quick look at what had been advised as a ‘must see’ including the flag. Gloria had given some instruction about that flag, her voice drifting far off into the wind. Wanda headed off.
She located a clearing, away from the throng and took the road with a familiar name, which she thought she recognized from her ride in the coach. There was a sign with a picture of food near a low building. She decided to enter. It was dark, long and narrow with concession booths on either side, selling every Asian food concoction never seen on this trip. Each vendor tried to snatch her attention. She walked on and on, descending steep steps every few yards. At last relieved to see daylight, she found herself in a parking lot filled with coaches bearing Asian names. Was this where her driver parked the coach?
“Now, that was some adventure,” she mumbled to herself as she headed back on the road with the name she recognized from before.
It was quite the climb. Reaching the top of the road, she looked around and saw a sign with a picture of people. And off she went in that direction – only ‒ to find herself at an all too familiar entrance. How could this be? An utter, if not eerie surprise! She was once more in the same long food building ‒ and this time she noticed she was the sole Caucasian. Her steps down the stairs were quicker than previously. At the parking lot she knew she had taken a wrong turn. A man approached her and asked, “Taxi?”. Well that would have been nice. But how could she explain – to where?
Determined to trace her way back, she spotted a towering lumber entrance to her right, with animal carvings at the top. Had she seen that before, perhaps from the coach on the way to the visitors’ centre? She was delighted to find various different buildings as well as families walking about heading towards a place around which crowds had already gathered. People smiled. They let her to the front of the group, as she again realized these were all Asian tourists. For the time being, however, her attention was drawn to the small black bear cubs scampering about within the enclosed area; there were also several larger bears, looking quite harmless.
“Another adventure!” her Inner Child reassured. Then reality and a hint of fear hit hard. Where was she?
Out of the gate she went. And up the road with the familiar name. And back to the same people sign – and yes, back into the same food building. There is some quote about the insanity of doing the same thing over and over but expecting a different result. Yet, that was precisely her hope. How could she be in this same place ‒ again? No surprise that this time the Asian vendors looked at her quizzically. All she wanted was to be out of there, in the sunlight, in the parking lot and finally finding the right road. Perhaps third time lucky? She was. Reaching the top of the road, an older couple from her group meandered into sight.
Wanda slowly approached. With as much nonchalance as she could muster through her quivering heart, she greeted them.
The woman was friendly. “Yes. We’ve been looking about, but keeping track of the flag. Time to head back to the visitors’ centre.”
Oh that frigging flag! There it was, now in full sight. She had taken the opposite turn from what had been instructed. She remembered, as she followed the couple.
Back on the couch, her seat partner remarked. “The Great Wall is as I recall twenty years ago. But this colossal tourist centre is new. Must have been designed to impress us Westerners. When I was here before, we were dropped off at a large wooden archway with carved animals on top. And there was a pit with black bears! Too bad all that’s gone.”
Wanda smiled. Hearing this story was the best surprise of the adventure, or was it synchronicity ‒ which she decided to share with no one.
Friday at last! It had been a long, hectic week at work for Marlie. End of the fiscal year. All programs were directed to account for their past year’s activities and spendings. What a relief finally to be home, in solace with Owen.
On most Fridays he would meet her at the local hang out for wine and dinner, but she had begged off with a phone call that afternoon.
“I just want to put my feet up, order in and have a some wine, alone in peace with you.”
He had agreed of course, as she knew he would.
“I’ll be waiting on the balcony with the wine!” She pictured his smile and glistening sky blue eyes, as his mellow voice reassured her.
She called out “Hello!” as soon as she entered their apartment. There was no response! That was troubling. He always greeted her. Marlie dropped her hand bag, slipped off her heels and headed down the hall to his office which opened to the balcony. The early spring sun blazed through the overhanging branches, waiting for the buds to form. It was surprising to have such warmth this time of year and late afternoon at that. Owen’s shut eyes opened wide in surprise as she repeated “Hello” and bent to peck his forehead. He had been dozing, she concluded.
The bottle of Merlot they enjoyed, along with two wine glasses were waiting at the side board. The small table beside his deep wicker chair held her mother’s opened Bible, which they both shared. Also within reach was the large amber ashtray he had purchased for her, because she liked amber and also because of its size, as a tease that she smoked too much.
“I only smoke at work and only out here on the balcony. It’s large enough to share with your pipe.” She had reminded him.
Just then a loud shatter! The massive ashtray cracked before them in countless wedges from the centre, hurling his pipe to the floor.
“Oh my goodness!” Marlie was startled. “It must have been caused by the heat of your pipe and the blazing sun hitting it simultaneously in the centre.” She was pragmatic.
Owen slowly stood up from his chair, reached for the wine bottle and poured the lush, maroon liquid into each glass. He handed her one, took the other, motioned for her to sit down as he did likewise.
“Marlena, I was asking for a sign…”
She remembered that day for years to come. She remembered her pseudo scientific explanation as to what she considered to be an ordinary experience. How different the experience had been for Owen, the seeker for answers to universal questions about the mystic. She remembered that day because that was the last day in which she smoked cigarettes. And she remembered that day also because she knew that was the night in which their precious daughter Amanda was conceived. But mostly she remembered that day, because it forever changed how she looked upon her own universe.
Life wasn’t only about waiting for the weekend. It was about holding onto every single day as important, with potential learnings and revelations. It was about accepting mysteries without attempting to explain them away by some latest scientific attempt at reasoning. It was about reconnecting to the universal consciousness that had guided mankind throughout the eons, yes with new insights, but anchored in fundamental truths since the dawn of creation. It was about recognizing, acknowledging and accepting signs that gave direction and encouragement.
From that time onward, Marlie became open to signs. There were signs that came to her in church, though not in any obvious way; it could be a hymn that held particular words she had thought of the day before, or a mention of an incident to which she had related. Other signs were often about friends who called or sent a note at precisely the moment she had thought of them. Sometimes, signs were simply memories that hung in the air like veils revealing themselves in moments when she needed comfort.
And thus it was ‒ when she waited for Owen to walk through the door of their home on that ninth day, of the ninth month, in the ninth year, as the rainbow arced for hours over their street, that Marlie knew her beloved had died. She knew that he had sent the rainbow as a sign of his covenant: he was and would continue to be with her throughout time and space and eternity.
Waiting for the words to flow
One of the treats of living in the country for Marlie, was her beloved geese. Going for a drive with Owen always meant that she might see them. To her great disappointment, however, there were no geese to be seen anywhere on that particular day. Marlie chuckled to herself. It made her think of the blank screen on her computer, as she waited for the words to flow from her mind to her fingers ‒ but nothing.
“Perhaps the geese got tired of being stalked,” she had told Owen. “They can’t keep away from us indefinitely.”
Just as with her writing, she hoped that they would reveal themselves to her, maybe even tomorrow.
How Marlie had wished that she could just transfer thoughts and feelings to paper as she experienced them. In her head, she had written many chapters, connecting each phrase with precision as though indeed someone was going to read it, nay, proof read it, and therefore ‒ it all had to be just so. She was very good at writing this way in her head where everything flowed without effort. She particularly loved the beginning of chapters or paragraphs. She knew the importance of simple provocative phrases to grab the interest of the reader. Whenever she was alone with her thoughts, a lead phrase would pop into her mind and off she would go. Her chapters were not linear but circular, always returning to that one subtle foreshadowing comment, tucked away some pages before. Once she transferred her mind-work to the computer, she could cut and paste as she wished. But ‒ before all that ‒ she had to get these thoughts out into a tangible form and obsess about the wording later.
Perhaps a small recording device would help. Instead of the silent head-thoughts, she could instead speak into the machine. Afterwards, the audible thoughts could be transferred to a visible state. She would spend time alone and write her book that way, the first draft being the spoken word. But, she realized that profound thoughts tended to come to her during long afternoon drives with Owen. Therefore, a recording device, didn’t seem to be the solution. If only she could go straight home to the computer and just get on with writing.
Being a meticulous planner, Marlie had set herself a time to begin her work. It would be in early September. Others may think of new beginnings as January, but for Marlie, it had always been September. She associated the going back to school as the time for reorganizing with new books and new clothing. There was a freshness to this naive way of thinking. It brought her back to her school days when she had really believed that she was the master of her own fate and that she could do anything she set her mind to. Without a whole lot of effort, she had always done well in school. She was never a fanatic; she didn’t ever go out of her way to excel. But if she liked a particular subject, or a special teacher, she would give the subject her all, which of course was a useful way of being at university where she had an astonishing experience. It was here that she finally became her own person. And it was here that she had met Owen, that first time.
But enough of daydreaming. It was September now and Marlie acknowledged that she hadn’t written anything. She couldn’t quite grasp why it was so difficult for her to start. She had always written. She remembered writing from the time she was at least ten. She had written poems in grade school and throughout her life, in fact: there was one about the garden which she had recited in grade six; she remembered the teacher had asked her who had written it, and to Miss Taylor’s surprise, Marlie had nonchalantly said, “Oh, it was me.” All through high school and university she had written poems. Then, everything had been easy. Everything just flowed from her mind onto paper. Her favourite continued to be “The River’s Tale”. She had switched to short message stories during the first few years of her marriage. They had become part of an annual tradition and printed in a newsletter. She had compiled a dozen of these and sent them off to a publisher. The rejection letter wasn’t a bad one, but enough of a deterrent. She didn’t try again. She remembered now that her last manager had asked her: “‒ and have you published?”‒ to which of course she had to say “No!” She had taken the question as a not so subtle put down and knew instantly that it was meant to impair her. Is that what had happened? Would she ever be able to convey her creative silent thoughts to the tangible visible state?
Then one day someone with whom she had worked had telephoned her. In later years, Marlie remembered this happenstance as a sign. Miranda had also written unpublished stories and continued to do so. When Marlie asked her how she got past the blank screen in front of her, Miranda let out a full, hearty laugh:
“If I knew the answer to that I would market it and it would be worth millions ‒ Marlie, you just have to keep trying and waiting for the words to flow!”