Remember not, O Lord, our offenses, nor those of our fathers; neither take Thou vengeance on our sins.
Dusk fell later than the Monday before. Piles of snow still lined the roads, and the fields were more white than brown. Still, a hint of spring blew through the air and brought a smile to the young man's face as he opened the doors of St. Patrick's Church.
The lights were low. In the loft the choir prepared for Mass, while up by the altar the servers were rehearsing their parts. He found a spot near the front and knelt down to pray silently. Gradually people filtered into the church. Two of these were a woman about his age, and a young girl of six or seven. The woman he knew; she was a friend. They entered the pew beside him, the woman introducing him to the girl.
A bell rang and they stood as Mass began. The pipe organ's majestic strains filled the old church, and the smell of incense wafted out of the swinging thurible, lifting their prayers to heaven.
To any outsiders they could have been a family, and when he realized this, the man laughed a little inside. He offered his Mass for them, for his friends. Man, woman, and child they prayed the Mass together, bringing themselves to the altar. When the last bell had sounded, and the choir had ceased singing, they returned to the church doors, where the little girl asked questions of the young priest, and the woman told excitedly of her retreats in preparation for entering the religious life. Above them the organist continued to play until the roar of the pipes filled the church and moved their souls.
At last the time to go home had come. As the church doors swung closed behind him he offered a prayer of thanks to St. Valentine for such a beautiful evening, and smiled.
Showing posts with label Third Person. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Third Person. Show all posts
Monday, March 7, 2011
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
The Kite in the Sky
Way back my freshman year, back when people still used aim to talk to one another, when xanga was cool, in the days when facebook was just a little sprat trying to insinuate its way into all the colleges across the nation, I had a conversation with a friend about a writing assignment she'd been given. That conversation led to this little bit of a piece. It's raw, but I kind of like it.
A long time ago there lived a strange people. They were strange in many ways, but our story is only concerned with a certain tradition they had regarding kites. Every spring the young men of the land would fly a kite with the colors of their house. They would stay outside every day from sunrise to sunset flying their kites, and the young ladies would visit with them all.
Now as spring began to draw to a close they would spend more and more time with the same person every day, until on the last day of spring each young man would go to a chosen place to wait. While they waited they would fly their kites to guide their beloved to where they were. Meanwhile the young ladies would spend the morning inside, preparing for their wedding. At noon, each young lady would set off to find the kite of her betrothed.
One year it chanced that a virtuous young man of modest descent was awaiting a very special girl. She was all that he could dream. Her smile shattered and consumed him, and the day before she had told him what none of the others thought would ever be – that she would be his wife.
And so he waited through the morning, flying the colors of his house with pride and gazing at the wonder that lay around him.
When noon came his heart began to race. Soon he would see her floating across the plain. Then together they would return to the city, where they would be joined in the holy bonds of matrimony.
As the afternoon progressed he began to be worried. He could not believe she would betray him, but she should have arrived long ago. He could not have known what was happening in the town, where the girl’s family, outraged at her humble choice, had locked her in her room.
Through the night he waited; she did not come. Five days later his heart sank inside him, for he knew he would never see her again. Whether or not he knew of her death is not mine to tell. She did die, though – locked in a room far from his love she died, lonely and afraid.
The young man then made a vow to never again set foot in his homeland. He ran off to the mountains where it is always winter. There he waited for his love, sleeping in the day and flying his kite in the dark hours, when his heart was coldest. He is there still, and if you look to the north you can see his kite in the sky, where it guides all travelers except the one that he most longs to see.
A long time ago there lived a strange people. They were strange in many ways, but our story is only concerned with a certain tradition they had regarding kites. Every spring the young men of the land would fly a kite with the colors of their house. They would stay outside every day from sunrise to sunset flying their kites, and the young ladies would visit with them all.
Now as spring began to draw to a close they would spend more and more time with the same person every day, until on the last day of spring each young man would go to a chosen place to wait. While they waited they would fly their kites to guide their beloved to where they were. Meanwhile the young ladies would spend the morning inside, preparing for their wedding. At noon, each young lady would set off to find the kite of her betrothed.
One year it chanced that a virtuous young man of modest descent was awaiting a very special girl. She was all that he could dream. Her smile shattered and consumed him, and the day before she had told him what none of the others thought would ever be – that she would be his wife.
And so he waited through the morning, flying the colors of his house with pride and gazing at the wonder that lay around him.
When noon came his heart began to race. Soon he would see her floating across the plain. Then together they would return to the city, where they would be joined in the holy bonds of matrimony.
As the afternoon progressed he began to be worried. He could not believe she would betray him, but she should have arrived long ago. He could not have known what was happening in the town, where the girl’s family, outraged at her humble choice, had locked her in her room.
Through the night he waited; she did not come. Five days later his heart sank inside him, for he knew he would never see her again. Whether or not he knew of her death is not mine to tell. She did die, though – locked in a room far from his love she died, lonely and afraid.
The young man then made a vow to never again set foot in his homeland. He ran off to the mountains where it is always winter. There he waited for his love, sleeping in the day and flying his kite in the dark hours, when his heart was coldest. He is there still, and if you look to the north you can see his kite in the sky, where it guides all travelers except the one that he most longs to see.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
The King's Prerogative
[My current writing project is in the non-fiction realm: a column for the diocesan newspaper. Once I finish that, I will return to posting new fiction. I got an idea today that I think will be good.]
Honor and modesty are ornaments of the soul without which the body, beautiful though it be, should not be so esteemed. – Don Quixote
The newly crowned king of the land strutted confidently – almost arrogantly – down the aisle toward his throne. Yesterday had been the coronation; today he would choose a bride, and two days later they would be married. His mother would bless them, and they would be king and queen.
“This is the good life,” he thought to himself as he settled into the throne to await the beginning of the ceremony. No thoughts of his father clouded his mind, because his father was still alive and well. No man ever died king, unless he died in battle. The new king’s father was old, older than most were when they handed the crown to their son, but he was healthy. Still, the king had felt it was time to hand the kingdom over to his successor, and so yesterday the old man had taken the crown from his own head and placed it on that of his only son. The king had looked him in the eye and said, “The responsibility is now yours. Do you undertake to serve your God, your country, and your family?”
The young man had replied, “I do.”
“Then I place into your hands the welfare of the people, the safety of the land, and the care of your parents and sister. May the weight of the crown never be a burden to you. May it serve as a reminder of the cares you will face in this life, and may its glory be your glory.”
The old man had then turned toward the court and announced in his strong voice, “People, your king!”
Yes, that had been a fine day, when his father had entrusted him with the responsibility of a man, and a king.
Today the ceremonies would continue with the selection of the new queen, who would then be allowed one day and two nights to take leave of her family and prepare for the wedding.
The young king looked around him at the faces in his court. Some were old – the faces of his father’s friends who would now serve to moderate his youthful passions. Others were no older than he. They were the friends that he had grown up with and that he trusted.
A herald approached to announce the beginning of the day’s ceremonies.
“My king, I present to you – in all the fullness of their natural beauty – the fifty maidens deemed most worthy of your choice, both in character and personal beauty.”
The king’s stomach tightened with anticipation as he spoke. “Maidens,” his voice thundered through the hall, “approach, that you may be judged.”
The monstrous doors swung wide and the girls began to step slowly into the hall and down the aisle toward the king. They were, indeed, in the full state of their natural beauty, for not a single one of them wore a shred of cloth to hide herself from his eyes. The king sucked in his breath at the sight. As the girls reached the end of the aisle they spread out in a horizontal line before him, their heads held level, their eyes averted but not fixed on the floor. Their hands hung close to their sides without giving any impression of awkwardness.
The king allowed his eyes to scan from one end of the row to the other as the girls continued to file in. There was a slight commotion in the back of the hall and the king looked up to see the last girl in the procession marching down the aisle. She was fully clothed in a simple but elegant cream colored dress that formed a stunning contrast with her thick black tresses. The king was shocked.
“Do you dare to ignore the law of your land? You were selected to appear before your king, and you have the impudence to defy all laws and traditions? Speak, but speak wisely, for such defiance is no light matter, and your life may depend on your words or my whim.”
The girl curtsied so low the king thought she must lose her balance. “Majesty,” she began, “do you not have a sister?”
“Yes, what of it!” he snapped.
“Majesty,” she tried to look calm, but her shaking hands betrayed her fear, “do you allow your sister to parade herself around in public?”
“Certainly not.”
“Majesty, may I ask why not?”
“You have no right to ask such a question. I do not need to justify myself.”
She continued, “Of course, Majesty, but would you allow your daughter, if you had one, to parade around in such a way?”
“My girl, I most certainly would not. Such behavior would be a disgrace upon the royal family.”
“Is it not a disgrace for the future queen to be seen in such circumstances?”
“Eh?” he finally began to see some sense in what she was saying, but he held his ground. “Sister, I certainly have no wish to disgrace my wife; however, I must be allowed to make an informed decision. This is what the law provides for. Would you buy food without first examining it for flaws?”
“Majesty, you called me sister just now,” she whispered.
“Eh? So I did,” he caught her drift. “The title is an arbitrary one. You are no blood relation of mine.”
The girl kept her voice steady. “Majesty, of course I examine food before I buy it, but the food has no shame to be concerned over. Would you insinuate that we are but pieces of fruit and bread?” She was stepping further onto the ice and she new it. “I did not ask to be selected to appear before you…”
The king interrupted her with a glare, snapping, “Do you mean to imply that you are not honored to be here? The idea is a disgrace to yourself and your family. My patience wears thin…maid,” he uttered the last word with a hint of disgust.
She dropped her eyes and her voice softened with humility. “I did not mean that, Majesty. I am honored beyond what you can imagine to have been chosen to appear before you, but remember that I, too, am a sister and a daughter. I cannot put my father and brother to shame anymore than you could let your sister or daughter do what you ask me to do. That it is the law does not make it right.”
“My dear, you have no choice. This is my prerogative.” As he said this, though, his heart began to tighten inside him. He admired the girl’s courage and modesty, even more than he admired the haunting eyes and slender figure. He could not make up his mind. The law clearly stated the procedures for how the king was to choose his bride, but he was finding it difficult to think about what was prescribed for those who defied the law.
“Majesty, the beauty of the soul far outweighs the form of the body. My honor I cannot compromise. What the king would not allow, he should not require.”
“Those are bold words, my dear. You do understand that you could be hanged for them, do you not?”
“Majesty, I have appeared before you that you may judge my beauty. Look upon me. Does beauty require the absence of modesty?” She lifted her head and looked straight into his eyes.
The king had been looking at her – all thoughts of the other forty-nine beauties had left his mind. He was intrigued by this girl, and he found himself becoming more and more attached to her spirit. Those eyes…they were…captivating. That was the only word for them.
“Majesty,” the girl said, “if I must be hung for my act, then I must be hung, but I refuse to compromise my honor and shame my family. If you are not pleased with what you see, I beg you to let me return home unharmed, if only because my helplessness touches your heart. If, on the other hand, you are pleased with me, I would be willing and honored to be your wife.”
The king marveled at her words. Never had he heard a girl speak so firmly in his presence. He scanned down the row one more time, but his eyes kept returning to that cream colored dress that stood before him. Her head was bent now and he could no longer see her eyes, but their image was still burning in his mind.
“Guards…” he said, almost musing aloud.
The guards stood ready and the girls visibly tensed.
“Guards, I have made my decision.” He paused. “Escort these others back to their chambers. This one,” he indicated the girl who stood humbly before him, hands clasped loosely over the front of her dress, “let her return to her family, that she may prepare herself for the wedding day.”
The girl lifted her head a little and blushed scarlet, but her face broke into a subdued smile.
“My dear, what is your name?” the king asked.
“Starla, Majesty,” she replied.
“Starla,” he whispered, “Starla with eyes like the stars. Very well, Starla, go – prepare yourself. Your courage and beauty have served you well. Two days hence you will become my bride.”
Starla curtsied and turned to go.
The king watched her as she left, fascinated. Those eyes, he could not get them out of his head. They were so blue, almost violet. Well, being a king wasn’t exactly what he had expected, at least not so far, but he had a feeling that this was a good start. What a girl she was. She would make a good wife, a good mother, and a good queen.
A thought tugged at the back of his mind. Was he right to disregard the law? Well, why not? After all, that was the king’s prerogative.
Honor and modesty are ornaments of the soul without which the body, beautiful though it be, should not be so esteemed. – Don Quixote
The newly crowned king of the land strutted confidently – almost arrogantly – down the aisle toward his throne. Yesterday had been the coronation; today he would choose a bride, and two days later they would be married. His mother would bless them, and they would be king and queen.
“This is the good life,” he thought to himself as he settled into the throne to await the beginning of the ceremony. No thoughts of his father clouded his mind, because his father was still alive and well. No man ever died king, unless he died in battle. The new king’s father was old, older than most were when they handed the crown to their son, but he was healthy. Still, the king had felt it was time to hand the kingdom over to his successor, and so yesterday the old man had taken the crown from his own head and placed it on that of his only son. The king had looked him in the eye and said, “The responsibility is now yours. Do you undertake to serve your God, your country, and your family?”
The young man had replied, “I do.”
“Then I place into your hands the welfare of the people, the safety of the land, and the care of your parents and sister. May the weight of the crown never be a burden to you. May it serve as a reminder of the cares you will face in this life, and may its glory be your glory.”
The old man had then turned toward the court and announced in his strong voice, “People, your king!”
Yes, that had been a fine day, when his father had entrusted him with the responsibility of a man, and a king.
Today the ceremonies would continue with the selection of the new queen, who would then be allowed one day and two nights to take leave of her family and prepare for the wedding.
The young king looked around him at the faces in his court. Some were old – the faces of his father’s friends who would now serve to moderate his youthful passions. Others were no older than he. They were the friends that he had grown up with and that he trusted.
A herald approached to announce the beginning of the day’s ceremonies.
“My king, I present to you – in all the fullness of their natural beauty – the fifty maidens deemed most worthy of your choice, both in character and personal beauty.”
The king’s stomach tightened with anticipation as he spoke. “Maidens,” his voice thundered through the hall, “approach, that you may be judged.”
The monstrous doors swung wide and the girls began to step slowly into the hall and down the aisle toward the king. They were, indeed, in the full state of their natural beauty, for not a single one of them wore a shred of cloth to hide herself from his eyes. The king sucked in his breath at the sight. As the girls reached the end of the aisle they spread out in a horizontal line before him, their heads held level, their eyes averted but not fixed on the floor. Their hands hung close to their sides without giving any impression of awkwardness.
The king allowed his eyes to scan from one end of the row to the other as the girls continued to file in. There was a slight commotion in the back of the hall and the king looked up to see the last girl in the procession marching down the aisle. She was fully clothed in a simple but elegant cream colored dress that formed a stunning contrast with her thick black tresses. The king was shocked.
“Do you dare to ignore the law of your land? You were selected to appear before your king, and you have the impudence to defy all laws and traditions? Speak, but speak wisely, for such defiance is no light matter, and your life may depend on your words or my whim.”
The girl curtsied so low the king thought she must lose her balance. “Majesty,” she began, “do you not have a sister?”
“Yes, what of it!” he snapped.
“Majesty,” she tried to look calm, but her shaking hands betrayed her fear, “do you allow your sister to parade herself around in public?”
“Certainly not.”
“Majesty, may I ask why not?”
“You have no right to ask such a question. I do not need to justify myself.”
She continued, “Of course, Majesty, but would you allow your daughter, if you had one, to parade around in such a way?”
“My girl, I most certainly would not. Such behavior would be a disgrace upon the royal family.”
“Is it not a disgrace for the future queen to be seen in such circumstances?”
“Eh?” he finally began to see some sense in what she was saying, but he held his ground. “Sister, I certainly have no wish to disgrace my wife; however, I must be allowed to make an informed decision. This is what the law provides for. Would you buy food without first examining it for flaws?”
“Majesty, you called me sister just now,” she whispered.
“Eh? So I did,” he caught her drift. “The title is an arbitrary one. You are no blood relation of mine.”
The girl kept her voice steady. “Majesty, of course I examine food before I buy it, but the food has no shame to be concerned over. Would you insinuate that we are but pieces of fruit and bread?” She was stepping further onto the ice and she new it. “I did not ask to be selected to appear before you…”
The king interrupted her with a glare, snapping, “Do you mean to imply that you are not honored to be here? The idea is a disgrace to yourself and your family. My patience wears thin…maid,” he uttered the last word with a hint of disgust.
She dropped her eyes and her voice softened with humility. “I did not mean that, Majesty. I am honored beyond what you can imagine to have been chosen to appear before you, but remember that I, too, am a sister and a daughter. I cannot put my father and brother to shame anymore than you could let your sister or daughter do what you ask me to do. That it is the law does not make it right.”
“My dear, you have no choice. This is my prerogative.” As he said this, though, his heart began to tighten inside him. He admired the girl’s courage and modesty, even more than he admired the haunting eyes and slender figure. He could not make up his mind. The law clearly stated the procedures for how the king was to choose his bride, but he was finding it difficult to think about what was prescribed for those who defied the law.
“Majesty, the beauty of the soul far outweighs the form of the body. My honor I cannot compromise. What the king would not allow, he should not require.”
“Those are bold words, my dear. You do understand that you could be hanged for them, do you not?”
“Majesty, I have appeared before you that you may judge my beauty. Look upon me. Does beauty require the absence of modesty?” She lifted her head and looked straight into his eyes.
The king had been looking at her – all thoughts of the other forty-nine beauties had left his mind. He was intrigued by this girl, and he found himself becoming more and more attached to her spirit. Those eyes…they were…captivating. That was the only word for them.
“Majesty,” the girl said, “if I must be hung for my act, then I must be hung, but I refuse to compromise my honor and shame my family. If you are not pleased with what you see, I beg you to let me return home unharmed, if only because my helplessness touches your heart. If, on the other hand, you are pleased with me, I would be willing and honored to be your wife.”
The king marveled at her words. Never had he heard a girl speak so firmly in his presence. He scanned down the row one more time, but his eyes kept returning to that cream colored dress that stood before him. Her head was bent now and he could no longer see her eyes, but their image was still burning in his mind.
“Guards…” he said, almost musing aloud.
The guards stood ready and the girls visibly tensed.
“Guards, I have made my decision.” He paused. “Escort these others back to their chambers. This one,” he indicated the girl who stood humbly before him, hands clasped loosely over the front of her dress, “let her return to her family, that she may prepare herself for the wedding day.”
The girl lifted her head a little and blushed scarlet, but her face broke into a subdued smile.
“My dear, what is your name?” the king asked.
“Starla, Majesty,” she replied.
“Starla,” he whispered, “Starla with eyes like the stars. Very well, Starla, go – prepare yourself. Your courage and beauty have served you well. Two days hence you will become my bride.”
Starla curtsied and turned to go.
The king watched her as she left, fascinated. Those eyes, he could not get them out of his head. They were so blue, almost violet. Well, being a king wasn’t exactly what he had expected, at least not so far, but he had a feeling that this was a good start. What a girl she was. She would make a good wife, a good mother, and a good queen.
A thought tugged at the back of his mind. Was he right to disregard the law? Well, why not? After all, that was the king’s prerogative.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Self Portrait
Alone, the writer stares out the window. The ceiling fan hums overhead, stirring the first warm air of spring into a soothing caress. Images play across the television screen, colors bouncing, flowing, the sunset tones bleeding off into the distance. He pays little attention to the words coming from the cd player. Opera is hard enough to understand in English. He picks out snippets of the German, but focuses on the music behind it, music befitting the season, even if it is not yet Good Friday.
He scrambles around the corners of his mind, searching for ideas. They are there, little slips of paper, some of them long forgotten, some he told himself long ago that he would write, but never did. A few he crumples up and tosses towards the wastebasket. They miss. Baseball season is almost here. He should work on his aim, if only on principle.
With a pile of good ideas at hand he sits down and begins to sort them. One is too personal; it feels too much like violating a trust. Another, just as personal, would work if he turned it into a novel and really fleshed out the characters. Then they could come alive as someone other than their inspiration. Then the personal would work, for it would lie hidden behind a mask.
Novels aren't written in a night, though. And there is no plot yet, just a cast - a cast of sinners in need of redemption. That is the beauty of writing - if one works hard enough, one can redeem the world. Not so in this life.
"Mein Gott, mein Gott, warum hast du mich verlassen?"
Aber Sie varlassen mich nicht...
Bock - it means strength. Strength beer. Perhaps one could say it is beer for strength. All beer is for strength. "I drank sixteen bottles for the price of one, trying to find the courage to talk to the one..." Bock is certainly an early spring beer - rich, creamy, but hinting at the freshness to come. The smell of cigarettes on a cool rainy day, and the whisper of new leaves on a warm April afternoon - all these are tied up in the beer, if one tastes carefully enough. Or maybe it's the glass... real German glass, that - birthday present from a friend.
One friend has provided the poor writer with a wealth of ideas, but none of them are working right now. The love is not there, and without love one cannot create. These, too, are discarded for the time.
Something longer must come soon, something with action and suspense, something with wit and polish, something that cannot be written in a night. The others, though, they must not be forgotten, those little snapshots of joy, and sometimes of sorrow, but oh how to write them! Snapshots are a photographer's business.
He needs new inspiration, something like the story of Benedict and Scholastica, something to smack him in the face and say, "Write me!" It will come. Writer's block is not forever. The stories will come; they must.
He scrambles around the corners of his mind, searching for ideas. They are there, little slips of paper, some of them long forgotten, some he told himself long ago that he would write, but never did. A few he crumples up and tosses towards the wastebasket. They miss. Baseball season is almost here. He should work on his aim, if only on principle.
With a pile of good ideas at hand he sits down and begins to sort them. One is too personal; it feels too much like violating a trust. Another, just as personal, would work if he turned it into a novel and really fleshed out the characters. Then they could come alive as someone other than their inspiration. Then the personal would work, for it would lie hidden behind a mask.
Novels aren't written in a night, though. And there is no plot yet, just a cast - a cast of sinners in need of redemption. That is the beauty of writing - if one works hard enough, one can redeem the world. Not so in this life.
"Mein Gott, mein Gott, warum hast du mich verlassen?"
Aber Sie varlassen mich nicht...
Bock - it means strength. Strength beer. Perhaps one could say it is beer for strength. All beer is for strength. "I drank sixteen bottles for the price of one, trying to find the courage to talk to the one..." Bock is certainly an early spring beer - rich, creamy, but hinting at the freshness to come. The smell of cigarettes on a cool rainy day, and the whisper of new leaves on a warm April afternoon - all these are tied up in the beer, if one tastes carefully enough. Or maybe it's the glass... real German glass, that - birthday present from a friend.
One friend has provided the poor writer with a wealth of ideas, but none of them are working right now. The love is not there, and without love one cannot create. These, too, are discarded for the time.
Something longer must come soon, something with action and suspense, something with wit and polish, something that cannot be written in a night. The others, though, they must not be forgotten, those little snapshots of joy, and sometimes of sorrow, but oh how to write them! Snapshots are a photographer's business.
He needs new inspiration, something like the story of Benedict and Scholastica, something to smack him in the face and say, "Write me!" It will come. Writer's block is not forever. The stories will come; they must.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Scotch and Seamonsters
Alone, he sat on the sand and watched the sun hover above the tiny ripples on the lake. Nearby a bird sang an evening song, thanking his maker for a beautiful day and longing for a companion with whom he could share this charming view. At least, the man on the sand thought that was what the bird wanted. The solitary warbling, with never a response, was haunting and lonely.
His fingers found a rock buried in the sand, worn smooth by the beatings of time. Digging the rock free, he reached back and hurled it toward the water, smiling as it skipped out over the waves. Behind him his friend stopped singing.
“Don’t stop now, Sam. You’re all the company I got until Katy shows up… if she shows up…” his voice trailed off. Sam must have heard him, for he began to whistle a new song, another mournful tale of solitude and woe. The man wondered if birds ever felt sad or lonely or happy. Probably not, he decided.
Something caught his eye in the distance and he spoke to Sam. “Here she comes, sing her in softly now, don’t scare her away.” Sam ignored him and continued singing just as loud as before. Together they watched as the thing grew closer, rising and falling gracefully in the water, outlined against the setting sun, and then disappearing again.
“Katy…” he whispered. He couldn’t remember why he’d settled on that name. Katy was a pretty name, and as good as any for her. Sam kept on singing, his voice rising in pitch, wailing about some lost love, one that likely had never been.
Katy was majestic, gliding through the waves, now and again leaping into the air, sailing, twisting, seeming to fly and then slapping down back into the waves. A monster she surely was, but he had known fine, highbrow ladies with less grace and fewer manners than this creature. She seemed perfectly satisfied, rejoicing in the beauty of life, of the evening sun and the chilly water of the lake.
In awe the man watched. Even Sam, who rarely thought of anything but his romantic endeavors, changed his song, weaving the notes in with Katy’s dance, rising and falling, swelling his chest with pride in the knowledge that he alone could accompany the display.
The dance and song continued for a time and the man leaned back on his elbows, smiling as every care seemed to melt in the beauty of the moment. At last, Katy disappeared under the water. She did not resurface for a time. Sam stopped singing, and the man popped the cork from his bottle of Scotch and held it up to the fiery horizon. “Goodnight, my bonny lass.” He took a drink, sighed, replaced the cork, and stood up to leave. Then, a short way out, where the water was deeper, she burst from the water, shooting into the air to a height he would not have thought possible. Spreading what looked to be wings she twisted in the air, curled over like a monstrous dolphin, and plunged back into the depths.
Unconsciously he uncorked the bottle again and, taking a couple more pulls, muttered the word “impossible.” He stood there, staring into the fading light. Sam tried to sing, but even he was too astounded. Well, once one accepts sea-monsters, is anything really impossible?
“Good night, Sam,” he said, and the bird lurched into a sorrowful tale filled with black nights and empty hearts as the man turned his steps homeward, away from the beach, away from his friends, to return to a cold, empty bed.
His fingers found a rock buried in the sand, worn smooth by the beatings of time. Digging the rock free, he reached back and hurled it toward the water, smiling as it skipped out over the waves. Behind him his friend stopped singing.
“Don’t stop now, Sam. You’re all the company I got until Katy shows up… if she shows up…” his voice trailed off. Sam must have heard him, for he began to whistle a new song, another mournful tale of solitude and woe. The man wondered if birds ever felt sad or lonely or happy. Probably not, he decided.
Something caught his eye in the distance and he spoke to Sam. “Here she comes, sing her in softly now, don’t scare her away.” Sam ignored him and continued singing just as loud as before. Together they watched as the thing grew closer, rising and falling gracefully in the water, outlined against the setting sun, and then disappearing again.
“Katy…” he whispered. He couldn’t remember why he’d settled on that name. Katy was a pretty name, and as good as any for her. Sam kept on singing, his voice rising in pitch, wailing about some lost love, one that likely had never been.
Katy was majestic, gliding through the waves, now and again leaping into the air, sailing, twisting, seeming to fly and then slapping down back into the waves. A monster she surely was, but he had known fine, highbrow ladies with less grace and fewer manners than this creature. She seemed perfectly satisfied, rejoicing in the beauty of life, of the evening sun and the chilly water of the lake.
In awe the man watched. Even Sam, who rarely thought of anything but his romantic endeavors, changed his song, weaving the notes in with Katy’s dance, rising and falling, swelling his chest with pride in the knowledge that he alone could accompany the display.
The dance and song continued for a time and the man leaned back on his elbows, smiling as every care seemed to melt in the beauty of the moment. At last, Katy disappeared under the water. She did not resurface for a time. Sam stopped singing, and the man popped the cork from his bottle of Scotch and held it up to the fiery horizon. “Goodnight, my bonny lass.” He took a drink, sighed, replaced the cork, and stood up to leave. Then, a short way out, where the water was deeper, she burst from the water, shooting into the air to a height he would not have thought possible. Spreading what looked to be wings she twisted in the air, curled over like a monstrous dolphin, and plunged back into the depths.
Unconsciously he uncorked the bottle again and, taking a couple more pulls, muttered the word “impossible.” He stood there, staring into the fading light. Sam tried to sing, but even he was too astounded. Well, once one accepts sea-monsters, is anything really impossible?
“Good night, Sam,” he said, and the bird lurched into a sorrowful tale filled with black nights and empty hearts as the man turned his steps homeward, away from the beach, away from his friends, to return to a cold, empty bed.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
The Blouse
Inside the convent walls, Maggie Anne struggled to fight back the tears. They were silly tears, she told herself - the tears of a foolish little girl. In her hands she held a ruined blouse, the delicate fabric burned through in one place by the clumsy application of an iron.
Mother Mary Joan tried to console her. "Now here," she said, "this is nothing to cry over." She knew, of course, that the girl was not really crying about a ruined shirt. A year earlier Maggie Anne had given away everything to enter religious life. She had been so certain. Now she was afraid - more afraid, probably, than she had been upon entering the convent. For now, Maggie Anne was going back into the world, back to walk the earth, back (though she did not yet know it) to be a mother to two priests and a sister, and a grandmother to many more. She did not know any of this; she only knew that she did not belong in the convent, and that the one piece of clothing she had to wear out into the world was now ruined.
The Mother Superior placed a hand upon her shoulder. "Wait here," she said.
Maggie Anne turned her eyes to the crucifix that hung upon the wall; she felt a brief sting of reproach, and then a calm. The year had been a painful one. She loved the sisters and the life she led, but she was not happy. Through much agony and prayer, and with the gentle guidance of her spiritual director and Mother Mary Joan, she had come to realize that the convent was not her calling. She loved the sisters dearly, and was loath to leave, yet here she was, with a plain brown skirt and a ruined blouse, wondering where to go.
She felt like a child, frightened of the world beyond the walls. She knew not where she would go, or what she would do. If she was to be married, she knew not how it would come about.
"Oh, what am I getting myself into," she whispered. "Oh God, what are you doing to me?"
She looked at the crucifix - again that calm, and a voice in her heart. "Beckoning you."
Silently, she prayed, "If you will embrace me, I will not fear. If you will carry me, I will walk."
She looked down at her ruined blouse. "The last thing I owned in the world, and I have ruined it... I have nothing left." As she said that, she began to understand. She felt foolish; she ought to have known, ought to have understood why He let her forget what she was doing, why He let her hand linger too long in one place. The tears of frustration that she had been fighting began to trail slowly down her face, turning to peace as they dripped onto the pile of linen clutched in her hands.
Soon, Mother Mary Joan returned. With her was another of the sisters, carrying a large pink sweatshirt with a picture of Winnie the Pooh. Each of the sisters was allowed one outfit for bed. Sister Mary Monica had kept this.
The shy one, the quietest of all the sisters, and not so old herself, handed the sweatshirt to Maggie Anne. "I will sleep in my habit," she said simply.
Peace became gratitude and continued to spill from the eyes of the one time postulant. She embraced the sister.
"It is not much," she protested.
Maggie Anne placed her hands on the sister's shoulders and smiled. "No," she said, "it is everything."
Mother Mary Joan tried to console her. "Now here," she said, "this is nothing to cry over." She knew, of course, that the girl was not really crying about a ruined shirt. A year earlier Maggie Anne had given away everything to enter religious life. She had been so certain. Now she was afraid - more afraid, probably, than she had been upon entering the convent. For now, Maggie Anne was going back into the world, back to walk the earth, back (though she did not yet know it) to be a mother to two priests and a sister, and a grandmother to many more. She did not know any of this; she only knew that she did not belong in the convent, and that the one piece of clothing she had to wear out into the world was now ruined.
The Mother Superior placed a hand upon her shoulder. "Wait here," she said.
Maggie Anne turned her eyes to the crucifix that hung upon the wall; she felt a brief sting of reproach, and then a calm. The year had been a painful one. She loved the sisters and the life she led, but she was not happy. Through much agony and prayer, and with the gentle guidance of her spiritual director and Mother Mary Joan, she had come to realize that the convent was not her calling. She loved the sisters dearly, and was loath to leave, yet here she was, with a plain brown skirt and a ruined blouse, wondering where to go.
She felt like a child, frightened of the world beyond the walls. She knew not where she would go, or what she would do. If she was to be married, she knew not how it would come about.
"Oh, what am I getting myself into," she whispered. "Oh God, what are you doing to me?"
She looked at the crucifix - again that calm, and a voice in her heart. "Beckoning you."
Silently, she prayed, "If you will embrace me, I will not fear. If you will carry me, I will walk."
She looked down at her ruined blouse. "The last thing I owned in the world, and I have ruined it... I have nothing left." As she said that, she began to understand. She felt foolish; she ought to have known, ought to have understood why He let her forget what she was doing, why He let her hand linger too long in one place. The tears of frustration that she had been fighting began to trail slowly down her face, turning to peace as they dripped onto the pile of linen clutched in her hands.
Soon, Mother Mary Joan returned. With her was another of the sisters, carrying a large pink sweatshirt with a picture of Winnie the Pooh. Each of the sisters was allowed one outfit for bed. Sister Mary Monica had kept this.
The shy one, the quietest of all the sisters, and not so old herself, handed the sweatshirt to Maggie Anne. "I will sleep in my habit," she said simply.
Peace became gratitude and continued to spill from the eyes of the one time postulant. She embraced the sister.
"It is not much," she protested.
Maggie Anne placed her hands on the sister's shoulders and smiled. "No," she said, "it is everything."
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Brother and Sister
UPDATED: 02/12/10
A rush of cold air whistled by as the pub door opened. A few bachelors were lined up at the bar, drinking the death of Cupid on this lonely Sunday night, St. Valentine's day. Other than that, the place was empty.
Out of the wind and the cold came a pair that drew a stare from three or four, while the others, those with better manners, studied their pints intently. One of the gawkers made a lewd comment to the young woman, who blushed and turned her eyes to the ground. The jester's neighbor and erstwhile drinking buddy instantly backhanded him across the mouth, grabbed him by the collar, and hauled him toward the door.
"Wait, I ain't finished with my drink yet," protested the jester.
"I'll finish it for you," said the other.
"But I ain't paid!"
"I'll pay for you."
The chastising party yanked open the door and kicked the jester into the cold, sending him stumbling into a snow drift.
Back at the bar the man and woman were praying without words. The bartender nodded toward the door. "Sorry about him," he said, and, turning to the man who was returning to his stool, he added, "Thanks, Jack."
Jack nodded, "Wasn't right, what he said. I'm sorry for it, Sister." He gave her a slight bow and then returned to his pint.
The bartender looked the pair up and down, thoughtfully. "You're Charlie's kids aren't you? There aren't many who'd come in here wearing a cassock and a habit."
The brother and sister, for so they were, nodded.
"I'm sorry to hear about your father," said the bartender. "He was a good man."
"Thank you," said the priest.
"Can I get you a drink? You look like you could use it."
"Guinness for me. Sis?" he turned to the girl at his side.
"Cider, please."
The bartender poured a cider for the young nun. Then, he handed the priest his pint and waved away the proffered money. "No, not tonight. You just let me know if you need anything; I'll be here listening to these fools grumble about Valentines Day."
"Ah, I had forgotten that. To St. Valentine," the priest said, raising his glass.
The bartender poured himself a quick shot. "To Charlie Bantam," he said.
The brother and sister, or Father and Sister, touched their glasses, and then headed toward the end of the bar. The bartender, Patrick was his name, watched them thoughtfully. They were a strange pair, these two. They could almost have been father and daughter, for, though his boyish face belied the forty-five years that had passed for Charlie Bantam's eldest son, he was nearly eighteen years older than his sister, the baby of the family.
They spoke softly, torn between the joy of seeing one another for the first time in nearly two years and the sorrow of the occasion. They shared their stories, he of the parish life and she of the convent, of the people, the sinners and saints, the innocent and the broken. With few words they spoke; words carried the stories, but the love behind the stories spoke more deeply then the sounds of tongue and lips and teeth ever could.
Occasionally Patrick would refill the priest's glass, while the young Dominican nursed her cider throughout the night.
The night waned and the bar slowly emptied, until only the two young saints and the bartender remained. The young nun was laughing at something her brother had said. Suddenly she froze, staring straight ahead at her brother, who at first tried to jar her back, thinking she was merely tired. Then, he began to wonder and worry about her. She continued to stare at him, into him, beyond him.
Without warning, she began to weep, throwing her arms around her brother. "Oh," she sobbed, "Father is gone, and soon I shall lose you as well!"
Stunned, he patted her head, just as he had all those years ago, when she was still a child and he a seminarian visiting home. "What is this?" he asked. "You are not going to lose me."
"Yes, yes I am... I know it."
He contemplated that for a time. "Even if... even if it is so..." a lump formed in his throat. Perhaps she was right. He knew life's unpredictability; he knew she might be right, whether God Himself had told her, he did not know. She continued to weep into his cassock sleeve.
"I know," she said, wiping her eyes, "I know I must trust." She put on a brave face, but her lip trembled and her eyes glistened.
"We must all," said he.
"But it is so difficult."
"It is another cross," he said.
"That is too easy to say."
"I know; that does not change the truth." He took her by the hands, facing her. "If what you say is so, then you must pray for me."
"Oh don't be foolish," she smiled a little. "You shall skip right on past purgatory, I just know it."
He grinned, "I doubt that very much. You must pray. And in turn I will do the same."
She nodded, but he could see the tears welling up again. He, who knew so well the humanity the lay behind his own cassock, knew also that beneath the habit was his little sister, the same girl he'd always known.
"Come," he said, "let's go back to our brothers and sisters. They shall need us tomorrow."
To the bartender he said, "Thanks, Patrick. Have a good night."
Patrick just nodded. "God bless," he said.
As they left the bar, the priest clasped his sister's hand. The wind howled and beat at them in the night beyond the shelter of the building. Turning their eyes to heaven they prayed with the words of the heart, and they walked into the night.
St. Benedict and St. Scholastica, pray for us.
A rush of cold air whistled by as the pub door opened. A few bachelors were lined up at the bar, drinking the death of Cupid on this lonely Sunday night, St. Valentine's day. Other than that, the place was empty.
Out of the wind and the cold came a pair that drew a stare from three or four, while the others, those with better manners, studied their pints intently. One of the gawkers made a lewd comment to the young woman, who blushed and turned her eyes to the ground. The jester's neighbor and erstwhile drinking buddy instantly backhanded him across the mouth, grabbed him by the collar, and hauled him toward the door.
"Wait, I ain't finished with my drink yet," protested the jester.
"I'll finish it for you," said the other.
"But I ain't paid!"
"I'll pay for you."
The chastising party yanked open the door and kicked the jester into the cold, sending him stumbling into a snow drift.
Back at the bar the man and woman were praying without words. The bartender nodded toward the door. "Sorry about him," he said, and, turning to the man who was returning to his stool, he added, "Thanks, Jack."
Jack nodded, "Wasn't right, what he said. I'm sorry for it, Sister." He gave her a slight bow and then returned to his pint.
The bartender looked the pair up and down, thoughtfully. "You're Charlie's kids aren't you? There aren't many who'd come in here wearing a cassock and a habit."
The brother and sister, for so they were, nodded.
"I'm sorry to hear about your father," said the bartender. "He was a good man."
"Thank you," said the priest.
"Can I get you a drink? You look like you could use it."
"Guinness for me. Sis?" he turned to the girl at his side.
"Cider, please."
The bartender poured a cider for the young nun. Then, he handed the priest his pint and waved away the proffered money. "No, not tonight. You just let me know if you need anything; I'll be here listening to these fools grumble about Valentines Day."
"Ah, I had forgotten that. To St. Valentine," the priest said, raising his glass.
The bartender poured himself a quick shot. "To Charlie Bantam," he said.
The brother and sister, or Father and Sister, touched their glasses, and then headed toward the end of the bar. The bartender, Patrick was his name, watched them thoughtfully. They were a strange pair, these two. They could almost have been father and daughter, for, though his boyish face belied the forty-five years that had passed for Charlie Bantam's eldest son, he was nearly eighteen years older than his sister, the baby of the family.
They spoke softly, torn between the joy of seeing one another for the first time in nearly two years and the sorrow of the occasion. They shared their stories, he of the parish life and she of the convent, of the people, the sinners and saints, the innocent and the broken. With few words they spoke; words carried the stories, but the love behind the stories spoke more deeply then the sounds of tongue and lips and teeth ever could.
Occasionally Patrick would refill the priest's glass, while the young Dominican nursed her cider throughout the night.
The night waned and the bar slowly emptied, until only the two young saints and the bartender remained. The young nun was laughing at something her brother had said. Suddenly she froze, staring straight ahead at her brother, who at first tried to jar her back, thinking she was merely tired. Then, he began to wonder and worry about her. She continued to stare at him, into him, beyond him.
Without warning, she began to weep, throwing her arms around her brother. "Oh," she sobbed, "Father is gone, and soon I shall lose you as well!"
Stunned, he patted her head, just as he had all those years ago, when she was still a child and he a seminarian visiting home. "What is this?" he asked. "You are not going to lose me."
"Yes, yes I am... I know it."
He contemplated that for a time. "Even if... even if it is so..." a lump formed in his throat. Perhaps she was right. He knew life's unpredictability; he knew she might be right, whether God Himself had told her, he did not know. She continued to weep into his cassock sleeve.
"I know," she said, wiping her eyes, "I know I must trust." She put on a brave face, but her lip trembled and her eyes glistened.
"We must all," said he.
"But it is so difficult."
"It is another cross," he said.
"That is too easy to say."
"I know; that does not change the truth." He took her by the hands, facing her. "If what you say is so, then you must pray for me."
"Oh don't be foolish," she smiled a little. "You shall skip right on past purgatory, I just know it."
He grinned, "I doubt that very much. You must pray. And in turn I will do the same."
She nodded, but he could see the tears welling up again. He, who knew so well the humanity the lay behind his own cassock, knew also that beneath the habit was his little sister, the same girl he'd always known.
"Come," he said, "let's go back to our brothers and sisters. They shall need us tomorrow."
To the bartender he said, "Thanks, Patrick. Have a good night."
Patrick just nodded. "God bless," he said.
As they left the bar, the priest clasped his sister's hand. The wind howled and beat at them in the night beyond the shelter of the building. Turning their eyes to heaven they prayed with the words of the heart, and they walked into the night.
St. Benedict and St. Scholastica, pray for us.
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