Charlie Bennett is a writer and attorney living in Louisville, Kentucky with his wife and small children.  His work has previously appeared in Fiction on the Web, pennyshorts, Yellow Mama, Corvus Review, and The Literary Hatchet.  On Twitter @WriterCBennett and at charliebennettstories.wordpress.com
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​                             A Father’s Love Removed
 
 
She turned the wheel slowly around incessant curves, winding through the hillocky countryside, sibilant tires sluicing water from small depressions in the neglected, pockmarked rural highway still saturated from Sunday morning showers.  The sun was beginning to find slanted passage through eastern-retreating clouds so she lowered her sunglasses down from her soft, conditioned gray hair and fixed them over her deep green eyes.  She felt ebullient, as she always did on her way to visit the man she called Father.
Her light and salvation had been incarcerated in the penitentiary since 1970 after he’d been found guilty of ordering the killing of eight people over three steamy, bloody summer nights in August of 1969.  She knew it was true, what they said he’d done, ordering the killings, but she felt he was only delivering those lost souls from sin and into the hands of God.  Father David was himself the son of God, God in the flesh, sent down to atone for the sins of mankind and to save the lost children of the world, such as Julie Tabor.  Kicked out of her own home by an unloving dad, Julie had found the nonjudgmental love for which she’d yearned when Father David picked her up on the side of a dusty Eureka, California road in the summer of 1967.  She’d belonged to him since—his faithful little girl.
Once each month she drove 200 miles from her coastal home to visit him on either a Saturday or Sunday.  They were allowed contact in a small visiting room but there was always one guard in the room and another outside the door.  She’d spend two hours with him, each minute preciously enriching but fleeting.  They spent some of the time praying together and much of it with Julie telling him about her life in the outside world and Father David giving her advice and encouragement.
He was already in the room waiting for her once she’d finally gotten through all the gates and security measures.  He looked more serious and less joyful to see her than usual.  They embraced as always.
“Father, what’s wrong?  You look sad.”
His long gray hair rested on the shoulders of his light blue prison uniform.  His white beard was growing shaggy.  She thought he looked sallow and gaunt.
“You think the ungodly, corrupt state has finally subjugated me my child?”  He smiled looking into her eyes, her soul, and squeezed her shoulders with hands connected to thin outstretched arms covered in loose, sagging skin.
“Of course not Father.  You just don’t look as pleased to see me as you usually do.  Is something troubling you?”
“Come, let’s sit at the table.”  He led her over to a small wooden table with matching chairs.  “I’m getting old dear.  My energy level is down today, though you have brought it up tremendously, just knowing you were coming.  I didn’t want to get out of bed until the thought of you broke through the clouds.”
She wore orange slacks with a top so closely approximating the slacks you’d have thought she was the prisoner in a standard-issue orange jumpsuit.  But she always wore orange, his favorite color, when she visited him—an attempt to brighten his day.  She wasn’t without style; in fact, she possessed such sartorial skills and taste that she’d been able to make her living managing clothing stores in high-rent districts on the coast. 
“Have you seen a doctor?  You need a checkup.”
Julie didn’t have any children.  She’d given birth to a baby at 19 but had given him up for adoption when he was two years old, after Father David and other members of his flock had gone to prison and “the family” had dissipated in spiritual dissolution amid heavy drug use, criminal issues and a lack of direction.  Some of the other girls had stayed true to Father David for a time but after a decade it was only Julie who remained from the old flock.  She alone had continued to visit Father David through the years, seeking his counsel, his love, while giving her love, praise and encouragement to the man she considered her only family member, her only loved one on a lonely planet inhabited by a dominating species that lived on fear, nurtured distrust and elected leaders who encouraged war because they knew the exercise of power would keep the masses afraid and yearning for even more bellicosity.  But not David.  He’d only told them to love each other.  Even when he had Cindy, Carol and Tommy kill those people, it was out of love—to release them from earthly sin and to foster a worldwide penitence.  They never talked about the killings.  There was no reason for them to talk about it; it had happened, and that was a long time ago in a different age.
“I just saw the doctor the other day.  I have cancer child.  It’s spread throughout my body.  I don’t have much time and I’ll probably be bedridden any time now.”  He reached across the table and took her tiny frail hands into his bearing amateur tattoos of crosses and the words “Son of God” and “Father.”
The oscitant guard shifted in his chair and looked toward the door.  She immediately began to weep, her face contorting with grief, unable to shield her face as Father David gripped her hands tightly.
“Now, now child.  It is the way of this earthly realm.  I am simply being called home to God.  This is his plan, to call me home so I can make a place for you.  You must try to not let grief overtake you.  I know you love me, and I love you, but that’s not going to ever change.  I will always be with you and I will always love you my child.  Always.  You will never lose me.  I will never lose you.  I know that too.”
Father David released her hands and she covered her face with them and sobbed, shaking uncontrollably, but attempting to keep quiet best she could aside from the sound of mucus.  He walked around the table and bent down to wrap his arms around her.  The guard generally only allowed a hug upon arrival and a goodbye hug.  He said nothing and allowed them to embrace as Julie rose from her chair and hugged Father David, burying her wet face in his chest leaving wet streaks, darkening the prison blue.
“It will be okay child.  Follow God as I have taught you.  Hear my voice.  I will be with you at all times.  You must remember that.  Do not despair.  I love you with all the love of heaven.  You are my darling one.”
They stayed like that, silent, squeezing each other, him softly rubbing her back, for a few minutes until he tired in his weakening condition and sidled around to the other side of the table and his chair.  She took a tissue from a box on the table, dried her eyes, cheeks and blew her nose.
He shifted the conversation to her job and her cat Izzy.  He always inquired about the latest exploits of her pet and never failed to remind her of the family’s loyal calico feline, Albert.  Father David always referred to him as “the cutest little bastard.”
Julie held it together until she realized visiting time was nearing the end.  She began to weep again.  He got up and held her.
“It’s okay my child.  You’re going to be okay.  We’ll be together again in heaven where his kingdom has no end.”
She looked up at him.
“I don’t want you to come again.  I don’t want you to see me so sick.  It will only cause you pain and it will cause me pain if I can’t speak to you.  I want us to say goodbye now, while I can do it.  Do you understand?”
She nodded and put her face in his chest again, sobbing.
“I love you my dear,” he said.
“I love you Father.”
He squeezed her, pulled away and walked out the door.
The guard outside the door escorted him down the hallway, back toward his cell.  She watched him disappear down the hallway and around a corner through the door’s window.  She wiped her eyes with a tissue as the guard rose from his indifferent stupor to escort her out of the facility.  He’d seen it all before and had no regard for the history of the alternatively spiritual or damned.  Just a bunch of fucking nutjobs as far as he was concerned.  Seriously misled, whacked-out nutjobs.
She drove back toward the coast in the essence of emptiness.  Her soul ached in anticipation of the imminent spiritual loss.  She felt untethered from the rock, hurtling through space without the benefit of the earth’s gravitational pull.  Her worn-out Chevy was a space ship of doom, delivering her back to a world which would now be completely void of love.  His love had always seemed the only one true enough to be worth having.  What would she do without him?  Who would care about her?  To whom would she look for love?  The clouds moved over and showered a light rain over the last stretch of her trip home.
The votary composed letters to him over the following weeks, pledging her undying devotion and attempting to reciprocate the comfort he’d always given her.  She never heard back from him.
She forgot an important inventory review for her bosses, grossly mishandled a disagreement with an employee and watched sales plummet at the store.  The bosses called her in for a performance review and expressed concern over her slipping job performance.  She explained to them her father was dying.  She was emotionally fragile.  She would do better.  Things were just upside down for the time being.  They suggested two weeks off, paid.  She was afraid this may be a prelude to them pushing her out, a chance to test one of the sales girls in her position to see if she could handle it.  Still, she accepted the offer because she was a dying flame whose oxygen source was choked.  She was going to have to do some searching in the midst of her grieving, to decide whether renewal was possible, or whether she should exit this existence, to follow Father David into the unknown.  She’d always enjoyed being alone, never really feeling alone because through all that space of those hundreds of miles, he was still there, still on this physical plane with her, their sensual presence with each other not a constant necessity but one they’d learned to store up mentally through monthly two-hour visits.  I am still here.  You are still here.  We are always together.  It is only a little air between us.  Space cannot affect telekinesis though because its properties are not preeminently governed by physical laws like distance.  But death was the grand physical law and the only one that shook her faith in their ability to be together mentally if not physically.  She questioned whether these doubts showed a lack of spiritual resolve, but she felt she wasn’t lacking in faith, that she wasn’t worried about her spiritual connection to him but instead her ability to seemingly have conversations with him in her head about all matters, not just spiritual ones.  She didn’t know if that required his physical life presence on this planet, in this existence.
As she looked through style magazines she began to notice that fashion models always carried the look of misery upon their face.  Young and miserable.  That covered the psychological targets she figured.  Young, because that’s what everyone wished for, and miserable, because that’s the emotion with which everyone in the civilized world can identify.  Comfortable, but wanting for something inexplicable which in turn left the misery.  She’s got what you want, looks and youth, but you can identify with her because she is still unhappy, like you.  Thus, she’s not so out-of-reach, so alien, that you can’t desire to be like her.  It finally made sense to her, and it was brilliant.  But did that many people really think they’d find salvation in appearance, clothes, style even though the stars they admired who possessed those things in spades obviously weren’t finding it?
During her second week off work she decided to drive up the coast to Xanadu, a wooded spiritual retreat that offered classes in various forms of transcendental meditation as well as other methods of spiritual engagement that would be referred to as new-age in the popular vernacular though a lot of it was stuff Julie had seen back in the sixties, hardly new-age by her personal definition.  She needed spiritual healing and thought she’d see what the place had to offer.  With Father David now out-of-reach corporeally, she was going to have to contemplate whether she could go it alone or whether there was another path inclusive of the help of others that would entice her to persevere, to keep living in physical form.
Having climbed the dirt path up to the particular cabin the welcome center had informed her would house a meditation class beginning in twenty minutes, she approached the door with hesitation, wondering if she would be much older than the other participants.  She soon saw she needn’t have worried about her gray head standing out.  It looked to her a roomful of sixties children, still believing in the power to transcend the shit storms of life through spiritual redemption, and not the kind they’d been forced to seek on dressed-up Sundays growing up with their parents in Eisenhower’s proprietary 1950’s.
Either an employee or volunteer handed her a mat and welcomed her with a smile discernible between thousands of bushy facial hairs.  His eyes twinkled like only those projecting the soul of a man living life in joy could.  She’d seen Father David’s eyes look like that mostly, except for that period before the trouble back in ’69, when his eyes had become beady, obsidian.  It was the only time she’d felt she’d ever seen him scared.  He appeared terrified for about a month before he’d ordered the killings.  He stayed that way until he was taken into custody and then the darkness had receded and confinement brought the magic back to his eyes, the warmth and comfort back to his countenance.  He twinkled again, seemingly with an even greater fury than before.  Nothing seemed to touch him, as though he was as unaccountable to this world as any outlying body of the universe.  In prison, his soul had become free again, like it seemed when she’d met him on the roadside, hitchhiking her way back to San Francisco.
The touch of a hand on her shoulder surprised her as she sat on the mat with her legs folded and crossed in front.  She looked up to her left and felt a twinge of pain burn her neck as she recognized a face she’d not seen for decades, one that age had changed in its subtle ways, but not in any cancelling measures.  It was Karen, her former sister from the family, one of those who’d stayed true to David for years after his imprisonment but who’d given him up eventually, forsaking him in Julie’s eyes.
“Karen?”
“Yes, Julie, it is you!  I knew it was.  Where are you living now?  Have you been here before?”
Julie rose to speak to Karen, out of respect and necessarily so that she wouldn’t strain her neck more than she’d already done.  The former sisters caught up on what each knew about former family members before Karen asked her to stay after the program so she could speak to her about “something important.”
Julie couldn’t clear her mind as instructed during the meditation.  Seeing Karen had been the equivalent of pouring an acid mixture into the network of synapses in her brain, a disrupting irritation burning any and all chances at shutting down the firing of neurons across the virulent synaptic highways more serving of resentment, jealousy and contempt.  Karen had always seemed Father David’s favorite, the one he sent for more often, with whom he spent more private time.  And for what?  To have her forsake him in the end?  Father David never brought Karen up but Julie could see the devastating hurt when Karen first abandoned him and it didn’t go away quickly, but only slowly gave way to acceptance and an even greater calm.
She quickly put her mat away and waited for Karen outside the cabin.  They found a bench under a gangly black cottonwood.
“I know about Father David’s illness,” Karen said.  “Someone from the prison found me and called.  He’d asked them to get in touch with me, to ask me to come visit him.  He wanted to see me before he dies.  I told them I can’t do that.”
Julie was stunned.  She couldn’t speak immediately.  Why would Father David have asked to see one who’d shunned him?  Why hadn’t he mentioned this desire to Julie and charged her with finding Karen and delivering this message?
“Why did you desert him Karen?  Why did you abandon him?”
Karen looked away, into the trees.  “I finally started to deal with the pain we’d caused those people.  The family of the victims of those crazy killings.  All those hard drugs we were doing led us all into delusion, especially Father David.  I finally realized how wrong he’d been.  We’d been.  I started to deal with the pain the family had caused.”
There was nothing Julie could say in response.  She realized she’d never dealt with the pain of the victims’ family members.
“Do you know what he said to me right after the killings?” Karen asked.  “I asked him why those people and he said, ‘Because if you’re going to feed in this world, you have to feed on the misery of others and it is not for us to choose those others.  It’s just a matter of fate as to who’s put on our plate.  We have had to feed the world with those people’s souls so that the world may wake up and ask God for forgiveness for its materialistic ways.’”
They sat in silence for a minute before Julie abruptly announced she had to get back home and took several steps away from the bench before quickly turning to say goodbye to Karen so she wouldn’t be forced to touch her.  Julie retreated quickly down the path, straight to her car and down the curving coastline.  She played nothing but Simon and Garfunkel all the way home and stopped crying long enough to get a chicken sandwich at Kentucky Fried Chicken which she purchased in the drive-thru and ate on the road, sprinkling crumbs over her chest and lap.
After lunch the next week at work, she received a call from the prison.  Father David had died.  He’d left his body to her to do as she saw fit.  She kept her composure long enough to ask one of the girls to cover for her before locking herself in the bathroom off the stockroom.  She closed the toilet lid and sat down, weeping as softly as she could while covering her face with two handfuls of toilet paper.  But she couldn’t keep it quiet.  There was a guttural moaning of anguish that vibrated her skull and cervical vertebrae.
The strange thing to her was that she wasn’t thinking of Father David.  She was remembering Christmas Eve of 1966.  Her dad had given her younger sister Tammy the matching necklace and earrings she’d been clamoring for before saying to Julie, “There’s something under there for you too.  I don’t know why.  It’s not like you deserve it with the bad name you’ve given the family.”
“Now Charles,” her mother had weakly admonished.  She’d left the present under the tree and had gone to her room in tears.  Nobody had followed her.  She didn’t come out of her room until after midnight, when the rest of the family had gone to bed.  She grabbed her present and took it back to her room.  She carefully unwrapped the gift so as not to wake anyone.  An ugly sweater.  They knew she hated sweaters didn’t they?  Maybe they didn’t.  They never listened to her about anything.  Nobody had ever listened to her about anything except Father David.
After work she drove home through barricades of concrete and the straight-lined organizational system of an inorganic world unable to see the natural rhythm of the universe.  She turned on the radio and during a news break it was announced that Father David had died.  They labeled him “the mastermind behind several murders in 1969.”
She wondered if anyone listening was considering what would be done with his body.  For the first time it occurred to her his body may simply ascend into heaven, accompanying his soul, leaving no physical remains.  He was the Son of God after all.  If he didn’t ascend as they say Jesus did, she knew where to sprinkle his ashes.   They had a special place in the desert.  He’d led her there when she was a girl.
She could still hear his voice absorbed by the desert sand:
“We can only survive by loving one another.  We must take care of each other.”
 
 

     
 
                                                         Marsha Meets the Train
 

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           Marsha Walters sat in the window seat of the morning commuter train. She stared at the suburban outskirts of the city sweeping by. The saga was coming to a close today, but she realized this was only the beginning. Her life as she had known it had come unceremoniously to a dead halt and now, at the age of forty-one, she would have to start all over again. She had heard of turmoil. She had read about it in the newspapers. But nothing, absolutely nothing had ever prepared her for the life-altering upset of getting a divorce. It was like somebody had ripped out her heart and stomped on it. Could anything be worse than this?
          "How are you doing?"
         The voice sounded far off. It sounded as if the person was talking to somebody else not to her. She was so wrapped up in her thoughts — she was so distracted — it was a miracle she paid attention to anything at all. She had almost missed the train. She couldn't remember where she had put her ticket and had to look through not only her purse but every pocket in her coat and clothes. After getting on the wrong car, she had to walk through several coaches to find her seat. It was all so surreal. It was a nightmare. She had no idea how she was going to survive this.
           "Marsha? Are you okay?"
          The voice sounded a little more earnest. She turned from the window and looked at the man sitting beside her. Edward Jones was a name she had found in the Yellow Pages. It was a wild stab at finding a lawyer, any lawyer, who would take up her cause and defend her interests. She had no idea who this man was, what his credentials were, or whether he was a good lawyer or a bad one or even an honest man. Fortunately, choosing Edward had turned out to be the one thing she had done right since this nightmare started. He had been knowledgeable about divorce, pro-active in pursuing her best interests, and kind toward her. She very much remembered him being kind. She had been stunned, flustered, angry, depressed, and a host of other emotions which many times overwhelmed her. Her judgement was clouded by this churning mix of confused feelings and many times she was frozen into inaction. Edward had helped her get unstuck, get focused on the matter at hand, and work to resolve the negotiations in her best interests. When it came to negotiating for her, Edward was a Rottweiler. He was thorough; he was prepared; and he backed up everything he said with case law so her husband and his lawyer didn't stand a chance of refuting anything. Edward threatened over and over again to go to court citing other cases which would prove his side of the argument beyond a shadow of a doubt. The fighting went on for months but finally, the other side caved. Obviously he had made a compelling case and the other lawyer must have convinced her husband to settle and pay the price instead of going to court and risk paying more.
           "I'm fine." She was tired. She felt drained. The months of negotiation and the fighting had taken their toll and she didn't seem to have an ounce of energy left. "I'm a little distracted."
            "You won, Marsha," he said. "You got yourself a good and fair settlement."
            "I've come to realize that. But it doesn't completely wipe out the divorce; the end of the life I once knew and expected to have for the rest of my life."
          He nodded. "Divorce is one of the hardest of life's lessons. Your world is turned upside down. You try to make sense of it but fail. In the end, you can't make sense of it any more than you can make sense of love itself. Why do we fall in love? Why do we fall out of love? Who knows? At least the process you've gone through with me attempts to objectively deal with the end of the marriage and the division of your collective life. It doesn't mend the heart, but hopefully it will make your situation more comfortable."
          She sighed. "Thank you. You've said that before and I hope one day to better grasp the sense of your words. I understand them intellectually but I'm not sure I get it emotionally. Bill was a good man. Bill’s still a good man. But it's like one day the man I loved turned into some sort of crazy person, a stranger to me. Where did all of this come from?"
       Shifting in his seat, he leaned toward her and spoke softly. "For every door that closes, another opens. Yes, it's hackneyed. Yes, it's a platitude. But I hope you will come in time to see it's true. The world’s a big place, Marsha, and there are many opportunities out there waiting for you." He turned his head to look at her. "Are you still seeing the counselor?"
        "Yes. Although I sometimes wonder if he might not be ready to slit his wrists having to listen to me drone on and on and on about the same issues over and over again."
            "You need to give it time."
           "I suppose. It's just that sometimes I feel in such a hurry for something good to happen. How long can anybody feel sad?"
           The train had noticeably changed speed: it was slowing down. “I think we’ve got another five minutes to the station,” Edward said. “We’ll catch a cab to the other lawyer’s offices.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “I’d say we’ll have the paperwork signed and be back out within the hour.”
          The intercom buzzed and a distorted voice announced the station. Some people got out of their seats and began rummaging through overhead compartments. A few walked down the aisle to line up at the exit.
          The two of them remained seated as the train slowed to a crawl. Edward patted Marsha’s hand. "It will all be over soon."
        She nodded but said nothing. Her nineteen-year marriage had come to an end. She felt alone. She felt scared. She had no idea what tomorrow was going to be like and how she would sort everything out. What was her new single life going to be like? She’d have to manage a household by herself: fix things; arrange to get things fixed; pay the bills; and of course go to work. Will I date someday? Will any man be interested in a forty-one-year-old woman? She felt old. She felt used and worn out. God, what a nightmare.
         The train came to a full stop. More people headed toward the exit. Edward looked out the window at the station platform and looked down the length of the car at the line of people. He glanced out the window again and stood up. He opened the overhead compartment and retrieved his briefcase. Looking to the exit, he could see people were now getting off.
         "Shall we?" he said.
        Marsha sighed, "Okay." She half stood up then stepped out from underneath the overhead compartment. Once in the aisle, she stood upright and walked toward the exit. The line had disappeared.
        She walked out the door that was propped open, stepped across the connecting platform and took a step into the next car.
        "Marsha?" Edward said.
She stopped and turned around. She looked at the open door. "Oh." She walked back and stepped down to the station platform.
         Edward followed. "Let's go through the station and see if we can catch a taxi." He moved ahead and held the door. Marsha crossed the waiting area and walked out to the street. She stood silently staring off into space.
          "Hmmm, I don't see any cabs,” he said. “Let's walk over to the other side and see if we can catch a cab there. I now realize the other side is closer to where we're going anyway."
       Edward took her elbow and Marsha let him guide her up the street. They walked the length of the station then turned to the railway crossing. The flashing red lights were on and the bell was sounding. He looked and saw nothing other than their train. "I thought they would have deactivated the crossing. Let's cross through and head over there." He pointed to the station on the other side of the tracks.
          Edward walked around the pedestrian gate and started over the crossing. Marsha blindly followed. Just then the horn of a train was heard somewhere down the tracks. "Let's hurry," Edward said. Marsha half walked half ran to keep up with him. She kept her head down studying the crossing to avoid stumbling on the tracks. It will all be over soon.
        The horn now sounded continuously. The two of them crossed the first set of tracks where their train still remained when Edward glanced to his left and stopped. Marsha continued while staring down in front of her. One step at a time.
 
                                                                         ***
 
           Carl surveyed the tracks and gleefully rubbed his hands together. Today would be a memorable highlight of his hobby career as railroad enthusiast. He and his son would be witnessing the end of an era: the final run of the EMD E9 locomotive. Due to a shrinking passenger service, the railroad had decided to retire this engine and Carl wanted to video tape this last express run from the suburbs to the center of the city.
            It was the perfect vantage point. The camera was mounted on a tripod pointing at an angle down the railroad lines toward the main station. The microphone was sensitive enough to capture all the sounds from the horn to the rumbling of the cars as they roared down the rails. This was going to be a great day and a great clip.
          “Double check the focus, son.”
          “Okay, Dad.” Freddy leaned over a peered through the view finder. “Focus, okay. The shot is covering the station perfectly.”
           “Battery?”
           “It shows fully charged. Memory is at one hundred percent. We’re good to go.”
         Carl smiled at his son. “Excellent, Freddy. This is going to be a perfect record of a last moment in history.” As he glanced at his watch, a horn sounded in the distance and the crossing activated. “Right on time.” The red lights flashed and the bells clanged as the gates came down on either side of the station. “Start the camera, Freddy.”
          “I’m on it.” Freddy pressed the shutter and bent over to look again through the view finder.
         The two of them had watched the local passenger service pull into the station five minutes ago and followed the people debarking and swarming over the platform as they made their way to the south side terminal or walked around the front of the train to cross the tracks to the north side. At the sound of the crossing bells, those people still on the crossing looked up and down the tracks trying to see what was coming as they scurried out of the way. A diesel horn blasted again but much closer.
           Carl stood with hand raised over his eyes, gazing down the tracks. He felt a little excited. This would be a great shot, a once in a lifetime shot. The diesel horn let out a blast and the sound continued uninterrupted. He knew the train was roaring into the station.
           A movement to one side caught his eye. A man and a woman hurried from the gate onto the main part of the crossing, moving from the south side to the north. The diesel horn was now screaming. The couple arrived at the track where the express was coming through. Three hundred thousand pounds of locomotive roared into the station at sixty miles per hour. The man turned, saw the train and stopped. The woman walked right to the edge of the tracks and the hurtling mass of metal slammed into her.
           Carl heard a distinct thump and had little time to comprehend that several objects flew directly at him. He instinctively ducked, but something hit his leg and knocked him to the ground. As he heard several screams, he raised himself on his elbows and shook his head. His eyes focused on the ground beside him. He looked but he didn't comprehend what he was looking at. It was a detached human arm.
           Carl looked up to see his son standing with his mouth agape. Freddy was looking behind him. Carl turned and looked the other way. There was a body. Judging by the dress, he guessed it was the woman who had crossed in front of the train. The right arm was gone. He blinked then stared. He realized that the right half of the head was missing as if something had torn a big chunk out of the skull.
          Carl tilted his head down and threw up. He could hear people running up to where he was. Somewhere, somebody yelled, "Phone the police!"
          He coughed and spit. His mouth burned from the stomach acids. He tried to sit up and a wave of pain went through his right leg. It was at an odd angle. There was more pain. He wondered if it was broken.
          "Are you okay?"
           Carl looked up at a policeman. "I think my leg is broken."
     The officer crouched down and examined the leg. "Don't move. I've requested an ambulance." He looked at the tripod and the camera. "Were you filming?"
           "Yeah, I believe I caught the whole thing."
           "Good Lord. We're going to want to take a look at that." The policeman stood. "Just hang in there. Don't move. Help is on the way."
          Carl watched the policeman approach a man standing over the body and ask, "Do you know this woman?"
           The man continued to look at Marsha. "Yes."
           "Are you related?"
           "I’m her divorce lawyer, Edward Jones."
Carl saw the officer scrunch up his face.
          "We were on our way to sign the final papers,” Edward said. “Marsha was going to be a free woman."
         "You mean they weren't yet divorced?" The policeman looked at the body. "Well there's one lucky guy who got out of paying alimony." He paused then turned back to Edward. "We'll need to get a statement. We'll need you to identify the body. Don't go anywhere."
            The policeman looked again at Carl. “Hang in there.”
            Carl heard a siren in the distance. It was getting louder.
 
                                                                        END

​Ruth Z. Deming, winner of a Leeway Grant for Women Artists, has had her work published in lit mags including Hektoen International, Creative Nonfiction, Haggard and Halloo, and Literary Yard. A psychotherapist and mental health advocate, she runs New Directions Support Group for people with depression, bipolar disorder, and their loved ones. Viewwww.newdirectionssupport.org. She runs a weekly writers' group in the comfy home of one of our talented writers. She lives in Willow Grove, a suburb of Philadelphia. Her blog is www.ruthzdeming.blogspot.com.  

​                                       DO NOT ENTER
 
 
          She’d read in the Cleveland Plain Dealer that Euclid Beach, the famous amusement park, was being demolished. It would be open for two days to allow the curious one last look. And of course she was going. But not just yet. She wanted to experience the park alone, to have a tete a tete with The Laughing Lady, to peek inside The Fun House, to view The Flying Turns, one of four roller coasters. She wanted her memories to carry her away.
And visit she did.
          She was no longer young. She no longer lived in the lovely four-bedroom house in Chagrin Falls, with her husband and six children. A home so lovely it was featured in a magazine with the front lawn made all of English ivy (“no mowing!” she laughed in the article) and an arbor covered with small English tea roses as guests traveled up the sidewalk to the house.
          Her home now was an assisted living facility on “Death and Dying Row” as it was known. What did she care? Her life was over. Playing Bingo, exercising with Miss Pat who told her “you have the strongest legs here” and having wheelchair races out in the parking lot was hardly her idea of being alive. If she could snuff herself out like a candle, that she would, but the staff shadowed her and the other residents, so the idea became futile until now.
          She wrote a note in her shaky handwriting and buried it in her lingerie drawer. What a laugh, she thought. Lingerie for the likes of her! What was she now, eighty-eight years old. Her daughter Leslie was apparently the one assigned to the bedroom attire category, while son Michael would bring her books to read. She was sorry she would not have a chance to finish “Around the World in Eighty Days” by Jules Verne. She hoped they would give it to someone who would appreciate it.
          Buccaneer Manor was a hard place from which to escape. As its name implied, the theme of the place was cowboy lore. Posters of Roy Rogers, John Wayne and singing Gene Autry adorned the walls. After a rather delicious breakfast of a cheese omelet over whole wheat toast, she approached the aide.
          They nodded to one another.
          “Enjoy your breakfast, Mrs. Polenski?”
          “As always, Angie. The food is the best part of this place.”
          “How can I help you then,” asked Angie.
          “I’d like to take a little stroll in the garden,” she said.
          Angie said that would be fine. She was simply to wait a few moments while an unoccupied aide was fetched.
          “I understand,” said Mrs. Polenski. “I’ll just be outside in the healthy sunshine.”
          And so she walked out, free as a bird, picking up speed as she made her way with a silver cane, with a bird on top, her daughter Becky had bought her. Finally she made a turn where she knew she couldn’t be seen.
          As she walked, she thought of all the dead Polish refugees killed by the Nazis in World War Two. Both she and her husband Janesch were Polish, here before the war, proud Polacks, who withstood the cruel jokes – “How many lightbulbs does it take?” – and becoming well-established in their city of Cleveland, Ohio.
          Janesch was first apprenticed to a master printer and then finally bought his own print shop, where orders arrived unstoppable. This is how they bought their fancy house in Chagrin Falls, where she raised the six children.
          Euclid Beach was getting closer. She could smell the fishy smell of Lake Erie and then heard the unmistakable sounds of the demolition machines. Her heart quickened. Ah, to see the old place again after forty years.
          At Buccaneer, birdsong had been the cheerful sound at the home. Dozens of painted birdhouses swung in the yards and residents were permitted to go out and put food in the feeders. Food the squirrels could not get, though she knew back in Warsaw, where people were starving, people would eat anything, birds, rats, squirrels, anything to keep alive and defeat the bastards who wanted nothing more than to conquer the world and spread evil like black tar all across the land.
          Indeed the sounds coming from the amusement park were like that of the war. Demolition instruments that exploded – she could even see the black smoke – but she wasn’t interested in that. Those were men’s things. All she wanted was to see her beloved park again.
          As she approached, she found three machines that were so engrossed in their digging and swiveling around they paid no attention to her. Good. She made her way to The Laughing Lady and stood outside the glass window. With her hands on her hips, she commiserated with the Laughing Lady who soon would be silenced for all time.
          It would be far too dangerous to step inside. Although she felt like a waltzing girl in Warsaw, Mrs. Polenski constantly had to remind herself she was an old lady.  
          There must be somewhere to sit. She was exhausted. A pine bench waited  outside a ticket booth. She sat herself down and looked up at the sky. She and her children, when they were young, would play a game. What shapes were the clouds?
          She was too nervous to think today. She tried to quiet the shaking of her hands by squeezing them together. The weather was as fine as it gets in the Cleveland suburbs, known for their sudden thunder storms that shook the houses, and yearly tornadoes where the sky turned a ghastly shade of purple.
          She walked over to a refreshment stand and its faded sign, “Cotton Candy, Popcorn Balls, Fresh Peanuts, Hot Dogs, Candy Kisses.”
          Those kisses were everyone’s favorite, the secret ingredient was vinegar – though if they stuck in your teeth and yanked out a filling, it was off to Benjamin Bell, dentist. You left his office with the flavor of Lavoris in your mouth and if you were a young ‘un, a prize from prize drawer.
          Would she have the stamina to travel to the Flying Turns, the best of the roller coasters? Only one way to find out.
          Mrs. Polenski picked up her cane and walked carefully along the strewn surface of the ground, pockmarked with every manner of litter to be found. It reminded her of photos she had seen on late night television of the surface of the moon.
          You will not fall, you will not fall, she told herself, as she marched along, resting on benches, although it was difficult arising from them.
          The Flying Turns looked nothing like in her memory. Certainly it was smaller than when she and the children waited behind the turnstile, which, as she approached, saw was missing. She craned her neck upward and remembered what her little Edward had said when he got off, “Mommy, I think I passed out on there.”
          “Oh, hush up,” she had said. “What an imagination you have.”
          Eddie had grown up to be a professor of art history at John Carroll University, a Catholic college, right there in Cleveland. He visited her to this day, but not with his sunny blond hair. He had gone completely bald.
          Mrs. Polenski pulled her sweater around her with a shiver and walked slowly back to the entrance of Euclid Beach Park. Huge wrought-iron gates flickered under the sunlight in the distance. Ah, the beauty of this world. How she would miss it when the time came.
          As she approached the fat, laughing lady, who looked, not like a witch, but rather like an old washerwoman dressed in a white apron – gone gray with age – over a red-checkered dress, a chill of loneliness floated over her.
          “I hate being old!” she yelled out loud.
          Twice.
          She thought no one could hear her.
          She stepped inside the Fun House where barely any light penetrated. She knew what she would do. Carefully, she sat down in a cart, which in its heyday pulled thrillseekers along, spinning like a whirling dervish while screams of fright and laughter filled the darkness.
          She felt the frayed strap that all were required to wear. She pulled it around her waist, like her dad or one of her older siblings had done for her. Closing her eyes and leaning her head back, she fell asleep. It mattered not what happened to her. Preferably, though, she hoped the Fun House would be her tomb. 
          Her cries had been heard. One of the excavating machines had stopped a moment to recalibrate.
          How, wondered Ralph, had anybody gotten in? They’d used enough yellow caution tape to wind to California and back. With the two other machine operators, they searched the grounds, heading toward the center of the scream.
          There she was strapped up in the seat of The Fun House. The three men and their families had all taken many a trip to Euclid Beach Park. At first they thought it was a sacrilege coming here to destroy it, but damn, the money was fine.
          Shining a flashlight on Mrs. Polenski, Ralph watched her snore, a loud man-sized snore that shook her old body. He, Sonny and Mike began to laugh out loud. She woke up with a start.
          “Oh, for Chrissakes,” she said. “What a way to wake me. I was having the best dream of my life.”
          They were all silent a moment.
          “I dreamt I’d gone to Euclid Beach Park and was eating a hot dog with mustard and sauerkraut.”
          The men laughed. She was angry.
          “Tell you what,” said Ralph. “We’re gonna drive you home, wherever that is, but first we’ll stop at Levy’s Hot Dog Stand and buy you whatever you want.”
          Finally, the old woman smiled.
          “I’d like that,” she said. “I’d like that very much.”
          She even got them to promise they’d visit her once a month in Buccaneer Manor.
         
          

​Charles Hayes, a Pushcart Prize Nominee, is an American who lives part time in the Philippines and part time in Seattle with his wife. A product of the Appalachian Mountains, his writing has appeared in Ky Story’s Anthology Collection, Wilderness House Literary Review, The Fable Online, Unbroken Journal, CC&D Magazine, Random Sample Review, The Zodiac Review, eFiction Magazine, Saturday Night Reader, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Scarlet Leaf Publishing House, Burning Word Journal, eFiction India, and others.

       

​                                                                We Are               
 
 
Cutting the Bohol-Siquijor gap, Carloi and Rosa Santiago lead their band of Sama Bajau sea gypsies through the dark choppy waters of the Philippine Sea. Dan Chan and his liaison banglo, or family boat, sail off their port side and slightly behind, using lights at night and flags by day to keep good visual contact with the tribe. It is an old system that they have long practiced and it has proved its worth many times. Off their starboard bow, far beyond the flashing navigational lights of a Bohol outlier, the fuzzy glow of Tagbilaran obscures the star sprinkled sky. From his rudder seat aft, locked on the constellations above the Western horizon and tacking for the central coast of Cebu and its  Queen City of the South, Carloi considers what they must do.
     A large foreign fishing trawler that lies at anchor in the Mactan Channel of Cebu has brought them North from the waters off the Northern tip of Mindanao to these crowded shipping lanes where culture and commerce are a lot different from their home seas. It is a distasteful sail for them but they must do what they can to remedy a situation that affronts the senses of all their people.
     Coming aft from the small living quarters with the step and poise of a life at sea, Rosa perches on the gunwale beside Carloi and hands him half of a papaya before biting into the other half. Many are the night snacks that they have shared from this spot while following the glory of the stars.
     Quietly enjoying her fruit and listening to the pleasant pops of the mainsail as the wind quarters to and fro, Rosa ties up her hair and watches Carloi as he guides, intent on his tack and the directions of the blow. As he ties off the rudder and reaches for her hand, Rosa brings up the unpleasant subject that has put them so far at sea.
     “Lita said that she could see the foreign fishermen beating Rolo after they pulled him from the sea. It wasn’t enough that they ran through and sank his banglo, they needed to kidnap him as well.”
     “Nor enough that they have sucked up all the fish of our waters,” Carloi replies. “Word around the Islands is that they have Rolo in their brig and intend to take him back to their country to make an example of.”
     Rosa searches the stars as if there she can find a meaning for this tragedy. Finding none she turns to her husband.
     “But we are going to fix that, aren’t we Carloi?”
     Looking at his young and beautiful wife, still almost a girl, Carloi feels his fire of indignation spread to his loins. Sliding his tongue up Rosa’s thighs, his desire is further waxed by her sea-spiced scent.
     “You can bet all your beauty,” he says, “and my unerring response to it, Rosa. We will fix it.”
     Mussing Carloi’s hair as she surrenders to the sensations of his touch, Rosa knows that her papaya will again bring her the pleasure of its fruit.   
     Bringing his eyes up to the look of his wife’s want, Carloi watches her  unbutton and pull down his shorts.
     Firmly greeted by the object of her desire, Rosa covers it with a sheen of spittle, drops her own shorts, and folds over the rudder arm. Watching Orion’s belt flame from the sky to light the niceties of her mind, she delightfully welcomes her hunter home.
 
As the banglos enter the greater port area of Cebu at mid-day, a large passenger ferry slowly passes on its way to the dock. People lining the rails toss coins to the sea, watching in amusement as the gypsy children dive from their banglos, follow the tumbling glitter down and snatch it before it gets too deep. Sometimes the glitter, tossed by a good hearted patron, turns out to be something more valuable than a peso coin. It is the custom here.
     Carloi watches this spectacle with mixed emotion, not begrudging the ferry passengers their enjoyment, nor the skill and enjoyment of the tribal children, but aware of the caste values that bring it all together. Mostly he just tries to let it be as he reconnoiters the area. Far into the channel, half way toward Mactan, he can see the fishing vessel that holds Rolo. That is where his real attention lies.
     After getting a layout of the waters in his mind, he calls Dan Chan to and instructs him to position all the banglos slightly down the  coast, ready for a night departure. Carloi and Rosa will join them after they scout the waters of the channel near the fishing vessel.
    
Using only the small forward jib,  the couple meander into the channel and around some larger freighters to close on the trawler. Passing about 100 meters off its port side, they see a loaded launch departing from a set of metal stairs that lead directly to an open hatch on the lower deck. Having already learned enough to know that most likely this hatch leads to the deck where the brig is located, Carloi starts putting together his plans for the raid. Thinking that it would be nice to do more than free Rolo, he envisions a lasting impression of vengeance as well.
     Moving quickly to the far side of an anchored freighter nearby, Carloi pops the main and starts tacking South to rendezvous with the tribe. Getting the raid set in his mind, he looks forward to Rosa who is handling the jib.
     “That was perfect, Rosa. The most gorgeous fo’c’sle figurehead I’ve ever seen and you handled the jib as well as ever. We can do it tonight. The crew has apparently gone ashore and the welcome mat is out.”
     Letting the jib go according to Carloi’s tack, Rosa comes aft to the rudder and sits on a nearby bench. Her face shows none of her husband’s enthusiasm as she stares off to the open water.
     Knowing that there are thoughts that need to be spoken, Carloi touches her knee and says, “Tell me, Rosa.”
     Bringing her eyes back to the man she loves, she does not speak at first. She seems only to surrender to this moment and their being together. As if it is a memory that must develop in her mind.
     Carloi knows his wife and simply waits for her reply, knowing what the gist of it will be already.
     Clearing her throat, Rosa finally says, “Please be careful Carloi, that was not a welcome mat and they might kill you if you are caught. Or probably worse, take you off with Rolo. I think that a rescue can be done as well but if it is different tonight don’t push, I need you.”
     Smiling, Carloi takes Rosa’s hand with one of his own, and touches her cheek with the other.
     “You are right dear heart. There will be no welcome and the utmost care will be taken. If you will, you will hold the banglo and Dan Chan and I will go aboard. If the risk is too great, we will abort.”
     Without hesitation Rosa replies, “As always, I will. That is why we are.”
 
Taking the fleetest banglo and running without lights, Carloi, Rosa, and Dan Chan enter the Mactan Channel under a half moon in the wee hours of the morning and stay to the shadows of the larger ships anchored there. Riding the fo’c’sle for the best vision ahead, the two men scout the waters until Rosa steers them alongside the trawler launch and boarding stairs. The boarding hatch is closed but a sliver of light indicates that it is not locked. After belaying the banglo to the launch for a quick release, Dan Chan and Carloi leap over and scale the stairs to the hatch. Squeezing through the hatch, they look at each other with large eyes and adjust to the light. One passage way forward appears to lead to the sleeping quarters while the passageway aft heads toward the fantail and the probable location of the brig. Following the aft passageway on bare feet, quite as cat paws, they come to the brig, right where they had hoped it would be. Lying on a drop hinged iron rack, Rolo stares at the bulkhead until his peripheral vision picks up his two friends creeping in. Almost unable to believe his eyes, Rolo, with mouth agape, rolls to his feet, comes to the cell door and points to a secured cabin door across the way. A set of keys hang from it and snoring can be heard coming from within. Taking the keys with two hands, Carloi proffers them to Rolo. He does not accept them but points to a single key among several. Using this key, Carloi opens the cell door but the latch clangs as he does so. The snoring immediately ceases, and the three tribesmen freeze, prepared for the worst. Just when they again start to withdraw, the door where the keys had hung suddenly flies open and a huge hairless man with North Asian features appears, a large leaded nightstick in hand. Carloi and Dan Chan are on him, both stuffing chloroform soaked rags from a retired tribal medical worker to his face and in his open mouth. Rolo has his legs until, like a Pisa Tower that can lean no more, he crashes to the deck, unconscious.  The noise is petrifying but they remain as calm as possible, placing their rags near his face, far enough from his air passage to do no lasting damage.
     Quickly and silently they go back out the exit hatch and into the launch. Rolo and Dan Chan bounce over to Rosa and the waiting banglo while Carloi sticks a block of C4, bartered from some Moro’s, to the bulkhead of the launch below the water line. Inserting a 3 minute fused cap, Carloi lights it and jumps to the banglo. Pulling the lash loose, he hops to the rudder while Dan Chan runs up the main and Rolo sets the jib. Rosa, excited as everybody else and wearing a number 10 Cheshire smile, scurries to the living quarters and secures a first aid kit for any unnoticed injuries. 
     Catching a rare night blow the banglo mates are tacking South out of the channel by the time a flash of orange followed by a loud crump travels across the water to their senses. Carloi watches through his binoculars as the trawler lights start to come on and the launch goes down bow first, pulling the metal boarding stairs with it. In the back lit hatch he can barely make out the huge turn key, arms spread to the hatch edges, like a crucified one, looking out.
 
                                                     ***
 
In an isolated Siquijor cove facing the Mindanao Sea and the stretch of Ocean that will take them back to their native waters the Sama Bajau rest and welcome Rolo back with a feast. Several small fires dot the white sands along the azure waters of the cove, all  situated more or less near one large bonfire. Spirits are high and bamboo canisters of tuba, or coconut wine, pass freely among the various groups. Children frolic and dive for tidbits of sea life to eat with the baking Katambak, a delicious white fleshed fish wrapped in banana leaves and buried in the sand under the mounting coals of the smaller fires. Rice, as always, is plentiful and fresh fruits gathered from the jungle by Rosa and Dan Chan’s wife, Mary, are cleaned and ready for snacking. Luck and life are good.
     Always off a little bit, whether it be from the weight of leadership or the preference for a more subdued child free relaxation, Carloi and Rosa watch Rolo and his wife, Elsie, approach with their two girls, Epi and Louella. Rosa rises and quickly places nipa mats around the small fire for their guest. Once the niceties of embracing the same fire are done Rolo, with glistening eyes, nods to his girls. Each holds a gift wrapped in batik.
     Louella, the oldest at ten, stands and carries her gift around the fire to Carloi. Placing it in his lap she says, “For bringing our father home and giving us a banglo to live in please accept this from us to always keep your home safe.”
     Her part done with grace, Louella quickly bows, scurries back around the fire, and drops to her seat as eight year old Epi stands, carries her gift to Rosa, and places it in her lap. Looking to her mother, whose nod unlocks her memory, Epi turns to Rosa and says, “For bringing papa back to where he loves to be please accept this from us to keep you strong.” Forgetting to bow but delighted to have gotten through it, Epi bolts back to her seat, her giggle like the sweet chimes of a monk’s wind instrument.
     Smiles and warmth crisscross the fire, its yellow flickering flames casting wet diamonds in eyes all around.
     After a pause for composure, Carloi nods to Rosa.
     “You first.”
     Lifting the flaps of batik one at a time, Rosa exposes a hand weaved bamboo platter, its four corners afire with varnished over bougainvillea blooms. It holds a Crystal covered dish of choice cuts of glistening brown lechon, or roasted pig. Clearly moved, Rosa looks to her friends.
     “Thank you, dear people. The rudder will move like a feather because of this. Such a nice gift.”
     Rolo, rubbing his face first, as if in aggravation, says, “You are welcome, as much as a life is worth, and beyond.”
     All eyes turn to Carloi.
     Smiling and nodding to those across the fire, Carloi unwraps the gift delicately. It is lighter and of more irregular proportions than the other. Lifting the last fold of cloth, Carloi reveals a beautiful hard carved Santo Niño, an ornate statue of the baby Jesus. The fine red velvet of the cape and the semi-precious stones of the crown dazzle Carloi and Rosa’s eyes with reflected fire light. They seem to become solemnly transfixed by the magnificence of this religious icon. One of the few tribes of the Sama Bajau that are Catholic, its leaders consider this a truly blessed gift.
     Stung with awe by the spirit, Carloi and Rosa travel light years in moments, captured by the smiling face of Baby Jesus.
     Rolo and Elsie, knowing that their gifts are truly loved, silently stand, gather their girls, and fade back to their fire.
     Carloi and Rosa, somewhere beyond, cry.
 
                                                       ***
 
Having sailed South into the Sulu Archipelago, the Sama Bagau return to the waters that they originally came from. The fishing grounds here are still good and interference and disrespect by foreign trawlers is minimal. Here the repercussions of such is much more severe, given a more decentralized power structure. Here blood would be spilled, not just the wasting of a trawler launch.
     It has been a long journey back to these waters. While most of the tribe rest and restock at Jolo, Carloi and Rosa take some of the remaining stocks and sail on to one of the smaller islands that dot this part of the Southwest Philippines. It is time they rest as well and let Dan Chan handle things until they can refurbish their spirit.
     Finding an island with fresh water not far, they pull their banglo to the sands of a pretty lagoon and tie it off to a coconut palm. While Carloi tunes the shortwave to the news from Guadalcanal, Rosa collects driftwood for a fire. After making a landside kitchen to go with their banglo berth they cook up some steamed rice, dried fish and stir fried ampalaya, or bitter melon. As is often the case, once the food goes down the spirits go up. Listening to the sounds of a soprano backed by the melodic twangs of a pipa they decide to test the pure waters of the lagoon.
     Playing like otters among the colorful coral, their brown bodies kiss and dive, finally to wrap and drift to the sand. Play turned to passion, they rock in the rising tide as it gently abets their union.
 
Clean and complete, with the top of the banglo pulled back, Carloi admires the body of his wife while Rosa studies the glory of the star scattered sky. Such repose has been so long in coming but now it is here. And as fresh as ever. Dragging his finger, as if it were a feather, along Rosa’s body, Carloi brings Rosa back.
     “You are my all, babe. To have you here like this is so beautiful. I am filled. Does it scare you, Rosa?”
     Dark eyes of wonder come to Carloi, as if he need only wish it so.
     “Sometimes, baby,” Rosa replies. “It is wonderful but it is a lot. Maybe it is too much.”
     Knowing what Rosa means, Carloi surrenders to her with a trust that is reserved for only one.
     “We have led well because we are strong but I am getting older and the ways of the world are heavy as it grows smaller. Too heavy for any man…or woman.”
     With a humanity that few possess, Rosa takes Carloi’s face and pulls it to her breast…….and lets him know that, after all, it is as it should be.
     “That is certain my love. But it is also certain that we have our God. God is strongest. And God is good. And because of that we have now.”
     Turning to his back and pulling Rosa closer, Carloi listens to the sea. A shower of stars streak through the constellations, burning bright and gone. So fast they are.
     “You are right, Rosa. You are always right.”
         
   

​Tannara Young is the creator of the world of Idhua: fourteen kingdoms surrounding a vast magical forest. She writes short fiction and novels exploring the people, landscapes and magic of Idhua. Her work has also appeared in The Mythic Circle, The Great Tomes Series and at NewMyths.com and Smashwords. Tannara lives in central California on the coast of the wild Pacific Ocean, near the majestic redwood forests. When she is not writing, she loves to take long walks through these inspiring landscapes, dreaming up her next tale. Please come and visit her at tannarayoung.com.

                                          BEARSKIN
 
                                                 A retelling of the Grimm’s Fairy Tale

Part 2

Henrick spent the summer tending his garden, insulating the walls of his house with straw and plaster, and building his wood pile to monstrous proportions. He gathered mushrooms, herbs and berries in the woods and sold most of them to the old woman who eventually introduced herself as Ava.
The winter passed more comfortably, if no less boring. When spring came at last and he went into town to buy supplies he was surprised when those he met greeted him with cordiality.
     As he paid for a wheel of cheese, he overheard the conversation at the next stall where a tinsmith had laid out his pots and pans.
     “Him? He’s the crazy hermit who lives out in Gottor’s wood. He’s harmless,” the man getting his pail patched told the tinsmith. She looked dubiously over at Henrick, then quickly away when she saw he was listening. “I can have it ready tomorrow morning,” she told her customer.
     Henrick mulled over the man’s words as he continued through the market. He decided that he liked the idea of being a crazy hermit – at least it was better than being a broken soldier. He wondered what stories they told about him. If he had been guessing he would have speculated that he was a murderer who had fled to the woods in penance for his crime. But perhaps the villagers were kinder. Maybe they thought he was a robber who had hidden a catch of jewels in the forest and now jealously guarded its secret. Or possibly that he was one of those people who had gone mad when the magic of the Empire imploded; searing anyone with the least bit of talent.
Smiling to himself, he said thank-you to the peddler from whom he was purchasing supplies. The man looked startled, and perhaps a little alarmed, but said, “You’re welcome” as he passed Henrick the sack of rice.
     As Henrick headed out of town, he became aware of a commotion on the road ahead of him. A wagon lay tipped to the side, with one of its wheels lying broken beside it. A crowd had gathered and as he approached Henrick saw that they were trying to help a man who had been trapped under the falling wagon. A couple of people had unhitched the horses and more were pulling things out of the wagon to lighten it. A pair of men ran up with long poles and began to get them into position to lever the wagon off the fallen man.
     As one of the men struggled to support his side, Henrick dropped his sack and hurried across the road before he was even aware of his intention. He caught the lever as the other man lost control of it and got his shoulder under the pole.
     Others dashed in to drag the injured man out from under the wagon. More folk hurried up, among them the town doctor. Henrick and the other man lowered the wagon back down. Henrick looked across the road. The strange girl with the pale, fly-away hair stood there with a little smirk on her face. She winked at Henrick. Suddenly her sister, the young woman who had been sewing came up behind her and grabbed her elbow, dragging her away. There followed a furious interchange that ended with the older girl shoving her sister in the direction of their shop. The pale haired girl flounced off. The other looked across the road, her blue eyes snapping with temper and saw Henrick watching. Her cheeks flushed red and her gaze flicked after her sister.
     Just then, the man who had worked the other pole clapped Henrick on the back, startling him. He was a big, brawny man – Henrick recalled seeing him work in the smithy. “Thank you, friend,” he said. “You’ve got some strength in you.”
     Henrick grunted, embarrassed himself.
     One of the women detached from the group around the injured man and came up, putting her hand on the smith’s arm.
     “Kennet says Darbin’s leg’s broken. They’re going to get him home.” She looked at Henrick with a combination of gratitude and politely masked distaste. “Thank you so much for helping my brother,” she said, nodding her head toward the injured man who had been lifted onto a stretcher.
     “You’re welcome,” Henrick said.
     “Would you like a drink?” she asked. “I’ve a good cider laid by.”
     “I’d best be getting on,” said Henrick, uncomfortable. “I’m glad your brother’s safe.”
     As he made his way back through the woods, he considered the incident. He decided it felt good to have helped out, but he wondered what the blond haired sisters had been fighting about.
As time passed and with the bearskin absorbing the broken spells, Henrick practiced tracking and hunting – not as he had when the spells enhanced his senses and gave him strength and lightening reflexes - but the way he had learned as a boy, running though the woods with Alben. With the vegetables from his garden and coin he earned from selling his foraged goods to Ava, he was able to save most of the gold Gottilf gave him each year. After his fifth visit to the magician, he began to think about where he might like to go when his time in the bearskin was up. He imagined walking into Fernwell and passing unrecognized among its citizens.
     One chilly autumn day Henrick headed into town with a large sack of hazelnuts that he gleaned. As he approached the edge of the forest, he paused, hearing raised voices ahead. He couldn’t make out the words, so he loosened his knife in its sheath and rounded the bend.
     “Maybe I think it’s pretty.” The pale haired blond was facing him and her sister who stood three or four paces away. She was holding a bunch of lacy green leaves behind her.
     “Adaline, the reasons you would be gathering false-hemlock is to make someone sick or to hex them. When I said you could come with me, this was not what I had in mind. I want you to drop them. Now.”
     “Make me,” Adaline taunted. She flashed a grin at Henrick. Her sister took advantage of her distraction to grab her hand and twist it. “Ow!” said Adaline. Pouting, she dropped the bundle of leaves. “Look out behind you!”
     The sister turned and seeing Henrick, started. Adaline pulled away and ran off down the path toward the town, calling over her shoulder. “I’m telling father you’re being mean again.”
     “What are you – five years old?” her sister called after her, then stomped on the fallen leaves, grinding them into the dust. She then looked up quickly as if she had just remembered she had company. “Sorry about that.”
     “No problem,” said Henrick, awkward but curious.
     “She’s not really good at hexing,” the girl said after a short silence. “But I’m afraid she’s getting better. Last summer there was a wagon that fell...”
     “Oh, yes,” said Henrick. “I remember.”
     She looked startled and then nodded. “Right, you were there. Anyway, she claims she did that, but Father says she couldn’t have.” There was another pause. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
     “Well, maybe I’d better go,” said Henrick, feeling even more awkward. He turned, with half a mind to head back down the forest road.
     “Wait,” she said. “I’m Marlis. You sell mushrooms and plants to Mistress Ava, aren’t you? I wonder – I’m a weaver and seamstress and I need plants for my dyes. I thought maybe you could bring me any that you find. I’d pay you of course.”
     “I don’t know what you’d want for dying,” he said.
     She frowned. “Do you know what madder looks like? Woad?”
     As he shook his head, she looked frustrated. Then her expression cleared. “Can you read?”
     Now he was surprised. “A little.”
     “My father has several herbals that have pictures and descriptions of the herbs. If I gave you one, could you use it to search for dye plants?”
     “Probably,” Henrick said, intrigued.
     “I’ll leave it with Ava,” said Marlis. “I’ll put markers by the herbs I most want. If you find any you can bring them to the shop or pass them on to Ava and she’ll bring them to me.”
     “Sure,” said Henrick.
     “Thank you.” Marlis smiled. Henrick lost his train of thought.      “I’d better go after Adaline,” she said after a moment. “In this mood she’s libel to find some sort of mischief to get into.”  She turned away, picking up a basket that had been sitting on the ground. Then she glanced back. “What is your name?”
     “Henrick,” he said.
     “Nice to meet you, Henrick. Don’t forget to get the book from Ava.” She headed down the path.
     Henrick watched after her, long after she had vanished between the trees. A squirrel darting down a tree snapped him back to awareness. He shouldered his sack. He felt foolish, but he was embarrassed to go into town now. What if he met Marlis again? Shaking his head, he turned back. He would go into town in a few more days and see if she had left the book as she promised.
     When he did bring the nuts into town, he was elated that Ava did have the book. Marlis had marked the herbs she wanted with little strips of red cloth. Ava had taken the opportunity to add her own markers to herbs and plants she could get good prices for. Henrick felt great satisfaction when, a few weeks later, he was able to bring Marlis a whole sack of madder root.
     That winter was much less boring. Henrick studied the herbal, practiced throwing knives and shooting his bow. He even went into town a few times, tramping through the snow to bring furs he had cured to the market and stopping at the inn where the inn-keeper tolerated him to nurse a mug of ale in a far corner.
     He didn’t see Adaline or Marlis, but the smith was there one time and the man who had been trapped under the wagon. He was still hobbling about with a wooden cane, but he came up to thank Henrick and buy him another round.
     Henrick was almost surprised when spring came and he realized that it was time for his sixth visit to Gottilf.
     During that trip, the magician removed the last of the sylphyl on Henrick’s face. He brought Henrick a glass mirror, which looked as if it had come all the way from Lendhlay judging by the intricate knot-work on its silver frame. Henrick swallowed at the sight of his wild beard and hair and grimy face. Yet where there had once been veins of sylphyl, there were now only faint scars, showing palely against his dirty brown skin. The brown leather eye-patch lay flush against his face, instead of resting on a protrusion of twisted metal about his eye. When he lifted the patch, the eye beneath was milky, but no longer sparked with magic.
     Gottilf smiled his sharp toothed grin. “Looking real handsome there, Henrick. Soon you’ll have the ladies flocking to your side. Or is it the fellows you’ll be encouraging?”
     Henrick put the eye-patch back and returned the mirror. He looked around the workshop. It was a cramped and cluttered as ever. “How is that sylphyl working out for you?” he asked.
     Gottilf licked his lips. “Best deal I ever made,” he said. “See?” He pulled up his sleeve to reveal sylphyl implanted in his forearm. “I can’t hope to match the skill of whoever did yours, but...”
     “You’re putting it in yourself?” Henrick recoiled.
     Gottilf sighed. “It’s harder to break the enchantment on this stuff then I thought. It’s not much good for anything but enhancements.” He brightened. “But I’m not complaining! With this bit I just pulled out, I can make it so I don’t have to sleep for nine days!”
     Henrick stared at him. A shudder rippled the fur of his bearskin. “Well,” he said. “I’ll be off now.”
     “Don’t forget your gold.” Gottilf tossed the heavy pouch to him. “I don’t want to see my investment starving, not when there is so much more sylphyl to extract.”
     Henrick hurried out of the house, uneasy at the idea of Gottilf using the sylphyl on himself.
     Outside clouds gathered menacingly on the eastern horizon. Henrick frowned at them, but set off down the road. He’d learned from experience that the bearskin was thoroughly unpleasant when wet and he had not brought his oilskin cloak. The clouds piled higher and higher and grew darker and darker, but the rain held off until dusk was falling. Henrick hurried the first fat drops toward the Wayfarer Inn. He usually avoided it, but tonight was not a night to sleep out-of-doors. From experience, Henrick did not try to enter the taproom. Instead, he hailed one of the stable boys and gave him a coin to fetch the innkeeper. When she appeared, frowning at him through the gloom, he began his negotiations with another couple of coins.
     “I just need a roof for the night. Your hayloft will do. If I could get a bottle of cider and plate of stew, I won’t trouble your other guests.”
     The innkeeper frowned at him.  She tested his coin, considered him again, then said, “Fine, but if you upset the horses, you’re out.”
So Henrick settled onto the rough blankets in the loft, enjoying the hot beef and dumplings and watching the rain pour off the roof in the light of the lantern hanging under the eaves.
     A commotion in the yard below woke him the next morning. The storm had passed and the air smelled fresh. Without much interest in the raised voices, Henrick climbed out of his nest of straw and horse blankets, brushed down his bearskin and headed out into the yard.
     There he saw the inn-keeper, hands on her hips, glaring at a white haired man who was being restrained by her burly son.
“Robbed my foot!” the inn-keeper shouted at the white haired man. “Not with a bill for the best room and my last bottle of Lorgran wine! I’ll have you hauled before the magistrate if you don’t pay up.”
     “But I was robbed.” The old man’s voice shook. “Look, let me be on my way home and I’ll send your money as soon as I get there.”
     “Likely you’ll vanish the instant you’re out of sight,” scoffed the son.
     Henrick frowned. He recognized the old man. He lived in or near Fernwall. Henrick had seen him in the inn there and about on the street.
     “- can send for your money from the gaol,” the inn-keeper threatened.
     Not sure why he did, Henrick stepped in. “Your pardon, innkeep, but perhaps I can help. I know this man, he lives near me. It would be no trouble for me to settle his bill, if that would satisfy you?”
     The inn-keeper looked at him suspiciously. “He owes twelve bits,” she said.
     Henrick fished in his pocket and took out his coin purse. He counted out the money and handed it to her. “Humph.” She glowered at the old man. “Expect to pay up front next time.” She nodded and her son let go of the old man. “Bring his mule and packs,” she told him. “I’d like to see the last of these two.” She turned on her heal and marched back inside. The door banged behind her.
The old man held out his hand. “Thank you, kindly sir. You are the hermit who lives up by Gottor’s Wood, aren’t you? I won’t forget this kindness. I can pay you back as soon as we get home.”
     Henrick briefly shook the man’s hand, uncomfortably aware of the dirt on his own hand and his dirty, broken, yellowed nails.
     The old man seemed not to notice. “I am Adelbert. I used to be the Imperial Mage for the mountain district, but I lost my talent in the Disaster.” He waved his hand at the laden mule that the inn-keeper’s son brought out of the stable. “Now I sell clothes and peddle fabrics. Ah well, such is fate. Come walk with me, we are going the same way, aren’t we?” Henrick reluctantly followed Adelbert out of the inn-yard. He felt awkward in the man’s company and he couldn’t tell if Adelbert was blithely unconcerned about his unkempt state or was overly grateful and ignoring it.
     Adelbert kept talking. “It must have been fate’s hand that brought you to that inn. I feel so foolish for not securing my coin purse better – luckily it was nearly empty because I’d been buying goods not selling them this trip, but still! And then you were so kind. I was desperately afraid of being put in the gaol. I can’t bear small dark spaces. And Marlis and Adaline would have been so worried.”
     Henrick looked over, startled. This was Marlis and Adaline’s father?
     Adelbert prattled on. “Well, Marlis would at any rate. Adaline – she’s well, let’s just say that she might have had my talent if not for the Disaster. I’m afraid it made her a little... fay. But Marlis, she’s a sensible as they come. Perhaps you know her? She does all the sewing for the shop.”
     “I’ve met them both,” admitted Henrick. “Ah, I bring dye herbs to Marlis.”
     “That’s right,” agreed Adelbert. “You’re the one she loaned Gressa’s Herbal too. A comprehensive text, but a bit simplistic. She doesn’t subscribe to the theory of elemental rays, so as a Grimoire her work is practically useless, wouldn’t you agree?”
     “Sure,” said Henrick who had no idea what elemental rays were and only a vague sense that a Grimoire was a spell book.
“Now Thurgis’ Herbal, that’s the one to use for magical herbs. Look, I feel I must reward you for helping me. Kindness is so rare these days, you know. Perhaps you can marry Marlis as a reward – I’d settle a fine dowry on her, you know.”
     This startled Henrick into speech. “What?”
     “Well, we might want to tidy you up a bit,” admitted Adelbert. “I’m sure you’d be a handsome man, if you were a little tidier. And I know you’re kind.”
     “You can’t give me your daughter as a reward,” said Henrick. “How do you think she would feel about that?”
     “Well, I’m not getting any younger,” said Adelbert. “Sure, she has the shop and her sister, but it’s nice to have a spouse – if they’re someone you can rely on. I still miss the girls’ mother, Helva. She died ten years ago now. What do you think? A bath, a haircut... You know, if you would prefer Adaline, she’s a fine girl too. A bit too fond of cheese, though. You should be careful how much cheese you eat. It can unbalance the humors and depress the spirits.”
     Henrick decided that Adelbert was suffering from his own unbalanced humors. However, if Adelbert had been a mage, perhaps he would understand about the bearskin.
     “I know I look a fright,” he said. “I am undergoing a... magical cure and I can’t bathe until it’s finished.”
     As he had hoped, this distracted Adelbert from match-making and he listened to Henrick’s explanation of the bearskin with fascination.
     “Very clever, very clever indeed,” he said, peering at the symbols inscribed on the inside of the hood. “I am envious. This Gottilf weathered the Disaster better than the magicians I knew. Most lost their talent, or it was warped like your spells and they went crazy. What I’d give to be a spell caster again.”
     Relieved, Henrick encouraged Adelbert to elaborate on his years as an Imperial mage. It was pleasant, he decided, to have a conversation with someone who understood his situation and wasn’t afraid of him.
     It was near sunset by the time they crossed the East Bridge and entered into Fernwell. Henrick would have taken leave of Adelbert, but the old man prevented him.
     “I have not settled my debt,” he said. “Besides, Marlis will have a nice supper ready and the least I can do is feed you after your kindness and company on the road.”
     “I am not fit to be your guest,” Henrick said. “Really – it is very kind of you, but--”
     Adelbert argued and before Henrick had convinced him they were at the door of Adelbert’s house. It opened and Marlis came out, wiping her hands on her blue apron. Her long golden braid was mused, and there was a smudge of flour on her cheek.
      “Father! How late you are. I was getting worried,” she said. “Supper is nearly ready – put those poor mules in their shed and come wash up.”
     “There is nothing to worry about, Marlis,” Adelbert said. “I have found a husband for you. You already know him: Henrick Waldstine. He rescued me when thieves stole my money and the inn-keeper would have had me arrested.”
     Marlis’ gaze swung to Henrick and her mouth dropped open.
     “I was just seeing your father home,” he said. “I’ll be off now.”
     “Nonsense, boy!” Adelbert grabbed his arm in a surprisingly strong grip. To Marlis he said, “Don’t be alarmed by his appearance, my dear. He explained everything to me. He is undertaking a delicate magical cure, but he will not always look so frightful.”
     “I see.” said Marlis. “Go on, Father. I’ll send Adaline to bring the water.” As Adelbert led the mules around the house, she looked back to Henrick. “Good evening, Henrick. Ah, thank you for helping my father. I’m sorry if he made you uncomfortable.”
     Before Henrick could reassure her, Adaline’s voice came from behind him. “A magical cure? Ah, that explains it then.” She reached out and stroked the bearskin as she had the first time they had met. “Thick magic, indeed. Lovely, thick magic. You must stay to supper, Henrick. It’s the least we can do.”
     “Adaline!” Marlis said, sharply. Henrick gratefully turned her way, using the opportunity to step back from Adaline’s covetous hands.
     “If you want him to stay for supper, fetch water for Father and then go set another place.” Marlis told her sister.
     Adaline stuck her tongue out at Marlis, smiled a gleaming white smile at Henrick and drifted around the house toward thew well.
     Henrick was left alone with Marlis. He flushed and wondered if she could see it between the fading light and the dirt on his face.
“Ah, thank you, Marlis. I’m, that is, I don’t expect you to... Perhaps, I’ll just be on my way.”
     “Do come in and have some supper, at least,” said Marlis. “Unless you can’t stand my father and sister.”
     “I like your father – when he’s not trying to give his daughters away,” said Henrick. “But you needn’t--”
     A dimple appeared in her cheek as she smiled. Henrick lost his train of thought and stared at her. “Don’t worry about it. Father worries about what will happen to us if something happens to him. It’s not the first time he’s made a ham-handed attempt to find me a husband.”
     “Well, thank you for being kind about it,” said Henrick. “And for--” he gestured to his robe and matted beard. “It’s nice of you to invite me despite the way I look.”
“Is it really a magical cure?”
     “Yes,” said Henrick. “For another year. Then I am free.”
     “Hm,” she said. “Mistress Greta – the baker? She’s convinced that you’re a Vanovski shape-shifter who was trapped between man and bear form.” Her dimple reappeared as Henrick surprised himself and laughed.
     They ate supper on a table in the back garden where the air was cool and fresh. Henrick was careful to sit down wind of the others. Marlis served roasted chicken with onions, thick slices of fresh, warm bread and a chopped salad. Adaline brought mugs of dark beer and stroked Henrick’s sleeve again. Marlis caught her elbow, pulled her aside and they had a whispered argument, which Henrick pretended to ignore. After that Adaline sat across the table from him and stared at him with huge, lustrous eyes as she neatly ate a chicken leg and then gnawed on the bone.
     Adlebert kept up a far-reaching, if unconnected conversation. Henrick thought it was the best meal he had eaten since how long? Since his mother was alive and he was a boy, sitting in the warm kitchen of the farm.



                                                 TO BE CONTINUED

 
 
                                      Verna’s Lucky Day
 
 
Out of his sterling silver flask and on more than just a whim, as he wanted his drinking buddy back, Lucky spiked Verna’s prune juice with Russian vodka.  The vodka was so smooth she had downed a good portion before she realized something was amiss.
“Lucky, did you---?”
“Want some ice?”
“Oh how could you do that!  I been sober one hundred an’ two days!”
“You might want to change that to one hundred one.”
“And you might want to take your leave, Lucky Day!”  Verna stood, picked up the handiest thing, which was a salt shaker, and threw it at him.
“Careful now,”  Lucky cautioned, shielding himself with his right palm, diverting the glass shaker to the floor where it rolled, coming to a stop against the cat’s water bowl.
“A person ought to be able to make a trip to the john without being slipped a mickey!”
“Couldn’t agree more,”  Lucky soothed.  “But Verna honey, that wasn’t no mickey.”
She made a face.  “Vodka prune!”
“Got any O.J.?”
“You realize I gotta’ be to work in twenty minutes?”  Verna smoothed her hair back, started for the bedroom.  She paused, wet her lips, turned back to Lucky.
“Got some tomato juice,”  she said, somewhat guiltily.  “Some Worchestershire.”
Lucky produced his flask.  “Just that it’s too early to drink it straight, honey.”
She peeked inside the fridge.  “Half a lemon . . . ”
“That’s my gal!”
Verna pulled an ice tray from the freezer.  “Whyn’t you at work, anyhow?  Thought you got on steady at Matt Hanson’s spread.”
“Got laid off two---no, three---days ago.  Me’n Elmore.  Ol’ Matt called us in to the house:  ‘Got to let ya’ go,’ he says, real happy-go-lucky like.  Thought that was pretty damned rude, to be cheerful about it and all.”
Verna retrieved two glasses from the cupboard.  “That why you’n Elmore showed at the diner night b’fore last so fallin’ down drunk?”
“We was at the diner?”
“Elmore passed out face first into his mashed taters.”
“You don’t say!”
“Damned near drowned in spuds an’ chicken gravy.  Would have if I hadn’t grabbed him by the hair a’ his head an’ lifted him up.”
“That must’ve been a sight!”
“Wish’t I had a camera, I’ll tell ya’.”  Verna was chuckling.  Lucky poured.  “You was no better,”  she continued.  “Whipped out your willy and started in a-pissing on Rosalie’s indoor tree!”
“Go on, Vernie, I never.”  Lucky leaned forward in genuine concern.
“Did so.  And damn both your hides, you walked out without paying, after I yelled at you to put your Johnson back in your pants.  No wait, Rosalie came out of the kitchen waving a spatula first, that was it.”
“Was she cussin’?”
“Nah, there was customers.  You know how she is:  puts on the dog in front a’ customers.
“I bought both your dinners, though, on account of Rosalie telling me I had to.  Said neither you or Elmore ever came into her diner till I went to work there---that true?”
“No, not true.”
“That ol’ bitch.”
“Mud in your eye,”  Lucky said, showing his drink to Verna.
“Mud in your own.”
“Listen, you got to call Rosalie for me.”  She pointed to the wall phone with her thumb.  “Do it now.”
Lucky was waiting for Rosalie to come to the phone.  “What you want me to say?”  he asked Verna, holding the receiver to his chest.
“Tell her I’m sick, you idiot!”  Verna hissed.
“Yeah, hey Rosalie?”  Lucky spoke in his most business like voice.  “Verna’s sick, ain’t comin’ in today.”
He had to hold the receiver away from his ear.  “She’s cussing now!”  he said to
Verna.  “Also wants to know what you got.”
“Got?!  The whooping cough, tell ‘er.”
“You know that whooping cough that’s been goin’ around?  Well Verna caught it.  Got it bad, in fact.  Been whooping it up all mornin’.”
After a pause, Lucky angrily took off his Stetson, started yelling into the mouthpiece.  “I can’t help that, now can I?”  He threw the hat onto the kitchen floor with force.  “Maybe Verna never had no vaccination for that shit.  Just ‘cause you did!”
He reached for his bloody Mary.  Another pause, then he said:  “Now you listen here; Verna caught the whooping cough.  And she ain’t the only one.  Ol’ Matt Hanson caught it, Elmore Clancy caught it---”  Lucky took a breath.  “That’s right, whooping cough.  Contagious as crabs in a whore house!  Pretty soon the health department’ll be wanting t’ plaster a quarantine on the whole solitary town a’ Query!”
Shaking his head, red in the face, Lucky hung the phone up hard.  “That Rosalie sure is made of stone,”  he said.  “Person can’t reason with a woman a’ her nature.”
Verna nodded in agreement.  “Still,”  she offered, “I don’t know why I pulled that one outa’ the hat.  Of all the ways a body could be sick!”
“Tough one, all right.  You’ll be out a good week, disease like that.  Goin’ in afore a week’s up will make ya’ out a liar.  Might as well just go on a bender an’ enjoy yourself.”
“How’d ya’ get way out here, anyway?  Thought your truck got repo’d.”
“Rode the Harley, darlin’.  Later you’n me’ll go for a ride.”  Lucky pulled a pack
of cigarettes from his shirt pocket.
“Gimme one,”  Verna demanded, taking a short drink while holding her hand out.
“A smoke?  Not in your life---you crazy?”
“No I’m not crazy; they make me cough worse’n anything I can think of.  Got to show up at work tomorrow with some kinda’ bad cough, now don’t I?”
“Remember losing a lung?  Remember that?”
“Oh hell, that was nineteen years ago.”
“Tell you what,”  Lucky began.  “We’ll ride into town an’ get you x-ray’d.  Providing you grew yourself a complete new lung, I’ll buy you a whole blasted carton.  How’s that.”
In sneakily reaching for the cigarette pack now on the table, Verna’s hand almost connected when Lucky intercepted, grabbed the pack, pocketed it.  “There now,”  he said with finality.
“Tell you the truth,”  Verna said, her mood sliding due south, “I’m scared Rosalie’ll fire me.  Maybe I should just get myself to work.”  She pushed her chair away from the rickety old paint spattered table.
Having postponed lighting up, he now did so, holding the match aloft. “Ashtray?”
While Verna was slightly bent over a kitchen drawer, rummaging for an ashtray, Lucky came up behind her, put his hands on her waist.  The cigarette was left to burn, balanced on the kitchen table edge.
“Lucky, what the hell are you doing?”  she asked, not expecting an answer.  “You
don’t want me, you just don’t want me to drive in to work.  That’s the truth.”  She wriggled free, handed him a saucer from the cupboard.
Rather than accept it, he gave her a hug, even if she kept her arms rigidly at her sides.  “Look at us,”  Verna said in a small tired voice.  She pulled away.  “Just take a good long look at us.  A geezer and an old stove.  All I ever wanted outa’ life was a husband an’ a batch a’ kids.  We could’ve had some cute little Days runnin’ around, ridin’ ponies---”
“Robbing convenience stores . . . ”
“Helpin’ with the garden . . . ”
“Growing pot!”
“Think of all your spilt seed!”
“Think of all those mouths to feed.”
Verna got that faraway look in her eye that Lucky always sidestepped.  “Grandkids by now,”  she said dreamily.
“Makin’ ya’ feel old,”  he threw in.  Out the corner of his eye he spied his cigarette burning a hole in the flowered tablecloth, so hopped over and grabbed it.  He had his wallet out before she could start yelling, pulled out a ten.
Taking the ten, Verna nonetheless glared at him.  “Tablecloth belonged t’ my mother,”  she said, crumpling the bill into a ball, throwing it across the counter.
“Looks like a sheet to me!”
“Well, it was,”  she conceded.  “Once.  Mama painted flowers on it.  That woman
could draw; I’ll say.”
To avoid her accusing look, Lucky retrieved his Stetson, placed it back on his matted gray hair.
“Say, how do you keep a hat on, ridin’ a motorcycle?”
“Pull it down snug, like this,”  Lucky demonstrated.  “Come on, we’re goin’ for a ride.”  He grabbed her hand, pulled her out the door.
“Law says we need helmets, Lucky.”
“Hell that’s the least a’ our worries.  We’re legally drunk!”  Lucky’s eyes twinkled, the way they always did when he broke the law.
Before he could kick start the motorcycle, a pick-up truck, driving way too fast for such a washboardy road, and sending up a veritable smokescreen of brownish-red dust, caught Lucky’s and Verna’s attention.  It surprised them both when it turned up her short driveway.
“Why Matt Hanson,”  Lucky said uneasily when the cab door opened.  He didn’t feel comfortable with the facial expression Matt was sporting, which was ugly at best.  “Sort of thought that resembled your truck!”
Without even greeting Verna, whom he’d once had a crush on when she was young and pretty, Matt Hanson strode over to Lucky and socked him in the jaw, knocking him down and the bike on top of him.  “That’s for spreading the rumor around town that I’ve got cholera!”  Matt fumed, a line of sweat staining each tanned cheek.  He turned to leave.
“Whooping cough,”  Verna said after him.
Matt turned.  “What?!”
“Never said cholera, Matt.  Just whooping cough, just a simple little cough.  Nothing deadly.”  Verna viewed him with disgust.
Lucky groaned.  “Help me,”   he managed.
 
                                                                        ###
 
 
 

 
CHAPTER 1
A Villa in Southern Spain
Pablo waived goodbye to his friends as they departed the Villa.  It had been a good birthday party with an entertainer and a bouncy castle thrown in for good measure to keep his guests occupied.  It was September but still the sun was shining making it just warm enough to play in the pool, at least for a while.  In the summer months the party would have gone on late into the night and even the next morning but tomorrow was a school day.
His mother watched her son from the door of the villa and shook her head.  At ten years old he was already as tall as she was.  He would be six feet at least by the time he reaches sixteen she decided.  With that shock of black hair and brooding good looks it was going to be hard work keeping the Senoritas at bay. 
‘Just like his grandfather!’ she thought smiling.
Pablo noticed his mother and waived ‘I’m coming mama’ he shouted just remembering she wanted to talk to him; but first he needed a drink he decided, dashing off to the kitchen.
 
Maria waited until her son was seated opposite before she began her story. Placed on the table between them was a guitar case.  It was charred and warped but Pablo could not take his eyes off it.
‘Is this really grandpapa’s guitar mama?’ he asked almost reverently.
‘Yes Pablo it is the very one’ she answered solemnly.
‘But grandpapa never lets anyone touch it.  We only see it once a year at the family gathering in the restaurant’
It was a grand occasion with family and friends arriving from all over Spain, even as far as the Costa Blanca, where his grandfather had once lived.  He had never really understood the reason for the party but that didn’t matter. He would be hugged by his aunties and warmly shaken by the hand by his uncles. His nieces would kiss him on the cheek or on the lips if they could get away with it.
The party would last until dawn but that didn’t matter in July.
There would be much wine drunk and solemn speeches made.
The toast was always ‘to Henrietta!’
He had asked on more than one occasion who this Henrietta was but the answer had always been the same ‘when you are ten years old Pablo I will tell you the story of Henrietta’ his mother had promised.
There was entertainment in the form of a local band but the highlight of the evening was his grandfather.  It was always the same. Manuel would walk onto the stage at exactly ten o’clock.  The shouting and laughter would suddenly stop as the guests took their seats. His grandfather would reverently take the guitar from its charred case and begin to play.
In a word it was magical.
By the time he had finished the tears where flowing freely and not just with the ladies.
‘May I take the guitar out of the case mama?’ he asked cautiously.
‘Yes Pablo you may. One day it will belong to you’ she told him.
‘But what will grandpapa play at the party?’ he asked confused.
Maria just smiled at her son’s innocence ‘your grandpapa has bequeathed the guitar to you in his Will Pablo’
‘In his Will? I don’t understand’ he asked even more confused.
Then it dawned on him ‘but that means grandpapa will be dead’ he almost shouted angrily. The idea that his beloved grandfather would one-day die was unthinkable.
‘Calm yourself Pablo. With God’s will he will live a long life’ she told him ‘that’s if his wife doesn’t kill him with kindness and everything else’ she thought to herself trying not to smile.
Pablo carefully opened the case and touched the guitar’s strings. It seemed to hum and come alive. He drew his hand away quickly and closed the lid again.
Questions where already forming in his mind but there was one thing he needed to know ‘why is the case all blistered mama?’
‘I will come to that shortly but you are now ten years old and as promised I will tell you the story of Henrietta’
‘At last’ Pablo said to himself sitting back in his chair and yawning.
‘Henrietta is your grand mama. She is my mother’ Maria began and at the same time producing a large framed photograph.
Pablo was confused for a moment then suddenly realised the woman with his grandfather couldn’t be his real grandmother as he had seen them married when he was six years old.
‘Maybe I should start at the beginning Pablo but don’t worry if you think you have missed something it is all in my book’ she said pointing to a row of novels on the book shelf.
Pablo looked at the books. He had never been allowed to touch them let alone read them but now he was being given permission to take as many as he liked. This was all too much.
ALICANTE – SPAIN 1965
The restaurant was again busy with tourists much to the annoyance of the local people but they couldn’t argue. This was after all a holiday destination for the British and German tourists. Fortunately, the restaurant was a little out of town so the clientele was a little more appreciative of the excellent food.  That however didn’t stop them consuming copious amounts of cheap wine the locals considered no better than vinegar.
Manuel would work in his father’s restaurant most evenings collecting plates or sweeping the floor.  Today however was his tenth birthday so he had been allowed to play with his friends all day.  His father had told him earlier that a famous musician would be playing in the restaurant tonight and he would be allowed to stay up until late.
Manuel and his family had been given a table as close to the stage as possible. At school he had been given music lessons and allowed to play on the school’s piano, but the guitar was by far his favourite and preferred musical instrument. 
His father greeted the famous musician and offered him a drink of wine ‘my thanks Senor but maybe later after I have performed’ he suggested.
The performance was everything Manuel had hoped it would be.   He watched fascinated as the guitarist fingers effortlessly flew up and down the strings. It was classical flamenco at its best.  At the finish he was the first out of his seat clapping loudly.
What happened next he would remember for the rest of his life.
The famous musician approached him ‘young man would you like to take care of my guitar while I have a drink with your father?’
Manuel could only nod his head as he took hold of the precious instrument.  It was an opportunity too good to miss. When he thought no one was watching he mimicked the musician’s fingers and pretended he was on the stage. He was so engrossed in his daydream he didn’t see him return with his father.
He was just about to scold his son for being careless with such a precious instrument, but the famous musician stopped him ‘please do not scold him it was all my fault.  I think your son has an ambition to play the guitar am I correct?’ he asked turning to Manuel.
‘Yes sir!’ he responded immediately.
‘In that case I will show you four chords. If you master them by the time I return from eating your father’s delicious food, then I promise to teach you how to play’
Manuel practised the chords for half an hour. He found it simple, too simple he decided. At school his music teacher had described him as a natural.  Until know he had no idea what that meant.  He pictured a sheet of music in his head and decided to try and copy the score. He was so engrossed in the playing he did not see his father and the musician return. In fact, the whole restaurant had stopped talking and was listening to a young man playing an instrument he had only touched an hour ago.
Manuel stood up embarrassed as they applauded him.
The famous musician would keep his promise.
 
CHAPTER 2
THE COSTA DEL SOL – 10 years later.
A RESTAURANT WITH A VIEW.
Manuel relaxed in a chair and gazed at the vista in front of him. He had visited the restaurant in the hills many times but still sat in wonder at the scene. The Mediterranean Sea sparkled as the sun began to set over the mountains to the West.  Pleasure boats from the nearby marinas would be making for home after a day’s fishing or dropping off a party of tourists mostly well inebriated by now he thought. He could make out the coast of Africa on the horizon.  It was by far his favourite restaurant not just for the cuisine or the view, but because it was where he had first met his wife.
 
THE RESTAURANT – 4 YEARS EARLIER
The concert had been advertised for weeks.
‘Manuel Fernandez will be playing some of his most popular recordings’ it had proudly announced ‘There would also be a Flamenco performance by a well-known local dancer’
Henrietta had booked a table the moment she saw the notice displayed on the notice board. In fact, all her dance group did the same. It would be a perfect night out for the girls they decided.  The restaurants owners had allowed the dance group to practise on the stage during the day and when it was closed during the week.
The evening would be one, none of them would forget. There was however one problem. The flamenco dancer had been involved in a car accident the day before and would not be able to perform. It was disappointing but at least the famous Manuel Fernandez had arrived.   In fact, he had not only arrived but was being introduced to the dance troupe by the owner.
 Henrietta was so mesmerised by the man with his dark brooding good looks she was unaware she was agreeing to dance for him.
The realisation of what she had just agreed to struck home and she screamed loudly. It was too late, all her friends where rushing about talking wildly and laughing. Henrietta was being dragged away to get ready for her performance.
Manuel watched her being ushered away and smiled.
‘She is a very attractive woman, is she married?’ he asked the owner.
‘Henrietta? No she is not married’ the owner answered a little intrigued by the question. It was no secret the famous young musician had escorted some of the most beautiful women in the world not just Spain.
Manuel began his performance. It did not matter if he was on the stage of a small restaurant or the Albert Hall in London, he would give it his best.  He would never forget the first time he listened to another guitarist on his father’s stage.
When it was time for the flamenco performance he announced to a disappointed audience that the local dancer could not make it, however another local dancer has agreed to take her place.
The dance troupe had done a magnificent job in making sure their star performer was dressed for the occasion.  Henrietta took the stage in darkness and waited for the spotlight.  When it did, even the well-travelled Manuel had an intake of breath. Dressed in a tight, figure hugging red flamenco dress she was the epitome of grace and elegance. But could she dance?
Manuel began to play unable to take his eyes away and wondered why after all the beautiful women he had met over the past few years he had just fallen in love with a local girl from a small village in the mountains of Malaga?
Henrietta had practised the flamenco dance many times but this was her first live performance. It was exquisite with a standing ovation at the finish.
Manuel waited until the end of the night to approach her but to his disappointment she had already left for home.  The dance troupe was all too willing to provide directions to where she lived.
 
THE NEXT MORNING
Henrietta’s father stumbled out of bed and cursed the person ringing the bell at his front door. His job as a porter in a local hotel meant many late nights and sleeping late into the morning was not unusual. He flung open the front door and cursed again as the morning sun blinded him ‘who in the name of Christ is waking up a working man at this time in the morning’
Manuel apologised but asked if Henrietta was available.
‘And who may I ask is calling?’ the father asked sarcastically staring at the man on the doorstep, who looked vaguely familiar.
‘My name is Manuel Fernandez sir and I wish to marry your daughter’
The scream in the background could be heard in the outskirts of town.
The father suddenly recognised the man on the doorstep. His face had been posted on every wall in the village ‘holy mother of god you’re that famous guitarist’ he gagged.
‘Husband if I hear one more curse from you I will be calling Father Rodriguez to get your confession’ the mother shouted from inside the house, which by now was in a state of panic.
‘My apologies Senor Fernandez but I work nights you see and I’m not at my best in the mornings. Please wait there and I will see if my daughter is up and about’
Henrietta suddenly appeared at the door fully dressed and wide awake grinning madly. She slipped past her bewildered father and curtsied ‘good morning Manuel and did I just hear you wanted to marry me?’ she teased.
If Manuel had any second thoughts, they had just disappeared.
He was grinning madly ‘I suppose now that I have asked your father’s permission I really should ask you as well; but maybe we should have a cup of coffee in that café down the road first’
Henrietta took his arm ‘it is owned by my Uncle so behaved yourself’ she teased again.
Manuel would remember later to ask how she had dressed so quickly.
‘You don’t think a group of young women could keep the fact you were going to call on me a secret did you’
She would forget to mention she had been up and dressed since dawn!
 
CHAPTER 3
A VILLA IN THE HILLS – MALAGA
Manuel and Henrietta had married. Their child – Maria - was born just 9 months later.
As a world famous guitarist Manuel had acquired a healthy bank balance but as one song put it ‘the time’s they are a changing!’
‘I have done well Henrietta but the young people listen to The Beatles or the Rolling Stones these days. My music is considered out of date’
‘Your albums still sell do they not’ she reminded him.
‘Not as they used to obviously and everything is on cassettes nowadays. There is even talk about putting them onto some kind of computer disks’
‘Just talk Manuel who would buy such a thing?’
‘Maybe I should look for another career’ he shrugged.
‘You are playing at the restaurant tonight Manuel. Why don’t we ask mama to babysit and we will have an evening together!’ she said trying to stop her husband from brooding on the subject.
THE RESTAURANT WITH A VIEW
Manuel took one last look at the setting sun and went to prepare for his concert.
Phillipe the owner of the restaurant was by now an old and valued friend so it was with some concern he noticed the man sitting quietly in a corner head in his hands.
‘Phillipe are you ill?’
The man looked up and shook his head ‘no Manuel nothing so simple’ he answered.
‘What is the matter old friend is your family well?’
The man shook his head again ‘they are well and thank heaven have full lives before them. My daughter is a doctor you know’ he said proudly.
Manuel knew all his family intimately so it was an odd statement to make.
‘Is there anything I can do Phillipe’ he asked a little concerned about his state of mind.
The man stiffened aware he was not being a man but then sank again at was he was about to say ‘we have to close the restaurant Manuel. The local authorities have condemned the restaurant as unfit. We cannot afford to make the improvements they are insisting on. Even the Mayor cannot be bribed!’ he groaned.
If the Mayor cannot be bribed, then things must be bad Manuel thought.
‘Surely the Bank will help you’
‘The Bank! They are all leaches and only interested in building these ridiculously overpriced properties down on the coast or on a golf course.  Have you heard the latest joke Manuel?  What is the national bird of Spain? The answer is The Crane. Everywhere you look you see those monstrosities. Franco the Dictator would never have allowed all this’ he growled.
Manuel was not going to get into a political discussion but he had some sympathy with his friends point of view.
His next statement even surprised himself ‘I will buy the restaurant from you’
It took a few seconds for the owner to realise what his friend was saying ‘I can think of no-one I would rather sell it to if you are serious Manuel. I will make sure the price is right’
Manuel smiled and suddenly realised his melancholy mood had just evaporated.
A hand shake between two men of honour was all that was needed to seal the agreement.
 
CHAPTER 4
MANUEL’S - A NEW RESTAURANT {WITH A VIEW}
Henrietta had the good sense not to spoil her husband’s enthusiasm but in truth she wasn’t sure if buying a restaurant was a good idea.
‘Remember Henrietta I was brought up in a restaurant so I know it is hard work’
‘But all the improvements Manuel.  It will take a lot of money’ she had argued.
‘I have already spoken to my Bank and they don’t see a problem but I don’t think it will be that expensive if your family are willing to help?’
That was true she thought. Her extended family where either builders, carpenters or electricians.  They all had much work due to the recent building boom but she was certain they would do what they could.
And so it was that Manuel Fernandez famous guitar playing was now the owner of a Restaurant with a view. It would take almost six months before most of the work was completed.
‘The new furniture is arriving next week’ he told his wife one day as they sat together in the newly built extension.
Henrietta did not reply. In fact, she had not really heard what her husband was saying.
Manuel looked at his wife closely for the first time in months. With all that was happening he had neglected her and made a vow he would make it up to her as soon as everything was completed.
‘Maybe you should have a few days’ rest’ he suggested.
‘I have been feeling very tired recently so that’s not a bad idea if you don’t need me?’
He came over and hugged his wife and became even more concerned ‘you have lost weight Henrietta.  Next week we will visit a Doctor.  Maybe he will suggest some vitamins for you and tell us why you are losing weight’
‘I’m not surprised husband with all the hard work we have been doing these past six months’ She answered suddenly coughing into a handkerchief.
‘That does it we visit a Doctor tomorrow and no argument’ he decided ‘Maria will be with us tonight now we have the upstairs bedroom completed’
His mother in law had taken over the day to day duties of taking their daughter to school and back but Maria would rush into the building every day to see what had been completed.
‘Your daughter is more excited than both of us I think’ Henrietta said smiling.
That night they all went to bed exhausted as usual but happy knowing that the restaurant would soon be finished.
Manuel awoke suddenly and looked around the darkened bedroom.
Something was wrong but what was it?
He rubbed his tired eyes and tried to concentrate.
He heard something crash onto the tiled floor down below and suddenly came wide awake.
It was then he sniffed the air and smelt the acrid smell of smoke!
He shook his wife awake ‘get out of bed and grab Maria I think we have a fire in the restaurant’ he told her moving towards the bedroom door.
He was just about to add ‘I will call the fire brigade’ then realised the telephone lines had not yet been connected.
He opened the door and just as quickly slammed it shut before the black smoke bellowed into the room. Manuel was now in a panic.  They were trapped. The fire had already consumed the front entrance; trying to escape that way would mean certain death.
Maria had already sensed her parents fear and began to cry.
Her mother hugged her but she had also realised their situation was bad.
She suddenly remembered something ‘Manuel is the new store room completed?’
‘Of course!’ he cried ‘it’s completely sealed with no windows. If we get in and close the door we should be safe’
With blankets covering their heads they battled through the smoke and licking flames. The whole restaurant was now alight and there was nothing they could do about it.
Inside the store room they slammed the door shut. The emergency lighting flickered for a few minutes then went out. In the darkness they could only sit on the stone floor and wait….and pray!
 The banging on the door two hours later made them all jump in fright until they heard a voice outside ‘is anyone in there’ came a man’s cry.
They all shouted at once. A few minutes later the heavy metal door was being prized open. The fresh air was welcome even with the acrid smell of burning wood.
‘Thank God we found you alive’ cried the fireman as he helped the family outside ‘we feared the worse’
A large crowd had gathered outside and a huge cheer went up as they saw the family appear.
Henrietta’s parents had been held back but now they rushed forward then stopped suddenly as their daughter collapsed in a heap on the floor.
 
CHAPTER 4
A LOCAL HOSPITAL
Henrietta opened her eyes two days later to see the sleeping figure of her husband in a chair beside the hospital bed.  He was still wearing his night clothes and obviously hadn’t washed since the fire.
Thinking of the fire she panicked. Where is our daughter? she mumbled to herself.  The effort made her start coughing.
Manuel woke up and jumped out of the chair ‘Henrietta are you ok?’
‘Yes husband but you look terrible’ she grinned.
‘Thank god you have been unconscious for two days’
‘Where is our daughter?’
‘She is well and with your family. They have refused to leave her alone for more than a minute. It was a close thing Henrietta. Another hour and we would have suffocated’
A doctor entered the room and noticed his patient was awake ‘Hello Henrietta my name is Doctor Guemal.  A nurse will be along in a moment to check your condition but I would like a quick word with your husband’ he said indicating they should step out into the corridor.
Manuel noticed the clip board with notes and charts in the doctor’s hand.
‘As you know Manuel we have taken blood samples from your wife.  Has she been losing weight recently and coughing more than usual?’
‘Yes, we had arranged to visit a doctor this week’
The Doctor scratched his chin thoughtfully ‘we would have taken blood samples as a matter of course but it wouldn’t have made any difference to the time frame I suppose’
‘I’m sorry doctor but I don’t understand’
‘I have already checked the results with a Specialist and he confirms my diagnosis. Your wife has an advanced stage of cancer. I’m sorry sir but her condition is terminal’
Manuel was having trouble breathing as he tried to digest the doctor’s news.  A thousand questions were in his head but he could hardly speak.
It was not the first time the doctor had delivered bad news so he was prepared for the questions that suddenly came at him.
When the inevitable question came he was ready ‘three, possibly six month’s sir, I’m so sorry’
 
CHAPTER 5
A VILLA IN SPAIN
Pablo couldn’t believe what he was hearing.  His grandmother had died from cancer many years before he was born.  His mother could have died in the fire that engulfed the restaurant. He suddenly needed to hug his mother which he did.
He also had many questions to ask ‘if the fire destroyed the restaurant mama how was it re-built?’
‘I will explain all that in a moment’
Pablo touched the blistered guitar case and now understood why it was in such a condition.  It had survived the fire somehow but how he asked?
‘As my mother carried me through the restaurant she needed something to protect our heads from the flames.  Your grandfather’s guitar was never far away from him.  She used that to protect us from the falling debris’
Pablo shook his head in the wonder of it all.  Now he understood the toast Henrietta at the party.
‘Is the party held on that day because she died then?’
‘No Pablo it is held on the day your grandpapa met a beautiful woman who danced for him and he fell in love!’
Something occurred to him ‘why did I have to wait until my tenth birthday to hear all this mama?’
‘Maybe you can answer that one yourself’ she asked him.
Pablo thought about it and decided the answer was obvious ‘it was the tenth birthday of grandpapa when he realised he could play the guitar’ he smiled.
‘That is correct Pablo.  My father has given pleasure to many people with his music but he refused to play again after his wife died. That is except on that one day of the year’
Pablo shook his head at the sadness of it all.  He worshipped his grandfather but now many things had become clear. 
Then something dawned on him ‘but didn’t he play his guitar at my cousins wedding not two months ago’ he asked jumping out of his seat in excitement at remembering that information.
‘Yes Pablo he did and that’s where the story continues’
 
CHAPTER 6
The death of his wife left Manuel devastated and bewildered.  Any thought of re-building the restaurant had evaporated.  Any thoughts of playing his guitar never occurred to him.  For over six months he hardly left the house except to take his beloved daughter to school or a walk in the woods nearby.  The whole community felt his pain but there was nothing they could do to help.  It would take time but in the end it was up to the man himself to understand he was not alone.
One day a letter from the bank arrived to confirm a deposit had been made by his Insurance Company.  Manuel was confused.  He had no idea what it all meant but decided he should visit the ruins of the restaurant to see what documents could be salvaged if any. It was not something he was looking forward to but it had to be done.
The next day he approached the road leading up to the restaurant.  It was blocked by a lorry delivering building material.  He cursed under his breath then realised he was being petty.  Life goes on for other people he decided.
Another lorry was parked outside the entrance.  There seemed to be a lot of people milling about he thought ‘I don’t remember another business or large house on this road’
It was not until he rounded the corner of the road that he saw what all the fuss was about.
Manuel stood immobile with his mouth fully open.
The restaurant had been almost fully restored.  Workmen were in the process of delivering the very fittings that should have been arriving the week after the fire.
He could only stand and stare until someone tapped him on the shoulder ‘hello Manuel I’m glad you came to visit at last.  We could do with some advice on where to locate the new stage!’ his brother in law enquired.
 
A VILLA IN SPAIN
‘Wow did all the family get together and re-build the whole restaurant?’ Pablo asked excitedly ‘that was awesome’
‘Yes they did Pablo.  The deposit in the Bank by the way was the Insurance payment.  The Bank Manager had the presence of mind to insist on such a policy just in case’
‘So the restaurant was opened and was called Manuel’s after my grandpapa. Is that when he met Angelina?’
‘It wasn’t until five years later he met Angelina but I suppose I was responsible for that’
‘I don’t understand mama why you?’
‘My father did his best but it was inevitable things between us would change.  He made an effort not to show his sadness but I knew it was always there.  I missed my mother and would often stare at her photograph wondering what might have been.  I would even write little stories about her until one day a friend suggested I write a book based on my experiences.  I had a lot of material to work with that’s for sure. One year later my book was accepted by a publisher in London.  A year after that I was approached by a film company wanting to turn the novel into a film’
‘You made a film’ he asked his mother in awe.
‘Not me Pablo but I did provide many photographs and background material for the producer who by the way decided to visit me at the restaurant one evening.  He also brought along the Leading Lady!’
Pablo was now getting the idea ‘and that’s when he met Angelina!’ he said giving himself a pat on the back for being clever.
‘Very good but it could have turned into a terrible disaster’ she answered shaking her head remembering.
Pablo was confused again ‘why?’ he asked cautiously.
‘Because they decided to visit on the day of the party!’
‘The day we all toast Henrietta’ he remembered.
‘Exactly!’ she said in agreement ‘just imagine what my father would be thinking if the woman playing his dead wife turns up to ask him questions’
‘Did she want to ask him questions’
‘It seems her Leading Man the one playing father wasn’t nearly as exciting as the real thing.  Angelina had studied my father for the part and listened to all his recordings.  I think she was already in love with him before she arrived.  I had the presence of mind to explain all what was happening.  Funnily enough he was very supportive.
‘You have to remember Maria I was in the music and entertainment business when I met your mother.  Nothing surprises me about that Industry’
‘Fortunately as well I had explained the Producer was going to visit but left out the Leading Lady part.  Like I said it could have been a disaster but something seemed to happen to my father when he saw her dance’
‘She danced on the stage!’
‘Yes Pablo, she not only danced the flamenco but she wore exactly the very same dress my mother wore that first evening they met!’
Pablo was only ten years of age but even he could see that would have stirred painful memories ‘did grandpapa fall in love again’ he asked not really knowing what he was asking.
‘Not straight away Pablo but like I said something seemed to happen to him.  I would have expected him to be a little sad and melancholy but exactly the opposite happened.  He seemed to realise life goes on and an exciting beautiful actress was just the thing he suddenly wanted. Angelina by the way decided she wasn’t going to fall so easily.  She may have fallen for him but she wasn’t going to succumb that quickly.  She made him chase after her all the way to the studio where they were filming.  I think we can leave out the rest until you are a little older’ she suggested.
Pablo still had many questions to ask but the huge yawn he produced cut an end to any more story telling.
Maria put her son to bed and decided to take a stroll outside before retiring.
Her father was waiting for her ‘how was the story telling daughter’ he asked.
She walked over and gave her father a long hug ‘we both still miss her don’t we father but I see parts of her in my son’
Manuel nodded and said ‘tomorrow I will start teaching him the guitar. Goodnight Maria’
 
                                                                           THE END

                            Nymph Goddess’s Garderobe
 
 
The sun rose to midday level. Froman sensed the trust of his companions dwindling. Upon his assurance that the tracking spell worked, they had followed him, pursuing a beast which they had yet to see. Many believed the Wolpertinger were extinct. A creature with the head of a rabbit, antlers of a deer, and wings of a pheasant was nothing most had seen. Enforcer Ivanna hiked alongside him, speaking firmly. “We have yet to visualize your Wolpertinger. I will not hesitate to shackle and haul you back to Caineann if this is a hoax.” She fingered her holstered dagger, threateningly. “If I were not immersed in this objective, I would have already. I cannot comprehend how a Wolpertinger leads us to answers.”
Froman remained sanguine, aware their hesitance was due to his terroristic Wolf Supremacist viewpoints, and history of treason. He would prove that they had released him from incarceration for good reasons. The Wolpertinger was making its pilgrimage to the tree. “Fret not, Ivanna,” Froman said. “We have caught up with it. It has arrived at our destination.” He lifted a tree limb and pointed beyond. They peered through a grove of berry bushes and ferns. There it stood grazing. Froman had seen the small hybrid animals before. Myria and Ivanna however, were mesmerized. The composite creature nibbled on grass, its pheasant wings folded in, under its long rabbit ears. The tiny antlers weighed its head as it ate. Froman knew Ivanna and Myria must also be amazed by the field. The Wandering Field was the most colorful and enchanting natural spectacle to be found on Fathach; and least seen. One of every species of flower, weed and shrub was immortalized within. They watched as birds averted their flight course. Even an assembly of ants marched around it. “They are respecting it,” Froman said. “We will do likewise.” Across the meadow, he saw the tree, the greenest and most beautiful to be seen. The last time Froman had laid eyes upon it, it had been halfway across Fathach, in this identical field. It traveled Fathach slowly and invisible, like a cloaked cloud. It could only be located by an individual in a particular way. One manner was to follow a Wolpertinger. These creatures were always allured to the Tree. He led them around the Field, approaching tree. “We have arrived,” Froman valiantly declared, indicating it. The large tree had an unusually thick trunk with a dense canopy of leaves covered the top branches like a hood.
After a moment of stunned silence, Myria glared at Froman, fists clench at her hips. “Ivanna broke Enforcer protocol, taking you from Caineann prison… You take us on a strenuous hike, following a bird across half the continent, to show us a tree?!”
Froman sighed, smile vanishing from his face. He knew this would be difficult. “Only frivolous humans would see this just as a tree.” Froman sensed his own arrogance, but did not care. “This is the tree.” Froman was now staring at the tree with commendation. “It epitomizes nature. Calling it a tree seems a great insult… It is more, the life tree.”
Ivanna stared at the tall tree, shaking her head. “It looks just like the other trees.”
“As it was intended,” Froman concurred with a nod. “The roots that burrow under the ground which we stand on are those that spawned The Fruition. If nature were an earthquake, this would be its epicenter.”
Ivanna and Myria looked at each other with identical blank expressions on their faces. “What fruition?” Ivanna asked, with a shake of her head.
“This Fruition,” Froman said, spreading his arms and gesturing at the deep woods all around them. “The fruition that we overlook, and blindly take for granted, daily. I mean the fruition manifesting through wind on our faces, trees providing shade and fruit, even vermin that eat our rubbish.” He saw the baffled looks of his female companions. “This Field is teems with that energy I mentioned before. We stand at the very center of it all. Faraoise lives below our feet. You are unaware of her, as the hairs on your head are unaware of you. Faraoise is a stranger to most. But she is our very foundation. Her home is where all begins and ends; where a root from every tree descends, and every stream flows to and from.”
“I find that difficult to entertain,” Ivanna said. “Faraoise was the nymph goddess worshipped by the Mount Glomodor woodsmen, before the pestilence overtook them, was it not? You claim she is real?”
Froman’s sensitive Wolf hearing detected the words Myria whispered into Ivanna’s ear. “I smell deception, milady.” Myria shook her head in irritation. “Even if this tree is… a tree of life, as you call it. How does that relate to use accessing the death realm?”
Froman surveyed the height and foliage of the tree with diction reminiscent of seeing his own mother. “Would you disagree that life and death go as hand-in-hand as notions are able?”
A creaking sound beside them caused Ivanna and Myria to gasp. The tree was quaking. The roots at the base opened. “Our hostess is admitting us.” Froman grinned.
He beckoned for Ivanna and Myria to accompany him, sensing their apprehension. Before he could provide encouraging words, he stopped. Froman felt his nostrils expand. His Wolf smelling had detected a familiar, undesired scent. He had not experienced that waft, reeking of dampened soil and flesh since before his incarceration. The smell of a Golem was unsavory to Wolf noses. The stoic, indifferent voice of Chliste emitted from behind them. “Might I request audience?” The two women gasped. Froman felt a churn in his stomach, seeing the guised batholith approach. Although he had whiffed the Golem’s presence, the sight of him was more hindering.  
Ivanna stared. “Chliste, you startled us. We have not seen you since Mount Glomodor.”
Froman gaped. He was unaware it was Chliste who prevented them from being devoured by Lorne the Giant. He spat, glaring at Chliste. “This is the Sorcerer you spoke of, who saved you on the mountain? I am shocked you were capable of such compassion, Chliste.” 
 Ivanna looked back and forth between filthy, disarrayed Froman and the immaculate, impeccably clean Chliste, as if glancing freely between night and day. “You know one another?”
Chliste did not look at Ivanna, but kept his eyes fixated on Froman as he responded. “Oh, indeed, Froman the Extremist and I are old acquaintances.”
Froman returned the concentrated stare. He shrugged, causing his muck of hair to bounce. “Well,” Froman said with growling undertone. “That is dependent. If your definition of “acquaintance” is someone who causes your anus to clench with contempt at the sight of them, Chliste and I are the best of acquaintances.”
Chliste exhaled through his nostrils and shook his head. “Detainment has not altered your personality,” he said. “Still prompt to confront I see.”
Froman’s nostrils flared threateningly for a moment. “Do not analyze me!” Froman growled at Chliste. “I refuse to accept criticism on character from a Golem!”
Ivanna’s eyes widened upon Froman’s words. She stared at Chliste in befuddlement. “Wait,” she said slowly. “Chliste, you are a-?”
Chliste raised a hand in Ivanna’s direction to silence her. He shifted his gaze from Froman, onto Ivanna and Myria, standing beside one another. “I am afraid we have revealed too much in front of the two of you,” Chliste said. He gripped his slim fingers together, pointing in Froman’s direction with both hands. “Maiden, and Enforcer, my splenetic acquaintance and I need a moment’s privacy to discuss sensitive subjects.” He turned to face to Ivanna and Myria, raising both hands, palms down, one in Ivanna’s direction, the other in Myria’s. “I do apologize for the inconvenience,” Chliste said to both of them. He spoke a different tongue, and his fingertips glimmered blue. “Isteach Droim Ar Ais Am Luath Ais!” he bellowed. Froman recognized the spell accessing the flow of time. The tree branches above began to tremor. By the time Ivanna had registered that a spell being cast in their direction, and instinctively went to draw her sword, it was too late. She and Myria both dematerialized in a flash of blue light, and flutter of smoky residue in the air. Froman and Chliste were left alone in the clearing. They stared at one another unblinkingly. The wind, which had come in gusts through the Wandering Field subsided, due to the magical energy thick in the air.
Froman spoke first. “It has been a long time Chliste… You are looking well,” he forced the words.
Chliste pursed his lips defiantly and nodded, folding his hands behind his back and looking Froman up and down. “I would return the sentiment, Froman, but, unlike you, I am not the type to lie.” He glanced at the ragged robes and filthy skin. Froman was aware that the decades of compressed confinement in Caineann had inflicted his posture, causing him to appear like a hunchback.
Froman kept his arms folded as Chliste paced around him. Froman sucked at a gap in his teeth with his tongue, and gestured to the spot in the clearing where Ivanna and Myria had stood moments before. The shouted magic incantation still echoed loud within his sensitive Wolf eardrums. “Where did you send those two? Rather, when did you send them?”
Chliste shrugged. “Somewhere educational,” he said. “I will retrieve them soon. I do not wish any harm to befall them, and if I leave them where I transported them for long that may happen.”
Froman clawed at his greasy mop of hair to expel an itch. “Somewhere during The Days to Forsake, I presume,” he said. He scratched his patchy chin. “I thought The Grand Legion ruled that time travel magic was to be regulated?”
Chliste did not make eye contact as he paced. “That is refreshing, coming from Froman the Extremist, well-known for keeping the law, and The Legion in so high regard. I suppose that is why you led siege in effort to assassinate the lawmakers, who the imprisoned you for treason?” He reached pulled a green leaf down from a tree. As if bored by this interaction with Froman already, he nonchalantly changed the leaf into a blue and yellow moth and watched it flutter off with a grin.
Froman rolled his eyes. “Did you appear to enlighten me of something, or to patronize and show off mundane trickery?”
“You were taking them to see Faraoise,” Chliste said, not as question, but statement. “What I do not know is why you are taking them to see her, and why you are taking such unnecessarily excessive lengths.” He watched the moth flutter around his palm. “The Tree of Life has no finite location. It appears wherever one wishes it. Yet you have led these women to believe it arrived here, at your destination randomly?”
“I have been imprisoned for quite a long time, Chliste,” Froman said, nonchalantly looking down at his arms, particularly at the bones, standing pronounced within his flesh from malnutrition. “Did it not occur to you perhaps I seized this opportunity because I miss the beautiful Fathach scenery?” A sneer flickered on his face.
“It occurs to me that you are megalomaniacal, Froman,” Chliste replied, looking his fugitive acquaintance in the face again. “You always have been. I agree you must be seizing opportunity for something. But of what, I am unclear of.” His blue eyes illuminated. Chliste stepped closer, blueness of his irises intensifying. “I find this puzzling… Whenever I try to delve into your mind to ascertain your ulterior motive for visiting this discreet area, I hit a wall. It seems you are purposefully not keeping it at the forefront of your thoughts.” The color in his eyes subsided.
Froman smirked. Upon Chliste’s initial approach, he had activated a mental cloaking technique. He had mastered the ability to isolate a thought in his mind, and shift it to store within the Wolf component of his psyche. Chliste could not read animal minds: too convoluted and primal. To a mind-reader they were cryptic. “The Enforcer and handmaiden wish to investigate the realm of death to satisfy curiosity. I am simply assisting them. I am the lone available escort. They granted temporary amnesty.”
Some of Chliste’s courage replenished, now they were speaking of something which he was aware of. He nodded, and began to pace again. “Yes, that much I have concluded. You do intend to allow them to access the realm of the death. Your hidden motives not withstanding Froman, I came because I highly advise against that.”
Froman chuckled. “Pardon me if that holds little weight,” he replied. “I theorize had you been here when Faraoise formulated conceiving nature, you would have advised against that.”
As he replied, Chliste kept his gaze once again at an arbitrary point up in the trees. “You are saying I am a pessimist, or a contrarian, perhaps?”
Froman closed his eyes with his arms still folded. “I am saying you are artificial. I never know why I waste my time telling you this. It will not change anything.” He turned his back, to enter the gateway at the tree’s base.
“I suspect it is similar to why I continuously try to rationalize with you,” Chliste said, causing the former to halt. “I know from experience, you will disregard my advice, and bury it under skepticism. My persistence does not falter, hoping that you may eventually see truth.”
Froman paced as well, as if he and Chliste were two Griffins preparing for a battle in a Warlock Arena. They stood on opposite sides of the clearing, glaring upon one another. “I question your definition of truth, Chliste,” Froman said.  
“I doubt you hold any definition,” said Chliste. “That is the difference between you and Lucano. He had questionable tactics, and motives. At least he had valid grasp of practicality and nonsense.” The moth flew back and landed on Chliste’s hand. “There are some things that mere humans, such as that Dlidean princess and handmaiden, simply are not meant to understand. I am even skeptical of whether the likes of you should be permitted to grasp it. The blood of your mystical mother flows in your veins among the Wolf blood, but you are no Sorcerer.”
Froman growled. “Oh do not dare peddle that self-righteous “Sorcerers are superior” dung Chliste!” he bellowed. He felt his descending fangs stab at his tongue. He took a deep breath and they receded. He stifled the howl, eager to escape his vocal cords. Keeping his own Wolf-side tethered was sometimes contending.   
Chliste paused, and shook his head with folded arms. “I see a great deal of your father Druck in you, Froman,” he said.
Froman was finding urges to turn very difficult to repress now. He felt the hair on his back and shoulders thickening. His claws sprang out from his fingertips as well, but he quickly retracted them. “I loathe when you discuss my father with me,” he said to Chliste in a controlled voice. “You know nothing of him. You are not even a Sorcerer! You are a Golem! You replicate The Knower of All.”
Chliste sighed and straightened the sleeves of his white robe. “We have had this debate before. I reincarnate The Knower of All. Therefore I possess all of his powers, intelligence, and memories.”
“You are a walking clay statue.” Froman spat, “a mud-pie with a vocabulary.”
Chliste chuckled. “Quick wit and fondness of insults are further testimony to your father’s memory… also deceit.”
“My father was not deceitful, he was resourceful, you heartless rock!” Froman protested. He turned his back, trembling and repressing the Wolf emergence.
“Cease your fruitless rock fleers. As you relentlessly indicate I have no feelings to hurt in any case. Froman, why will you not heed my warning?” Chliste threw up his hands in astonishment, his mouth agape. “Why do you respond to my words as if they are lies from a frightened child?”
Froman stopped walking, but kept his back to Chliste. “Same reason I refused the last time. I have qualms about taking consultation from someone who used to be rocks on a beach.”
Froman walked toward the tree again. He heard a whooshing, like wind assaulting the trees and Chliste appeared in front of him, blocking Froman’s route. “You epitomize stubborn,” he said. “The few occasions I met your mother, she showed similar-.”
“Hold your tongue, Golem!” Froman roared pointing a finger at Chliste’s nose. “Speaking ill of my mother I will not tolerate! I will you throw into the depths of the Juniean Sea, and watch you sink like the stone you are, and get urinated on by Selkies!” Froman gripped the bark of the tree next to him with such frustrated force, two of his elongated nails broke off. He growled, and pointed at Chliste again. “I have made this clear on numerous occasions. I do not trust you, Chliste! Since I discovered your true material, I find you unworthy of confidence.” He looked Chliste up and down again. “Golems were created to be nothing more than obedient man-servants. The design of your kind is without emotion. No emotion means heartless. No heart means clouded judgment, due to elusive love and compassion!”
“And Wolf-Sorcerers are more altruistic, I suppose?” Chliste said, solemnly. “You are mistaken. Possession of heart causes prioritizing feelings over rationale. My lack of emotional connection is a blessing… Speaking of hearts, where is Skyro’s?”
Froman narrowed his eyes. “You meddlesome statue, have you been following me since I left Caineann?” he sneered. He took the bag from the sycamore tree.
Precisely what component of “Knower of All” seems to constantly escape your comprehension?”  
"Enough bickering,” a monotone voice announced. Faraoise appeared at the entrance to her domain at the base of the tree. She pet the Wolpertinger nestled in her arms. “Apparently etiquette is not yet a natural element.” She nodded her white head toward the gateway. “It is ill-mannered to ignore an open door from the dweller.”
Froman followed Faraoise, but Chliste remained where he was, extremely hesitant. “Are Golems devoid of manners as well as emotion?” Froman daunted.
“Chliste cannot enter,” Faraoise said, stroking the calmed Wolpertinger. “If he does, he will transform into lifeless mass of rocks and sand.” Froman had forgotten that in her centerfold of essence, everything reverted to base of natural design. Chliste released the moth from his hand. It flew over the mouth of Faraoise’s doorway, and turned back into a leaf. The three watched it float down into natal abyss. “Your Wolf powers will not function either, as they are the product of an ancient curse. I shall return to the surface soon to speak with you, Chliste.” Faraoise looked at Froman as they descended into her abode. The roots closed behind them. “I know why you are here. You want to see her.”
“See who?” Froman asked, folding his arms.
“Spare me the drivel. You know who,” Faraoise said with testiness.” She led the way down the passageway, flapping her hair of pure light behind her back. “Do not insult the power of my aura, Froman. You did not follow this Wolpertinger all the way to my abode merely to assist in an exploration. You want to see Betinda. Just like you wanted to see your mother and father the last time you approached me to guide you through the veil.”
“I miss her,” Froman confessed. “Do not try to make me feel like there is error in that.”
“This is your folly,” Faraoise said, scooping up a handful of seeds from the earthy ground, and feeding the Wolpertinger. “You always assume motivation to antagonize. Betinda was one of select few whom you allowed to grow close. You have never felt as strong emotion as the way you miss her gaze and touch. The thought of being without that for the remainder of your life frightens you.” She indicated the bag with Skyro’s heart. “When will you tell your friends what that heart is really for? You said it was for the spell to cross the veil. Although the heart of ruthless King Skyro does meet the meticulous criteria of the heart of one delighted by Death, it also coincidentally, fits another description. You and I are both aware of what you truly intend to use the heart of the fugitive King for. The requirements for the spell to revive a murdered individual are threefold: a vessel for the life-force to occupy, an item belonging to the person, and the heart of they who ended their life. Then it is just a matter of location. You have the heart of the man who killed her. I have no doubt you have been carrying around a momentum of Betinda, something she owned. Do not think that I have not found familiarity in the area of the forest where you led that princess and handmaiden to, in order to find the Tree of Life. In order for the spell to be ritualized, it must be executed in the vicinity of where the intended necromancer was born. This is Betinda’s home province.”
They arrived in Faraoise’s home. The walls and ceiling were comprised of tree branches and roots of infinite variegated colors. Thousands of streams trickled from every direction, collecting in an immense lake in the middle. Nestled upon a rock in the middle of the lack, was a stone goblet. A translucent liquid shimmered in the goblet: Faraoise’s nectar. She called the goblet The Knothole. “It is time I made more,” she said, cradling the Wopertinger. “Extinction is on the horizon. My final major flock in Eon has been experiencing genocide at the hands of the hobgoblins nearby.” She reached into the nectar, extracting a coeval female Wopertinger. She let the male and female scamper, flapping their wings along one of the brooks to procreate.
“I have always assumed drinking of this nectar provided eternal life. Is that true?”
Faraoise scoffed. “Immortality and death were conceptualized by you hominids, the same as weaponry and warfare. They were never a fruit of my design. However, nothing is eternal. I created it as such. Just as these tree roots lead my home, so does the life of a Fathach individual or creature lead somewhere. No passageway ends, and water perpetually flows. When one reign of life ends, another begins elsewhere. As one who has seen the surrogate realm, you know this. The nectar of The Knothole contains insight, creational fluid.”
Froman stared into the swirling mass of colors in the Knothole. “So, you will die, or recreate someday?”
“Although I exist, I am unsure if it can be deemed life.” Faraoise looked at Froman as his back was facing her. “Froman, realize that if you do resurrect Betinda, and retrieve her from the dead, there can be almost no insurance or guarantee that what steps back into our realm will purely be her. She has been dead for four decades. Chances are immense that being in the realm of the dead for such a long time will have caused her some disrepair. She might not be the same Betinda that you knew and loved… You must be conscious of that.” 
“You do not know that! You cannot factually know that!” Froman shouted.
Faraoise became agile. “Do you believe I have existed this long without a perpetual certainty?!” she shouted. “I set foot on this continent three centuries before even Shrewn crossed the veil from his realm. I know!” She settled down again and peered at Froman. “You can receive this as cautionary advice, or however else you wish to assess. I do not know if the spell you intend to use to revive Betinda will work for her. It was designed to resurrect humans. Betinda, like all Wolf Folk, contained humanity… But she was not entirely human. You do not need to cross the barrier to the side of death to see her. You have been in the company of Betinda for quite some time now. Myria,” Faraoise simply said.
Froman was confused. “What about Myria?” he asked.
“I have clarity in nearly all aspects of nature,” Faraoise said. “It is enhanced sense, of my own, very much like your heightened smell, hearing, and sight accuracy. Every organism in this realm is a product of something I originated. In the presence of a human, dwarf, elf, even imp, or elk, I can instantly see in my psyche the details of their lineage, branching back multiple generations. It can often be overwhelming, even for me. From the moment Myria approached my lair, I sensed she and Betinda share blood.”
Froman shook his head. “I fail to see the relevance,” he said. “The populace is finite. I have no doubt that I share blood with hundreds more than I am aware of.”
Faraoise shook her head. “Do you believe I would call attention, if I were uncertain that the bond between Betinda and Myria is dense?”
“I find your arrogance sickening, Faraoise,” Froman grumbled. “Have you and Chliste been conspiring over mead in my absence, discussing ways to irritate me? You sound like him,” he roared.
“I am glad to hear I am sounding rational,” Faraoise said. “You would benefit from being attentive to Chliste and myself. I was first to utter the word Fathach, and as for Chliste, they do not call him The Knower of All for nothing. I have explained to you where his graced intelligence originally came from.”
Froman punched a root in anger. “That Golem is not the Knower of all!” he yelled. “I have said this right to his sedimentary face! The Knower of All has been dead for years. He is an abomination! And he has delayed any accomplishments by banishing the Enforcer and handmaiden to the Days to Forsake.”
Faraoise indicated the Knothole. “My nectar gives me clairvoyance into every aspect of Fathach. I can visualize time through it, like counting the rings on a tree stump. I can locate your friends and pull them back, just like finding a hair on your back and plucking it off. Shall I?”
Froman agreed. They approached the Knothole, and Faraoise began to stare into it. As he stood alongside her, Froman felt the bag in his hand shift. Although his Wolf senses were dormant in Faraoise’s lair, he felt he would sense hatred. “It beats,” he said, staring at the bag. “The heart of Skyro is beating…”
                                                                   To be Continued…

​Rick Edelstein was born and ill-bred on the streets of the Bronx. His initial writing was stage plays off-Broadway in NYC. When he moved to the golden marshmallow (Hollywood) he cut his teeth writing and directing multi-TV episodes of “Starsky & Hutch,” “Charlie’s Angels,” “Chicago,” “Alfred Hitchcock,” et al. He also wrote screenplays, including one with Richard Pryor, “The M’Butu Affair” and a book for a London musical, “Fernando’s Folly.” His latest evolution has been prose with many published short stories and novellas, including, “Bodega,” “Manchester Arms,” “America Speaks,” “Women Go on,” “This is Only Dangerous,” “Aggressive Ignorance,” “Buy the Noise,” and “The Morning After the Night.” He writes every day as he is imbued with the Judeo-Christian ethic, “A man has to earn his day.” Writing atones.

​                                             Grok This
 
 
            How are you?
            Okay.
            What’s not okay?
            Just woke up disappointed.
            Just what a woman wants to hear the morning after...
            No, it has nothing to do with you. It’s just that I am
experiencing a plethora of disappointments.
            Pletha-what?
            It’s my word-a-day. I have to use it relating to my life in order for it to become a functioning part of my vocabulary. It means...
            A lot, many, I know what plethora means.
            Then why did you say pletha-what?
            It’s not a word I often hear before breakfast and why were you sitting at the piano?
            Ever since I was a kid I’d go to sleep and pray that when I woke up I could play the piano.
            Did you ever take lessons?
            Once. I hated practicing scales.
            Wait a mini-second...you’re telling me that now, as an adult man, you try and program that ludicrous miracle and you’re disappointed it didn’t take? Is that what you’re saying?
            I’m sharing something personal. It’s not up for the female judge, jury and executioner, thank you.
            Oh God I need a touch of shallowness to relate.
What does that mean?
Okay okay okay. Change subject. How’s the coffee?
            Stronger than usual but I like it.
            Me, too. I’m sorry I can’t let this go yet. You really plug in that fantasy every night? Even if it is not possible, I mean you know that you will never  awaken to...
            My mother used to say never say never.
            How old are you?
Twenty-eight, why?
And you’re still into your mother?
‘Til the day I die although I expect she’ll die first and I’ll still love my mother unconditionally. Don’t you?
How could I, I don’t even know your mother.
You two would probably hate each other.
Why do you say that?
Because you’re a smart ass.
You always compliment a woman the morning after?
It’s a package deal.
We don’t know each other well enough to have a fight so I’ll just let it pass.
Not so much a fight as feeling each other out, it’s a process.
Sounds like a quote from some magazine on relationships. God I hate that word, relationships!
Are you pissed at me? We had a great time yesterday, last night, the coffee’s good, so what did I do?
You really do that piano number every night?
Here we go. You don’t ever imagine stuff that hasn’t manifested yet?
Reality defeats imagination every time.
That’s too final for me. Me I like to keep stoking the fires.
I don’t know what that means but I think we better stop talking about
this now because it’s beginning to...let’s just change the subject she said again. Tell me something important about you.
            I got fired yesterday.
            You got what?
Fired, let go, pink slipped, given my walking papers, released from...
            I got it I got it... from plethora to piano-miracle-that-did-not-take, surprise! to losing your job. Talk about a getting to know you process. What happened?
            The boss in his glass cavern has three screens, two of which are connected to all of ours and he was apparently surfing, checking on us like an Arab terrorist.
            Arab terrorists don’t check, they plant bombs, shoot up civilians.
            What are you my assigned critic this morning!
Want me to leave?
            This isn’t working is it.
            I thought you’d get the humor.
            Your humor is arcane.
Word-a-day?
Yes. What am I missing?
            ‘Want me to leave.’ Hello! This is my apartment, my piano, my remote, my fridge that I stock with goodies which please even as they add to love handles. ‘Want me to leave’ I thought you’d grok the humor in that.
            Grok? Grok, what is that?
            Grok, understand something, even intuitively.
            You make up that word?
            You like words. Grok’s better than plethora.
            How do you spell it? G R O C H or...
            K.
            G R O C H K? Weird.
            No G R O K.
            Grok...you made up a great word.
            No I didn’t.
            I feel like you’re walking all over my brain. You just said...
            Stranger in a Strange Land.
            What am I supposed to say behind that?
            Name of the book where the writer used Grok.
            Uh huh. Okay. I grok that. Cool.
            So why were you fired?
            The glass encaged okay not a terrorist but an A-One asshole well past his sell-by date, definitely not user-friendly believe you me.
Me believes you.
He arrives early before us as if he is clocking us, he’s a loaded cannon seeking a purpose.
            But what do you really think of him?
            You can’t be serious.
            I wasn’t.
            Your humor takes some getting used to.
            What happened?
When?
Hello! You were fired. Why?
You really want to know?
Is it a state secret?
Just...well...you don’t really know me and...
You steal the company’s payroll?
Not even close.
It’s a process, remember, if I can sing I’d do a getting to know you but Julie Andrews won’t forgive me.
Forget it.
No, Pandora’s box is open and it’s befouling the air.
Befouling. Cool.
What did the big bad boss catch you doing or not doing?
Okay okay okay. He saw that I was checking out some porn instead of input/output data.
            You’re into porn?
            From your tone you obviously disapprove.
            Look, we don’t hardly know each other, yet. You’re a great lover and weird in an almost interesting off the wall way for me anyhow and well I’m just trying to...a real question, why porn?
I don’t know...I don’t like to explain myself as if I did something wrong.
            Well apparently you did because you got fired.
            Not just me. Arnold, in the cubicle next to me, puffy, face too pink, smiles too much...
            I never trust a person who’s always happy.
            He smiles apologetically as if the receiver has to forgive him with his white socks, black pants, glasses, short, weighs himself every morning, eats salad for lunch, no dressing, smart in that book learning way not in life, he sends but doesn’t receive.
            You can write a detective novel with that description. So what did Arnold do?
            He turned me on to Pornhub. Told me that seventy per cent of online porn occurs during nine to five work days so don’t be judging me as if I’m a freak. Just a seventy per cent man who indulges occasionally.
            So what are you going to do?
            About porn?
No, work.
Oh yeah. I checked my horoscope, you don’t know this about me but I have a very good memory, it said quote, “You need to switch off your emotions. Nothing in life is one hundred percent certain, but if you put your brain to work now...” and I forget what else.
            Said the man who has a very good memory.
            You going to score points all morning?
            You have a substantial stash in savings or a CD waiting to be cashed?
            I have exactly three hundred and eighteen dollars in my checking account and a hundred and sixteen savings. But I will be picking up my paycheck which should include some severance. Maybe a month or three if I’m lucky.
            What are you going to do, she asked again?
            Hey I was just fired twenty minutes ago. Hasn’t sunk in yet. I have no idea what I want to do when I grow up..
            Maybe become a concert pianist and tour the world.
            Or be a divorce lawyer. Did you know that lawyer for Angelina Jolie charges $850 an hour.
            That’s a little more than I’m getting.
            How much do you earn? I imagine as an ace bartender with your cleavage and short skirts...
You didn’t complain last night.
It’s what turned me on in the first place. So tips are a good part of
your income, right?
            Yes. Tips are good. I have some regulars who do right by me, I’m not complaining.
            How much do you take home, after taxes say?
            Not enough to give me breathing room after I pay the rent and stuff but with the way jobs are out there for a woman with just a high school diploma...
From the way you talk I figured you for college.
I like reading.
            And you still won’t tell me how much?
            No.
            Just no straight out?
            Some things I’m not comfortable...let’s just say that I’m a little reluctant to share.
Your take home pay is what’s that word you used, a state secret? Come on, last night you asked about my financial status which sucks and I told you.
It’s just...well, why are you so interested in how much money I earn?
Hey, last night was great and you do good coffee and even look fine the morning after and maybe we have a future so I ask you a question about your life and, well, in the immortal words of Ming How, secrets shared make couple closer.
Who is Ming How?
Chinese restaurant. Fortune cookie.
Are you serious or just...
If you want me to leave now consider it a done thing, m’lady but first tell me what’s really going down because when I dropped the Q about your pay you responded like a quills-ready-porcupine.
Porcupine’s better than pussy, I guess.
We hardly know each other and somehow this is beginning to feel like an old relationship of...
Stop. Cease and desist. All right. My divorce. That son of a bitch was making half of my...well, I had to pay him a bundle for the divorce and  just to keep my piano, this apartment which is rent-controlled and I hate, despise, abhor talking about money with a man for the rest of my fucking life.
That nailed it!
Where you going?
Put on my socks and sneaks.
I don’t want you leave. Please. Stay. We may have a good thing going.
Can’t prove it by this morning...judging me for my piano-fantasy and porn. If I want to be graded deficient I can always call my mother.
I thought you love her.
What does that have to with it?
Please stay.
I am not your ex.
Thank God for that. Stay.
Okay, if you give me a refill.
You got it. Can I ask you a personal question?
Says the lady who won’t tell me what she makes.
He won’t give it up. Okay about 45 g’s a year, before taxes and I’m still paying off the loan on my car and the mechanic who I think is ripping me off. Do you know about cars?
The only thing I know about cars is that my Honda ends its three year lease next month and with getting fired and shit I may have to give it up.
You can’t navigate this city without a car.
Unless you’re an immigrant.
Well besides good sex...
And good coffee.
We both have being near broke in common.
Yeah...it sucks...in common.
Got any ideas?
About what in particular?
Our problem.
Is it a problem or an issue.
You’re losing me.
A consciousness training I took. The facilitator, Mrs. Nowakowski, big breasts and smart with angry eyes said a problem has a solution, an issue is just something you have to accept.
I do not accept being near broke every month.
And I’m not sure how I’m going to accept being without a car.
So tell me Mrs. Nowakitz...
Nowakowski.
Is what we’re dealing with a problem or an issue which I refuse to accept?
Let’s just say it’s a problem...seeking solution.
Sold. Got any ideas?
Besides holding up a bank...don’t take the bottom bills...I saw that in a movie.
You ever been in jail?
No and I’m not planning to either.
Ever commit a crime?
I told you I’ve never been in jail.
Not the same thing. People commit crimes every day and don’t get caught.
Well okay I’ve done some shit like copped sunglasses from Walgreens and walked out on a check in an expensive restaurant because the service sucked. Does that count?
You know who Mark Twain was, right?
The dude with the white moustache?
He said, “The two most important days in your life are the day you were born and the day you find out why.”
Cool.
You want to know my “why?”
Okay, yeah, sure.
My why is to never worry about money again. That’s why I’m on this planet.
If you why your self to a solution, Mrs. Nowakowski and her ace participant would be pleased to be clued in to your formula.
Friday and Saturday are big time, we’re packed, three bartenders and it doesn’t stop until last call two a.m.
And this means what to me?
Saturday well actually it’s Sunday morning three a.m. The boss takes all the substantial green, and it’s big-time money, in three bank bags and walks, that’s right, three a.m. he walks three blocks to the bank and slips it into one of those slots you have to have a password for deposit.
How do you know that?
I walk with him.
How come? You got a thing going with the boss?
With Harold? If you saw him you wouldn’t ask that question.
Lots of beautiful women have reasons to...
Harold looks like he was assembled from Ikea. No, after he makes the drop he walks me to the subway. He’s a good guy.
Harold the good guy is carrying a gargantuan amount of money at 3 a.m. and you’re suggesting what, as if I didn’t know but can’t believe.
Get a ski mask, a gun...
A gun she says. Are you on medication?
Not even a real gun. Toy guns look like the real thing. Harold’s a wimp.
A good guy wimp.
He’ll give it up in a Nano-second. You walk with a gang of green and...
And I’m going to put on my socks and sneaks and make like this conversation never took place.
Pussy!
Where’s the other one?
I ate it. Come on...it’s a piece of cake. You could do it.
I could but I won’t. Ah, there it is.
Then what are we going to do?
Oh we’re a “we” now, are we?
We’re both on the edge of being broke.
Well I’m not into your solution so it’s me and Mrs. Nowakowski adjusting to an issue.
Wait, take five, I’m telling you I even scoped out the corner where you jump in and then disappear three bags full of problem solved. What do you say? Consider this.
Consider me gone.
Okay I was just playing’, you don’t know me and wanted to stretch into fantasy to see if you would play. I wasn’t serious.
Convince me.
My gross was seventy-two thousand six hundred eight dollars and seventy three cents but only fifty-eight declared, excluding tips, thank you.
I don’t know if you’re lying now or before.
I can show you my tax returns. What are you thinking?
What you’re wearing, moving your legs, flashing...my dick Grok’s your pubic hair which obviously turns me on. Or am I out of line?
You better take off your sneakers.

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Donal Mahoney, a native of Chicago, lives in St. Louis, Missouri. He has worked as an editor for The Chicago Sun-Times, Loyola University Press and Washington University in St. Louis. His fiction and poetry have appeared in various publications, including The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, The Christian Science Monitor, Commonweal, Guwahatian Magazine (India), The Galway Review (Ireland), Public Republic (Bulgaria), The Osprey Review (Wales), The Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey) and other magazines. Some of his work can be found at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html#sthash.OSYzpgmQ.dpbs
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