Defender

Ian hated night watch.  It wasn’t so much the dark but what was in the dark that scared him.  He had been here before.  In fact, he had requested the duty to prove his metal.  Last on the battlements, he had taken an English arrow in the shoulder.  It had been a clean wound, all told, but it was still sore from time to time.  This was one of those times.  It itched and called to fingers, cold, stiff but eager to scratch.  He could not make out any of the tree line nor anything past the meager glow of his dwindling torch.  He could feel them, his shoulder mostly, made his eyes ache with the strain.  Grasping his longbow for security, he knocked an arrow just to be ready.  The night seemed not to pass, time standing still, the glory of the deed undone, unfinished, unfulfilled.  He had no regrets, his time away from the highlands in the duty of his land, was a proud turn for his parents and siblings.  He would be in service for years and they would have changed much in his absence.  He saw their faces when he closed his eyes, a remembrance of an earlier time but sacred to him.  If he drew breath in deep enough, he thought he could just smell the turned earth of his mother’s herb garden, the wet blanket that was their only horse and the smell of meat pies bellowing forth from the sod chimney of their home.  A twig breaks, silence.  He came out of his sentimental fog, fully awake, aware.  It was hard to judge sounds from up here.  All sounds seemed to fly lower that the height of the wall and scatter.  He edged around a crenellation, idiocy.  The English would not show themselves to Scottish torch light, nor would they give warning before arrows flew.  Cowards.  He knew the sounds of a bow being bent back, the sinew squeaking against it notching, release of the arrow whistling in the air and the dull thud as it struck.  Then pain.  He was not afraid.  He took a deep breath and stood full in the light of his torch, defying death.  He was not an easy target, would not give them the satisfaction.  He was a highlander.  As he reveled in his own bravado, an arrow suddenly sprouted from his chest.  He looked down, amazed at the sight.  The sound came after.  He stepped back, his mind filled with angst with what he needed to do, sound the alarm, cry out in pain, return fire?  Too much to think about.  He had a sense of falling, a sense of wonder at his bad luck or twist of fate.  Had he been living on borrowed time, saved from the first wounding?  His fellow men-at-arms would have had him believe that the wounding would make him stronger, less likely to feel metal again.  It hurt nonetheless.  He could feel himself slipping away, away to where?  His family would be broken hearted, his own heart breaking with the thought of it.  Damned twig, you and I for eternity.  English metal as payment for my journey.

In All Fairness

 He was a salesman, door to door.  She knew this when they met, it was how they met.  He would quip, "Knock on enough doors and you'll find your soul mate."  That's what they were, no denial.  Try as they might, they could not go without a nightly call or a weekly visit.  He really hadn't had a permanent residence since he left home for college.  He went from the dorm straight to the road, sale after sale, motel after motel.  Any one of the towns he visited would be nice to live in.  Picket fences, immaculate lawns, a rose trellis at the end of every porch crowned with a swing, these were criteria for happiness, he thought.  The road is a cliche of never ending journey's of woe or triumph.  He had his share of both in a modest way, as much as any salesman could have.  He had a knack for making fast friends, it was what made him a good salesman, not great, just good.  The great salesman would make the hard sell, a battle of wills forcing the buyer into an unavoidable corner and pummeling them with a litany of tax, extended warranties and delivery costs.  A friend did not sell this way, not himself or the product.  "The product picks the man," his trainer used to say.  He had colleagues that didn't care, would sell anything.  He felt a responsibility to his customers, their needs, and hopefully repeat sales because of his obvious dedication to the product, his job and his "friends".  This was the first thing that attracted her to him.  He had a nice smile, a twinkle and a dimple, smartly dressed but seemed at ease in his unassuming gray flannel suit.  His tie was even friendly, a muted green of some shade that reminded her of the moss that grew on logs crossed with the kind that hung from trees.  He had only one, so she had spent several visits puzzling the color.  It was one of the first gifts she had bought him, a second tie, periwinkle crossed with confederate gray.  He wore a matching pair of gray suede saddles, unlike most of his colleagues, who chose the loudest wingtips they could find.  Her Aunt Berte would say, "I can here that salesman's shoes from three blocks away."  She liked his hands, strong, sure and sensitive, not work hardened but with a definite masculinity.  She was certain of him after the third visit.  He wasn't sure she was interested until the fifth.  He had been struck smitten the first time she came to the screen door, something in her walk, lilt of her voice, shape of her hips, like the same old comfortable winter quilt.  He would of course, not characterize his love at first sight analogy to her.  But that was how he felt around her, comfortable and warm.  When it became obvious to both, coy went out the window.  He put her on his weekly route instead of monthly.  The VP for the area said that was too frequent, he couldn't sell that often in the same place.  He doubled his sales just to prove him wrong and justify the visits.  They did all the usual things, movies, dinner, in and out, long walks, picnics, all very casually going to the inevitable conclusion.  They married, settled into one of the towns he frequented, picket fence, lawn, trellis and porch swing.  They would spend countless nights gazing at the stars, holding hands, comfortable in the silence.   She kept house and packed his things for sales trips.  He felt a new vigor for sales now that he had to support more than himself, picket fence, lawn, swing.  He would call her from the motels, spending hours into the night talking to her about his day, her day, nothing.  To her it was like having him there, for a while.  When he returned, they would try to cram all the time they had missed into a brief moment, passionate and wonderful but fleeting.  He was a salesman, she knew this from the beginning.  Her love for him was true and only for him, but the same cliches about the road are used to describe who is left behind.  He had a boss, who had an area boss, who had a regional VP, who had the CEO of the company.  The idea being to climb that ladder to success, in an ever shortening of that distance, to that piece of the pie, the American Dream.  Friendly salesmen hold the ladder for salesmen with loud ties, loud shoes and a hard sell.  Her frustration with his advancement prospects had only everything to do with having a full time husband.  She wanted children, but she would not do it alone.  He wanted her to be happy, but liked what he was doing, the way they were.  She became increasingly despondent, frustrated with her life of endless waiting but truly in love with this person who wantonly leaves her.  She would console herself that it wasn't a dangerous job, that he would always be coming home.  He honestly enjoyed his homecomings, as if they were a first meeting all over again. She wanted it all, enough of a change that would move him up the ladder.  As time went by, her resentment of his job crept into their visits, pillow talk, phone calls.  It was increasingly difficult for him to enjoy the prospect of coming home.  They talked less frequently on the phone.  He took longer trips and stayed at home less.  Soon, they had become a matrimonial automaton, going through the motions, ships passing in the night.  He would play it back to himself over and over, how they had met, first words, first kiss.  Somewhere amidst all that chatter was the heart that he promised to love, honor and cherish.  She was certain that he had the potential but needed the right motivation.  Each with these new ideas in  their heads, fell asleep upon how to deal with the other.  Breakfast was polite, more paper rustling and utensil clanking than actual speech beyond grunts for refills or eye rolls and heavy sighs.  So the problem became, how to find some sort of compromise without sacrificing self in the process.  Was she sharing his life or was he sharing hers?  He was at the end of the block, one more house in this subdivision, then home.  Home.  Surely there was something to do to make her happy.  There were days now, that his knees ached from all the walking.  Maybe he should put in for a promotion.  It would mean moving to where the head office was located.  He loved their house.  He made his way up the steps and rang the doorbell.  He had just planted apple trees in the back yard, it would be years before they produced.  A gentleman answered the door.  He gave the man his opening salutation and sales pitch.  He couldn't understand why she wasn't happy.  The man invited him in.  Maybe if she got involved in the community, she wouldn't feel so left behind.  They sat across from each other on matching sofas.  He opened his product case and arranged his colorful product photos and testimonials.  Maybe the Jr. League, or something they could do together, club bridge.  The man asked if he wanted tea or coffee.  That might satisfy her for a little while.  The man came back with a tray filled with tea service and cookies.  How should he approach her without sounding like he was putting her off with a hobby.  He took  a sip of his tea, felt the warmth as it washed down into his stomach.  Pulled from his self reflection, he  noticed the other man for the first time since their meeting.  He was a small, timid looking creature.  He served and handled the tea service with a feminine quality that belied a casual passing with the China set.  His eyes were expectant as if he was waiting for a compliment on the tea or had he asked a question?  The warmth that he had felt in his stomach from the hot tea persisted and grew ever warmer.  He felt the warmth radiate out to the rest of his body.  He looked at the other quizzically.  The man's face changed to sly grin.  He began to tell a tale of woe as the salesman tried to stand.  He fell back onto the sofa trying to focus on his movements, listening to the other going on about something.  He was only catching snippets through the now increasing pain.  He felt as though his head would explode.  His vision swam, his heart pounded in his ears, drowning out whatever monologue the other was going on about until it all went dark.  The other stopped, realizing that the salesman had expired.  Disappointment filled the other with rage.  He sat there until darkness fell, seething about the salesman's premature death.  He still didn't have the dose right, even after eight tries.  As night fell, the other took the salesman by a foot and dragged him out the back door and into the yard.  A high privacy fence blocked the grizzly event from casual view, as he proceeded to bury the salesman.  She sat, watching the phone, more out of ritual than expectation.  She finally went to bed without a thought about it.  He would call or he wouldn't.  No sense in losing sleep.  For three days past his return date, she waited.  On the fifth day of his being past due, she called the head office.  "No, we haven't heard from him... No we haven't processed any orders in eight days...You are right, that is not like him...Yes, we will let you know as soon as he checks in."  This was unsettling for her but not in the way one might think.  She felt a kind of relief and anger.  She continued to wait by the phone, in fact it became her daily ritual.  More anger seeped into her from his lack of attention.  One afternoon, the doorbell rang.  She picked up the phone, "Hello?"  The doorbell rang again, she looked at the door, then at the phone and put it back down on the receiver.  She went to the door and opened it to a salesman.  He was all shine from the wing tipped shoes to his pearly whites.  He wore an aubergine, double breasted suit and a tie so green that it actually hurt her eyes to look at it.  She realized he was pitching.  Something in his manner gave her pause, some hint of how her husband talked to her.  She started to produce a kernel of an idea.  He had stopped and was looking at her expectantly, she realized.  "Do come in, would you like some tea?"  He glided into the living room and in a flash had his samples out for her perusal.  She excused herself to get the tea and left him on the couch.  She went into the kitchen and allowed that kernel to take shape.  She looked around the kitchen, went to the cupboard and pulled out a heavy cast, iron skillet.  She would have to do this just right if she didn't want to kill him or get blood on the couch.  It was a matching set to the chairs and ottoman.  It wouldn't do to get blood everywhere.  She walked back into the living room, skillet hanging from her clenched fist held tightly by her side.  His back was turned to her and he was slicking back his greased hair.  She could see that he was balding but still managed to conceal the fact with a clever bit of comb over.  She was trying to pick her spot when he turned to acknowledge her.  She brought the skillet up in an arch and caught him right on the chin.  He never saw it coming.  She took the salesman by the feet and dragged him to the basement door.  She put him in a sitting position on the first step then gave him a push.  He somersaulted into the depths of the house.  She rushed down and put her finger to the side of his neck, still alive.  She grabbed his feet again and pulled him to the near wall, propped him up and went to a shelf of boxes.  She remember what was in each after memorizing their contents during one of the times her husband had been gone.  She found the box she was looking for, pulled out a length of chain and a combination lock.  She bound his feet at the ankles with the chain, then ran a length to a pipe, three feet up the wall.  She brought the length back down and attached it with the lock to one of the links binding his feet.  She stood and straightened her dress, patted her hair to make sure none was out of place, and sat down on the bottom step to wait.  After an hour or so, the salesman started to wake up.  He looked groggy and his face contorted with the pain of what had been rough treatment.  He soon noticed his chains and began to understand his predicament.  He started blathering, tears rolling down his face.  Then he turned to anger and made quite disgusting threats upon her person.  He finally fell into begging for his freedom.  She watched all this with a kind of detachment, resolute in her actions.  She finally stood, and turned to go up the steps.  The salesman was unable to hear her words as he screamed after her.  She stood in the doorway, light from the kitchen back lighting her slim frame.  "I said, now you will never leave me."  The salesman looked up in horror at her, understanding her words as the door closed off any light or possibility of release.  The other had finally gotten the dosage right after twelve.  Everyone after this, counted.  The salesman on the sofa, paralyzed from the poison, was a listening prisoner to the other's monologue.  He said, "Three years ago, a salesman knocked on my door.  My wife answered, as I was at work, and let him in to hock his wares.  Needless to say, it wasn't anything we needed but she was intent on lining his pockets with my money.  In due course, he would return...frequently.  My wife was a prodigious spender, but it was no secret to him, that she wanted more than his wares.  I came home one day to an empty house and a polite letter.  She wrote that they were in love and I would be better off without her, that she had fallen out of love with me, yada, yada, have a good life.  Needless to say, I have become somewhat preoccupied with the death of all salesman.  You might suggest that all salesman are not wife stealers.  But I would counter, that any man who chooses sales as a living, is cut from the same cloth.  One just as culpable for all.  And that's my story.  Really, not a very good one, but I have time to develop it.  You won't be the last salesman to my door, but this is the last door for all salesmen.  The salesman woke, his vision swimming with color from a nasty blow to the head.  He was being unceremoniously dragged.  He heard the sound of chains and felt his feet being bound.  He tried to struggle but it made his head swim. He heard her mumbling something as she climbed the stair.  When she opened the door to the kitchen, it bathed the basement in an eerie glow.  His vision had come back just in time to see what he was in for,  Six other well dressed men, were chained to the pipes that ran the length of the wall.  They were in various states of decomposition.  He saw no food or water and understood his plight, he yelled at her as she closed the door.  "That's another that won't leave."  It was a banner day for the other, three salesmen in one day.  Must be a record of sort outside the military.  He was seated at the counter in an old style diner from the 50's.  Everything chromed or stainless.  He liked it because it was clean.  The entire structure was designed for one thing,  feeding people.  There was no kitch or fluff about the place, all business.  He was a regular, in fact probably the only thing he was not random about outside his home.  There, he was obsessive.  He always had the same thing, a Manhattan with turkey.  The same waitress always took his order, made him feel safe.  while he was waiting, a woman came in the door.  She was a handsome creature, straight as a board with curves you couldn't help taking your eyes off.  She pulled the silk scarf from her hair and sat down at the bar instead of a table.  Her manner bespoke of good breeding or of practiced pretense.  Her eyes would tell, but she still had her sunglasses on, the kind movie stars always wore.  They gave her an insect likeness.  He laughed at himself for the musing.  She took off her sunglasses, folded and tucked them into her clutch.  The waitress came around the bar, pulled out her pad and looked at the woman expectantly.  "I'll have a Manhattan with turkey but I want the meat on top of the potatoes and a glass of tea."  She looked up and noticed a man staring,  "You should take a picture."  He didn't realize he was staring.  A Manhattan wasn't even on the menu, but anybody who was regular knew that the cook was from Indiana and it was the best thing he could muster.  He said, "I'm sorry, I just ordered the same thing."  "Really," she said.  "We must be soul mates then."  She took a quarter turn away from him on the spinning bar stool and crossed her legs.  "I've never seen you in here before, how did you know they would make a Manhattan?"  "Who are you, the diner police," she said over her shoulder without looking at him?  "No, its just...odd."  He dragged out the last word like fingernails on a chalkboard.  She turned back to him on her stool, now giving him her full attention.  "I am not used to being accosted in diners, especially one that I come to every other day, if its any of your business."  He looked at her funny and said, "Which days?"   He ate there Monday, Wednesday and Friday without fail since his wife had left.  "Tuesdays and Thursdays, if you must know.  Now leave me alone!"  He said, "Today is Friday."  She used to like small talk, witty banter, but that went the way of her husband, gone.  She sighed and said, "Sheriff.  You are the diner sheriff."  He smiled and said, "Yes.  Matter of fact."  She put her elbows on the bar and folded her hands under her chin, a pose that almost shook his calm.  "My husband was from Indiana and loved this place, came here all the time.  We ate here when he was in town.  I still come here out of habit, I guess.  I was having my hair down yesterday...what do you think?"  "What do you mean, when he was in town," he asked?  "His work took him away," she said.  She liked saying it that way.  It meant that he hadn't left her but that his work was responsible.  It was an easy lie to tell herself.  "Away?  What did he do," he said?  "He was a salesman.  Why?"  It was in the way she said 'salesman', with a hint of disgust.  It was something that only he would detect.  He said, "I would love for you to join me.  I have a story I think you might like."  She gave him another once over, harmless.  The waitress made her mind by placing two Manhattans on his table.  She stepped off the stool and slid into his booth.  Something about his eyes and the smell of her sandwich made her at ease.  "OK," she said.  "What's your story?"  He smiled and said, "Once upon a time....

Loss

Telfan was just ahead of me, corded muscles tight in anticipation of capturing spore.  This was how we did it, for centuries, as the Mage tells it.  Spore were large bacterium, mutated and evolved in the depths of space.  Because of Essentia's low gravity well, spore were always finding their way here; a ready food source for us.  The Mage tells stories about bacterium being small enough to invade our bodies and in many cases, kill its host.  This seemed impossible to me, as did most of her stories.  Telfan ducked behind the edge of the roller, then launched himself out into the void.  Telfan was fearless when it came to food.  It would make him a good provider.  It was my hope, he would provide for me.  The spore have no locomotion in the void, relying upon the solar winds as we do.  Telfan twisted in mid air and cast his mythrene net.  There he floated, waiting for the spore to foul within.  The spore floated into the undulating cloud of mythrene and Telfan pulled on the cord that closed their escape.  It was a good haul for such a short hunt.  I was thinking about our catch when I heard Telfan trying to get my attention.  He would be lost to the void if not pulled back to the safety of the roller.  That job fell to me.  I looked to the coil of cord in my hands, remembering the day he entrusted me with his life.  The other end was tied around his ankle.  I started to reel him in but from somewhere behind  me, I heard someone say, "Wait." Wait?  There was no rush.  We had screened the area  for rollers and fast movers, with none close enough to matter.  I continued to pull him in, more intent on our friendship than a voice in the crowd.  Now the voice was next to me, "Wait child," the Mage said.  She put her gnarled hand upon mine to stop my twinning.  I looked up at her, wondering if this was not just another prelude to a story or wild rumination.  "Its coming," she said.  I listened, cocking my head to the wind.  Nothing.  I turned down wind, listened and heard the baffling of a large void, a hole in the wind.  Fastmover!  Telfan was relaxing at the end of my cord and hadn't heard the onrush of wind.  "Telfan!  Down wind," I yelled!  Telfan looked up just in time to see it come around a large roller.  Telfan looked ashen and started pulling himself to me, hand over hand.  I did the same.  The fast mover undulated through the air.  It was long and segmented, each with a skirt of fin that furled and unfurled, thrusting itself forward.  It had a wide mouth with rows of uneven teeth, sharp as any sliver, the sharpened ore tools used for harvesting.  It was sightless and relied on sense of smell to find its prey.  Approaching from down wind was how it hunted.  Telfan was in its path but the fast mover smelled us all.  Eight plus the Mage would soon be in peril.  Hand over hand,  he came, but not as quickly as the fast mover.  A split micron before the fastmover closed its teeth on Telfan, I gripped his wrist and pulled him over the edge of the roller to safety.  We scattered, making multiple targets for the beast, creating a cloud of scent.  This usually befuddled them, but it was locked on Telfan.  He had reached his change to adulthood and was in his own cloud of pheromones.  I could smell them too.  We moved from roller to roller, jumping then pulling the other to safety.  Each roller was its own little planet, some so small they could fit in your hand, others were the size of a small moon.  Essentia was a collection of asteroids and broken up planets or moons that found their way into the gravity well of the waining star.  If we were lucking, one with a cave would be near.  We marked these with blood died flags when ever we found one.  I could see one coming up, "There" I shouted!  We did the final leap into the cave mouth.  Telfan and I scrambled across the sharp edges of the interior, making our way into the deepest part of the cave.  These caves were usually created from some kind of volcanic effect or the orifice of a long dead comet.  The walls were not smooth, not a comet.  Even if the cave were wide,a fast movers relied on its momentum to turn, and can't back up.  Telfan was breathing hard.  I pulled a cylume out of my ruck and illuminated the interior of the cave.  Sweat beaded his brow, more from fear than exertion.  We trained for these moments and the limits of our fitness were good, but fear has a way of robbing strength from even the most capable.  The Mage would laugh about these moments and tell of an old saying, "When running from danger, you only have to be faster than your friend."  I never understood the humor in it, especially since we were paired and tethered to another from an early age.  Later, when adults, the two would couple and  become pair bonded till the end of their season.  Mage would say that each season of our lives would be meaningful only if we strove to commune with another.  I looked at Telfan pondering this and then wondering why the Mage had told me to wait before pulling Telfan in to me.  No matter, he knew he could count on me.  The fast mover glided past the entrance of the cave and circled the roller, hoping we would emerge.  They were typically not patient hunters and soon lost interest, but this one was fixated.  It would glide by the entrance every 6 turns, orbiting the roller like an elongated, molten moon.  We could wait.  I had water and food in my ruck. Telfan had the same findings I had, so we were fine for days if need be.  I noticed Telfan looking at me.  I had not reached the time of change in my season.  I was tall and gangley, flaming red hair that I twisted into thin ropes, pulled up and held by a band of dry welty.  Welty was the skin of a long worm that joined rollers like rope or vine.  It had many uses but tasted awful.  "You don't look much like a girl," he said, knowing I was self conscious.  "oh really? Cause you do," I spat back.  This was another part of the change; boys got mean and sometimes were cruel.  Telfan had taken to funning me because I hadn't started mt change yet.  He laughed and said, "you almost got me killed, maybe I should ask the Mage for a new partner."  This was another problem, men didn't seem to know when it wasn't funny anymore.  "Stop it Telfan, you're being mean," I said.  Telfan laughed again and untethered as a mock gesture.  Telfan started to bounced to the opening of the cave.  He was smiling and wanted me to give chase.  "Telfan, the fast mover," I reminded him.  "It hasn't been past in a while, besides, you will save again, at your leisure," he said.  He did a pirouette and moved closer to the cave opening.  "Better hurry, I'm not lucking today, dropped those spore and chased by a fast mover.  Then, abandoned by my waif of a partner," he mused.  Fast movers usually left.  Can mostly count on it, but sometimes you run across a smart one and you'd better hope you're lucking.  The fast mover had changed his orbit of the roller, allowing it to pass either side of the cave opening without being seen.  With each pass it would get a bearing on our smell.  Telfan was to close.  I leaped up and said,"stop this, your are funning to far!"  I bounced to him and nealed to reclip his tether.  As I was doing this, a rush of air buffeted me, then I was showered with a warm deluge.  It was like standing under the falls of the ice moons.  But not red.  I looked up as the fast mover looked down at me.  Black lifeless eyes.  On its last pass it had jut his head into the cave mouth hoping to find some morsel.  It had taken Telfan from the top, down to the middle.  As it drew away, a cascade of blood washed over me.  With the weight of half his body missing, Telfan lifted from the ground and floated out of the cave.  I realized that it wasn't Telfan anymore, his bottom half bearing no resemblance to the young man that I loved, fought, fed, cared for...  As if this knowledge was not enough to bear, the fast mover came back into view and took the rest of Telfan as an insult.  I was left holding the untied end of our tether, in shock, unable to move, sitting in a wash of congealing gore.  I tried to push it away, down into the depth of my soul, but it persisted.  I don't know how long I was there before they found me.  They would have missed me entirely if not for the splash of blood on the outside of the roller.  Before long, I was cleaned, wrapped in blankets and fed a vegetable broth.  As my stomach filled, a switch came on in my brain and I started to cry, just tears at first, then full on hysteria.  Whoever had been feeding me broth put their arms around me and squeezed, clamping my arms to my sides and restricting the flailing I had begun.  Again, I don't remember when it ended.  I was being fed broth again.  I look at the person attached to the other end of the spoon.  Mage.  "I told you to wait," she said in a quiet voice.  I couldn't think, hear the words and process them.  Wait," I said?  "Yes, wait.  Your loss would have been less to let him go then.  Think of all that transpired after that moment."  I tried to put the chain of events into some semblance cohesive enough to analyze.  The broth helped.  "How could you know Mage?  What could you have given to justify letting him be eaten without at least trying," I said?  "The signs are there for all to see, but many don't bother to look.  Such is the way with the young," she said.  "Today's outcome is the same, whether you acted or not, his fate was sealed, you are not to blame for the skein of fate.  Your part in this was simply to be an observer to the end of his life."  "No," I said vehemently!  I don't believe that!  Their could have been many outcomes:  I could have chosen another roller, persuaded him to stay away from the cave mouth, never let him untie his tether..."  "He untied his tether," Mage said?  "We who survive are strengthened by his loss.  It will remind of why we pair and tether.  Telfan has given all of us a great lesson in his death," said Mage.  Sadly, I could not accept this lesson.  I could still feel the tug on our tether.  I looked down at my ankle, no tether.  "I still feel the tether Mage," I said.  "But of course girl, why should you not," she said?  "Because he is gone, no longer there," I said.  "No, child, he is not gone.  His body is eaten and nourishing the fast mover, who by her health will create new life.  That part of Telfan that you loved, we admired, still abounds in the universe and is tethered to us all by an invisible line.  This is how he is able to teach us in death and how we are able to remember him.  He will be with you always child."  I felt that there was truth in what she said.  But, I still had terrible feelings of loss.  She must have sensed this, because she said, "It is OK to mourn your loss child and it is OK to be selfish in your grief.  She stroked my hair, set down the empty bowl and said, "Come child, let us find the other end of your tether.  Fate has given you an opportunity for change, a very rare thing in this life because so few are able to see it when Fate offers."

Chaos

Achingly true, words of my mantra, is the turmoil found in those words.  Absurd to think that my own definitions would supersede conventional thought, wisdom or the irreverent logic of mind.  My mind wandering, a waste in the whatness of doing, lacking the actions to correspond with successful completions of self.  The other trapped in a mire of constant reflection, self pity and neglect of the will, bound to itself and adrift.  I want to tear at it, like a trailing bandage, open the wound to reveal the sickness of hope, belief and self-doubt.  These things, which are self wrought, so says the mind, casting about for a hook to catch upon will not feed the soul.  Nor does the path or skein of fate offer to enliven or enlighten the soul.  Fetching, says the other, is the way of convention, servitude at cost.  Merchandise before oneself that has no currency except by faining the right compass direction, stroking it with dull flattery.  It is not so different; only the outer shell is confused.  There is no promise of singularity but expectations uncreative, and common for the mind, that mind bent to its own designs, its own way of viewing the world.  I can walk around this spot, see it for what it is, see the longing, the need, casting about beyond my reach to fabled knights on dark horses, crenelated caves of frozen marrow that had been sucked from the other lifeless husks before me.  I soon find my own self lost, in a forest of trees, they bend to let me pass, I can hear them whispering, laughing as they see what I cannot.  A conflagration has come up to test my own fire, that being lost to the other mind, well away from here, trapped in a clay pot sealed to the outside, smothering and unable to relight itself is where it shall be found, unsatisfied embers of questionable life.  So the work goes undone, yet fantastic ideas and promises abound, not seeing a start or a finish.  Hand wringing, the only exercise destined to be the final act of it before I turn to commune, pouncing on the hope, yet again for a word, a thought that can bring me back, but all I hear is a faint whispering of indifference.