The Song of Love

Once upon a time there were two kingdoms at war. One was great, yet smaller than its neighbor. The other one was very great and magnificent, rich and pleasing. Yet it was dark: the light was dark, the grass dark, the trees dark, the sky dark, even the people dark. Yet in this kingdom was a princess. She alone was light, and so she was made to wear dark clothes and stay outside in the strange dark light in order that she too might be dark.

One day she walked alone in her garden. She remembered how brilliant it had been and full of flowers and birds; but with the years it had become overgrown and abandoned. Yet as she walked through the deserted place, she saw eyes through the lattice: someone was watching her. She fled inside. But the next day, the someone was there again. Again she left hurriedly. On the third day, she tried to ignore his presence. But she was unable to, so she called and asked what he did there. He answered not. She looked at him curiously, “None may enter but the gardener who has long been dead.”

He smiled.

She blushed and hesitated. Should she let him in? The flowers needed tending, but she knew he wanted entrance to more than her garden- he wanted entrance to her heart.

She moved closer to the lattice. “If I let you in, how do I know you will not force yourself on me, or steal me away?”

He just smiled, calmly and openly. Never was there a more beautiful man than this man! Words fall short, and yet some attempt must be made. His hair was golden like rays of the sun, his eyes a brilliant brown like polished wood, his skin soft and white like the purest wool, his face proportioned like a perfect marble statue, his body strong like a lion and yet gentle as a lamb.

She looked into his eyes and loved him. It did not matter what happened: he was goodness. And if he was goodness, then nothing could happen. She undid the lock. He entered. He reached out his hand and touched her heart.

It is impossible to describe the transformation of a soul! But what happened was greater than that which occurred in the garden: the sand swirled around and was carried off by winds, the weeds shriveled and receded into the ground, the long dry fountain sprang to life again, the absent flowers returned, the dead spice trees again were green and fragrant. Birds sang, the doe walked the path, the horse and the lion played together.

That night he slept in the garden. The princess lay awake all night on her satin couch- distracted by the memory of his touch.

Each day she spent in the garden with the silent man, but it was as if he spoke to her. He had an eloquence of movement and silence: by the gentle touch of her hand or cheek, by the silent gaze or smile, she understood that he loved her, wanted her to follow him, that he intended her to be his beloved.

Then one night she awoke. From the dread in her heart she knew he was gone. She ran through the garden, but he was not there. She ran through the palace, but he was not there. She ran through the streets, but he was not there. She ran to the guard at the gate. “Has my beloved been here?”

He looked at her with hostile eyes. “No one has been this way. Go back to your place.”

“No, no! He must have. There is no other way in or out. And he is gone! What shall I do?”

“What care I? Be off with you!” And he pushed her down and kicked her where she lay.

Crying she fled back to her garden. There she sat down and wept. “O what shall I do? He has gone and left me. I thought he loved me. What did I do? What did I not do? O why, why? Where has he gone?” But there was no answer except the throbbing of her own heart: she must seek him!

As the dark sun was rising over the dark, barren valley, the princess was already far advanced in her search. Everywhere she asked for her beloved, but no one had seen him. At last she fled into the mountainous wilderness. She asked the doe and the dove, but they bounded away. After years of searching she came upon the other great kingdom- the one her dark people had been warring with. She entered the main city. “Have you seen my beloved?”

The people looked at her strangely and walked away without answering. Looking down at her skin, she knew she was darker than they were. She had become black.

Then guards arrested her. Protesting her innocence, she was dragged before a judge. And there was her beloved.

Judge: “You are guilty.”

Princess: “But I have done nothing! You have not heard my attestation. Ask the man at your side.”

Judge: “Everyone has done evil by fact of being human. Take her away to death.”

Princess: “Please, one request! He is my love. Let him kiss me, if he loves me. Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth.”

The quiet stranger came towards her. He touched her cheek and smiled, but his eyes were full of pain.

Judge, with tenderness: “If you do, Prince, you shall take her place.”

The beautiful man bent forward and kissed her.

It was a moment of pure bliss- when time and pain and worry cease. All there was, was him and all the words he had never said entering her mind and becoming her nourishment. It was his silence that gave her strength.

But, when the kiss stopped, it was he who wore the chains and she was free.

Princess: “No! He is innocent. I am the guilty one. As a man, I am responsible for evil. But he… he is more; he is just. You cannot condemn him.”

Judge, with tears in his eyes: “He condemned himself for you.”

Tears blinding her, the girl ran into the dessert. The sun scorched her, the sands burned her, the dry air tormented her. The beloved was gone. How could she live? It was impossible.

However, live she did. In the heart of the desert for years she dwelt and prayed for the beloved to come. Many came to ask her questions, some genuinely, some from curiosity.

Princess: “Yes, I am blackened, scorched by the sun. Yet I am lovely because he loves me. Do not hide from him; seek him in the garden.”

One day a doe pranced around her crude dwelling. It would not stop till she tried to catch it. She followed its bounds. Soon she was in a lush forest. “Do you know where my beloved has gone? Can you show me by your secret paths which way he went?”

And the deer bounded on, and the dove cooed softly in the cleft of the rock. A smell of sweetness grew and became strong: the sweetness of wine, the odor of perfume, the scent of oil. They grew stronger, till the princess felt intoxicated by the smell of remembrance, the smell of him which had been so pungent at his kiss. “O love, you wound me! With one hair of your head you make me bleed. Where are you, o my love? Why do you hide from me in the plenty of your land? Show me your courses and the paths you run. Come, my love, and heal the wound in my heart; come inebriate me with the sweetness of your breath!”

All she heard was the cooing dove and whispering wind. But she knew his response: follow me into the secret depths, follow and learn the love I have. And she followed his silent call.

And I am sure, wherever he has led her, the beloved silent man of beauty has spoken finally the word of silence into her heart. Thus, they communicate the intricate simplicities of love with the golden language of wordless peace.

The End

Blackness and Love

I want to write. I feel it inside like a dog straining at the leash as a squirrel scampers away. If I don’t start composing soon, I’m afraid I may never again. It will all be just fragments in my mind that will slowly dwindle and shatter never to be seen.

So how do I start?

It must be transcendent and beautiful. But it must also be human. It must be deep, but also accessible. I want the joy of the story to convey the wonder. Like J.R.R. Tolkien. Roger Lancelyn Green. Leo Tolstoy. Graham Green. Sir Thomas Malory. I want to write incredible, beautiful stories. I want to inspire others. I want to reveal truth and goodness.

But how can I?

Words fade and degrade as I try. Nothing wants to materialize into black and white. Instead I have colors and emotions flowing through me- colors that I can’t paint out with brushes, emotions that I can’t pour out through my violin. Everything is bottled inside me.

And somehow, they are all turning black. I feel them slowly being sucked down under something bigger, some great tiredness that is all consuming. I’m not physically tired; my soul is tired. I’ve been emptied somehow. I’m not even sure when it happened. And all that’s left is the desire to help and beautify.

Write from what you know, Professor Behr told Jo March.

What do I know?

I know that love is wonderful and truth. Peace often only happens after war. Mercy must temper justice. Lies are horrible, and manipulation is ugly. Great men often don’t win, but they try anyway. And sometimes the greatest acts are unseen, everyday things…

Once upon a time, in a not so distant land, there lived a little girl. She had many siblings and two parents. She loved them and thought nothing would ever harm them. They lived in a big house all together. They read books and laughed together. They studied and talked together. They cooked and ate, cleaned and slept together. Were they not happy? Did they not love each other? Were they not blessed? Of course they would live, as she was fond of saying, “happily everly asterly.”

As the years passed, the little girl grew into a young woman. She learned about the world and all the pain that it contained. Many families were broken. Many children did not have siblings- and many did not have homes. Some people had famines, others had wars. Some had prosperity but no life, others had neither. It was a sad, cruel, twisted place to live. A blackness was streaking everything; slowly, but surely, marring, defacing, covering, blackening everything. And she wanted to withdraw herself from it. Her home was still safe. It must be well protected.

But even her little corner of the world was not safe from the blackness. Her parents left each other, her siblings stopped talking to each other. And she was left alone, without a family.

Sometimes she would make friends. And sometimes even a young man would express interest. But she was almost constantly afraid of being left behind again, so she left them first. She moved about, a vagabond in place and emotion. She did not feel that she could rest.

Then, one day, she came to a new spot. The people welcomed her joyfully and made her one of them. They housed her and fed her, talked and laughed with her, studied and discussed with her. “Perhaps,” she thought, “I can stay here forever.” Yet something inside ached for more. She wanted to know that these people who loved her would never leave; but life changes and people move on. If only one person loved her so much- if only she could be married!… But even that bond could be broken and forgotten, changed to an ugly hatred and bitterness. She had seen it happen. Love was dangerous.

And so, slowly, her heart began to shrink. It curled up tight within her, hardening and shriveling, till there was little light or joy left inside it. And she felt safe. You see, the blackness had begun to creep even insider her. Little by little she was surrendering herself to it, and its mirky ink was destroying her soul as it destroyed everything it touched. And it happened that a bird’s song no longer made her laugh out loud, a flower’s velvet no longer made her tender with happiness, a baby’s laugh no longer filled her with peace. She was locked deep inside herself, chained by her own will in her own dungeon- and the key was in her hand.

Then she met a young man who talked with her and walked with her. He said goodness was not banished and true beauty was worth seeking, that somethings should be defended- even to death, and that there was always hope. And she felt something inside her go towards this young man. But she was afraid and drew back. How could he love her? She was incapable of love. Yet he asked to see her again. Many times he asked to see her again. And he seemed to delight in her company; she certainly wanted his.

But did he not know that the blackness would come to him through her? Could he not see the poison already inside her? Surely the best thing would be to run away, to let him remain free from the blackness as long as he could?

When she told him, he simply shook his head and said, “The blackness has existed since time began. Many times over, it has appeared to win. But do you know what has always held it off? Love. Love of illuminating truth. Love of hopeful goodness. Love of radiating beauty. But love by itself cannot exist. It only exists between people. I will fall prey to the blackness if I do not love. And love requires a beloved. If you would save me, as I would save you, from the blackness, then let me stay with you and love you.”

“But what if you leave? Will you not tire of me and go away? Surely, such a fate were worse than this one!”

“Aye, it would be. For then the greatest thing would be broken. It is a very great risk. But all things must eventually be broken without love. Love is the one chance we have of defeating the blackness. Is it not worth fighting for?”

A Bright Sunshiny Day, Ch 13

Dieppe was a busy place. The ports bustled with trading vessels and foreign galleys, each mast standing tall as a church spire into the blue sky. White winged gulls called forlornly far above the many tongued bickering of men below. Beyond the lively wooden docks, the town began, at first pitiful hovels in the river of mud that was excused as a road, then into more respectable establishments of the middle class. At the heart, the market square bustled with commotion and noise, vendors calling their wares and others crying political propaganda from the exalted height of a crate. On the far side, exuberant villas sprawled across stately lawns with exaggerated glory.

All this Anastasia half saw. Her first footsteps on foreign soil had been a blur of nothing. They had disembarked just as dusk was dropping down onto the city. And she had scarcely maintained consciousness during the ride to Rouen as the carriage swayed her comfortably back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, like a mother rocking her infant to sleep, sweet sleep. And once they had arrived at the house, her mind took in precious little except the pale fingers of dawn. Indeed, all she had eyes for was the four-poster bed with its inviting white linens and lavender embroidery.

The next morning she was awakened by the luscious notes of a melody rising from a piano-forte somewhere far away. The murals of nymphs dancing to fawns’ flute playing struck her as odd, convincing her that she must still be dreaming. But it couldn’t be: her limbs were too heavy for imaginary. She smiled, stretched, and then curled up tightly into a ball. The sun was warm on her closed eyelids. It felt like it would melt away who she was and turn her into some mythical character.

That is when it came: the realization that she was in France. At first it was gentle, like the sun sinking softly into every crevice of her soul. Then it urged a tittering laugh to spring from her lips as if somehow a bird had been awakened inside her and burst into song. As the laughter grew stronger within her, so she seemed to grow stronger. Finally she leapt from the bed to gasp at the little room where she slept.

The ceiling was a panoply of masterpieces framed by gold scrolls which rolled down the walls and around the murals like waterfalls. The ivory furniture was delicately arranged so that its humble curves matched the scrolls. The carpet sported reds and blues in such vibrant colors she could only assume they were of Middle Eastern make. Rich red curtains were drawn back in generous folds over sheer white shades pricked with the same delicate embroidery as on the linen sheets. The window which they guarded overlooked a courtyard harboring trees which reached for the sky; its gray stone walls supporting various vines and shielding statues from inclement weather in little niches. If she strained her neck up and to the right, she could just see the bright flowers below.

Discovering her trunk at the foot of the poster bed, she changed into a deep blue gown. The easy folds fell simply without the ruffles so popular at the time; Greta had decided that such extravagance drowned Anastasia’s personality. Yet this one had just the smallest flare to the sleeves. It made her feel bold and wild- despite the fact that it was very conservative.

The hallway beyond her room was gloomy with shadows. She was half inclined to remain in her sun-warmed room, but the music tingled through her blood urging her to discover it. The first step into the gloom caused prickles to rise on her neck as the cool enveloped her. From the niches peeked painted faces around vases and statues. Except for the sparks refracting strangely from crevices, the gold was subdued to a deep bronze. And ever the music grew stronger and refracted with the light around her.

At the stairs, she gasped. Flooded in sunlight, full of sound, the descent broadened and twisted round with grand beauty. The very air seemed to glow with the gold’s gleam and the carpet’s crimson. As she stepped from the hall’s gloom onto the first step, it was as if she stepped from her life into a fairytale.

Above it all, just beyond the brilliant rays pouring through the windows, a chandelier hung, each scroll flowering in a slender candle. The heavy chain that held it aloft sprouted from a Gordian knot of plumed gold and attached to the ceiling in a rosette several feet across of flowers and cherubs.

From this masterpiece the entire ceiling sprawled away in paintings and gold scrolls as elaborate as those in her room, if not more so. The walls were pierced by grand windowsstretching the entire height of the room. Deep red and pale green lined their edges, glimmering in the light. Thick velvet curtains of majestic blue hung limply to either side, restrained by copper colored tassels.

Underneath the floor spread its dark wood across the entire space, hidden frequently by exotic rugs upon which stood chairs and settees of rich design. Directly across from the stairwell stood the door to the house, an elaborate carved wood structure that almost reached as high as the ceiling. The room itself stretched behind the staircase, from which direction emitted the piano’s voice.

Guided by the sound, Anastasia entered a warm sitting room. A fire danced mirthfully under the marble mantle, above which sported a country scene of hunting. Mr. Thomas leaned casually there, warming himself. Nearby, around a table of the same material as the fireplace, stood several wood chairs with seats of ivory satin. Below a circular rug spiraled red and blue flowers. Away from the fire’s damaging heat the piano-forte stretched its wooden self in state. The window above shed pure light onto the sheet of music which half hid Greta, so that only her curls and blue-green eyes were seen.

“Good morning, Stacy!” the pianist called, ceasing her play.

“Ms. Bartle! Good morning,” Mr. Thomas greeted her.

She smiled back, “Good morning.”

Greta rose. “Would you like some tea? The servants are preparing a breakfast. You are not the only one who woke late.” She smiled as she poured a cup. “What would you like to do today? I was thinking we could spend some time inventing a schedule. It’s so easy to waste time when one is disorganized.” She held out the ivory colored cup.

Suddenly it was as if the entire world became vividly altered. Anastasia saw more than just the ordinariness of a cup of tea, but an intricate painting of life. Even the air hummed in her ears like a strange music. A wild urging came over her- the urge to express the colors and sounds that engulfed her, that became a veritable orchestra in her soul. “Greta,” she began, timidly smiling and accepting the cup. “Would you teach me to play the piano-forte?”

Greta laughed her clear, almost musical laugh. “Oh, yes! I am glad you want to learn!” Grasping her friend’s hand, she drew her near to the instrument. “So just like reading, music has it’s own alphabet. It starts at A and ends at G. All the white keys that are like this,” and she played one between two blacks, “are A’s. And this white one is B, this one C, and D, E, F, G.” The scale echoed in the room.

“What are the black keys for?” Anastasia asked striking one. She noticed it’s decidedly melancholy feel. She liked it.

“Hmm… We’ll worry about those later. This is a simple song. You should be able to learn the right hand today.” And the lilting notes of Au Clare du Lune filled the space around her.

For the next hour the two sat side by side, except for the slight interruption of brunch, fingering the ivory keys. As Anastasia mastered the melody, Greta accompanied her. The song lilted along, stumbling at times, but merrily. It was like a bird learning to take flight, like Anastasia herself opening her wings to reach new heights.

Then a maid announced “Monsieurs le baron et Friedmann.” The men entered shortly after her voice.

Greta greeted them graciously, but Anastasia felt invaded and robbed. Her sweet world of color and beauty was torn apart like a disheveled flower. Yet she knew she must be polite.

“Ah, frauline is learning to play! How wonderful!” Baron Leopold crooned. “Would you play me something?”

Anastasia blushed deeply. It felt like he had just taken a knife and destroyed her painting that had been so vivid and fresh that morning. “I’m afraid I know but one song, and that imperfectly.”

“Then you must let me hear when you have mastered it. Frauline Greta…” He turned away with suave decorum, as if the embarrassment had not been of his making.

Yet for Anastasia it was a test of her culture, her social standing- and she had failed. She should have made some witty remark that would have made them laugh. But instead she had jerked out the obvious fact.

The conversation was discreetly turned to other topics than music. Painting surfaced, especially Frauline Greta’s skill. But that too Anastasia felt locked out from; she had never touched a paintbrush. She was so uneducated, so decidedly from a lower class.

A new topic was reached for: literature. Ah, here was something Anastasia knew! But they were focusing on foreign works, works she had never known existed. Here again, in a field she loved beyond compare, she was shown how ignorant and low she was.

Anastasia wandered away from the company into the foyer. What was she doing here? She was not educated like they were, she was not elegant like they were, she was not talented like they were. Europe was no place for a homely old maid like herself. Tears threatened behind her eyes, making her throat tight enough to chock herself.

“Stacy, where are you?”

Hurriedly regaining composure, she called, “Here.” She slowly began to return.

Greta was the first to come around the corner. “Are you alright?” It was a whisper, but the serious intensity in the blue-green eyes conveyed all the emotion the words failed. The baron entered quickly.

Smiling as normally as possible, she replied, “I’m just tired.” But those eyes said her friend did not believe her.

“Then you must hurry and become rested,” the baron announced, “for there is to be a ball on Thursday next, to which I invite you and Frauline Thomas as my special guests.”

A warm blush effused Greta’s cheeks. “Do say we shall go, Stacy!”

“Of course,” Anastasia stammered. Even if she did not want to go, that was no reason to bind Greta home. Besides, she had always wanted to go to a dance. Only she would know practically no one.

Love

Oh, if only hearts grew like flowers

So we could pluck a new one

When by love broken is ours.

Then there’d be no tears-spun

Tale to tell to tattlers tall,

Nor sorrow’s sadness share.

All could be forgotten- all.

But alas, it is not. So love I’ll not dare.

But if I love not, then no comfort will

Come to strengthen my wanning soul or build

Up my crumbling dreams- those fickle phantoms

That lead the mind toward delights handsome

But beyond our grasping. But no matter!

The wandering world of windless thoughts will ‘ter

Not the soul’s dizzying flight to untold

Heights of love described by authors of old!

Drowning for love of Beauty…

Do you ever feel like you are struggling to keep your head above the water, like you need the air, you want the air, while the mirky depths below beg you to sink down, to give up the struggle for the ease of consistency they offer? That is how I feel.

My heart burns as if it would tear itself free from my breast to fly from the engulfing waves into the cosmic air; yet my body drags is down, chains it to the mundane sacrileges of labor and toil. I want to fly! I want to burst forth with a violence akin to a volcano, with molten thoughts engulfing and transforming my body, searing away the thin scab of nature till the flesh is the same as the heart. I desire to shine, to be a light shedding rays of beauty into the darkest, most hideous corner. I need to burn, to spark everything and everyone into a conflagration of love, beauty, glory, hope, purity, and grace. I need to create.

And yet my tears cannot sob forth the intensity I feel; my gasping cannot seize the air I need; my tongue cannot lisp the radiating eloquence I see. My creation fails, shrivels and dies. The beauty I beheld is betrayed by my frail attempts. And yet I cannot stop.

The burning urges me, goads me. Art is the air I breathe; even as it poisons me against this world, I love it’s atmosphere. Oh! If only the rapture of the moment was not mutilated in the retelling.

Alas! Is there no way to communicate the emotions? Shall I forever be stuck inside this miserable shell, forever barred from the glory I see? Am I to be always drowning?

Would to God that I were Icarus! Then I would at least have the wild flight toward Helios, rather than the dull plodding plagues that never leave Constantine Levin.

A Bright Sunshiny Day, Ch 12

The luggage was loaded. Sailors were bustling like monkeys about the ship. Travelers were clambering aboard or bidding goodbye. One small group stood near the ramp. Anastasia gave her mother one last hug- probably the hundredth last hug since that morning. She wanted to reach out to Gerard too, but he would not understand. And so she gave extra affection to her mother. The two German gentlemen and Greta had already started toward the plank, beginning the slow process of boarding. Anastasia knew she should follow. She started to walk away, but still clutched tightly her mother’s hand. “Good bye.”

Mary Ann kissed her daughter’s hand and unclasped it. “You’ll learn so much. Go, enjoy yourself. I love you.”

A tear trickled down each woman’s cheek. “I love you too,” Anastasia whispered. Briefly she glanced at Gerard. What could she say that would make him understand just how she felt: the fear and anguish, the need and want, the affection she felt for him. “Good bye.” Swiftly she turned away.

“Anastasia!”

She froze at his call. If he said the word, she would stay and give it all up. If he reached out his hand, she would throw away all her fears and love him. If he wanted, then she did too. She waited as he walked towards her. She could not say anything; just wait.

Gerard looked down into her golden eyes: she was really going away. Now that it came to it, he wanted to go anywhere she did. It did not matter who would think it wrong or odd. He loved her. And he was going to tell her. But even as he opened his mouth to say so, he knew it was not fair to her. She was going to Europe, into culture. If she could consider him afterward, then he would tell her. Not before. “Write me.”

She smiled through the tears. “Yes.”

Then she was gone, mounting the rungs behind Greta. The one person that all his thoughts centered around was vanishing. He had never felt like this any of the times Greta had stepped onto a ship. He had not even felt like this when his mother died. It was like everything inside him was being cut out, as if he had stepped into a world that had no light. But she said she would write- as unconventional as it was, she said she would. Somehow he knew that he would only live by her words, measuring time by the arrival of her letters.

As she followed Greta along a narrow passage to the cabin they would share, Anastasia felt elation as she never had before. He had asked her to write! Gerard Thomas wanted to be friends. Suddenly, she was glad she was going. Now she could read words he had penned- probably elaborate their meanings. No, she would not be so impractical. They were friends. He had Karen. Would he show the blond haired bully everything? Anastasia cringed at the thought. How could she write anything knowing that it might happen? But it did not matter! He had asked her to write, and she had promised. Besides, things had seemed a little distant between Gerard and Karen lately.

Only half listening to Greta’s excited chatter, Anastasia prepared the tiny room to accommodate two women. Rearranging the contents of her companion’s trunk, she thought more. Karen had refused to come see the ballet with them; she had made the excuse that the trip would be too tiring for her health, which was about the same as saying no. Then too, Gerard had never walked the blond beauty home; no, he had walked herself. In fact the first time she had seen Gerard and Karen talking at all was that day in the park. Was it possible that he did not like Karen?

“What do you think, Stacy?”

Anastasia turned to Greta who was pulling on a pair of gloves trimmed with delicate lace. “I’m sorry, but think of what?”

The brown curls quivered with her laughter. “You haven’t been listening at all, have you?” The blue-green eyes twinkled mischievously. “What were you thinking about?”

Feeling her cheeks burn, she looked back at the clothes she was organizing. “Nothing.”

With another merry laugh, the brown curls were suddenly pressed against her head as the younger girl embraced the other. “Anastasia Bartle, don’t give me that! I know you were thinking of him. Now tell me: what did he say?”

Flustered Anastasia avoided the intense gaze. “I don’t understand.”

“Oh, yes, you do! You need not pretend with me. I know you like Gerard.”

There was no way to hide the scarlet that effused her face. Somehow it was a relief to have Greta know, somehow it was an embarrassment. “Yes, I do like him. But I know it’s impossibly ridiculous.”

Once again she was enfolded in the warm arms, the soft emotional voice in her ear: “Don’t say such a thing! It’s not impossible and it’s not ridiculous, especially when he likes you too. He may not say so, but he does.”

Anastasia was surprised, but doubted still. There was simply no way a man such as Gerard Thomas could love her. Greta was kind, but must be mistaken. After all, she thought, I’m just an old homely maid lacking intelligence.

Melancholy thoughts aside, it was a pleasant voyage. Baron Friedemann was very kind to Greta, often talking to her or walking with her round the ship. Anastasia was happy they enjoyed each others’ company, although she hardly understood it. It also pleased her that Franz more or less stayed away from her. It was not that she had anything against the heavy accented foreigner, just that he seemed like a rain cloud that was too full of rain for anyone’s good. Then again, perhaps what he needed was someone to be kind to him, someone like Gerard had been to her. But should it really be her?

Standing near the prow of the ship, she purposefully dispelled the mists of wraithlike thoughts that ever shifted from form to form. The ocean seemed to reach out, pulling all the fear and turmoil away. The distant horizon, aglow with the setting sun, burned like a fire; like the fire that rainy day when she had first seen Gerard’s house. She thought again of King Thrushbeard. What was it again that had made her compare him to the king? Oh, that’s right: she had not figured it out.

How did a stubborn princess refusing to marry and a king who foolishly pursued her relate to her and Gerard? Or was it that the princess refused to marry so much as she refused to admit love? Anastasia was doing that: refusing to admit she loved Gerard. But could she say such a thing? Was it not terribly presumptuous? Greta had said he liked her, but was that love? Mother had warned her to be careful of men who would try to take advantage of her. But Gerard was not one of them! No, he was only concerned for her and would never do anything that would harm her. Or would he? After all, he was human too, with the same weakness and the same urges, the same fallen nature and the same temptation to sin. But if she could not trust in his goodness, what could she believe in?

“Pawdon, miss,” a distinctly British voice said. “But Ah’ve been needen ta git in thare ‘n’ fix some ropes, if’n ya plaise.”

She was surprised to see the sandy haired youth in his sailor uniform. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Aw, don’t be.” Kneeling where she had just been standing, the lad began to recoil a rope and untie a few knots. “Whatch was ya thinkin’ ‘bout?”

For some odd reason, Anastasia felt like she wanted to tell him everything. After all, she would never see him again, and it would help so much to tell someone all the burdens and fears. But was it proper? Mentally stamping her foot, she knew what she was doing. “I’ve been thinking about love. If you heard of two people who loved each other but were just too scared to admit it- or rather just uncertain if they even loved- what would you tell them?”

“Is this ya and that fella,” he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at Franz who was standing a ways off scowling, “or a story book?” He looked up into her face a look of complete innocence and curiosity.

It would be so easy to lie, she thought. And it is like a story anyway. But something inside her forbade her, urged her to the truth. Veritas liberabit: the Truth shall set you free. “Another and I.”

Smirking, he focused again on another knot. “Well, miss, Ah’d say ya hauv a problum. But ya naidedn’t whorry. If’n ya love ‘im, ya’ll know it.”

“But that’s just it,” Anastasia burst out, falling to her knees next to him. “I don’t know. I ask myself over and over, but I don’t know. It’s like asking yourself if you’re awake in a dream: it feels like it, but you’re not.”

“Well, miss,” he said slowly, a serious expression in his blue eyes. “Ah’d help if’n Ah could, but none can know ya’r heart ‘cept ya. Maybe don’t ask if’n ya love, just know ya do. Ya must love ‘im if ya fear naught lovin’ ‘im.”

Just know I love… Anastasia felt as if she had been just handed the key that would unlock all the power of her heart. Love is not measurable, only acknowledgeable. Ya must love ‘im if ya fear naught lovin’ ‘im…

Suddenly it was as if the cool breeze that played with her hair had fingers, as if the little hair tickling her neck could embrace her, as if the creak of the wood was whispering, as if the thrumming of the rigging was a melody, as if his blond hair were hands reaching out to her. There was no need to fret as she had been doing. Love, life: they were so similar and so essential, they were unintelligible outside of God and yet so tangible in the flesh.

“Frauline Bartle, are you vell?”

Looking up into Franz’s large brown eyes, she wondered if she was well. Everything she had told herself was changing. But could she quite admit that she would never love? No, loving was as essential as living: she loved mother, and Greta, and books, and rainy days, and snow, and flowers. Love was part of life. “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you, Herr Friedemann.”

He reached out a hand, which she silently took. Slightly surprised at the ease with which he lifted her, she let him guide her to her cabin. Neither said a word, yet neither was thinking anything too far from the other.

The Warmth of a Cup of Tea

Kitty sighed.  She had risen, dressed, gone to work, taught all day, attended the faculty meeting, drove home in the driving rain, and finally was sitting down.  She was so tired.

And yet she felt she had done nothing.

She put some water in the kettle to boil.  Somehow she needed to do more, be more, give more, love more.  She sighed.  It was the same pain, the same heartache that had hounded her since childhood.  She just felt so insufficient, so weak and insignificant.

She poured the hot water in her mug and felt the steam against her cheek.  It was comforting, soothing, encouraging.  Steam, like a candle’s extinguished smoke tendril, had always reminded her of incense rising to some divine altar as praise.  Maybe that was why it always warmed her heart to see and touch it.

Her couch was soft and inviting as she sat down and curled up.  The silence was so relieving.

Then the phone rang.  She looked at the screen.  It was James.  She let it ring.  And a coldness seized her.

She had broken up with James last week.  He was a good man and she loved him, but she needed something more.  It wasn’t that he was a wimp or anything; it wasn’t that he didn’t care about her or treat her right; no, it was something deeper, something subtler.  He had been everything she had wanted- except in one respect.  He did not pray.

Prayer, religion, God had been so impressed upon her, so intimately a part of her.  How could she consider marrying a man who seemed almost indifferent to it all?  She felt that she would have to deny a part of herself for him.  And it was not a part she could deny.

A tear trembled on her lashes.

But she just wanted to love!  She wanted to love others so much it hurt physically.  Her arms ached to hold a baby close; her fingers curled wanting to hold another’s hand; her heart seemed to be rending in her breast.  Would she never be able to give?  Would she always be alone, unable to love with all she was?

But again, perhaps she was not capable.  If she really loved James, how could she walk away?  If she really had such a desire to love and cherish, how could she give up a man who loved her?  Perhaps she was too broken, too small, too weak.  Perhaps she would never truly love anyone.

The rain increased and pounded against the window as if it would hammer its way inside.   The wind rattled the pane like a door that had been shut in its face.  No, it seemed to cry, it’s not true.

But it felt true, all too painfully true.

She hugged the warm mug to her chest, trying to pull its comfort inside her.  And strangely she felt that eventually – maybe not today, maybe not next month, but eventually- she would love with all the depth of her heart and soul.  For today, she would just do her best to give and love those around her.  And perhaps that would be enough.

The Warrior’s Bride, Part 1

The doors of the storage hut were locked tightly. The room was frighteningly dark, and yet there was comfort and safety too. “Come, children,” whispered a young woman to the thirteen youngsters around her. She groped for the secret latch in the one stone wall feeling them press anxiously around her. She had to hurry or they would all be caught.

The stone projection seemed to thrust itself into her grasp. But try as she might it did not budge when she pushed or pulled. Why had she never tried to open it before? How had father done it? With all her weight straining behind her, it finally gave way and she heard the grating of stone as the trap door swung ajar. Her heart gave a sigh.

She pushed it open. “Hurry, children. Climb down inside. Ethelbert, you lead them.”

Silently the nine year old boy obeyed. One after another followed him into the unknown. Where did it lead? She was trying to remember when a sound came to her ears, a sound that made her blood run cold: the rough shouts of men and the clash of arms. “Hurry!” she whispered more desperately. One little girl began to whimper. “Shh, Bertha, it’ll be alright. Just go inside.” The sound was coming closer. Only a few more needed to climb down into the little cavity. Would there be enough time? She called the oldest girl, “Ragnell, don’t stop once you’re inside. Keep going straight until you come to the exit. But listen first to make certain it is safe. Now in you go.”

Just as she was about to follow she heard the crash of an axe against the wood door. With an unbidden cry she sprang away and the trap door closed shut just as the Viking forced the door down. For one frightfully long minute she stared petrified at the grisly helmet and gore spattered face. Then she turned and grasped the nearest thing: a bow and quiver of arrows. “Stand back!” she commanded shrilly as she drew the string back. The arrow pointed directly at his neck, the only flesh without any protection worth mentioning.

Now several of his companions had crowded behind him. They started talking in their strange guttural tones. What would they do? She would die. But not until they had done who knew what tortures. She remembered the man she had seen by accident ten years earlier: his chest had been cut opened and his lungs splayed like wings across his back. His face had been contracted and distorted by the pain and suffocation before death relieved him. She shuddered involuntarily. Seeing her fear, one of the invaders took a step forward. “Stand back!” she cried again.

“Put the bow down,” the foremost man ordered.

“You… You speak English. You… You’re a traitor!” she gasped in unbelief.

“No, I learned your language from a slave. Now put the bow down. You won’t be hurt,” he reassured her as one would a frightened animal.

“As my village has not been hurt!” she shrieked. “As my family and friends have been so royally treated! I would rather trust to my own strength than your honesty!”

Oddly, he smiled at her. Even his teeth wore the grisly mask of death. “Girl, I give you my oath on my mother’s soul you will not be harmed nor one hair of your head touched. Now put the bow down.” He took a step toward her.

“Stay where you are! I’ll kill you if you come any closer!” But even she noticed her voice trembled shrilly.

“And my men will kill you if you kill me,” he took another step. Then he barked an order to his men. One of them left the storage hut.

“Where is he going?” She retreated a step closer to the wall. “Stop!”

He obeyed. “If you put the bow down now, I swear you shall be treated well. Otherwise you risk your life.”

She could barely hear him over the pounding of her heart. What did he mean?

Then the wattle wall behind her erupted in noise as someone without hacked it. Startled she jumped away, dropped the arrow, and was caught in the arms of the man. She shrieked. She bit. She clawed. She kicked and hit. But he held her fast. She was vaguely aware of him talking and his men moving about. Then someone grabbed her feet and someone else her arms. She was as certainly a prisoner as anyone can be. But she dared not give up.

“You wild cat! I knew you had pluck to stand against us so, but still! You’ve well nigh torn my thumb from my hand.” His hand was bleeding profusely, but she could not think how it had happened. “You make a good prize.” Then in the hoarse language of the Norsemen he gave another command. Her hands were bound behind her and she was half led, half carried away toward the fearsome dragon-headed ships.

The village was have engulfed in flames and half drenched in blood. Men and boys could be seen mutilated by weapons, women and infants slaughtered as they had tried to run. She had known them all, talked and laughed with them, cried and mourned with them. And now she alone remained. No, those children were alive. But how long would they survive without an adult? The oldest was barely thirteen and a slip of a girl at that. Several were under three. Had she saved them only for a worse fate? She could no longer be brave: tears spilled from her eyes. It was over. Her father would have been at the foremost of the fighting, defending his people, and her brothers would have been near him. All six of them must be dead- for they would never surrender the village to the pagan’s cruelty. And her friends? What had happened to Agnes and Maxentia, to Whilma and Kyara? Where was Father Ǽdmonde? Had anyone made it to safety? How would this nightmarish day end?

The men roughly deposited her next to a pile of booty. It took some time for her to realize through her tears that most of it was from the church and her father’s house. Leaning over, she kissed the Gospel book from which she had been taught to read. Gently she placed her forehead against it. The hard gold and gems felt warm to her from familiarity. Suddenly she felt weary and spent.

But the day was not yet over. Again her conqueror stood before her. He was slightly confused by her obeisance to the book. Softly he knelt beside her and lifted her to her knees with his uninjured hand. Now that the sun shone on her he could see he had been right in the dark hut: she was very beautiful, even with her tear stained face and mussed hair. He could imagine her when she smiled how her eyes would light up and her cheeks turn bright red; in a dance her long brown hair would shimmer. But now her hair was dull from disorder, her cheeks wan, her soft brown eyes empty. “What is your name?”

“What does it matter?” she sighed. But she answered any way, “Aalis.”

“Aalis,” he murmured. With a dagger from his belt he cut the bonds on her wrists. Rising he commanded, “Come with me, Aalis.”

Too tired to even contemplate resisting. She struggled to her feet and followed him to the edge of the boat. Someone above said something in Norse, to which he responded in kind. The conversation went on for some time. Finally the man on board reached down and her conqueror lifted her up. She was on the vessel of destruction. Again tears fell from her eyes. Like a sack of meal or a dumb animal she had been carted away for who knew what task. And all whom she held dear lay dead in their blood. It was too much to endure! She bolted for the side to throw herself into the water, but the man had been warned. He grabbed her and roughly bound her again, this time hand and foot. The extra rope was then used to strap her to the mast. She could hear him murmuring angrily to himself as he gave an extra tug at the knot.

Then she was alone. No one else was on board and the man kept well away. Dark was descending fast. Softly she heard their voices as they divided the booty. Faintly she saw the glow of the fire, either the village’s ruins or that of their camp. And here she was in the dark and the cold, tied to a mast. Often she had wanted adventure, but this! This was more than she could have imagined. What else could possibly happen? Surely she would die of sorrow and fear? Oh, she was so tired and cold. The chill had crept inside her like another being sharing her skin. Perhaps it was all a nightmare that she would awaken from soon. Yes, she would wake up soon. Maybe if she closed her eyes…

“Aalis,” a voice called.

With a gasp she opened her eyes. She tried to get away, but the rope held her. But she struggled anyway.

“Aalis,” the voice said sharply. “Be still.” And a hand forcibly pushed her against the wooden mast-beam.

She looked into his brown eyes, just visible in the grey of dawn. Of course he was in control, he was her captor. What he said was now law unto her. She would be his slave and do his commands. No! It was too much! With a strangled cry she swung her legs at him, but the force was not enough. Instead of knocking him over, she merely gave him the chance to pin her further under him.

Kneeling on her he continued, “Stop. Do you hear me, girl? Stop. You would be raped and dead right now if it weren’t for me. And I’ve half a mind to let the men have their way, so you’d better behave.”

It seemed shameful to be indebted to him, but since she was she was. “Yes, my lord,” she mumbled.

“That’s better,” and he undid her bonds.

But it was as if she was more now his prisoner than before. Tears came unbidden to her eyes. Hanging her head she tried to hide from him.

Pulling her roughly to her feet, he dragged her toward the prow. “Stay here and keep out of the way and be quiet.” And he pushed her behind a barrel. She heard his footfalls retreating. Quietly she cried, trying to obey and yet needing to vent the torrents of emotions inside.

She was not sure how long she remained hidden. But she heard the men prepare to sail and felt the boat strain as it headed out to sea- which had increased her tears. Father Ǽdmonde had said to have courage in the face of adversity since God was testing our love. But surely this was too much? Surely her love was not strong enough, not large enough, not pure enough? She felt like a mouse or an insect hiding, hoping to be allowed to survive. What would happen to her? What would they do? No one had ever told her what happened to those who survived a raid. Would they sacrifice her to their gods? She shuddered and clasped her hands. “Kyrie eleison!” she whispered.

Hope in the Darkness

Submerged in the sea of darkness,

The pressure down upon me

Subdues the weeping emotioness

Of this despairing heart.

The soft embrace of silent blackness

Drowns the deathly weight’s fee,

And I can rest- momentarily.

Then all comes crashing down-

My tower of dreams and castle of clouds.

What was my strength is no foundation,

What was my model is no fixed station.

 

Dare I ever enter love?

I saw it fail, saw it fall

Throughout all the world enough.

How shall I ever enter trust

And enter the net like a dove?

How shall I answer that call?

Can I at all?

When fantasies lie upon the ground

In heeps of rubbled stones round,

Will I have the courage to rise?

Good only comes to him who tries.

A Bright Sunshiny Day, Ch 11

Gerard hardly watched the ballet. Almost involuntarily he found himself glancing over at Anastasia. She was very charming in the sea green dress. He was glad she had chosen to wear his sister’s gift; besides it reminded him of when he first realized he loved her, that rainy day in the library.

At the moment he marveled at her excitement and uncontained intrigue, so vivacious and intent. The expressions that chased each other over her features and the excitement in her breathing made her seem as if she trembled and quivered. That was how she would be in Europe. And that was how some dashing chevalier would fall in love with her. Why did that thought always seem to poison him? These were the last few days he would see her and he was allowing what had not and might not ever happen ruin them for him. No, he would refuse to think of that man- whoever he was- and just enjoy her presence like the sunshine between the clouds.

For her part, Anastasia watched mesmerized by the twirling dancers. Was it possible to move so? She felt her heart yearn to be down there with them, to leap and bend as they did, to move with the music as they were. Oh, but it was impossible for clumsy her to be so delicate and airy.

“Do you like it?” Greta whispered.

Anastasia smiled and nodded. She felt Greta squeeze her hand. Glancing at her friend, she noticed Gerard’s eyes on her. She was glad it was dark enough he could not see her blush. Quickly she focused on the ballerinas again, trying not to admit her own feelings to herself and yet trying not to destroy the joy.

For her part, Greta laughed inside. It was so obvious the two liked each other. She could not understand why they did not admit it. She had thought taking Anastasia away would have evoked some pledge of love from Gerard. But she saw that all it did was make the two more shy around each other. Silly love birds! Well, by the time they came back from Europe, he had better. Else Greta would have to do a little more shoving.

At the ballet’s close, Gerard held the door as the ladies exited their private box. Anastasia could barely contain herself. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful! I loved the way they bent over backwards like a flower in the breeze. Oh, and the villain was so dreadful!”

Greta laughed. “I really appreciated his costume. Although I wish there had been more red in it. You know, it symbolizes passion and violence. But I suppose that’s just the artist in me!”

“Is that Frauline Greta Thomas?” A tall man turned around from in front of them. His dark hair and beard were impeccably combed, above his red cravat and gold pin. More than his prominent chiseled features, it was his intense blue eyes that drew one in and enchanted you: like stars the pale blue reached away from his pupils only to be halted by the deep dark of the night sky.

“Baron Leopold von Friedemann! What a charming surprise! When did you arrive in England?” Greta blushed slightly as he kissed her hand.

“Well met, frauline,” he said in a distinctly German though much subdued accent. “My young cousin desired to see the strange land you tell of so often. And so here we are.” He waved a hand dramatically behind him toward a tall blond giant. Anastasia did not think it was possible to be so tall and so broad. Strangely she noted he was actually shorter than the Baron, but so much larger framed that he seemed taller.

“Herr Franz, how nice to see you again. I do hope England pleases you?” Greta reached her hand out towards the man.

“Danka, Frauline,” he said with a strong accent. “It vould please me more if Frauline Lapidde were here.”

“But she is settled in France, Herr Franz. Monsieur Martin has made her very happy in marriage. Surely you would not wish her to be a Frauline rather than a madame?”

“I vould vish her my Frau, and not his madame,” he grumbled between clenched teeth.

The baron laughed heartily. “He has not stopped being sour since the wedding in April! Do not worry overly much, Frauline Greta. But who are your companions?” His eyes rested on Anastasia.

“This is my brother whom you have heard so much about.”

“My pleasure, Herr Thomas,” he bowed with a slight click of his heels.

“And my new companion and her mother, Ms. Bartle and Mrs. Bulfinch.”

“Frauline, Frau,” another bow and click for each.

Introductions finished, Greta turned to the German, her emerald green gown swishing luxuriantly. “When shall you be returning to the continent, Herr Baron?”

“We leave tomorrow, Frauline.”

“Oh, perfect! Then we may travel together. My companion and I leave tomorrow on the Queen’s Grace.”

“Ah! So do we!”

Anastasia could not help but note the roll of Franz’s brown eyes. Their voyages were not coincidental, then; was there a romance here? The idea made her feel giddy with delight. Was it possible for the perfect Greta Thomas to be so irrational as to love? Glancing at Gerard, she saw a cautious, calculating look on his features; so he noted it too. Briefly, she wondered if this was one thing the sister had not shared with her brother. Oh, Europe would be interesting, especially with the two love-sick Germans around. A smile spread across her face.

Gerard saw her merry smile. So this was the beginning of how she would forget him. If anyone matched the description of Sir Gawain, it was Franz von Friedemann. And if Franz had loved Ms. Lapidde- plain, simple, tepid Ms. Lapidde, how would he burn for elegant, intense Anastasia Bartle? Yes, this was the beginning of all that Europe meant to him. He wished Greta had never gone to Europe all those years ago, he wished she had never met Baron Friedemann and his cousin, he wished he had never told her about Anastasia. But at the same time he was glad that it had happened: love gives all with a ready smile, father had always said. If he did not love Anastasia enough to give her the time and space she needed to grow past her fears, he was not worthy of her. But by the time she might fight her way through the webs of fear, she would have found someone else. Perhaps that was best; but, it hurt.

They bade the Germans a good evening at the carriage. Greta was extremely flustered and kept talking about different things the baron had told her. After a slight pause, blushing deeply, she asked, “So what do you think, Gerard?”

The young man glanced vaguely at his sister, as if he had been deaf to her chatter. He seemed distant and aloof. “I’m sorry, what did you say, Greta?”

“What do you think of the baron?”

“Oh,” he murmured. He could not tell her he had not noticed the man because of his cousin. What had the baron said that was of note? Nothing? He must think of something to please Greta. After all, she had told him the whole tale in her letters. “He’s likeable, I suppose.”

“Likeable?” She laughed, “Gerard, you probably didn’t even notice him. What’s with you today?”

He smiled. “Oh, you’re just going back to Europe after only being here for such a short time. We use to do everything together, remember?”

“Yes,” she smiled back softly as a dozen memories swam through her mind. Suddenly, she bounced up straight in her seat. “I know! Why don’t you come to Europe with us? You’ve never been, Gerard. Oh, you would have so much fun! Do say you’ll come. Father wouldn’t mind staying with the business. He’s probably tired of chasing me around museums and art galleries, making small talk with nobles and foreigners, and all that sort of stuff. You should do it as a favor to father.”

Gerard laughed. Anastasia liked his laugh: quick and honest like that strange moment when the clouds break and the sun instantly warms you. She wished he would come. Somehow Europe seemed less frightening if he would be there. But then, why should he come? He had Karen here.

“Why? So that all your noble friends can marvel that such an elegant frauline is related to the clumsiest buffoon in all England? No, I’ll stay here, thank you very much. Someone has to stay.”

Greta laughed nervously at the mention of frauline. “You silly boy!” Well, it almost worked, she thought. It was simply beyond her how Gerard had not asked Anastasia to marry him already. But then it also baffled her how the baron had not asked yet.

With much more idle banter they arrived at the stately house. Each bade the others a good night before climbing to their individual rooms. Brushing her hair, Anastasia watched as the lamps were slowly lit in an endless row down the street. They were like stars trapped in the London fog, forced to glow despite their need to burn in the heavens.

Someone has to stay. Why had Gerard said that? Why could everyone not fly into the sky? She felt like she could. It had been such a wonderful evening. And all of Europe would be like that! Yet, somehow, she felt it could not be completely like tonight. Gerard would not be there. It suddenly seemed like flying was impossible.

There was a light knock at her door. Opening the solid oak on silent hinges, she was surprised to see Mary Ann. “Mother! What’s wrong?”

Closing the door behind her, the elder lady smiled. “Nothing, my dear. I just wanted to talk with you a little.”

“Certainly.”

They curled up onto the bed next to each other like two little girls whispering late at night when they have been repeatedly warned to “go to sleep!” At first they dwelt on the ballet and all its wonder, then on the Germans amidst several muffled giggles, and finally on Europe.

“Remember to be careful, Stacy. There are men who will think they can take what they want and discard you whenever. Don’t fall for them. Hold yourself high. You are worth more than they know, and if they do know, then more than they can hope for. No, you keep yourself for one man to love- and only after your marriage. Save your first kiss for your wedding day. A kiss starts emotions that are sometimes stronger than your reason. That’s what happened to me. You do better, you hear?” Tears rolled down her cheek into the soft pillow.

“Oh, mother!” Anastasia embraced the woman who had always been kind and caring to her. “I love you.”

Mary Ann wanted to say so much, but how to convey a life-time of regrets and lessons in the few hours before the trip? In many ways she wished Anastasia was staying home; but she knew that sooner or later her darling Stacy would have to grow up. Her only hope and prayer- as it was for all her children- was that she could rise above the mistakes of her parents and happily marry. But that was where God had to take control: she knew nothing about what a happy marriage was. “Pray that God guides you, dear.”