Flaming flowers and fire

IGNIS FATUUS

(Vestal Virgins and Flaming Flowers)

　

Fire, holy fire -- who has not stood before a great blaze in awe and fear? The ancients worshiped it, personified it. Arsonists worship it too, but they are crazed and a danger to everyone, honoring fire above life. When controlled and watched, fire is a wonderful thing, loved and needed. Out of control, it becomes a scourge -- hated and feared, something which must be extinguished at all costs. This is the story of one such flame.



                                       I

My sister was chosen by the Pontifex Maximus to be one of the Vestals when she was only nine years old. This meant she was to be in the service of Vesta, goddess of the hearth, for the next thirty years of her life. She must remain a virgin during that time and, with the others Vestals, keep watch over the eternal fire which burns in Vesta’s temple -- the state hearth. She must care for the sacred objects as well; objects which only the virgins and a few state priests ever see. The flame must not go out. A girl could be scourged severely if that fire were to extinguish itself while she was on watch. And if she were found guilty of losing her chastity, she would very likely be entombed alive. But, as she walked in with the group of girls to be presented to the priests, Phoebe was proud and excited, hopeful she would be chosen for such a high honor. Of course, she knew little of life at age nine, but her face was flushed, ablaze with color, which unfortunately only intensified her beauty.

When she heard the Pontifex Maximus, the highest of state priests, in a thunderous voice, say; “Te Amata, capio,” (roughly translated, “Darling, I seize thee”) and saw him pointing at her, she thought she might faint. She did not. On the contrary, being the first of the six chosen from the group of about twenty girls, she proudly took her place behind her new “father,” and waited for instructions. It honored our family name, and pleased her, young and ardent as she was, to take the title of Vestal. But it was no light undertaking.

The Pontiff could not have made a more apt choice when he named Phoebe, but had he been aware of her peculiar and powerful nature, he may have passed her and chosen a girl with a more pliable spirit. At the time, I watched with solicitude. She may have been the best choice, and quite the prettiest, but perhaps a dangerous one.

You see, my little sister, even then, possessed all the attributes that one associates with fire. Bizarre as it sounds, I still think of Phoebe as the human equivalent of the blaze -- animated, warm, giving, but also potentially deadly. Even as a very young child, once her anger was kindled, and if there was fuel enough to keep it going, she would become unmanageable -- out of control. She had a sharp tongue and a biting wit, which I must admit pleased me as her elder and more docile sister. Once ablaze, it would take more than a single individual to calm and bring her back to her sweeter disposition. If she was not the incarnation of fire, she was definitely possessed by the spirit of it! Her personality and potentialities were analogous to that enigmatic source of energy.

Our Phoebe, had a fluidity about her, but she was no Bacchant, no follower of Dionysus, god of flowing things. Her fluidity of spirit had nothing in common with blood-red wine, maenads, milk and honey, or with the tearing and eating of raw flesh. Hers flooded upward, toward the celestial spheres, like the lapping of tongues of flame which consume life and send its fragrance heavenward. Her laughter was not the babbling brook, splashing and flowing forever into the earth or out to sea. Her humor was bright, lively and pure, but mixed with a sharp wit that sparked and flew out from her with the simplicity of an innocent, but scorching, hurtfulness. But the romance and appeal of sitting by a cheerful crackling hearth, is exactly the kind of sentiment which Phoebe could induce in those near her.

From the beginning of her public service as a priestess, however, she showed resistance to tradition and to her obligation. She had a springy, spirited walk, her eyes and smile were bold and flirtatious. The way she tossed her head with bewitching haughtiness was seldom seen in our chaste priestesses. Her pretty face and form, and her liveliness, proved all too provocative to the libido of many a poor novice priest. She hated the old-fashioned white dress which her position required her to wear, it harkened back to an earlier, more archaic time in Rome. It would have been much easier for her to don the white garments if she could only add a pretty sash or some other embellishment, but that was frowned upon -- if not forbidden. Still, she had control over her essential self, and she refused to be like the older girls and women who looked so pinched and dead-eyed! Those pitiful old priestesses who had failed to marry after their thirty years were up, those aged biddies who opted to stay in the service of Vesta, but were really in everyone’s way. She was determined (and her determination grew with years) to remain alert, pretty and desirable. But Fate is fickle, and sometimes it spurns the confidence of the proud.

Phoebe put her hair up on her head like the highborn girls with whom she would be growing up with if still at home. She used cosmetics, though sparingly, and when she was not “on watch” at the temple, she took the opportunity to get herself up as fetchingly as possible.

As eldest sister, I was naturally upset when Phoebe was selected as a Vestal. Although I have great reverence for the goddess, Vesta, and her priestesses, it was quite another thing to see my beloved baby sister pulled into that number. I remember, only seven years before, when one of the Vestals was accused, and found guilty, of unchastity. I remember, too, watching the procession pass by on its way to the entombment at the agger, just inside the Colline gate. The girl had been placed in a littler and wrapped in many blankets, tied tight with a rope, so that her voice, her terrified cries, would be muffled until they reached their destination. But I could see the struggle going on beneath the thick shroud of cloth, and thought I could discern the weakening moans of the poor thing wrapped tight underneath. Nothing makes the happy citizens of Rome shudder and wince as this pitiful sight. I was no exception, it terrified me more than anything else I’d ever witnessed. Do not misunderstand me, blood and death in the Colosseum is one thing, but one of our own . . .

“Look, Optima!” said my father. “They are taking her to the earthworks at the base of the wall. They’ll unwrap her and lead her, blindfolded, down the stairs and into the chamber. She won’t die of hunger or thirst, though,” he continued, “they will lay out the bread, milk, honey and oil, along with the burning candle.” I was struck by the ridiculousness of that statement, because I had already been told what would happen next. The girl would be placed alone, on a bed down in the chamber, before the priests sealed the door and quickly buried all evidence of the stairway and the tomb beneath! No one would hear the screams and anguished pleadings. No one would see her weaken, and finally die like a little flame deprived of air. Perhaps she would go mad down there! Perhaps she painted the walls with the blood of her broken fingers as she tried to scratch her way out of Death’s suffocating embrace. Not many would sleep well tonight. Perhaps, having nightmares of her horrible death, as I did.

****** ****** ******

Life was easy enough, under the tutelage of the pontiff, Clausius. He was a good man and fair, but he could be heartless in matters of religion, matters of state. They lived in their little dormitory near the forum, the Atrium Vestae. The temple was round, the only round temple in Rome. Everything else was square, triangular, angular. Round does not suit the aesthetic ideal of form and order. We inherited a taste for hierarchy from the immortal Greeks; division and steps of sanctification. But for Vesta, who was all in all, everything converges -- east, west, south and north. Ergo, the circle. On June ninth, each year, the fire was put out. The temple was closed for thorough cleaning. The virgins did this, and they bathed the sacred objects as well. They also make little salt cakes, as they did for many other festive rituals. The day was said to be of “ill omen,” but there was a festival just the same, and it was called the Vestilia. As easy as life was, however, there was almost complete lack of choice and no real stimulus for my sister.

No matter how devout, I believe that the Vestals realized that they were merely functionaries, without real power or freedom. They were there to perform the agonizingly boring rituals and ceaseless reduplications, just as the early daughters of Rome had done in the beginning. Any girl lacking imagination was doomed to become an automaton, a mindless, plodding nothing. Temple intrigue was a necessary creation, and Phoebe soon proved a virtuoso of gossip and manipulation. She counterbalanced her sweet-as-honey demeanor with occasional small doses of vitriolic criticism. She created a whole little universe which swirled around her and sucked everyone into its wake.

Once, when Florina, an slightly older Vestal, was on watch during the night, Phoebe was to relieve her early in the morning. Almost without fail, when Phoebe took watch from her, Florina was asleep in her chair. It was unlikely the flame would die in the last hour of anyone’s watch -- and because Florina was a depressed, passionless young woman, she would drift off to sleep just about anywhere, any time. Phoebe hardly slept, anticipation and planning a little joke to play on the woman.

When Phoebe sneaked quietly into the temple, Florina was sitting in her chair and snoring in the most unbecoming manner. Phoebe walked to the fire, which was burning well, and placed a small, solid screen between the flame and Florina’s chair. From where Florina sat, the flame was now hidden from view. Then, walking back to the door, Phoebe turned, as if she were just entering and shouted: “Florina! Florina! The holy flame has ceased!”

With a jerk, Florina awoke and opened her eyes. She was groggy from sleep, but rudely shaken by Phoebe’s screams which her slow mind was just beginning to register. Her big eyes stared in horror. She leapt up and ran to the hearth. When Florina saw the flame, Phoebe fairly screamed with laughter, but Florina was not amused. Her face was grave and determined as she walked silently toward Phoebe, who could not stop laughing. Suddenly, Florina slapped Phoebe across the face with a devastating blow. It stung like boiling water. Phoebe stopped laughing and though she wanted to cry out in pain, she set her jaw firm and stood in silence.

“You wicked thing!” cried Florina. “Do you think such tricks are comical? Your name, Phoebe, may mean brilliant and shining, but you bring wickedness and impiety here! Someday you will learn your lesson, and I am afraid it will be a fearful one! Watch the flame, and pray you have not offended the goddess.” Then, the older woman stormed toward the door.

“It was only a joke,” Phoebe said, quietly. But the angry Florina did not hear. Far from taking the reprimand as it was intended to be taken, Phoebe only wanted to pay Florina back for the stinging blow, and for her lack of humor. If the look in Phoebe’s eyes revealed anything, it was that her desire for revenge would, very definitely, be acted upon. If not soon, later.

****** ****** ******

Another danger for Phoebe was her burning desire for Marcus, one of the young priests who was also the son of Clausius, the Pontifex Maximus. Marcus would, of course, one day take his father’s place, but love often beckons from the most dangerous and hopeless places. Like a burning flame, love draws its victims to their death. Not only did she want to know him intimately, but seeing the hungry glances he threw her way, (which he tried to hide) only heightened her craving for him.

Marcus was a beautiful, if rugged looking, novice with high color, black hair, and full seductive lips. It was not long before Phoebe and Marcus were stealing kisses during the night. And once he had put his feverish lips to her delicate flesh, once he had tasted the honey, he was addicted. She, too, hungered for the firm strength in his form and the urgency of his mouth upon her. “And, after all,” she thought, “every bull needs a salt-lick. Let me be his.” Of course, Phoebe would not risk coupling with him like the animals, but she could come ever so close without harm. So she thought.

One night he came to the temple in the early hours. Everyone in the precinct of the temple grounds seemed to be sleeping. He came on silent, shoeless feet, took her hand and led her across and deeper into the darkened room, to the far wall. AS they kissed, she let his hands roam about her body. She felt his teeth with her tongue, like little shards of pearl and behind them, his own vulnerable muscle, warm and wet and probing. Finally she lifted the skirts of her white garment. He was instantly on his knees; no time for slow intimacies. He moaned quietly as he buried his face in the softness between her legs. This was a first for Phoebe, though she often imagined it. It was excruciatingly wonderful in reality, and she almost cried out in her excitement. But her survival depended upon her silence, and she breathed barely audible sighs as she swiveled her hips and ground her nether part against the hot, whiskered, and now wet, face.

Once begun, it was a difficult habit to break, and before long these clandestine meetings became quite regular. Just recently, Phoebe had discovered how, if she kept at it, she was able to reach some strange peak of excitement which overtook her in hot waves. It was a most amazing and addictive feeling! And each time it happened she became so moist down there that his work between her legs sounded like the lapping of a dog. Sometimes he splashed something wet and hot against her legs or her feet. She found herself longing to be his wife, free to sleep easily in his bed, instead of being a virgin-wife to the state. She burned, and found a true vocation for her running flame, lost in his sensual spell, consumed but not destroyed.

Florina and Phoebe had never again mentioned the little trick which had taken place so long ago, but Florina was as cold and petulant as ever. Whether or not Florina even remembered the incident, Phoebe did not know. Nevertheless, Phoebe had not forgotten the slap she received, nor did her desire to repay that red gift diminish.

　

　



                                                              II
“When in the temple, keeling, we shall act the part of the devout, in the

manner of those who, to praise God, humbly bow themselves in the most secret

corner of the Church. But when we are in bed, intertwined, we shall act the part of wantons, in the manner of those lovers who, free and frolicsome, practice a hundred fondling arts.”


Trans. of Pierre de Ronsard

There were dark days ahead for our family, though only I saw it coming. My sister’s actions insured it. But perhaps she was only a vessel used by the goddess, Fortuna, or by Vesta herself. One more expendable human in a long line of humans used by the capricious gods who are as hungry for amusement and entertainment, as for justice and natural law. Black days, agonizing days, full of tears and fear and remorse nearly beyond bearing, loomed above us all.

In the middle of a dark night, Phoebe stole away from her bed and out of the temple precinct. She went to a recent festival sight where the remains of a sacrifice and libation still lay on the ground. In a small leather pocket she collected bits of blood and offal. It was an awful plan, and to this day I cannot understand her determination to carry it out.

She hid the purse in her girdle when she returned and, when everyone was busy and away from the little dormitory, she went to Florina’s pallet and spilled the oozing contents of the pouch beneath the blanket. She had to make sure to leave enough so that the sticky red-black mess of blood and offal would not be confused with Florina’s monthly flow. Hopefully the sight would bring the powers-that-be down upon her Florina’s head! Phoebe’s hope was that it would be thought that Florina miscarried or tried to abort her own sin. The little purse worried her as she fled the near-perfect scene, and she ill advisedly buried it in the herb garden, before going about her business as usual.

Later that evening as Phoebe was tending the flame in the temple, she heard a scream, an odd scream, followed by the moans and wails of several girls. She smiled wickedly to herself, thankful that she was not in the dormitory at that moment. But her heart beat wildly just the same. A few moments’ later Idelia came running into the temple excitedly relating the news of Florina’s terrible -- fatal -- secret!

But things did not turn out the way my sister had envisioned. Florina went directly to Clausius, the high priest, falling on her knee before him, telling him a foul trick had been hurled at her feet, that she would never give up her chastity. Never! She implored him to call in a physician before he passed judgment. When the Physician was brought, and he confirmed that Florina did not lie, that her hymen was still intact, that there were no signs of hemorrhaging -- nothing abnormal. Clausius was visibly shaken, his wrath bubbled under the surface, giving his eyes a terrible fierceness. He questioned every Vestal, and they (at least, most of them) came away from his questioning in tears.

A day later, one of the kitchen cats was seen prancing about with the little purse, dug up from the kitchen garden by scent probably. It might have gone unnoticed had it not been for one of the young priest’s friendship with this particular cat. He amused himself watching the happy animal bound around his feet with the odious new toy. But his smile soon dropped when he picked it up to have a look. Alarmed, he took it to Clausius. Clausius questioned the Vestals again, this time showing the disgusting little pocket. Unfortunately for my sister, one of the girls said, quite innocently, that Phoebe had buried it in amongst the herbs. The girl, of course, did not put two and two together and thought nothing of telling the pontiff about it.

Phoebe was sentenced to a whipping, ten lashes with a scourge across her naked back and buttocks. No proof of guilt was necessary, he was the supreme authority. She took her punishment in bitterness, crying out in such pain that it was difficult to catch her breath. Unrepentant, Phoebe derived nothing more from the punishment than permanent scars and a renewed and seething hatred for Florina. But it was a hatred which would never be satisfied by revenge.

Marcus, Phoebe’s lover, was very disturbed by the events, knowing nothing of what had really taken place. His desire was to soothe and console her, though in reality, he had no business in her company at all. Nevertheless, when she had healed enough to return to her post, and when the opportunity arose, he went to her. She fell into his arms as he whispered his devotion in her ear and rocked her lovingly until she was sobbing for joy. Their insufficiently expressed passion, however, quickly escalated into lovemaking. But on this occasion, it was a frenzied hunger that could be satisfied only by complete immersion into each other and by his penetration deep into her supposedly consecrated sex.

Thus, it came to pass a few months later that Phoebe’s stomach began to protrude and reveal her secret joy . . . and to seal her fate.

No child could be killed, so it wasn’t until she had given birth and the baby taken by a wet nurse that they prepared a new tomb for my sister. A terrible chamber in which the living flame was to be snuffed out and forgotten.

Marcus pleaded her case to his father. “Send her away, ostracize her, anything but this!”

But even if Clausius knew who her lover was (which he had not guessed) his decision was final. His heart was stone. The well being of all of Rome was too important to let this blasphemy stand.

“But I will not attend the rites, Father. The practice is barbaric!”

“You will,” answered his father. “You most certainly will!”

****** ****** ******

　

And so they led her through the streets in procession, as people stood along the way in silence. The procession was delayed for a time by Clausius, who angrily sought his son. Eventually they had to go on with the rite, regardless of whether Marcus was present or no.

Finally, at the wall, they led her down into the dark chill room, untied her and forced her in. The door slammed, and Phoebe, in a state of shock, lay on the bed prepared for her and listened to the shovels of earth hit the door until the breach between herself and life muffled the sound forever. She would not suffocate for some time, perhaps days, but the horror and finality would hopefully soon claim her sanity forever.

When the sound of shovels ceased, she felt a hand upon her. “Phoebe? It is I; Marcus.” Her heart leapt. Hope had almost left her but was snatched back out of the depths by a mere thread.

“Stop crying. They will soon leave the site and go back into the city. It is law that all turn from this place. Soon I will free us!”

“But how?” she sobbed hopefully.

“Wait,” he said. She heard him working to start a flame, a spark, to light the candle left for her. An otherwise useless item in the tomb -- along with the bowls of sustenance. How could anyone in this deathtrap be expected to eat, or to want light? To see their own tomb? (But this was ancient ritual and a symbolic gesture to remove all trace of guilt from her judges -- even the shovels used to bury the place would be burned.) “Look,” he continued, after the candle was lit. “I have an axe and a pick. I’ve waited here in the corner of this tomb all day. I can splinter the door and pull it in. Then we can shovel the earth inward until we are able to climb out and flea the city!”

And so they began after they embraced and cried, and kissed each other.

　

　

FINALE

I never saw my sister again. Some of what happened in that chamber below the ground, I really cannot know. Like the rest of Rome, I have surmised on the subject. The pick and axe were found lying in the dirt, and the son of the high priest was gone. What I see in my dreams, I will believe forever! On a moonlit autumn night, just outside our ancient Rome, two young lovers, stained with blood and tears and earth, fled into the wilderness. Perhaps they were damned -- polluted and damned by the gods, but they are somewhere! Somewhere together, always -- forever and one day more.

The child was given to be raised by one of my childless brothers and his young wife. Our family did not tell him of his origins and we assumed he would never know, but a few years ago he vanished. He was seen by some rather unreliable witnesses leaving the city with two strangers one early morning, but no one knows for certain.

I am an old woman now. I have seen my children’s children and their children too. But let me tell you a secret that only I know; Phoebe and Marcus have never aged. I know because I hail them sometimes in my dreams. And they never fail to turn to me. They smile and blow kisses just before they disappear over the horizon. Criminals, perhaps, but happier than many who live a blameless life.

　

　

-- the end --

ISLANDS


What is this world to me
Without your love? What is life?

Your fragrance permeates my bed.
It lingers like a slow dying ember.
The memory of your presence here,
I replay in images sweet and absolute,
Nearly as perfect as the fact.

Your words, your intonations
Are enlaced with your beauty
And I am confounded with an overflow of love.

My face finds the base of your neck,
The cleft of your throat,
And when your mouth brushes my ear,
I hear magic and whispered incantations,
Almost imperceptible.

Your kiss and your touch
Are embellished with the scent of lilac
And the savor of honey.
My lips are drawn to yours.
Your mouth spells out my desire.

My “will to power” melts in your arms.
My trepidation collapses like ash.
I am rendered weak and mute by your name said aloud …
Or by the sound of your voice calling mine.

What is the earth to me without your love?
What is the sea? What are the islands without you?


John Carlson copyright 2009
　
　
　
　
　

JASMINE


The soft breath of jasmine called you,

And you led me to its source --

To the edge of the street which we walked.


Amid the soft rustle of green leaves

White buds swayed in the breeze.


The fragrance spoke to you

of another time and place, you said --

An earlier epoch in your life.


To me it whispered promises --

Promises of the love sure to come --

The sweet inaudible secrets of hope and faith.

The whole earth smiled . . .

When the soft breath of jasmine called you.


copyright 2010, johnny carlson

THE HAUNTED GROVE

I saw us in a strange grove

Where disparate groups of trees

Congregated with delicate ferns and climbing vines.

And the trees spread their lithe branches

For a cascade of green moss and russet lichen

-- a display of verdant hue --


Beautiful, but surely . . .

Too ostentatious a display for just us two.

The budding and blooming and blossoming

An overabundance of reproduction

Sex organs hidden in each flowering plant,

Attracting pollinators with color and scent.

An excess of fruit, sure to ripen, fall, decay.

I saw us lounging there.


Then fall came.

Nature clashed about us like a wild warrior.

Rain pelted, winds howled and convulsed,

Blasting first this way, then that,

Skirmishing amid branches and dead leaves.

When the intolerable roar of thunder

Threatened to confuse our senses, drive us mad,

We climbed beneath the hollow of an ancient oak,

Fell to sleeping, tangled in each others limbs for warmth,

Like animals . . . like lovers.


I saw us haunting a strange wood,

Emerging from the oak, through a drift of snow.

Everything was changed, sparkling iridescence

Claimed our lovely trees.

We danced in a barren world of crystal and white.


I saw us white ghosts with rose colored cheeks.

And we were kissing

Beneath the parasitic mistletoe.

WHERE IS LOVE?

WHERE IS LOVE?

COPYRIGHT J.CARLSON 2011

There was a long path that led a half mile to where I kept my truck parked. As I started down the path, I saw a figure coming toward me -- not an animal. A person.. No one ever came here to visit so I was alarmed and suspicious. Then as the figure got closer I saw it was a woman and her hair blew in the wind. I knew that hair! My heart raced. Doubt and hope coursed through me.

　

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

　

　

I was shooting baskets in the driveway with my brother, when my aunt and uncle drove up. There was someone in the backseat. I figured it was Scott or Stacey, their grandkids, but it wasn’t. It was someone I’d never seen before. I groaned under my breath. I didn’t like strange visitors much. Like my dad, I preferred to be with family and friends. The girl was my age, more or less. She was pretty, but she looked shy and kept her head down as she looked at us with the big eyes of a frightened animal. I hated that timid insecurity in girls.

My uncle greeted us loudly. “Hey guys! Mind if I join you? We can play a game of horse.”

“Just a minute, Milt!” my aunt said. “I want to introduce Khloe to the boys!”

 “Sure, sure. Sorry Marie.”

Aunt Marie introduced us to Khloe. “She is your cousin . . . well, practically your cousin,” she laughed. “We were trying to figure it out in the car, but I’m terrible at genealogy! Khloe is staying with us for awhile.”

Khloe said nothing. Just looked up at us and nodded her head. My brother Paul reached out to shake, but she didn’t take his hand. I could see Paul was embarrassed that he’d offered. Another point against her, I thought. Then aunt Marie and Khloe went into the house while we and uncle Milt played ball. Dad came and joined us and it was fun. We only played two short games before when Mom called us in.

“y’all want a sandwich of something to eat?”

****************

Khloe got out of the car with her aunt. There were two boys playing basketball. Aunt Marie introduced her to them. When the younger one smiled at her, Khloe felt strange. Her knees went weak and wobbly. He must have been the most beautiful boy she’d ever seen. That smile was like a blast of light and she averted her eyes because she was afraid she might blush and stare like a drooling idiot. She was usually pretty secure and self-assured. She needed to get herself under control before she could relax. Standing next to a boy like that would be enough for any girl to feel slightly inferior. Her awkwardness was bound to show, and she told herself to straighten up. “Don’t be such an imbecile!” The mixed up feelings of embarrassment and anger she directed at herself along with the admiration for this boy’s beauty was confusing and frustrating. She felt tears begin to well up in her eyes. She wasn’t going to cry darn it! She tried to think of something else.

Khloe kept her head down and hoped they wouldn’t be standing in the drive for very long. She wanted to get past the brothers. She didn’t even realize the older brother, Paul, had held out his hand to shake until it was too late. She whispered “nice to meet you,” but no one seemed to hear and the feeling of failure was complete.

****************

“I don’t want anything to eat, Mom.” I said.

“You sure? It’ll be quite awhile before we start up the barbeque.”

“I’ll eat an apple off the tree if I get hungry.”

Paul, Uncle and Dad all sat down. So Mom got up from her chair and started getting things out of the fridge. “John,” she said. “Since you’re not going to sit down with us, how about showing Khloe around?”

 That was a dumb idea. Dammit, I thought. “Mom, there isn’t anything to show her,” I said petulantly.

“Don’t use that tone with me, please,” she continued. “And yes there are plenty of things outside to show her.” I glanced at Khloe. Her aspect had changed slightly. She was looking at me directly and her eyes were strange. They were beautiful, actually, but too intense. It was like she was looking into me. It was unnerving and I looked away.

“Okay,” I said. “C’mon Khloe.”



* * * * *

“You want to see the barn?” I asked.

“whatever you say,” she answered.

She followed me out toward the barn and the cornfield. We walked in silence. Neither of us had anything to say. It was awkward. I slid open the big barn door and we stood there looking into the darkened building. “Do you have any animals?” she asked.

“Not in here. We’ve got a chicken coup out back though, and we’ve got George.”

“Who is George?”

“He’s a pig.” She stared at me quizzically. “I mean a real pig, not a human.”



She giggled softly. “That’s good. Can we go look?”

I shrugged and led her around the barn and over to the chicken pen. Again, we were silent. I watched her watch the chickens. Then there was a sort of snorting squeal as George came running over. He had become attached to me as a piglet and still sought out my company when I was around. I patted him.



“He’s huge!” she said. “Are you raising him for . . .” she hesitated. “meat?”

“Naw. I mean, yeah, that was the original intention, but he’s like a pet now. We’re just keeping him for nothing.” Then George moved around me and got real close to Khloe. He smelled her pants and shoes and snorted.



“Oh, he’s friendly,” she laughed, and patted his head.

We walked around and looked at stuff. It was lame. But within a few minutes we were both laughing and carrying on a conversation -- even if it was basically about nothing. She had somehow morphed into a real girl and I thought maybe she was okay after all.



“So, how are we related anyhow?” I asked.

“Your grandmother and my grandmother are sister.”

“Really? Well, that figures. Grandma came from a huge family. I guess there must be a lot of us.”



“There are,” she said. “I’ve met a lot of cousins and great uncles and aunts. I don’t like most of them.”

“why?”

“I dunno,” she continued. “They’re all kind of stupid and prejudiced. There must have been some inbreeding in our past.” She wasn’t trying to be funny, but it made me laugh out loud. “At least you’re not like that,” she added.

“Oh yes I am,” I said smiling. “I’m a real country-bumpkin -- a backwater simpleton.” We both laughed then, and I was feeling a lot better about being around her. “Why did you look so shy when you got here?” I asked.

“I don’t do well with a lot of people,” she said. “I prefer one on one.”

We talked and laughed the rest of the day. I was sorry to see her go.

　

************

Khloe and I saw each other just about every weekend after that. I found I could talk about anything with her. She seemed to hang on my every word. I hung on hers too. Thank God she wasn’t wrapped up in the silly things that many of the girls from school were. We talked about feelings (but not too much), religion, philosophy, history, nature, even science! She was cool and smart . . . and pretty too.

I loved the way she sometimes ran her left hand through her thick hair when she was concentrating on something, unconcerned about messing it up. I could trust her and I could tell that she trusted me. Later, I took her to her high school prom and she came with me to my school dances. There came a time when our mutual attraction and affection for one another led to the first kiss. After that we made out a lot. We didn’t have real sex, but it got pretty hot and intense. She didn’t have access to the pill and she didn’t trust condoms.



By the middle of her senior year we were debating college or moving somewhere together. I’d always wanted to move into the wilderness, buy a cabin, live off the land. She was willing but wondered if it was really possible. “Besides,” she said, “we can postpone that life until after one or I or both of us get a degree in a subject we can fall back on in the future.” As usual her ideas were pragmatic, rational and well thought out. I agreed but I reminded her that Grandma had bypassed dad in her will and left everything to Paul and me. My inheritance would last us years. “Still,” she said, “I may as well go. You won’t be out of school until the next year.”

She got a scholarship to the University of Washington. I had my driver’s license and a car so we still saw each other a lot. At the end of my senior year in high school she told me she wanted to continue her studies until she got her BA at least. In that case, I decided to enroll for classes at Everett Community college -- not necessarily for a degree of any kind, but to bide my time until she was ready.

************

Khloe came to my graduation with aunt Marie and Uncle Milt. She looked so awesome, so beautiful. I felt doubly proud that afternoon. After the ceremony, Khloe and I went out together. Later that night we finally consummated our union. We went to a motel rather than home where the family was or to her dorm where I’d have to sneak in.

 Entering her was beautiful. It was a sensation beyond anything I’d experienced. Besides the intense arousal, the intimacy of being one with the girl I loved . . . it compared to nothing. Naturally, I was premature, but we had all night. I felt by morning that I was a pro. We were both happy.

****************

We talked or texted quite a lot and we met on the weekends to hang out -- that is after we indulged ourselves first. But one week she didn’t call or text or answer mine for three days. I began to worry. On the forth day she left a message on my cell. “Hi John. I’m fine. Don’t worry. Haven’t been feeling very well. I call and we’ll talk on Sunday, okay?”

Sunday! What the hell? Now I was even more worried. Was she mad at me? Something wasn’t right and I had a sick feeling in my stomach. So I drove to Seattle next morning to find out what was going on. I caught her between classes. When she saw me sitting out on one of the benches, a look appeared on her face that I did not recognize. I didn’t like it. My heart sank. It even entered my mind that she might have found someone else. But that was impossible. We had become too close.

“What are you doing here, John?”

“What kind of a greeting is that? What do you think I’m doing? I’ve been worried about you.”

“I told you I’m fine.”

“C’mon, Khloe. Something is up. What’s going on?”

She sighed. “John, can’t this wait until after my next class? I’ve only got about twenty minutes before I have to go.”

I was spooked and angered by her guarded attitude and her reaction to seeing me. “No! It can’t wait. I want to know what is going on!”

“I really didn’t want to talk about this here.”

“Big deal. Spill it, Khloe.”

She sighed again and looked down as if studying her hands. Then she lifted her head and looked me in the eyes. “I’m pregnant.”

We sat in silence for a moment as it sunk in. Why did she look so upset? “Well, Khloe, why do you look like that? It’s wonderful news! I mean, I didn’t expect to be a father so soon,” I smiled, “but, hey, I’m ready!” Then a thought came to me. “You’re not thinking about an abortion are you?”

“The baby is not yours.” She said it so fast and void of emotion, as if she’d exhaled after holding her breath.

“I . . . I don’t understand,” I stammered. I couldn’t have heard right. I waited for her to answer me. To take it back. Anything.

“What’s to understand” she answered. Her eyes were brimming. “I’m sorry. I’m truly truly sorry, but it isn’t yours.”

I felt as if I’d been punched hard in the gut. My chest tightened and I tried to breath. “You had sex with someone else? You fell in love with someone else?” I could feel my face flush. How could she betray me?

“John, it was an accident. I didn’t mean to, it just . . .”

I got up from the bench. “I don’t . . . how . . . how could you do it Khloe? I love you. I thought you loved me.”

“John, sit down. I do love you. Let me explain.”

“Forget it!” I yelled. I was angry. Everything was caving in on me. I saw black in my peripheral vision as though I were looking through someone else’s eyes. “You’ve ruined me Khloe. Go to hell.”

I headed for my car. She didn’t follow me. From the parking lot I could still see her. She was still sitting on the bench with her face buried in her hands.

I never heard Khloe’s excuses or explanation. What would be the point? She was pregnant with someone else’s baby. Nothing mattered now. Not school, not family. Nothing. Mom and Dad were in Hawaii and within two days I was gone. Where I was going, I was not sure, but I had to leave. I had to go far away. I had to run.

　

***************

I drove up through Canada and into Alaska, climbing further north. Although the scenery calmed me some, I was too deep in thought about Khloe to really drink it in. This trip was supposed to be with her. In Hangtree, I stopped at a local real-estate office and searched through property listings and found what I was looking for. A remote and rustic looking house in a sub alpine area. No heat, plumbing or electricity, but all the natural resources I’d need -- even an old well. There was also a river near the house and a sparkling lake about a mile away. There was plenty of timber too.



It took me three pickup loads, a lot of gas, and two days to stock the place for fall and winter. I bought tons of canned goods and other food, tools, including a chainsaw and an ax. Finally I purchased a snow mobile and several full gas cans.

It was only mid-summer, but the daily work necessary to prepare for winter there was grueling. No matter how much wood you thought you had stacked up for the cold months, I knew from books that it wouldn’t be enough. Cutting timber was dangerous, but splitting wood later, relaxed me completely. When twilight came I generally fell into my bunk and was asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

***********

Johnny’s mom, aunt Gladys, proved to be an impediment. Khloe asked for John’s address so she could explain everything, to apologize and all. Gladys had the nerve to tell her that it wasn’t a good idea for Khloe and John to be together. She didn’t want Khloe to know where John was. Finally, though, she relented and accepted Khloe’s suggestion to give her any mail Khloe wrote and send it on to John.

John probably wouldn’t understand how Khloe made the mistake and got pregnant. How could she adequately explain how drunk she’d been at the end of the party. He wouldn’t care that she’d allowed Clint, a handsome fellow student, take her to her dorm and how he’d managed to get into her room. She hadn’t initiated sex, but she hadn’t firmly said “no” either. She probably couldn’t convince John that she only vaguely remembered the night before or that her guilt and remorse had been heartbreaking. It was true that she wasn’t going to tell John, but when she missed her period, a horrible certainty chilled her; she was pregnant. She had no choice but to confess.

She just wanted him to understand that she never intended to be unfaithful and that what happened, along with his reaction, was just as devastating to her as it was to him. Of course she was guilty, but was life really that black and white and final? There were mitigating circumstances, weren’t there?

She finally gave birth to a beautiful boy. Clint denied he was the father. He demanded a paternity test even though Khloe had asked nothing from him. She‘d only told him about the pregnancy. Khloe was confused by the results. Clint was not the father! His protestations were justified after all. But it had been two months before that John and she had consummated their love. Nevertheless, she couldn’t wait to write him with the news. John had never answered even one of her letters but surely this would make a difference.

What Khloe didn’t know was that aunt Gladys never sent her letters. Gladys made a decision that was not hers to make. She intended to send a few of the letters after some time has passed. But then Gladys put it off so long that John would be angry with her for keeping them. Now she had dug herself into a hole.

When Khloe had called Gladys with the test results, Gladys nearly fell off her chair. She was now in an indefensible position. She quickly put all the letters in a large envelope. Then she wrote a letter to John explaining her reasoning and apologizing for holding this mail. Gladys called Khloe a week later and gave her John’s P.O. box. There was no physical address, only a P.O. number in Hangtree Alaska.

Khloe wasn’t sure how she felt about Gladys finally giving her the address, but she wrote him. After three weeks had gone by and he had not answered her mail. She made a decision to go to him. To look for him at any rate. Enough time had gone by now for him to have mellowed, surely. She took a leave of absence from her job at Boeing, packed little Mason into the truck with her and headed out.

****************

I had so much work around the old house that when I had any time left over, I only wanted to sit in the grass -- joined sometimes by a fox who had befriended me. I fed her sometimes, and she had learned to trust me. But this morning I decided to ride into Hangtree and pick up my mail. I only picked it up once a week or maybe every two weeks. I never got much except letters from Mom. I bought a few things I needed while I was there, checked my PO box and was happy to see a packet from Mom. My heart leapt when I saw there was also a letter from Khloe! I couldn’t wait to get home and open it.

I opened the letter from Khloe first and was astonished. I was happy, so happy. But I was confused, too. She mentioned letters that I had never answered. What was she talking about? I hadn’t received anything from her! Then I opened the package from Mom. Mom’s letter was folded around a stack of unopened envelopes from Khloe. I read it. My anger boiled. I wanted to kill something. I ripped it to shreds as if I was hurting Mom by doing so. I sat for an hour reading all the letters. By the time I was done I was on the verge of weeping. My chest was tight and I racked my brain trying to figure out how I could make it up to her and tell her what Mom had done.

Khloe had written her phone number down in a few of the letters and her address. I wrote a quick note explaining briefly what had happened. I had to get it in the mail before I wrote a longer letter to her. It was late in the afternoon, but I would drive the fifty miles back to town. I had to mail the note and try to call her right away. There was no cell service at my place, but there were still pay phones in Hangtree.

************



There was a sort of meadow where a long path led a half mile to where I kept my truck parked. As I started down the path, I saw a figure coming toward me -- not an animal. A person.. No one came here so I was alarmed and suspicious. Then as the figure got closer I saw it was a woman and her hair blew about in the wind. I knew that hair! My heart raced. Doubt and hope coursed through me. Was it . . . ? There was a little person walking behind her.

I walked faster, then I started to run. It was her! It was the girl I’d never stopped loving!



“Khloe!” I yelled.

She ran toward me and we embraced. Both of us crying and laughing. The little boy standing on the side began to cry too, frightened I suppose by my appearance. My beard and dirty clothes. Khloe reached out to the boy and picked him up. “Mason,” she said. “Don’t be scared. This is your daddy!” The boy looked at me intently and wiped his tears. I smiled at him. I only hoped I had the smile that Khloe had once told me she had fallen in love with.

Suddenly little Mason held his arms out to me! The joy I felt then was like nothing I had felt before. I took him into my arms, looked back at Khloe and said “come.” Tears streamed down her face and she smiled. I could see the relief in her eyes. And so we walked toward the house. We had so much to talk about. She was mine again. I knew it. And she brought me the most wonderful gift I had ever received. My son.

THE END

FIRE

copywrite 2011 amanda carter

I can still remember looking into your eyes and knowing fear

The white heat from the flames of your fury brought me back in time

To a place I had run from a long time ago, a place that I had escaped

Suddenly I was back, caught on a rollercoaster that I had to survive

Fiery red passion churning inside of me, pleasure turned to grief

Open hands quickly became clenched fists clawing at my very soul

My mind was strong, but my body too weak to stop you

You wanted me to suffer…you wanted me to crawl

My breaths come slow, steady, I am burning, I am burning inside

I take myself to a different place, a place where I am loved

A promise, a ring, an ounce of faith, a warm embrace, trust

I awake to the same nightmare, scorpions, I want to run

The chain bound around me so tight I suffocated under your command

Quietly in the night air I fled without a word, without a sound

Animal like, not myself, not trusting, living on instinct alone

I got far from the grips of your reign, your lock and key, your rusted crown

Love was your sword but you had dropped your heavy armor

Begging, pleading, your voice was desperate, needy, tragic

Survival, I became cold, unfeeling, everything I learned from you

No longer falling for your false promises I never looked back.

Learning to love, to trust, to make mistakes without fear

My fiery red passion, my love will never be given without thought

My mind focused, head over heart, so I cannot fall

I am alive. My hands are steady. My body is strong.

~To truly love you have to let go of fear and step into the unknown.~
Amanda Lynne Carter

UNBOUND

UNBOUND

copyright 2008 j.carlson

Ellen was bored.  For the seventh time that day she walked through the garden. Since the death of her son, she spent a lot of time cultivating trees, bushes and flowers. Her hothouse poppies were safely transplanted in the soft earth. Seeds were beginning to sprout from the soil. Green things tentatively tested the air and claimed unoccupied space. The garden was surrounded by a grove of yew, black poplar and cypress, planted a few years ago. There were also climbing roses and clematis, honeysuckle and bougainvillea which scaled one side of the barn producing a lattice work of green tendrils not yet in bloom. Beyond the barn waves of new grass swelled and rolled like a bleached sea.


Ellen lived outside Granite Falls, Washington, about seventy miles northeast of Seattle. East of her was the Robe Valley where the tiny towns of Robe, Verlot and Silverton clung to the banks of the Stillaguamish River among the black evergreen forests covering the foothills in all direction. She had lived there since the beginning of her failed marriage some ten years ago. She lived alone and in virtual isolation. But it was a chosen isolation, a self-imposed punishment - a kind of bruised glory - a silent source of belligerent bullheaded pride.
Silence was what she thought she craved and Silence had become the idol which she venerated - imperfect though it was. Ellen's isolation, alienation, and her love of silence, (or better put, her distaste for the human voice) was as complete as possible for someone at odds with the twentieth century but still within its fringe. She had no phone or television, and the idea of a personal computer was as far removed from her as a man's touch or the male anatomy.
Though the little tract of land was nearly self sustaining, there were still things she needed which, lamentably, had to be met in town. At least she had money. One thing she could say for her ex, Sam, was that he'd done right by Danny, and she could always depend on child support. Even after Danny died, Sam was kind enough to tell her at the funeral that he would continue sending a check. If she hadn't been in such a state of suffering, she would have been taken aback by his kindness. She did not know just how to interpret that offering, but she nodded through her tears before getting into her old black Nova and driving away from the cemetery. She had been numb and beyond grief for her only son - the son now separated from her by six feet of damp soil. We commend this small body to its kindred earth . . . and his green soul to a higher plane. Sam had kept his word, informing his accountant to continue mailing Ellen a check each month. She could always depend upon its arrival. But each time she retrieved it from the mail box, she wept. The checks stopped abruptly a year ago last January. Her only link now to her past was a sad box of photos and two thoroughbred horses given Danny by his father five years ago. The two yearlings were growing beyond their prime having never seen a race. She cared for them reverently.

The quiet horses did not mind that she never spoke. Communication was one of nudges, pats and head rubbing. Conversation between them was strictly on the level of animal communication. They trusted and loved Ellen. She revered them as loyal friends - the only family she had and, besides her garden, the only thing she worried over. Even her winter depression, which she knew only as her "dark mood," did not deter her devotion to Danny's horses. It may seem strange that she had forgotten their names, but no more strange perhaps than the fact that the animals were equally ignorant of hers. Verbalization, other than a whinny or a snort, meant nothing to them.

Words spoken were only as permanent as thoughts. Once a word, a phrase, a sentence was uttered, it lingered only a moment before vanishing into the air. If words hit her ear, they might enter the brain and become again a thought - a thought re-cast - a variation on the thought which inspired the word. Words could bring hope, they could bring false security and . . . Well, if she thought hard enough, Ellen could remember all the things that Sam had promised her - like his eternal love.
"But I don't believe. I won't believe any of it anymore," she thought. Animals, and the four winds don't lie. She herself had been guilty long ago of talking too much. Talking too much especially to Danny and promising things which were impossible for her to keep. Assuring him about events not in her control. Best to keep her mouth - best not to love or to make promises for love's sake. Some part of her knew this was an extreme view, but another part of her denied a closer look. When an adult plays the child's game of "I'll teach you a lesson! I'll show you!" - it becomes a more pitiful and deficient plan.
Words vanish in the breeze the moment they are spoken, and they are dangerous. After pouring from someone's throat, after escaping the teeth, they can find there way like a leach into your own mind. It might be nice to be the gods we wish we were - to hear the human voice as little more than an annoying hum - a buzz, a droning on and on only to dissipate into the weather. But there is more to words than that - more than half truths and lies. Ellen was simply too raw, too fragile, to give in.
When the doorbell rang her whole body jerked. Her own startled reaction quickened her heartbeat. It rarely rang. When it did it was expected -- something ordered from a catalog, for instance. It was after nine, but because the days were lengthening she happened still to be up. Apprehensively she walked to the door and opened it. A man not much younger than herself stood on the porch with a troubled look.
"I'm sorry to disturb you," he said. "Do you have a telephone?" There was an uncomfortable silence as they stared at each other. "I mean . . . may I use your phone? I just totaled my car up the road a ways."
The words he spoke did not immediately penetrate, and when they did, she envisioned a mutilated car in the ditch along the road. She shook her head at him.
He looked puzzled and again he spoke rapidly. This voice, breaking her silence, was unbearably abrasive. "You mean I can't use it, or that you don't have one?" She nodded and the man looked down at his shoes. He shook his head in obvious disappointment and frustration. "Shit!" he said under his breath. Then he looked at Ellen again and raised his eyebrows as if resigned to bad luck.

Ellen pointed at the barn which was set to the side and back of her house. Of course the young man misunderstood and enthusiastically shouted; "Oh! There's a phone in the barn!"
Again Ellen shook her head. She was becoming irritated, and he nervously backed away as she stepped out onto the porch beside him. She motioned for him to follow as she walked toward the barn. She slid open the big side door and pointed to heaps of hay and alfalfa.

"Oh, I see," he said loudly, thinking this mute woman was probably mentally deficient. "I can sleep here! Is that it?"

Ellen made a slight sharp movement with her head, as if she'd been slapped by the volume of his voice, and furrowed her brow. He stood looking at her expectantly. So she nodded vigorously, and he thanked her. He threw his pack on the perfumed bedding, and sat down with a sigh.. He was a handsome man and suddenly appeared vulnerable to her. She stood outside the door holding it open and watching him for a few moments. Then he said, rather too loudly, "okay, thanks. I'll be off in the morning." He flashed a forced smile, and she closed the door - slowly and without a word.









Daniel awoke to the sound of birds singing. The were chattering and making an amazing racket for such small things. His mood was gray, but as he stepped out of the barn, the cloudless sky and unseasonable warmth cheered him. He thought he saw movement in the house, but it was early and he decided to walk on without stopping. After the ordeal he'd been through the previous day, he did not want any unnecessary bother. He was stiff and sore, and anxious to get to a phone as soon as he could. Besides, the woman was strange. He had to admit that she was pretty. She had a nice body too, but she was deaf or mute or . . . well, who knew what she was!
As he walked down the driveway and along the side of the road, two beautiful animals trotted along beside him. They looked like racers, but he didn't know much about horses - they were probably expensive at any rate. They seemed extremely interested, and he felt strangely flattered by their hyper awareness of him. He stopped and spoke to them in a low friendly voice. They snorted and made strange noises with their lips, stretching their necks over the fence as if to make his acquaintance.
He stretched his hand out to them as he spoke. "Hey, what's up guys? You think you know me or somethin'?" One of the animals muzzled his palm and sort of licked it. Daniel chuckled, "now that tickles." The other horse nodded his head in a of dancing movement, as if in total agreement. It's massive neck shone beneath the sunlight in rich chestnut and sorrel tones. "Well, somebody takes good care of you, huh?" He looked back at the mute woman's house and stared at it for a few silent moments. Then, turning to the horses again, he smiled and said goodbye. But as he walked on he had the odd and probably groundless impression that they were trying to tell him something important. He wished he knew what. About an hour later he reached a gas station grocery store and phoned one of his brothers. He scrounged up some change from his pocket and bought a cup of coffee. He sat outside on a nearby picnic table sipping coffee, smoking, and thinking about his junk heap of a car, about surviving a wreck without a scratch, about the silent pretty woman, and about the unusually friendly horses.
Watching from behind the white shears of her window, Ellen was as surprised by the behavior of her horses as the young man they followed to the end of the property line. They had become skittish of strangers over the years. Now, there they were following him along and . . . touching him with their muzzles. A jealous fascination washed over her. She wondered if there was something special about him - something they sensed. But she was glad he was leaving. His being in the barn, separated from her bed by only a wall and a few feet of ground, unnerved her. She didn't sleep well. In fact, she arose several times during the muffled night to look out the window at the darkened silhouette of the barn. Now he was leaving as quickly as he had come. He didn't linger long enough to thank her again this morning. "But how stupid," she thought. She tried to quell the strange hope inside her before it could be articulated. "What is his leaving to me?"





Daniel didn't live far from where he'd wrecked his car. Everett was between Seattle and Granite Falls. He had spent the weekend camping and hiking near a glacier lake. He liked to go early in the year before the trails were packed with people and before the mosquitoes swarmed. At any rate, when he left the trail head to drive back home, he would have been back within a couple of hours if it hadn't been for the accident.
He walked a little further into town to a restaurant where he told his brother to meet him. As he waited, a local man struck up a conversation with him. When Daniel told the older man what had happened and where he'd spent the night, the man said he knew the woman. "So what's up with her?" Daniel asked. "Is she all there . . . I mean is she mute or . . ."
"No," he said. "No, she certainly ain't. She's odd, I'll say that, and kinda lonerish, but she can speak as well as you er me. She's had some rough luck is all. Kinda closed up you might say."



When Daniel's brother and sister-in-law arrived, his brother asked if Daniel wanted to go and try to get his car started.
"Hell no. It's totally smashed. Besides, I've got the charger to drive. I'm just gonna forget it. It's down in the bush anyway, and no one will care. Maybe I'll go back up in a couple of days and remove the license plates to avoid a citation. But I sure as hell don't want to pay a tow truck for that piece of crap!"
"Didn't you have any gear up there with you?" his brother asked.
"Oh, ya! I left most of it in the trunk. I guess I will be going back up there."

When they got to Everett, they left Daniel as his house and drove off. It was not until he was inside the house and about to shower that he realized he'd lost something. "Shit!" he said, "my wallet! I thought I put it in my backpack. Damn."



Ellen walked out to look around the barn. Nothing had changed other than an indentation in the hay. It was as if no one had been there. She stood looking at it in her usual silence. . She walked to where he had been sleeping and reached down to place her hand in the hollowed out spot where the body had been.
She was about to leave when she noticed the wallet lying a few feet away. A surge of warmth shot through her. She knew he'd be back for this, and the thought made her almost giddy.
She didn't dare open it, but it unfolded in her hand and his license appeared through the plastic window. Beside the handsome face was the name, Daniel. Just like her son.

In some strange way, the name Daniel seemed to make everything alright. It was okay to like this man. It was alright to find him attractive. It was alright to wish for his return. She read his birth date and figured his age -- only three years younger than herself. She was suddenly overcome by a concern which had not mattered to her for years - her appearance. She ran into the house to look for the cosmetics she no longer used, taking the wallet with her and . . . humming softly.

weeks later

They took turns driving. Daniel was asleep slumped against the passenger door of the cab with a big blanket waded up between his handsome head and the window glass. The sun was rising to the rim of a vast and unfamiliar landscape in shades of gold, rose and searing orange. Ellen loved her home in Washington state, but the landscape before her was beautiful in another way - a mystical, haunting, heartbreaking beauty. All around them there were strange outcrops, mesas and deep valleys. They were driving further into the foothills of the Prior Mountains which straddled the Montana Wyoming border. They had been skirting the range, looking for a likely place to camp for a few weeks -- or whatever length of time it would take to complete their mission. As the light poured over the land, and she drove into the day as if through time, thankful that they were making this journey together. Still, there was a part of her that was uncertain about what she was doing. Since Daniel had appeared in her life, he had brought nothing but good. But was she doing the right thing?

Ellen bumped Daniel with her arm. "Daniel!" she said, "wake up."

"What?" he said, sitting upright. "What is it?"

She pointed ahead and to the east. "Look over there. Isn't that familiar to you? I don't know where I've seen it, but I . . ."

"Ya, sure!" he interrupted. "It's Devil's Tower. You probably saw it on TV."

"No, Daniel. You know I don't watch television. I haven't had one for years."

"Oh. Well, I don't know. But it was the rock formation everybody was obsessed with in that movie . . . oh, what was it called? Oh yeah, Close Encounters of the Third Kind."

"Aha," she said. "Yes, I remember that. I took Danny to see that when it first came out."

"Beautiful isn't it?"

"M-m-m-m,." she agreed, looking at it almost worshipfully.

They stopped at a town called Lovell for breakfast. "You go on in Daniel. I'm gonna check on the girls."

"Ya, and after we eat, let's go find somewhere to walk them a bit. Huh?"

He sauntered into the restaurant, and Ellen walked back to the old trailer and had a silent reassuring conversation with the horses. It was that communication they were used to, coming from her, patting, nuzzling and cooing to each other.

________________________________________________________________

As they ate, Daniel said, "We're getting close now, Ellen. I hope you're fully convinced by now that this is the best thing."

"I think it is. But I still worry. I mean they've lived a pretty sheltered life with me. I just don't want them to be hurt."

"No, Ellen, they're mares. They'll be herded in, maybe fought over, but I doubt they'll be hurt by their own kind."

"But they've never been bred, Daniel. My ex husband said that they are sort of delicate, and that they sometimes need help giving birth and . . ."

"Oh, I don't think that's gonna happen," he interrupted. "Anyway, you said they were past their prime."

"I meant for racing, not foaling."

It was strange and funny how he had led her to this decision, but even before he appeared, the thought of letting her animals go had crossed her mind. It had been merely a thought - a whisper - there was nowhere these days that horses ran free. Now she knew differently. She and Daniel were on their way toward one of the few places where such animals (whether wild or feral) were protected. She was, in one sense, excited by the prospect but she was also afraid for them. She knew many would judge her harshly - that it was wrong, even cruel - and something akin to guilt gnawed at her.

"Such magnificent animals," he had said months ago - meaning, she supposed, all horses, not just hers. "It's a shame to keep them imprisoned for a lifetime. And in your case, why? For what? Just for your son's memory?"

She bristled at his logic. "What do you mean by imprisoned? They are taken care of like children are taken care of! Thousands of Thoroughbreds are loved like family members."

"Yes, yes I know," he agreed, "but they aren't are they? They're not family. They're not human. They're animals."

"But, Daniel, these animals have been domesticated since the time of the Greeks and maybe before. They know nothing else."

"Exactly. We keep them in a state of perpetual adolescence - having to be led and fed and cared for and watched every minute. We've been doing what we like with whatever animal species we chose for centuries. When is the human race going to release the earth from its clutches!"

He made a kind of sense, but it's too late for that sort of idealism, she thought. He was the one who was thinking like an adolescent. Still, she had her own very good reasons for thinking that freeing them would be a good thing, even if those reasons were her own selfish ones. And when he had mentioned the Australian Brumbies, the Tarpans of Poland, the Przewalskies of Asia, the horses of Sable Island and the Mustangs of the Western United States, her interest mounted.

"After all," he said, "all those horses were once domesticated. But they somehow won their freedom, didn't they? Don't tell me that many of those animals weren't at one time treated like family as well. I suppose, yes, a few die, but lots more live!"

Another morning was about to break over the horizon.. They had set up a campsite near a wide stream. It was mid summer, and the river itself was at its low point, strong but not very deep. ON the other side was a sloping meadow which leveled off into an expanse of grassland that stretched a long way before meeting more forest and rocky foothills. They had been there nearly a week and had seen no other people except a lone hiker in the distance, nor did they see any of the famed wild mustangs. But the place they had chosen was not a public campsite - they were not sure if it was legal to camp in the area, but it was an ideal spot, and they could always claim ignorance in the unlikely event that they should meet a ranger.

The two animals had been skittish that first day, but had seemed to calm down and accept this strange new environment. The plan was to simply allow the horses to wander away as they realized there were no fences. But they lingered near the truck and trailer, happily grazing on lush summer grasses, and drinking from the river. In the evening they stayed very near the truck and sometimes wandered over toward the campfire to nudge and push at Ellen and Daniel. Ellen had gradually stopped their feed supplements of grain and alfalfa weeks ago in preparation for this event.

Last evening Ellen had suggested that they lead the animals across a shallow area of the river and up into the meadow. Now, as the sun announced its presence just behind the mountains, the chatter of jays and other birds awoke her. Daniel was already awake drinking coffee and pondering the horizon.

Ellen rose noiselessly, smiled at Daniel, but said nothing. She slipped a bridle over each animal and then stood waiting for Daniel to join her. They led the girls across the stream, removed the bridles and walked up the slope hand in hand. The animals followed willingly. Steam rose from the wide grassland which skirted the foothills, and the lower sky was an awesome red which bled into an dreamlike spectrum of pastel hues. It was a scene from the Dawn of time.

They walked all morning, slowly across the meadows to the tree line and back again. "They don't seem to be getting it," she said.

The couple stopped and studied the animals. Daniel suggested that they gradually distance themselves from the beasts and then, after gingerly crossing the river, they would be forgotten.

He spoke too soon. As if Fate had heard them, something happened. Both horses lifted their heads suddenly and watched the distance with ears pricked forward. Daniel and Ellen scanned the area in which the animals were looking but could see nothing. The two un-ridden Thoroughbreds became visibly more excited and alert. One trotted over to Ellen and Daniel nodding its thick neck up and down, hoofing the ground and emitting those soft indescribably equine sounds with which they had first greeted Daniel so long ago.

Daniel chuckled, "something has got their attention."

Ellen stroked and patted the animal's neck and muzzle. It trotted back to its companion. Then, as if drawn but undecided, the two began trotting. With ears pricked toward a point in the distance, they made a wide circle around the humans. As they completed the circle, one broke from a trot into a full gallop toward that invisible destination. Her companion followed suit. The scene was beautiful and Ellen knew she would likely not see them again - that she would never ever forget this particular dawn as they took their magnificent flight into the unknown.

The rising mists and graduating stages of color and light over the rugged silhouette of the Prior mountains was a scene from the first day of creation. To Daniel, it was an awesome beauty of Nature, earth and sky, and life's wondrous evolution. As she watched little Danny's girls race toward a new life and the freedom that lies always over the horizon, tears streamed down her face. Daniel noticed, smiling, and threw an arm over her shoulder, pulling her close. As they turned away from those moving specks in the distance, back toward the river and campsite, a shiver ran down Ellen's spine. She thought she heard a child's happy laughter. It was her son's voice, she was sure. And it could not have been more clear to her if she'd heard little Danny in the distance saying; "Thanks, Mom! I love you!" Her sweet child was locked in childhood forever, and now, perhaps, his friends were running toward him.

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the end

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