Magdalena

sorry about the weird formatting. My word processor doesn't translate very well to blogger. This is the first few pages of a novel I'm several chapters into rewriting. Any input/ripping apart/bashing repeatedly with a red pencil tip would be very welcome.


Prologue


The line of men stood at attention with muskets tucked up against their bodies. Mud and red paint dripped off of their faces and onto their bare chests like dark blood.

“Ready,” A resonant voice called out.
“Aim!” Suddenly all the men moved in unison. The stocks of their guns foreshortened in Maggie’s vision, and became small blotches against the pale shoulders.
They didn’t wait for the next order. It came unexpectedly—a giant explosion, filling Maggie’s skull with ricochet noises of screeching metal and painful gunpowder.

She yelled and flew into a sitting position. She whipped her head around, confused.
All of a sudden, it was dark. And instead of powdery earth and prickly weeds, she was sitting on a soft, lumpy surface--

Maggie’s heart slowed as she felt the straw poking into the back of her legs. She reached over and found the warm head of her sister on the pillow beside her.

“Maggie,” Giovanna muttered. “It was just a dream. Go to sleep.”


1

It could be said of Magdalena Chabert (and many in Provo did say it) that she was an old woman in a fourteen-year-old’s body. She moved if she had rheumatic limbs and brittle bones. She looked at you as sharply and un-apologetically as a woman who had lived through three or four generations. She didn’t say much and when she did, you got the feeling that she didn’t mean it. Sarcasm, she saved for those she knew well enough, and these chosen few got far more of it than they could have any use for.
On this morning, Maggie did not feel especially sarcastic. She stood in the crowd that spilled over the edges of the carefully-laid block of town square, careful to touch as few people as possible. It was a fine morning; refreshing and cool, though later in the day it would blaze high in the sky and scorch through calicos and flannels. For now, the jagged shape of Squaw Peak loomed above the crowd, hiding the sun and providing welcome shade.
Maggie glanced up at it and thought what it would be like to stand at the tip. She could spread her arms and maybe even lean out over the thousand-foot fall, held back from the edge by wind alone.
“I reckon Brother Brigham’s gotten long-winded over something,” Henry’s twangy voice cut into her awareness.
She turned and squinted at him. “Reckon that’s not unusual.”
Henry chuckled and edged into her space. “Like as not he’s gone on about the proper thickness of bread crusts again.”
Maggie nodded. She rose onto her toes and craned her neck, but it was useless as she had known it would be. She was at least two heads shorter than everyone in front of her.
“You want a lift? I could get you up on my shoulders.”
Maggie offered Henry a freezing smile—the sort that often sent people far older than her away without further comment.
He grinned back at her, unfazed. “Fine, then. Can’t say I didn’t try to be a gentleman.”
Maggie snorted appreciatively. “Very fine manners—hoisting a young lady of fourteen up t’your shoulders so a hundred people can count out the holes in her stockings.”
The crowd around them was growing restless. With the buzz of muttering, Maggie couldn’t even hear a dim echo of what the prophet was saying.
“Where’s Mariah?” Henry asked suddenly.
Maggie shrugged. “Likely had to stay home and mind babes. Her ma likes to come to these.”
Suddenly the whispers increased in volume, all around them, and along with it a sudden intensity. Maggie stood straighter and craned her neck; it was like the air was charged, the feeling of thunderclouds full of rain about to burst.
“What’s he sayin?” She whispered to Henry.
“Back North, then.” It was Cindy Holdaway’s voice, to her right. “Just as you thought, Shedrick.”
Shedrick Holdaway stroked his pointed beard, his face unusually solemn. He didn’t glance at his wife, but squinted through the crowd as if it would make him hear better.
“I admit I’m feeling relief,” Betsy Cluff said, leaning behind Henry and Maggie so that she could see her friend. “It’s been exciting, but it’ll be good to have our east pastures back again for grazing. David’s been worrying lately how to get the sheep fattened with wagons camped out on his best pasture.”
“It’ll be sad to see some go,” Cindy replied.
Shedrick made a hushing noise, and put a hand on his wife’s shoulder.
Maggie felt something like an iron band, tightening around her heart.
Mariah was going home. Likely, that was what kept her this morning. Likely she already knew and was spending the morning packing. There were privileges that came from having the prophet as a stepfather.
The corwd began to break up and disperse, bodies pressing through and against each other as everyone found their direction.
“Brother Brigham says he’s packing up and going today,” Brother Cluff said, coming through the crowd. “Johnston’s got his thousand men across the lake on the other side of the mountains.”
“Doesn’t mean they’ll stay there,” Brother Holdaway remarked.
“Buchanan made it pretty clear he wasn’t to stir up trouble. And Governor Cummings is on our side, President Young is fair certain. I’ve already seen some wagons start down main street toward the canyon way.”
Maggie felt her heart sink still further. She stepped quickly through the crowd, leaving Henry with his mother and father. When she got enough space, she began to run toward town square, but soon had to slow again, waiting for animals and carts to pass. Center Street was already busier than she could ever remember it being; people running and walking, shouting out orders, saddling animals as they stood by the side of the road, loading up wagons.
They’re ready to shake the dust of this place clear off their feet, she thought.
She made her way through the square until she came to one of the long, narrow-lean-tos where the Prophet and his family had lived these last few months. She knocked on the door and immediately it opened.
“Mariah around?” Maggie asked the harried-looking woman who stood in the doorway.
“They’ve cleared their things out already. They were one of the first ones out—likely you’ll find them east of town headed for the benches.”
Maggie turned tail and ran, her heart pounding in her temples. She felt moisture start at the corner of her eyes.
Mariah hadn’t even planned to say goodbye to her?
It hurt.
She thought it had been something special, what she and Mariah had. Or at least, it had been infinitely special to Maggie, who had never had a bosom friend before. Not a girl friend at least.
Henry doesn’t count, Maggie though savagely. He’s a boy. And besides, going fishing for suckers wasn’t the same as talking your heart out until you felt full and sure that someone knew you, and liked you.
It had been odd—threatening, even—at least at first. Maggie had thought that girlish friendships were not meant for her, or that there was something about her that just made it impossible. She thought it was because she wasn’t refined enough, or her funny foreign way of speaking.
In truth, it was Maggie’s solemn countenance and unnerving way of studying people that kept the fourth-ward girls at a distance. Which was why it was such a miracle that Mariah came and sat next to her during Nancy Wall’s quilting party that Saturday in March. And it was also a miracle that, in spite of Maggie’s silence and one-word answers, the girl stayed next to her and continued to talk for three long hours instead of changing seats to go be next to Julia Huntington, for instance. Instead, Mariah weathered the long silences, waiting for Maggie’s answers and talking as if the conversation was proceeding at quite the normal pace.
The third miracle happened the next day, when there was a knock on Maggie’s door. There stood Mariah, with one of her mother’s aprons folded over her bodice and tied around her waist. Her dimples framed her grin like parenthases, and her eyes glittered as if she knew a joke. Maggie couldn’t help but let her in, couldn’t help but offer her a place by the fire, couldn’t help the fact that her emotional dam began to crack and the words started to pour out slowly, like molasses from a pitcher.

The Arrival at the Port - something I've been working on....

The shopkeeper was just opening for the day, and didn’t catch sight of the small figure walking jerkily past the window. The bells over the door jingled when it opened, and when she looked up to see who it was, she stared.

“Could you give me some jerky? Bread, too? I’ve got a long ways to go.”

A young voice came out from underneath the layers of cloth draped over the head and wrapped around the face. Unmistakably a young girl’s, although it was unusually low. She was small, perhaps barely five feet tall……. cautiously, the shopkeeper leaned forward, asking, “Going far, erm….miss?”

“The next goodtown.” The girl replied blandly.

The shopkeeper blinked. “The nearest goodtown is Solstice, three hundred leagues away. That’s a good long ways, miss.”

“Not that long.” The girl adjusted one of her shawls. “Can you give me that much, for three hundred leagues?”

“You aren’t intending to walk there, are you?” the shopkeeper asked, appalled.

“Can’t think of any other way to get there.” The girl replied. “Don’t have any money or means to barter.”

“You can work, though, can’t you?” the shopkeeper asked.

“I suppose so.”

“Well, you know - there’s many a caravan that needs workers to help with the cargo and such – that’s how most pay their way, factually speaking. Though the Company overseers don’t like to hear about it.”

“Why not?” the girl asked with mild interest.

“Company wants to be modern, you know. On that ground, it wouldn’t sound too good if people found out that most of the workers on their caravans aren’t paid in money.” The storekeeper smiled, tentative. “Most folk don’t care, though. We make our living how we make it. Not much to be done about it, no use caring about it.” the shopkeeper turned, shuffling to the back of the shop, where the supplies were kept. “So, three hundred leagues, is it? If you took a job, that might take about a week or more. We’re not the fastest here, but it’s better than walking, eh?”

The girl shifted position underneath her shawls, silent.

The shopkeeper returned a few moments later, carrying a large linen-wrapped bundle in her arms. This she handed to the girl, who tucked it into her bag, and who in turn took some coins from a pouch at her side and handed them to the shopkeeper.

“Thanks,” the girl murmured.

“Anytime.” The shopkeeper nodded. “You have a safe trip.”

“I will. Thank you.”

The girl left the shop, leaving the shopkeeper peering after her curiously, feeling more than a little unnerved by the jerky motions the girl made as she stepped out the door – as though the ground stung at her feet.

On the girl’s part, she was very relieved. She had been walking for many days, cut off from any sort of contact. Her greatest fear, as she walked within the town’s borders, was of being seen.

The sun was terrible today, very hot and bright, and the wrappings the girl wore made the heat almost unbearable. At least they provided good cover - she had no need to shade her eyes when she peered through the slit in her wrappings, seeing the narrow sand-packed street stretched out before her. She regretted not asking the shopkeeper for directions to the caravan port, but she could hardly walk back in there and ask now. Well, that was not so difficult, she thought to herself. She could find her way to the port on her own – this town was small, and there were only so many places the port could be. She tried to ignore the stares of the people she passed, but it was no use – she could feel their eyes on her, curious and frightening. Despite the sun’s heat, she pulled her wrappers more tightly about her, so that there could be no mistake that they were secure.

As she walked and as she gradually became used to the stares, she became aware of a presence at her side. Looking down, she saw that it was a dog - a scrawny pup with a smattering of strawberry spots across its grey back, and a build that might have been sturdy were it not for the fact that it looked like it hadn’t eaten in a good long time. It also had terrible mange.

She stopped, and the dog stopped with her. It wasn’t very old – probably not past a year yet, she thought. There were many dogs like this in her own hometown - Pathetic little creatures who had the misfortune to be forgotten, and probably never even had owners in the first place.

“Now, what’re you doing, following me?” the girl asked the dog. “You find me attractive, do you? Think I’ll give you some food if you look at me with those big sad eyes?”

The dog did not answer, of course. Not in words. But it was the slight tilt of his head that made it look like he was listening to her talk and perhaps understanding.

The girl sighed through her nose, ruffling the cloth over her face, and took out a small strip of jerky from her bag. Tossing it to the ground, the dog wolfed it down in under a second, and then looked up at her again, an inquisitive perk to its small ears.

“That’s all. I can’t keep giving you my life rations, you know. I don’t intend to starve to death on your account.”

The dog looked at her.

“Keep following me, of course,” the girl said resignedly, continuing on her way, “Just don’t expect much – I’ll be leaving as soon as I get to the port. If I can find it.”

They went along then, the dog still trailing at her heels, and the girl found herself talking to it as she went along.

“Not much here to see, is there?” she said, glancing around at the small, square-shaped buildings, not beyond two stories high. “Smaller than my town, and that’s saying something. I guess it has a port, though – my town doesn’t have that. We have to walk everywhere. Some people have transport, but mostly it’s all on foot.”

The people stared harder at the strange, shawl-wrapped personage apparently talking to herself, but she hardly cared now that she had someone to talk to. Even if it was only a dog.

“I don’t suppose you have a name.” the girl said. The dog licked her pant-covered calf. “No eating my leg, now,” the girl said sharply. “I still need those.”

“I’ll call you Spots,” she continued, “on account of the fact that you have so many. They’re mighty pretty, I’d say. They would be, anyway, if half your fur weren’t gone.”

The dog made a low whining sound, and hurried ahead, turning its head towards an easterly direction. It paused, apparently waiting for her to catch up.

Underneath her shawls, the girl raised her eyebrows. Curious, she followed the dog down one wider street, and caught the faint scent of smoke and frying grease up ahead. That must have been what caught the dog’s attention, she thought – the promise of frying food.

There came the sound of talk and bustle, and suddenly they found themselves in a thick crowd, so busy that no one even stopped to stare.

They didn’t have much reason to, truth be told – there were many people here who covered themselves with scarves and shawls, although not quite so thoroughly as she did. Their unclad hands revealed the dark brown skin of the Deep Dune people, and the girl felt very small when they looked down at her from their unnatural height.

“Come on,” she muttered to the dog, who was still miraculously glued to her side.

They waded through the crowd, with the girl keeping a tight hold on her face wrappings so that they wouldn’t slip off, trying to find some sort of order that might point out the place they should go. This was unmistakably the caravan port - where else would there be such a large crowd, with so many different sorts of people? Her guess was confirmed when she saw the varied, rusted models of caravan transports, with lethargic-looking shellbacks standing beside them and anxious owners struggling to pull their business out into the open.

She had found the place, but now the question was where to go from here. The girl knew something of trade and transport, and therefore knew the dangers of being rash with who you gave your business to. Unfortunately, her experience with such things was quite limited, and so she was forced to guess on appearance.

She eyed the gathering of transports dubiously, a little afraid. She tried to calm herself, taking a deep breath.

All right, then. She observed the row of caravans once more, looking at each carefully. Each had seen much wear in their day, and looked ready to fall apart. Her heart sank a little further.

The dog, apparently uninterested in her now that she was no longer handing out food, trotted off through the crowd, leaving her alone. Noticing its absence, she felt a small pang of regret. She couldn’t have kept it, of course, but it had at least been something to keep her company. Even it was only for a short time……

“Excuse me,” a man said. Surprised at being addressed, the girl stepped back silently, allowing the man passage through to his transport, carrying a large wooden crate.

Without thinking, the girl followed him, keeping sight of his dark green uniform through the many colors and fashions blocking her path. His destination was not far – he stopped about a hundred feet away, dropping the crate next to a particularly battered-looking cart. He straightened, stretching out his back, and noticed the quiet figure standing nearby.

“Good day,” he said, not at all put off by her appearance. “How can I be of service?”

The girl took a moment to respond – carefully phrasing her words before speaking. “Are you going to the other goodtown?”

“Which one – north or further north?” the man asked wearily.

“What do you mean?” the girl asked warily.

“There are only two within six hundred leagues. I’ll help you depending on which one you’re heading to.”

The girl remembered a name the shopkeeper had mentioned – “Solstice.” she said aloud.

The man gave her a speculative look.

“You come from the Dunes?” he asked.

“No.” the girl replied.

“Heh. Didn’t think so. The coverings threw me off, but looking at them again tells me they aren’t of Dunes make.”

Underneath the cloth, the girl stiffened. The man, sensing her discomfort, turned the topic. “You’re in luck, miss – I’m short on the required worker quota this trip.” He eyed her small frame dubiously. “Are you up to much heavy lifting?”

“I’m stronger than I look.” The girl said, squaring her shoulders.

“That a fact?” the man glanced down at the heavy crate next to him, and rubbed his chin. “Well, we’ll give you a trial run, I guess – lift this crate up into the cart, and then follow me for the rest of the loading.”

The girl immediately obeyed, stepping forward and bending down in one smooth motion. She hefted the large, heavy crate into her thin arms, her knees buckling for a moment, and then straightened. The man nodded approvingly. The girl was true to her word – and she had obviously done this sort of thing many times before.

“Put it right next to that red-marked crate there,” the man said, pointing. The girl raised the crate onto the metal floor with a loud clunk, and slid it into the position the man had indicated. The long sleeves around her arms slipped, and the man caught a glimpse of dark tan skin patched with pasty pink blotches before she quickly readjusted her clothes.

“Well, then,” the man said, smiling. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a job, miss.”

Her face wrappings twitched. “Th-thank you, sir.” she said.

“As long as I’ve got hands, we’re both happy. Just don’t slack off and cheat me on our deal, and we’ll be friends.” He held out a hand. “I’m Jethras Tummett, caravan master of this sorry group. You’ll call me Mister Tummett on this trip.”

The girl gave the offered hand a wary glance before reluctantly clasping it with her own gloved one. “I’m Gehnn. From….down south.” She said.

They shook. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Jethras Tummett said. After this exchange, he gestured for her to follow him, and then made his way back into the crowd. “Keep close – it’s easy to get lost here.”

Death

The day that Ned died was the day that Suzanne was sure her life had ended.
It had been coming on for awhile. They had been expecting it for eight and a half long months—or rather, Suzanne had been expecting, dreading it since the day of their marriage.

Now, she sat in the middle of a crowded pew, deaf and numb amidst a sea of sniffling and discreet whispers. She stared up at the thick circular wreath of yellow daffodils. Thoughtful, Suzanne thought. Bonnie knows they’re Ned’s favorites

Were, Suzanne corrected herself. They were Ned’s favorites. Ned wasn’t there to enjoy them. What a ridiculous irony; why not choose someone else’s favorite flower? Ned’s body lay in the maple coffinpolished to a brilliant sheen, that stood at the front of the room. But he wasn’t there.

She sighed, feeling her frustration build. Immediately, she fel Bonnie’s hand on her arm. Bonnie: bright-eyed, ready in an instant to be the sympathetic friend she thought Suzanne needed. Bonnie, who had been, according to the church committee chair, “A Godsend to the Flewellyn family in their times of trial.”

Suzanne wanted to shake the warm, plump hand off her shoulder in the worst way—it felt as unwelcome there as a tarantula.

“How you doing, darlin’?”

“I’m fine.” Suzanne somehow managed a civil tone.

The service went slowly. People talking like they knew Ned. People saying nice things about him, joking about his little quirks. Suzanne got up and said a few words, feeling completely removed as if they were coming from someone else’s mouth.

We knew this day would happen.

Ned loved all of you.

Ned wouldn’t want people to be sad at his passing.

It was a script she was reading—words that didn’t encapsulate in any way what she felt, or what Ned had felt at the end. She saw it in her mind, Ned’s piercing, grey eyes. She heard his gruff voice—

“Suzy. You going to be all right?"

Suzanne had looked at him, the broad, jovial face she had studied every single day of their marriage, kept etched in her mind. She even thought, many times, of the time she’d have to do this, have to say goodbye and hope to God she had looked at him enough that she could remember.

“Do what you have to do, Ned,” she had said. “I’ll manage for a while.”

“I’ll be there with you.”

Suzanne had nodded, but had felt resentment well up inside of her. How did he know? He didn’t really know what would happen. Didn’t have any proof at all that he could be there for her, or even that he’d really exist. How he make such blind promises? It was cruel. For his sake, she had masked her fear and anger and sat quietly at his bedside, day after day, watching him slip further and further from his surroundings. And when he left, she had sat there, at his side, for a couple of hours, pretending she could still see his chest rise, just a little; see his breath rattle the Kleenex that emerged from the box at his bedside.

Everyone stood for the last hymn. Suzanne broke from her reverie and stood, mouthing the words. She moved her feet with the crowd to the cemetery, gazed at the wooden sheen on the curved top of the coffin as it was lowered. She crooked her neck and stared at the grass around her feet while someone prayed. She straightened and grinned, grinned, grinned and shook, shook, shook hands until she got to her car. She got in, shut the door, and drove home, leaving everyone else to celebrate.

When she got home, she lay down on the bed, setting her head in the indentation Ned’s had left. She felt herself drift, imagining to herself that if she lay still enough—perhaps she could stop breathing. The next breath she took could be a little shallower, then the next, barely anything. It wouldn’t be hard. Just a matter of will power.

“You can, you know.”

Suzanne sat up violently, bashing her head into the corner of the nightstand. She swore—a world that had not come to her lips for three decades, at least.

“Sorry,” the man said.

“Who are you? What are you doing in my bedroom?”

The man didn’t answer; he looked at her. His broad, chiseled face—not unlike Ned’s, in fact; there was something about the cheekbones—was eloquent.
Belated fear suddenly gripped Suzanne’s heart. Maybe this was the end. Maybe God heard her prayers.

But she hadn’t really banked on a possibly violent death. Death by stabbing, strangling, shooting—she glanced surreptitiously at his hands and saw they were empty, clasped over his (somewhat ample) midsection.

“Violence isn’t my style,” the man said, as if he’d heard her thoughts. “Don’t worry—it’ll all be very gentle. If it’s what you want, that is.” He shrugged. “Of course, you get to make the decision.”

Suzanne stared at the man, taking in his salt-and-pepper hair, his dark, intelligent eyes and rather forbidding pointed eyebrows.

As if to reassure her, he smiled—a very kindly smile.

Suzanne shivered. “What do you want? I’ll cooperate.” She slid to the edge of the bed and timidly stood, watching for any movement on his part. “There’s some silver in the kitchen. We’ve got a seventeen-inch flat screen in the living room. Nothing else much of value I—I’m afraid.” Her mind flicked to the safe, hidden upstairs in the attic.But he couldn’t have had time to find that. Why would he search a house only to wake up its occupant before he—no. This had to be something far more sinister.

She took an unobtrusive step toward the door.

“I’m not here to take your possessions. Well, not anything tangible, at least. I’m here for your soul.” He nodded at her, as if this outrageous statement were reasonable, and she ought to be following him perfectly.

Suzanne thought to herself that the phone was right by her hand; she could pick it up and dial 911 in less than a second, and even if she didn’t have time to say where she was or what was happening, she could scream at least—

“They won’t see me, of course.” the man interrupted her thoughts again. “And since you invited me here, I’m not breaking any law to speak of.” He smiled then, and moved toward her. “Let’s get comfortable. I want to get to know you a little bit better before we do this thing.”

“What thing?” Suzanne’s voice came out in a high squeak.

“Death,” The man said, as if it were obvious.

“You’re—you’re going to kill me?” Suzanne whispered. Her fingers shook as she edged her hand toward the phone.

“I’ll take your soul up. If you want me to. You don’t believe a word I’m saying,” he added, glancing at her hand. “All right, then. I thought we were on the same page, but clearly we are not.” He shrugged. “I must admit I thought you were better prepared. Ned seemed to think you—but really, it’s not surprising. Happens a lot, in fact. Well…here, then.”

He walked toward her swiftly, and Suzanne felt her heart nearly leap out of her chest as he put his palm on hers. It was warm, strong, perfect—but held a strange sort of resonance when it touched her, like the pins-and-needles feeling of having a limb fall asleep. And as he kept his hand on hers, suddenly she felt as if her senses were disappearing, she felt as if she were emerging, somehow, like she rose up out of her body and—

She looked down, then, at her body, which had fallen against the wall in an akward position and cried out, wrenching her…
whatever it was—hand? Energy? who knew—from the grip of…

“Are we on the same page, now?” Death asked, releasing her hand.

“Yes,” Suzanne whispered.

She felt as if she slid, as if she were suddenly sucked into place, and found herself looking down at her hand again, her flesh hand. She moved her fingers carefully, and the pins-and-needles feeling disappeared.
Suzanne’s knees shook as she stood.

“Are you called Death, then?” She asked, finally. “Is that your actual name?”

“You don’t really have to call me anything,” he replied. “I’m not all that important. Just an envoy.”

“I can die today?” She asked, skipping ahead a bit.

“We like to delay it by a couple of weeks. Give you time to prepare, make it less obvious.”

“Obvious, how?”

“We do this for most widows and widowers that have lived out the majority of their lives—give them a choice. But we don’t want everyone to plan on it, and we don’t want people to give up, knowing they’ll have a choice.”

Suzanne paused again on her way back to the window. “We?”

He smiled enigmatically at her.

Suzanne quelled a shiver, and tried another question. “Every person who has a spouse die…what’s the cutoff age?”

Death squinted at Suzanne. “Beg your pardon?”

“How old is old enough? I mean…” she shrugged. “How do you decide who’s eligible to make the choice, to stay or—“

“It’s not so much age, really. It’s more about how the person has accomplished their life’s goals or not, or a mission they’ve been given.”

“So I have accomplished all my missions, then?”

“In a sense. You’ve done all the things necessary.”

“OK.”

“Of course, there’s more you could do, if you wanted.”

Suzanne shook her head. “More? Like… charity and stuff?”

Death shrugged. “There are a few loose threads in your life. You could go, and be fine. But you don’t really know what will happen to those around you—to all that you were involved in, before you leave. But then, you never do. Whether you die in three weeks, or fifty, there’s not much you can do to change other people’s choices.”

“You mean Judy.” Suzanne stated it flatly. “All right, is this some kind of prank? I could almost see Ned doing something like this—scare me into calling her…”

“I could give you another demonstration,” Death answered, moving his hand toward hers again.

Suzanne snatched her hand off the table. “No thanks. Why should I stay for that ungrateful, manipulative…”

“He’s Ned’s daughter, Suzanne.”

“She never accepted me.”

“It was hard on her.”

“You sound just like Ned.”

“That's not surprising. I did talk to him right before coming to you. He mentioend Judy.”

Suzanne threw up her hands, then clutched her hair in a mix of exasperation and outraged sensibility.

Ned was in a coffin in the dirt.

Death was in her room.

Talking about Judy.

Saying he’d just talked to Ned.

She must have taken something… maybe Bonnie, out of misplaced kindness, had slipped something into… something—no, she hadn’t eaten anything today.
Maybe that was it. Maybe she was having some kind of strange insulin attack from lack of nourishment. The doctor did tell her, a few months ago, that she had to be careful, she was borderline-diabetic…

“Don’t you want to know what Ned had to say about it?”

Suzanne shook her head, and shut her eyes, tight. “About what?”

“About Judy. About you staying or going. Could be a big factor in your decision. Whatever you want to know, Suzanne… you can ask me.”

“What did Ned say about Judy?” Suzanne asked woodenly, and opened her eyes calmly. As long as she was hallucinating, she might as well play along until she woke up. It was entertaining, at least.

“You’re not hallucinating. He really wants you to stay and see what you can do for Judy.”

“Big surprise,” Suzanne muttered.

“Well, don’t you think you owe that to him? Just a little bit. After all—he gave so much to you.”

Suzanne stared at him, jaw agape. “She’d just slam the door in my face.”

“A few slammed doors is nothing in the face of what could happen,” Death replied.

“What do you mean?”

“Well… I’ve had occasion to linger over there these last few months. And I’m of a mind to agree with Ned. And don’t forget he’ll be the one you’ll be with after this. Don’t you want to meet on terms that are free of guilt? Take my word for it… you don’t want to carry guilt into the next life. And while it’s impossible to be completely free of regrets… lightening your load as much as possible is extremely advisable."

Suzanne shook her head. “I—OK,” she said. “You’ve—you say you’ve been over there?”

Death paused. “I have.”

“For what reason? Is—“

“I can’t tell you. You’ve got to do this on your own. Freedom of choice and all that. You understand.”

“Ned doesn’t want me to come.” Suzanne said.

“Well, he loves you. But he also loves Judy.”

“Right.”

Death shifted his weight from one foot to another. “I’ve got about five more minutes. You need to make a choice. I’ll come back next year, if you decide to stay.”

“Wait—you… I can stay only a year? I can probably clear things up a bit in a year.

A year. "Could I survive a year?” Suzanne said it almost to herself, and felt as if death’s hand must be touching her heart… it seemed to die in her chest, at the thought of a year.

A year without Ned.

“I should also tell you—you won’t remember this at all. Every time you see and talk to me… however many times that is, your memory will be wiped clean, and you’ll go on without knowing about all this about the choice.”

“I’ll feel like I just have to go on forever without him.”

“I’m sorry but, yes. IT will feel like that some times. But as I said… I can come back next year. On this same day—the anniversary of your husband’s death, and you’ll have an opportunity to make the choice again.”

There was a long pause. Suzanne scrutinized her fingers, winding them together, clenching her palms together until the knuckles were white. Here’s the church… here’s the steeple… open the doors… “How do I know you’re—I mean. There’s things people say about angels, and… how do I know you’re from… not from, that other place?”

“I guess some things I can’t really prove, Suzanne.” Death smiled. “You’ll just have to take it on faith.”

Suzanne shook her head. “This is entirely crazy. And I just thought of something—if I don’t remember this, how will I know about talking to Judy, working everything out so I can make Ned happy, and be ready for him next year?”

“You won’t.”

More unformulated stuff

“You’re hurt!” exclaimed Aelwys, but Mother hushed her.

“It will take care of itself,” she replied, “but we have to take care of ourselves. We can’t stay here long.” A great thunderclap rumbled, and the rain began to raise a considerable din for its fierceness, but neither could disturb Aelwys now.

Mother removed from her bag a small loaf of dark, seedy bread, which she broke in two, and offered half to Aelwys, who accepted hungrily. She nearly had taken a bite of it before she remembered her manners, and looked to her mother, waiting for her to take the first bite. Mother’s mouth curved into a little smile, but she said nothing. She urged her daughter to eat first.

“Where will we go?” asked Aelwys before taking a bite.

“Somewhere safer,” she said, “An island not far from here, where we can find a ship bound west. There, we will find an embassy of Ceadlund.”

“And when we get to Ceadlund?”

“Well,” said Mother, “when we get to Ceadlund, we will be safe from all of this.”

They ate in silence for a few more moments, when Aelwys asked in a small voice,

“Mother, is it true what the chieftains are saying about you?” Mother’s lip curved into a small smile, and she asked,

“Do you think it’s true?”

“I hope it isn’t,” Aelwys said earnestly, “they really aren’t telling the truth, are they? They can’t be! But then,” she paused, not wanting to speak, but wanting much less to hold back her worry, “where did you learn to do the things you can do? The fire, you lit it without stones or kindling!”

“Aelwys,” Mother said calmly, “I am not a witch.” She reached again into her bag and removed a number of rods like the one she had ignited so mysteriously. “There is no magic in this. It's simply cunning work of alchemy our friends taught me.”

“But the chieftains said that the Veagars are a clan of witches,” Aelwys said, frowning, “and that no good can come from them.”

“The chieftains have said quite a lot of nonsense these days,” Mother mused, replacing the rods in the bag, “and they don't seem to be able to recognize friends of old from the demons that they now fear so much. The Veagars have given much to you and me, including the bread you are eating.” At this, Aelwys looked queerly at the bread in her hand as if she suspected it might be poisoned. Mother laughed, and Aelwys began to feel that she was being silly. Perhaps Mother was right.

“Aelwys, do you remember when we you were younger, we spent the Dyreceald with your Uncle among the Veagars?” Aelwys nodded. “Did you see any evil among them?”

“I don't remember,” she confessed.

“Because you did not see any. You would remember if you had seen evil.”

“I suppose,” Aelwys said. She did not want to show how worried this had made her, so she tried not to show how much Mother's words had eased her mind.

“They are our friends,” Mother said, “they helped us escape the king's officers, they gave us this food and a few trinkets to make easier our journey. And don't you forget, Aelwys, your kinsmen rank amongst the Veagars.”

“I suppose,” Aelwys said again, feeling weary and spent now her mind was somewhat more at rest. Mother bade her sleep and gave her her thick woolen shawl for a pillow.

“Won't you sleep, too?” asked Aelwys.

“No,” said Mother, “I will keep watch.”

Completely Unformulated Idea...

                The dark water lapped upon the rocks in steady rhythm while the wind carried to Aelwys’ nose the scent of the ocean. She sat, afraid and anxious, awaiting the storm, when her mother had promised to find her. A distant thunderclap further weighted the heavy air, and Aelwys wrapped her arms around her knees for warmth. In the alcove of the rock where she sat, she silently prayed for comfort. The speed of the winds strengthened. In a moment, the moonlight faded as clouds rolled in to hide it, and the first of the raindrops pelted her face. The lapping of the waves became a crashing as more turbulent winds carried them with greater force. In alarm, she looked back to the shore – perhaps Mother was already coming – and there, yet a distance away on the beach, came a figure hurrying toward her, carrying a bag in hand. Suddenly all was illuminated by a flash of lightning and deafened in thunder. In the flash of light Aelwys could see Mother’s long black braids trailing behind her in the wind. Within a minute, Mother had arrived, and she embraced Aelwys, melting her fears and filling her with warmth. Mother took her hand and led her to a small cave in the rock side, and they crawled inside where the storm would not disturb them.

                Within the cave they sat in a damp darkness, though drier and less frigid than without. The wind whistled across the mouth of the cave with building force, occasionally gusting inside and ruffling their winter clothes. Though it was too dark to see clearly, she saw her mother’s silhouette reach into her bag and withdraw something. She made a strange motion with her hands, and suddenly the cave was flooded with warm light, coming from a bright flame on the edge of a long, very thin wooden rod she held in her fingers. Quickly, she reached into her bag again, withdrew a candle, and lit it. She brought the flaming end of the rod to her lips and blew it out, then tossed the smoking rod aside. She then took a good look at her daughter. In the light, Aelwys could now see that her mother had a deep cut, still bleeding, above her left eye.

                “You’re hurt!” exclaimed Aelwys, but Mother hushed her.

Walls Full Of Memories (personal essay)

The beehive class visited an elderly couple in our ward tonight. I tend to be shy in group situations, especially where I don't know the people, and so I didn't say much. When the wife asked me to say something about myself, I mentioned that I live in Anna's old house. The stories started pouring out, just like they always do. Every time I mention Anna, and the fact that I live in her house, people rush to tell me the stories.

Anna was a small, refined woman of Danish descent. Her love and joy was her garden. I try to keep it up, apologizing under my breath to her as I clumsily root through her iris bed. I hacked her roses to pieces two years ago. This, the third year living here, I finally got them back so that they are blooming nicely and evenly.

She made rich, eight-course breakfasts. I chuckle over my toast crumbs, thinking of porridge--real, danish porridge--and rich cream, fresh berries, pastries, milk and fresh-squeezed juices.

She lived her whole life in the house she was born in, the house her father built close to the turn of the century. She had beautiful taste in furniture. It's all falling apart now, but the muted golds and greens, the brocades and the lovely upholstering, the fading wallpapers and soft gold draperies remain. The blinds are the wide, 1950's slatted wooden blinds; Skywalker has repaired a couple of them since we moved in.

One room upstairs has scalloped wood accents along the closets and cubbyholes, and a little closet bar down near the floor for little girls to reach. The window is a wide, sunny window that looks directly into the branches of the tall elm that grows there (and also shelters the hundreds of birds that like to relieve themselves on our car.) It is papered in pink, and when we moved in, there was an old, decaying pink rug covering the linoleum-on-boards-floor. My children play on a newer carpet remnant that I placed over the old rug. It pads their footsteps and gives them a soft place to sit.

The walls are thick and cool--adobe brick, made from materials right out of the ground where the house stands. When it was first built, it was warmed by chimneys. There are two at least, plastered over and papered, now only humps that run up along the walls for both stories.

One time when I was laying in the other upstairs room, the old, white cheesecloth curtain billowed out and suddenly I felt spooky, like a moment later I might see something I wasn't quite ready to see. The next day I got out all of my old family heirlooms: the bookcase my grandmother made, the pink china pitcher from four generations back, my husband's grandmother's clock-- and placed them in various spots, as if claiming "my space" in this place that had been built, and lived in, and existed so long, for Anna and her family.

The more I live here, the more I think how I wish I could peel back layers of wallpaper until I find the faded pink brick. Maybe I'd find a thumbprint in some mortar. Probably not; the people who built this house were fastidious--artisans. But I like to think I might, or that, if I put my ear up to the wall, I might hear something. These massive walls store heat and cold, keeping our spaces temperate far longer than the cheap tinder we build with now.

I wonder if they also store smells, voices, touch... skin cells?

I'll be sad to leave this place when the time comes. There's something to be said for living in the middle of a hundred years of memories.

The First Round

Hi, and thanks for tuning in to

THE ULTIMATE DISNEY DEATHMATCH!

Our contestants have been training ever since their movies were premiered and they've basically been out of a job, not counting cameo appearances at various Disney theme parks worldwide, each an incredible getaway at a reasonable price, perfect for honeymoons, family vacations, and any special events you might ever plan, ever!

Anticipation has been visibly filling the atmosphere for the inaugural match, round one, section A!

The battlegrounds, chosen at random to ensure maximum impartiality, are assigned to each class for the first two rounds! This setting is one seen in the beloved family classic, The Lion King --

THE ELEPHANT GRAVEYARD!

Contestant A will be none other than The Little Mermaid's dynamic duo,

FLOTSAM AND JETSOM!!!

They are eels.

Fortunately the rules of the tournament permit that non-land-based contestants to "swim" through the air, as it were, ha, ha! That totally makes it fair.

They look pretty sure of themselves, but who can tell if it's well-founded faith, or short-sighted overconfidence? For they might have quite a fight in front of them, depending on the other contestant, which, I have just been informed, will be from Disney's lovable classic, Dumbo, namely,

DUMBO!!!

Let the match begin!

JAG: Okay, Bill, so, before anything really happens, what do you think is going to go down in this match?

BILL: Your name has me snorting down unintentional guffaws, Jagghhhrhrhrhrrr!

JAG: Wait! Flotsam and Jetsom are circling around Dumbo! What's the little elephant doing?

BILL: Well, Jarrrrgghghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

JAG: One would think the little guy, being as he is an elephant, can take on a few fishes! He's got more than double their combined bodymass and weight, so this ought to be an easy fight.

BILL: Well, look at his eyes: he seems somewhat intimidated by his surroundings.

JAG: Yeah... I see that now. They are in an elephant graveyard.

BILL: And to judge from the eels' eyes, they seem to have picked up on this fact, too. You know, I think OH MY GOOOOOOOOOOOSH!!!!

JAG: DUMBO, LOOK OOOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUTTTTT

--------========== We Are Experiencing Technical Difficulties. Please Stay Tuned While We Resolve This Problem That Definitely Isn't Live Censorship. ==========--------

JAG: OH MY HECK, BILL!

BILL: Where are you from?

JAG: Look at that!

*Camera zooms in on scene. No-one recognizable is visible. Only elephant skeletons. There appears to be one more skeleton than normal. There is an adorable yellow hat on one of the skulls.*

BILL: Well, I guess the indisputable winner is FLOTSAM AND JETSOM!

JAG: The winnerS ARE Flotsam and Jetsom.

BILL: Whatever, Jagghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhrrrrrrharrrrrrrrrr

The Beginning, first installment 1: Genesis

With his mighty fists, he thrust down with great force, a terrible war-cry escaping his lips. Nothing could now escape his wrath. His dominion stretched the span between his great fists, pounding downward in rhythmic motion. How every living creature envied him, he thought.

The cow he was milking held other opinions, however, and she voiced them with great enthusiasm. She gave out a roar not often heard from bovine lips, rolled her eyes wildly, and began to stomp her cloven hooves to escape her tormentor. This resulted in Blushby's losing hold on the cow, his being kicked in the shin, and the milk pail's being kicked rather violently, spilling the milk unceremoniously all over the earthen floor.

Blushby was not really so mighty a warrior, but he was really quite humble, and brave when occasion permitted. This endeared him to most people he came across, though few livestock, such as this cow. The challenge he had before him now was to calm down the enormous cow. Brave though he was, he knew, he was not so sure if he could face that cow. She really could work up a storm when she desired, as she seemed to be presently doing cheerfully, and he maneuvered himself out of her way, climbed the ladder, and leapt upon the hayloft where she could not get at him. He took a deep breath, and contemplated his next move.

The cow knew he was safe where he was, and one resentful eye kept rolling back to where he hid. Silently, in the midst of her rampage, she cursed under her breath. She had been planning for weeks to gain Blushby's trust back since the last incident. All those mornings, letting herself be milked without a single complaint, letting Blushby even pat her side when he dared (she hated that the most). Slowly, slowly she built back up the bridge of trust between herself and Blushby. She suffered through his telling her his hopes and dreams, his fears (which was quite a long list).  Insult was added to injury at each milking session when he laughed and patted her side nervously, saying, "Ah, old Bessy, you probably can't understand a word I'm saying?" "I wish I couldn't," she invariably thought. While she felt her patience draining, she held herself at bay, planning each tread upon his face, where each stomp would land, exactly which boards she would knock loose to fall on him, and toyed with the idea of leaping into the air and squishing him for a grand finale. All this she passed through, day after day, waiting against the day that Blushby would feel secure enough to go back to acting out his Warrior persona (or perhaps Blushby could not remember more than a few weeks back; she was unsure which) so she could finally trample him without his uncle suspecting a thing. His uncle hated the Warrior persona almost as much as she hated Blushby.

She kicked over the anvil from its pedestal at the far end of the barn -- a key grievance of hers, as she could still not fathom why the farmer had decided to locate his smithy in her barn and not somewhere more preferable, such as anywhere else -- and fumed upon the singularity of how close she had been. All she had done wrong was that she kicked the milk pail  at the wrong angle. A few more degrees to the left side and it would have gone right into Blushby's eyes, blinding him, and he could not have escaped her. It might be another month before she could have another go, she harrumphed, before aiming a good kick and the unsuspecting nearby sheep. She knocked it over, and felt much better. She stopped flailing about and mooing in rage, took a deep breath. Blushby's uncle would be in any minute. She returned to the spilled milk and stared at it with a most bovine expression on her face.

Letter to a Mad Scientist

Dear Sir:

To begin, we wish to put all illusions of secrecy to the side and say flat-out that we know what you're doing up there. Do not try to deny it - we have physical evidence on you, sir. What sort of evidence, might you ask? Well, let us simply say that it would be very incriminating indeed should the government hear of it.

This brings us to the point of concern in our address to you: our people, quite frankly, are sick and tired of this whole business of yours. Our village was once quite respectable, you know, and we would appreciate having it so again. The children can't even play outside anymore, because of the perpetually dark clouds and lightning that, we may add, has struck many of our lightning-rod-deprived homes and left many of us homeless. We understand that you have an image to maintain, but could you please keep it within the radius of your own property?

Also: if you wish to continue living in Shadowblade Castle, you need to pay rent. We are not idiots, Doctor - we know you don't own the place. We've lived here for many years, and as such happen to know that the last rightful owner died fifty years ago and left it to his cat. That story you fed us about inheriting the castle from your great-grandfather is, to put it bluntly, obvious drivel that is an insult to our intelligence. We did not mention it at first, of course, believing you to be quite wealthy and thinking that perhaps you did purchase it after all, but recent records state that you never made such a purchase. In fact, it would seem that you just walked in and claimed it.

We villagers find this flagrant exploitation of our easily impressionable minds an insult on our dignity, and demand compensation. Namely, in the form of RENT, which, we might remind you, you are two years behind.

We would also like to ask that any......activity up there be KEPT up there. We have recently had trouble with little girls being kidnapped, dogs being eaten, and rude messages painted on the trees. We will not persecute if you keep these......activities contained. This is your final warning.

Lastly, we ask that, in the rare instances that you do travel to our village, that you at least give the appearance of being a respectable human being. We know what you do in the graveyards at night, sir- we are watching you. We ask that you leave our cemetery alone - as far as we are aware, we have not granted permission for the bodies of our beloved relatives to be subject to dissection and experimentation. Should you be seen near the cemetery again, we will have a word with the Dean of Medicine at the University, who will be interested to know of your medical education and "practice", "Doctor".

We hope you will be reasonable and meet these requests - we are a respectable people, and only send this out of greatest concern for our reputation, our village, and indeed our own lives. What few there are left.

Yours Sincerely,

The Villagers