TEACHING POLYWOGS - Short Story by Duane L Herrmann

 

TEACHING POLYWOGS

Short Story

by Duane L Herrmann

“Well, you've finally made it,” Being of Light said to Sam when Sam appeared. “You've wanted to be here nearly all of your life, and the time has come. You have arrived.”

“Where am I?” Sam asked. Sam had just been immersed in water and taken a huge gulp of water while trying to breathe.

“You're about to teach this class of Polywogs,” said Being of Light, pointing to a group of things that were barely moving.

“They're alive?” Sam asked in astonishment.

“Yes, they're just one level up from Rocks.”

“Real rocks? Mineral rocks?” Sam asked bewildered.

“No mineral rocks here,” the Light answered. “But even they have the attributes of existence and cohesion which are the first steps of life.”

“You said I'm to teach?” Sam asked.

“Yes. You are eminently qualified, and they're waiting. Some have waited for centuries.”

“But,” Sam stammered. “I'm new here, what will I teach them?”

“It doesn't matter,” the Light answered. “They know so little, anything will be more than they know now.”

“But...”

“You were a teacher in Life, weren't you?” The Light asked. “Even before you went to school, you were teaching,” the Light went on. “You first taught your baby sister...”

“While I gave her her bottle?”

“Yes, then,” the Light agreed. “But, even before that. And later, you taught your little brother and cousins. Then, when you started school, you really began to teaching them.”

“I remember trying to play school,” Sam remembered with a smile.

“Teaching is just part of your nature,” the Light replied. “You can't help but teach.”

“But, what should I teach them?” Sam repeated.

“I just said,” the Light was patient. “What ever you do, will teach them something. Sneeze and you will teach them about sneezing!”

“It doesn't matter?” Sam was still incredulous.

“Creator will make sure they learn,” the Light replied. “During life they chose not to learn. Here, they will learn, they will be eager to learn. They have no choice here.

“Oh.” Sam was startled. “Free will only exists during Life.” He stated thoughtfully.

“Exactly,” the Light agreed. “Now, go sneeze, or.....something, anything.”

“But,” Sam objected. “I just got here. I haven't been greeted...”

“I didn't greet you?” The Light had a slight disappointment in its voice.

“Well,” Sam stammered. “I thought it would be different.”

“You what?” The Light asked as it grew slightly brighter, more intense, and more serious. “Didn't Bahá'u'lláh teach that this world is so different from that world, the world of Life, that souls could not comprehend this world.”

“Yes.”

“So, why did you “think” you could imagine it accurately?”

“I haven't had my life review,” Sam added, changing the subject..

“Do I need to repeat myself?” The Light asked and became brighter, sterner still.

“Oh.” Regret was obvious from Sam.

“Besides,” the Light added kindly, calming again. “You're still thinking in linear time. Time, which is not time, does not work that way here. You are having your Life Review, you will have your Life Review, you have had your Life Review. It is all the same in Nowness.” The Light paused slightly then pushed Sam kindly. “Go, Teach!”

Sam was instantly in the midst of the slow, oh so slow, moving beings. Closer to them, Sam could now see they were deformed, malformed, unformed, and grotesquely misshapen.

“Well,” Sam thought. “So, this is what happens when souls don't acquire or practice their spiritual virtues during Life. No wonder all the Messengers of God, the Saviours, the Avatars, taught that the acquisition of virtues was the purpose of life on Earth. Those virtues are necessary for functioning after Life. These souls paid no heed, and look at them now.” He sneezed.

Suddenly, the Polywogs before Sam were arranged in almost orderly circles, with each little being facing Sam. Sam could now discern faces that had not been obvious before.

“All because I sneezed?” Sam wondered in amazement. Then Sam coughed.

The circles became more regular and all the Polywogs raised up slightly from their former position.

“This is amazing,” thought Sam, and now all the Polywogs had a new, but similar appendage, a virtue.

“Just my thoughts teach them,” Sam thought in amazement. At that moment all the Polywogs gained another new appendage, another virtue, and similar to each other.

“Kindness is a very high virtue,” Sam thought. The Polywogs again changed with a new feature and began to resemble each other more.

“Sacrifice is the highest virtue.” Again, the Polywogs became more formed.

Suddenly, Sam felt a great amount of love for these little souls. That love flowed out of Sam and enveloped the Polywogs like a cloud. As the cloud dissipated, Sam saw that all the Polywogs now looked like sweet little children.

“WOW!” More love geysered out of Sam and the Polywogs were even more completely formed and their dim lights were brighter.

Suddenly a Being of Light, or maybe the same one, Sam couldn't tell, swept past Sam and pulled Sam along.

“Did I do something wrong?” Sam wondered.

“Oh, no,” the Light replied. “You did perfectly. Now it is time, which is not time, for some other task. Do you remember that little girl you died saving? Well, she's a grandmother now, trying to raise her four grandchildren, alone, and needs help. Since you know her, Creator wills you to help her.”

“What can I do?” Sam wondered. “How can I help her?”

“You will do all you can,” the Light answered. “You can do no more than that.”

“Well...” Sam began, but the Light was gone and Sam was instantly in a run down house with four small children and an old woman who sat sobbing in a chair. Sam recognized her as that little girl whose life he had saved. Her spirit was the same even though her body was unrecognizable.

“I can't, I can't, I can't!” The woman wailed and sobbed in grief and despair.

Sam noticed a child who could not yet walk, crawling on the floor. The child was crawling toward a hole in the wall. The hole was a new and fascinating thing for the child. Sam willed the child to stretch its little hand into the hole when he reached it. Instinctively, the child's fingers grabbed onto some papers inside the hole and pulled them out. The child looked puzzled, papers weren't very interesting. The child let them go, dropping them on the floor beside him and reached in again, only to grab onto more papers, which he pulled out and dropped with the others. There was now a small pile.

An older sister soon noticed the actions of the baby and walked over to see what he had pulled out of the hole, which she had never noticed before.

“Grammie!” The girl called excitedly. “Muffin found money!!! Muffin found MONEY!!!” She bent down and grabbed some of the bills and ran to show her Grandmother.

“What? What?” Her grandmother asked, confused. This didn't make sense.

“Muffin found MONEY! LOTS of MONEY!!” Louisa announced joyfully and danced and dropped the bills into her grandmother's lap.

“Why. It is money!” Darnella was astonished as she saw through her tears, that it really was money. “Hundred dollar bills?” She asked, stupified. “Hundreds...”

“WE'RE RICH!! WE'RE RICH!!!” Lousia screamed in delight and began to dance around the room. This brought the other two children in to investigate. “WE'RE RICH!” She called out and showed them the money. The three joined hands and began to dance in a circle in the center of the room.

Baby Muffin sat up and looked at the big kids being silly, and smiled with their happiness too.

“Grammie!” Sam heard Lousia shout with amazement as the scene faded, “I just saw an angel!”

Sam hurried on to the next place that was not place, one of learning. This time Sam was among circling rows of people with a Pillar of Light in the center. All were paying ardent attention to the Pillar.

“As you know,” the Pillar was saying. “Self-sacrifice is the highest virtue and can be manifest in varying degrees and ways. Helping people in life realize this, their purpose, is your next responsibility. Many in Life don't know that selflessness is the human purpose. There are many ways this learning can be accomplished. The desire to help can be stimulated. There will always be some internal conflict to overcome. In rising above that conflict, the soul will grow. You can help the soul minimize their own advantage. You will not always succeed. It is the soul's choice and responsibility to respond. You can also bring to their mind examples of the sacrifices of others. Examples are powerful stimulators. In this way, you will be helping the soul realize its potential.

Sam felt very content. This was what existence was all about. This was love embodied. This was the purpose of creation: selflessly helping others. Sam gave thanks to Creator and set out.

Duane L. Herrmann, internationally published, award-winning poet and historian, has work in print and on-line: Midwest Quarterly, Little Balkans Review, Flint Hills Review, Manifest West, Inscape, Gonzo Press, Tiny Seed Literary Journal, over one hundred other publications, over sixty anthologies, plus a sci fi novel. With branches of his family here before the revolution, and a Native branch even longer, he writes from, these perspectives. 

His full-length collections of poetry include: Prairies of Possibilities, Ichnographical, Praise the King of Glory, No Known Address, Remnants of a Life, Family Plowing, and Zephyrs of the Heart. His poetry has received the Robert Hayden Poetry Fellowship, inclusion in American Poets of the 1990s, Map of Kansas Literature, Kansas Poets Trail, and others. This, despite an abusive childhood embellished by dyslexia, ADHD, cyclothymia, an anxiety disorder, a form of mutism, and now, PTSD. He has carried baby kittens in his mouth, pet snakes, and held conversations with owls, but is careful not to anger them! He was surprised to find himself on a farm in Kansas, and is still trying to make sense of that, but has grown fond of grass waving under wind, trees, and the enchantment of moonlight.

Felix and Ahmed: Conquaerere AND Educere - Short Story by Duane L Herrmann

 

Felix and Ahmed: Conquaerere AND Educere

Short Story

by Duane L Herrmann

    “Did you hear of the tragedy at Lindisfarne, Britannia last month?”

    “No.  What happened?

    “It was horrible.  Barbarians, called themselves Vikings, attacked the university there.”

    “No!” Felix was aghast to hear this news. He and Ahmed, dons of the University of Nocabulabet, were walking through the quadrangle to evening prayers. Being laid out in good Roman fashion, the university was in the center of the city. Being the capital of the State of Branden, named for its founder nearly three centuries earlier, the university filled half the city center, the capital complex filled the remainder. The location was pleasant, overlooking the Moshassuck River just above joining with the Woonasquatucket.

    Felix was just as proud of his Narragansett heritage as Ahmed was of his Wampanoag. They had been friends for several years. Both had been teaching for about a decade, he, Roman Federal history and Ahmed, Islamic Jurisprudence.

    “They burned the Great Mosque of Lindisfarne,” Ahmed continued. “But hadn’t made their way to the university, or its Library, before the Legion came and defeated them.”

    “Thank Caesar for that!”

    “The Great Mosque can be repaired. Only by the Grace of Allah was the Library spared. What a disaster that would have been!”

    “Yes,” Felix agreed. “Especially after the books in the Great Libraries of Alexander and Baghdad had been copied and preserved there! How are we coming along with our accession project here?”

    “Well,” Ahmed was thoughtful. “About a thousand books from each have arrived, though it's a bit hard to say. The copies are being made in Lindisfarne, so there's no duplication. The last shipment had just left before the attack. The Commander of the ship learned of it at his next port. They arrived here the day before yesterday.

    “Aren't we about finished with that project?”

    “Yes,” Ahmed answered. “We nearly have a replication of the Combined Great Library here. Scribes are working on making copies, so we won't have the only copies on Turtle Island. Who knows what the Will of Allah may hold.

    “The loss of life at Lindisfarne concerns me.”

    “Yes, but they gave their lives defending the Holy Qur’án, and...and civilization itself! The invaders deserved to be crucified and that was done the next day. They warranted no mercy, the barbarians!”

    “We were barbarians once, too, you know, before Saint Branden reached our shores. Such a little thing, that currach, he and his men sailed in.”

    “I know,” Ahmed replied. “But WE didn’t attack him and his men.”

    “No, our people didn’t.”

    “Saint Branden and his men were famished when they reached these shores. If they hadn’t been taken in by our peoples, they would have perished for sure. Days and days of sailing, they had no idea the sea was so huge! They had no knowledge of our Land of Penobsquat. They were surprised to find land, and us, and that we knew of the Great Creator Spirit.”

    “They shouldn't have been that surprised that we believed,” Felix replied. “The Holy Qur’an does speak of each tribe having its own Messenger. It doesn't say that Messengers are limited to certain lands or peoples. We had Messengers here, as well as they did in Arabia and Europe.”

    “And, our teachings from the Times Before were, in many ways, much like those of Prophet Muhammad, Peace Be Upon Him.”

    “Praise Allah, for His wonders and bounties! And, the Might of Rome!

    “Yes,” Ahmed agreed. “One young Viking was made to watch the crucifixions, then sent back home with the heads of the rest.”

    “That should show them a lesson.”

    “I’m sure,” Ahmed agreed, then added. “The heads were returned in their own ship. Britannish sailors sailed it, then brought the ship back as a trophy. After touring the ports of Britannia and Gaul, they’ll sail it over here.

    “I’ll be interested in seeing it.”

    “It should be worthwhile to see. It's very different from a currach, or our canoes. The report said it was decorated in an outlandish fashion. Dragon ships they are called, with carved heads like fearsome beasts. They, themselves, are the beasts.”

    The young one too?”

    “That young Viking wasn’t sent home in one piece,” Ahmed added. “He was soundly mutilated to impress the point. As the song says: ‘A castrato he became, I hope he likes to sing!’” Ahmed paused.  “It will be a lesson they'll not soon forget. If they try such a raid again, we’ll invade their lands! We know where they’re from. The Norsemen have gone too far. They can stick to trading. They are good traders, you know.”

    “Do you think they'll return to invade Britannia again?”

    “Not likely.”

    The sun was setting through the trees, glinting off the river. The breeze was pleasant. It was a perfect late spring evening. Flowers were blooming on all sides. The two walked on, both deep in thought. They could hear the call to prayer as it echoed through the campus. The two men unconsciously quickened their pace.

    “I was thinking about offering a non-credit seminar next semester,” Felix remarked. “Just for fun actually, to challenge students to think outside the box.”

    “Oh?” Ahmed was intrigued.

    “For instance, one topic would be: What if the early Roman Empire had NOT been dedicated to education as well as conquest, and had NOT established schools for all the children of the Empire, and universities in the colonies in the new lands. If the natives had not been educated, just as our ancestors were, would they have reverted to their pre-Roman ways at some time?”

    “What an interesting proposition,” Felix replied. “I’ve never considered the possibility.”

   “And, aside from that, what if Holy Brendan had not sailed west from all known lands, and ended here. Imagine; that little hide-covered, wattle framed currach sailing all across the Great Sea! Even the Viking ship is larger! It’s an act of God that they arrived!”

    “And our ancestors welcomed them, revived them and accepted his instruction.”

    “That’s right!” Felix exclaimed in excitement. His friend was beginning to see the possibilities of taping the imagination. “Our people could have continued in their old ways, but they saw that Roman order was much more efficient and productive. They could defend themselves better when they fought like Legions. They saw the advantages at once. Being a part of the Roman Federation just makes sense.”

    “Holy Allah! We could have remained savages!”

     “Yes! And, another possibility: what if the Christians had defeated the forces of the Prophet, Peace Be Upon Him, at Tours and not the other way around. Unthinkable, I know, but, maybe then Islam wouldn't have spread throughout Europe and the world.”

    “But that’s impossible!” Ahmed expostulated.

    “You and I know that,” Felix countered. “But just because events went one way, doesn’t mean they couldn’t have gone another.”

    “But it was the Will of Allah.”

    “I know. But an exercise of the imagination is a good thing too.”

    “Your ideas are wild.” Ahmed shook his head in disbelief. He was much more comfortable with the stability of the Order of Law. But, after a thoughtful pause he asked, “Do you have trouble getting to sleep at night with such thoughts in your head?”

    “Sometimes,” Felix chuckled. “Sometimes I do.”

    Together they entered the mosque for evening prayers and the peace of dusk descended over Narragausett Bay.

Duane Herrmann, a reluctant carbon-based life-form, was surprised to find himself in 1951 on a farm in Kansas. He’s still trying to make sense of it but has grown fond of grass waving under wind, trees and moonlight. He aspires to be a hermit, but would miss his children, grandchildren and a few friends. He is known to carry baby kittens in his mouth, pet snakes, and converse with owls, but is careful not to anger them! His full-length collections of poetry include: Prairies of Possibilities, Ichnographical:173, Family Plowing, Remnants of a Life, No Known Address, Praise the King of Glory and Gedichte aus Prairies of Possibilities, plus a science fiction novel, and a number of chapbooks. Individual work has been published in more than sixty anthologies and Midwest Quarterly, Little Balkans Review, Flint Hills Review, Orison, Inscape, Lily Literary Journal, Hawai'i Review and others in print and online in English and languages he can't read. He is the recipient of the Robert Hayden Poetry Fellowship 1989, and the Ferguson Kansas History Book Award 2007 (for a local history). He survived a traumatic, abusive childhood embellished with dyslexia, ADHD (unknown at the time), cyclothymia, an anxiety disorder, PTSD.  

The Princess and the Lindworm - Short Story by Rachel Dill

 

The Princess and the Lindworm

Short Story

by Rachel Dill

Once upon a time, there was a Princess who was required to marry.

The Princess had often dreamed of marrying for love, but she had known those stories were only fairy tales for many years. Her brother had married some years before; not for love but with tolerance, and he had been allowed to choose his favourite from the candidates for his hand. The Princess would get no such fortune, because she was a princess and the second-born, and so was required to marry only for money and power and prestige.

And so the whole kingdom bloomed with roses, because that was the Princess's name and it would show how precious she was to the people. Beautiful paintings were made of her to show potential suitors why they might want her. A grand festival was prepared, days to be spent feasting and celebrating and competing until the Queen decided which prince or lord or knight was the best choice for the kingdom.

The Princess danced when she was asked to and smiled when she was looked at and spoke when she was spoken to, but her suitors mostly courted the Queen as the Princess sat in her place at the table and waited for her future to be decided.

One suitor was a Knight who had won many tournaments and wore silver armour that gleamed in the sunlight, and the Princess's head ached from the glare of it. He had brought a gift of a deer he had hunted for the feast, a set of lovely rings set with glittering gemstones for a wedding present, and he offered the Princess a stable of horses and acres of land to ride them on, a strong lineage of knights, and all the servants she could ever need. He never looked at the Princess, so she could not see if there was kindness in his eyes, but she thought she could make herself happy enough with so many horses for company, and maybe the Knight would allow her to learn about battle strategies and the history of war.

One suitor was a Lord who had a great deal of money and wore a perfectly tailored blue suit, and the Princess could see that he was sweating in it under the hot sun. He had brought a gift of a great stag he and his dogs had hunted for the feast, an enormous necklace of gold links as a wedding present, and he offered the Princess a lovely manor and enough money to buy herself anything she could ever desire. His gaze never left the Queen, so the Princess could not see if there was kindness in his eyes, but she thought she could make herself happy enough if she had enough gold to buy supplies to try whatever she wanted to try and books to learn whatever she wanted to learn and food that would be gentle enough on her stomach for her to keep it down.

One suitor was a Prince from a fine kingdom, and he wore a golden crown encrusted with jewels that made the Princess's neck ache when she imagined wearing its match. He had brought a gift of an enormous board that his men had hunted for the feast, a golden crown almost as opulent as his own as a wedding present, and he offered the Princess a grand castle filled with beautiful decorations, and many servants to raise their children and ensure she never needed to work again. He spoke grandly across the crowd and the Princess could not look at his eyes for long enough to tell if there was kindness in them, but she thought she could make herself happy enough with so many pretty things to look at and people to help her on days when her body ached too badly to get out of bed.

The Queen considered each suitor as they came and looked thoughtful and considering, and the pile of gifts behind her grew higher and higher. The Princess waited and did not touch her food, as her stomach was heavy and twisted with anticipation.

After every suitor had presented themselves, the Queen thought and spoke to her advisers, and the Princess waited in silence.

A great shadow passed over the sun. The party-goers looked up. A servant let out a frightened cry and dropped her tray to the ground with a clatter.

A Lindworm landed amongst the suitors, its black scales catching the light and shimmering as though streaked with rainbows.

"I apologize for my tardiness," it said to the crowd, its voice deep and gravelly and musical. "It is a long way to the dragon realms, and my invitation almost arrived too late."

Everyone was stunned into silence. Invitations for these types of events were always sent to the dragons, but they only attended in stories. Dragons had better things to do than watch human political affairs.

"No apology is needed," said the Queen at last. "We are honoured to have you join us for the celebrations. They will begin soon, as all of the suitors have presented themselves."

The Lindworm did not look at the Queen. It looked only at the Princess, its eyes glittering like they were made of emeralds. "They have not. I have come to present myself for the Princess's hand."

The Queen paled, and for a moment the Princess thought her mother would collapse into her chair.

"Of course," the Queen managed at last. "However, I fear you will be disappointed, as I do not know if we have enough meat here to satisfy your appetite."

"How fortunate then," said the Lindworm with a smile, "that you have so many guests. If there were half as many, there would be twice as much meat."

Many suitors and their entourages then remembered prior engagements, and they bowed humbly to the Queen and removed themselves from both the competition and the festivities, leaving all their gifts behind.

"How fortunate indeed," the Queen agreed, "but I fear there are strict traditions that must be followed, and you do not appear to have brought a gift."

"How fortunate then," said the Lindworm with a smile, "that so many of your remaining guests have such wealth and remember the old traditions of giving gifts to dragons that grace their presence. Gifts which I could then pass on to the Princess for her wedding."

The remaining suitors clamoured agreement and hurriedly passed their finest jewelry to their servants to give to the Lindworm.

"How fortunate indeed," the Queen said faintly. "Well then, Lindworm, what do you have to offer for the Princess's hand?"

"I have much to offer," said the Lindworm with a smile. "I have scales that can be broken by only the strongest magical swords, teeth that can slice through all but the finest magical armor, and an enormous cave that cannot be found by any but the most gifted of trackers, where the Princess will be able to live safely and comfortably for all of her days."

The Queen cleared her throat. "A fine offer indeed." She whispered quickly to her advisers and then said, "Now that all of the suitors have presented themselves, it is time for me to announce my decision. The Princess shall marry the Lindworm, unless there are any among the suitors who wish to challenge the Lindworm for this honour."

The Princess could hear the hope in the Queen's voice, the hope that someone else would be brave enough to offend the Lindworm, for dragons were known to not care about the kingdoms and families their spouses had come from. But the suitors bowed their heads and stayed still and silent and the Lindworm smiled wider.

"Well then, Princess Rose," it said, "we shall be wed at once, so that we may return to my cave by nightfall."

And so they were, with rather less raucous celebration than the Princess remembered from her brother's wedding.

But while they waited for the bishop to ready the vows, the Princess stood from her chair and moved to the side of the Lindworm, who was looking over all the fine wedding presents the two of them were about to receive.

"I am honored that you wish to marry me," the Princess said, and the Lindworm looked at her with those bright green eyes and smiled with those bright white teeth.

"I hope you will be pleased as well as honoured," it replied.

The Princess hoped so as well, but did not say so. "I feel I should warn you about some things," she said. "Things my mother may not have included in the messages to the suitors that I fear may disappoint you."

The Lindworm sat back on its coils and waited, not even blinking its sparkling eyes.

"I am very fragile," the Princess began. "My bones begin to ache if I walk too much, and some days I can hardly rise from my bed for the pain. The doctors have given up on trying to cure me of it."

"How fortunate then," the Lindworm said, and its voice and smile were much gentler than they had been for the Queen, "that I am strong enough to carry you wherever you wish to go, and have no wings that will jostle you with every movement."

The Princess's heart swelled with hope and relief. "My stomach is fragile as well," she said. "I can hardly eat a bite if the doctors do not make me potions to settle it down."

"How fortunate then," said the Lindworm, "that I live beside a magical stream that can sustain you with a drink, and you will never need to choke down food if you do not wish it."

"How fortunate indeed," the Princess agreed, her eyes beginning to well with tears.

"Were there any other worries?" the Lindworm asked.

"Only that I fear that some of these fine gifts may be made of false gold and fake jewels, and they will disappoint you."

"How fortunate then," the Lindworm said unerringly, "that you are the only jewel I truly desire."

The Princess threw her arms around the Lindworm's neck and did not let go all through their vows, even as she put lovely golden chains around its throat and balanced a crown over its long sharp horns.

And then she climbed onto the Lindworm's back as servants wrapped the wedding presents into an enormous blanket for the Lindworm to carry.

"It is custom," the Queen said, "for the wedding couple to gift their families with a small share of the presents, to ease the pain of watching one's child grow up."

"That is true," the Lindworm agreed, and it looked over the pile of treasure. It reached in with one clawed foot and plucked a single small diamond out of a necklace. It placed the jewel at the Queen's feet. "If I have judged you correctly, that will be more than enough compensation for your grief."

And then the Lindworm lifted the rest of the treasure and rose into the sky as smoothly as promised, the Princess barely having to balance herself against the smooth warm scales, and they left the kingdom and the suitors and the doctors and the Queen far, far beneath them. And the Princess lived happier ever after than she had known it possible to be.

Rachel Dill is 29 years old and has lived in Idaho, more or less against her will, for her entire life. She has been telling stories for as long as she’s known how to talk. She is usually found surrounded by crafting supplies and piles of journals and to-read books

A Christmas Fantasia - Short Story by Ed Lyons

 

A Christmas Fantasia

Short Story

By Ed Lyons

On that Christmas day that we spent with her people in Iceland, her cousin Gurthrún þhorsdóttir proposed for us a game, that on St. John’s Day, I would give her a kiss, and that on Holy Name Day I would give her a ring. And that she requite me a year hence in Ireland. And we set to such cheer as could be found in that bleak and galeswept country, while the ghostly lights danced in the sky for most of the hours of the day. And on St. John’s Day I held her by the shoulders and looked deep into her eyes and kissed her chastely on the forehead. And on Holy Name Day I presented her a claddagh wrought from Irish silver. I slipped it on her finger and squeezed her hand once, twice, three times.

At Midsummer a message arrived in Galway from Skagafjord. My love, it read, my brother is outlawed in Iceland and I must go with him to Gardar. I will come to the Strands of Derry before the gales. Await me at the Giant’s Causeway. And so at Hallow’s Tide I rode forth with a company of knights for our meeting in Ulster. For some days we scanned the ocean, until on Christ the King Sunday, the sail appeared and the curved and sculpted prow, and they pulled the boat ashore, beside the Giant’s Causeway, just as she had said. And so we rode with our chivalrous escort back to Galway, and delivered her to the convent where she would lodge during Advent, polishing her Irish with the nuns, for she would need facility with the tongue in the royal court.

I saw her next in the cathedral on Christmas Eve, and we sat together during the Mass, and in the days that followed, all of the nobles of Galway assembled in hall and hunt, and supped with great mirth, and partook of all manner of entertainments, games, and amusements. And on St. John’s Day she threw her arms around me and covered me with ardent kisses. And on Holy Name Day she graced my finger with a golden ring inscribed with runes, and she threw her arms around me and would not let go.

Whereupon, the Queen turned to me before the assembly, and declared, I have noticed how this shieldmaiden from the North has preoccupied your attention. Let me therefore propose a game. From now until Twelfth-Night the twain of you shall not come to hunt nor hall, nor shall you sing with the mummers of Galway. But you will abide in a chamber with hearth and store and good Iberian wine. And she will prepare your meals and care for you. And then come Twelfth-Night, you shall bring her to the great feast, and I shall ask you whether you liked it. And if you answer Yea, the bishop will solemnize the pair of you at once. But if you answer no, I will cut off all your beard in the presence of the knights and nobles.

The chamber had been prepared and we were shut inside, and I found myself alone with my companion of the year before. She poured us each a goblet of wine, and she said to me, I have no desire to be a man. But I had to fight for my family when the King of Norway confiscated our lands, and in Iceland there has to be a battle from time to time to keep the neighbourhood calm. I fight to protect the ones I love. But I long for a man who will understand my feelings, since none ever has and none has ever been so brave as you. Therefore allow me to propose a game. For the days we are sequestered in this chamber, I will cook for you and clean for you and fill your goblet. And I will do all the work. And you will entertain me, and you will do all the work.

Thereupon I sang her a tale of love and war in Ulster, and she began to weep, and I arose and kissed her tears away and comforted her until she fell sound asleep.

The days passed in pleasant dining and dalliance and joking and embracing and song and trying weird herbs that made you feel like you’re dreaming as you tingle warm all over, until the very air crackled with a mysterious force. We both felt it, this inferno that would consume us both. And time stood still. And the wind and the sleet lashed the castle walls with savage fury.

And so when we came to the great feast, the Queen put the question to me. And Yes, I answered, I liked it. I liked it immensely. And a mighty cheer arose from all the knights and nobles of Galway, whereupon a crossbearer, accompanied by two torchbearers and six vergers, appeared to escort us, followed by the entire court of Galway, into the chapel, where the bishop stood ready.

Ed Lyons has been writing and publishing poems for over forty years. He has studied at the University of Florida, where he earned a B.A. in English, and Florida State University, where he earned an M.S. in Instructional Systems. He has studied under poets Lawrence Hetrick, Van Brock, and David Kirby. He is a regular contributor to the Poems from the Heron Clan anthology, which he co-founded, and a frequent contributor to Lothlorien Poetry Journal, which won him a Best of the Net nomination. Ed’s work has also appeared in Albatross, Woodrider, A New Ulster, Án Áitiúil, and North Carolina Bards. Ed has and written hymns for the Moravian Church. The last is the subject of Ed’s 2019 chapbook Wachovia, published by Katherine James Books in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. Katherine James also has published Ed’s latest chapbook, From the Notebooks of Joseph Brown. Ed lives in Winston-Salem, also in North Carolina.

She Wants To Ask Where He Has Hidden It - Short Story By Tricia Lloyd Waller

 

She Wants To Ask Where He Has Hidden It.

Short Story 

By Tricia Lloyd Waller

Scuttling crustacean like along forlorn Essex coast. Scurrying through slimy seaweed, scratching and scrabbling in sand searching. Shovelling shingle, shifting stones, slipping sidewards sliding on seashells searching.

She has scrubbed obsessively to the point of her fingers beginning to bleed and still they are not clean. Sand, grit and microscopic particles of shell are embedded beneath her nails and refuse to budge.

As he creeps up behind her she can smell the peppermint of his chewing gum breath and every nerve, every sinew in her body goes rigid like a tightened cheese wire as her shoulders scrunch and rise up towards her neck. She holds her breath waiting for the inevitable........There have been so many blows, bruises like maps blossoming across her body in all shades of black, grey, lemon and lavender, even a broken rib or two when she has tripped and fallen and he has used his steel toe capped foot to relieve his frustrations and she understands. She really does understand he is a fisherman after all, he is a part of the sea - just like her. Now reduced to cab driving, delivery and odd-job man because the fishing trade is no longer viable. If it wasn't for his Life Boat duties she's sure he would have 'lost it!' years ago.

For these two are soulmates but worlds apart.

This time however luck is on her side and he just flings yesterday's greasy plate flying past her right ear into the washing up bowl and she stands with teary eyes as slimy soap-suds drip gracefully down her cheek.

'Got an early ride, high tide at 8.00, not sure when I'll be back!' and he slams the front door so hard that the windows rattle like teeth chattering on a freezing mid-winter's night.

She wipes her face on the striped navy and white tea towel and plods upstairs to wake her children.

Bowls, spoons, sugar coated and vitamin enhanced cereal in a dinosaur box, milk in a glass bottle and orange juice in plastic tumblers. She arranges the breakfast things without thinking - a pre programmed automaton.

Inky black coffee burns her tongue but she barely feels it for deep inside her head she is floating on china blue seas beneath pale sapphire silk skies dotted with clouds of the whitest lace and being serenaded by the cries of curlews.

Breakfast done they zip up nylon quilted anoraks, pick up book bags and back packs and gently close the blue painted front door. The small Victorian brick built school is in the next road, the children run to join their friends. She stands to the left of the rusting black painted wrought iron gates fisted hands deep in pockets staring straight ahead.

Whilst other mums huddle together in an attempt to escape from the bitingly cold sea winds she is lost to dreams of ducking and diving and cresting the foamy waves with her three younger sisters surrounded by laughter and love

'stuck-up bitch!' 'Snotty-nosed cow!' ' Thinks she's too good for the likes of us!’

 

The young mum with the oily blue-black waist length hair and ashen skin either does not hear or does not care to hear as she merely glides past the gaggle of young women head held high eyes vacantly staring into the distance and returns to the washing up, unmade beds and vegetables waiting to be scraped and sliced.

She glances up at the kitchen clock; just about time for lunch. So she digs deep into the back of the fridge and pulls out a carefully wrapped cream paper package. She places it on a bone china plate tastefully decorated with pale pink rose buds and slowly unfolds the cream papers to expose a large rainbow trout lying on it's side protruding glassy eye peering up at her. She sighs deeply and with both hands picks it up almost reverently suspends it by its tail directly above her upturned head and wide opened mouth then releases it and with one gulp its gone. She rises from her chair pads to the sink and holding her hair back with her left hand puts her whole face underneath the running tap and guzzles the cold water greedily.

Then she bounds up the corn-flower blue carpeted stairs two at a time changes into her supermarket uniform of grey and pink grabs her handbag and leaves the house.

Fifteen minutes later conjoined with a cushioned swivel chair, compressed between screen and cash-drawer she utters banalities at passing pensioners; meaningless words, mundane mindless job.

She is not bothered though because she can muse upon her life before when she was a part of the vast ocean. When she basked upon sandy beaches under golden sunbeams, bathed in sparkling blue waters and sang sweetly beneath a star tipped button moon. Before she became a prisoner in a world that can never be her home.

She glances at her watch - time to pick up her children. Cordelia pushes the button and the supervisor arrives to take over her till She leaves without a word for she has given up on conversation. There really is nothing she might say to any of them because whatever she says or does she knows they will ridicule her. They will get together in little gangs and gossip about the 'weird woman' who lives with Chris on the Meadow Bank Estate.

Standing apart at the school gate she waits aware of their stares, aware of their whispers and muzzled laughter. Should she care? These are not her kin, will never accept what she is and what she cannot be!

She throws back her head smells, tastes and breathes in the fresh salty sea air and revels in its passage through her sluggish body.

The children appear and taking hold of their hands and bags. She almost frogmarches them through the tiny seaside town of fish and chip, pizza and souvenir shops and one tiny supermarket. She leads her daughter and son onto the shingle and pebbled beach and letting go of their bags and hands she tosses her long thick hair with abandonment and gazes longingly up at the iron grey sky and shiny pewter sea. Arms outstretched she begins to dance in ever decreasing circles singing a strange subhuman lament. She smiles for the very first time that day and gulps down as much icy sea air as her lungs will hold. The children join in until they all collapse laughing in a heap on the beach. This is the only time when she feels truly free, truly happy - right here with her children by the sea - if only?

All too soon the skies begin to darken and oh how she longs to bide here to sing and dance in this gift of spiritual silvery moonlight but the children need to be fed and she knows what will happen if she's late serving his evening meal!

On the way back to the tiny claustrophobic house she goes into the little supermarket and picks up some stewing steak for the casserole that she has already prepared and a pack of two 'fresh' - she doubts that though - mackerel. She also buys some sweets, bars of chocolate and crisps for her children and four cans of local ale.

Once home she turns the TV on and pushes the casserole into the oven - just in time as she hears his key in the front door and her heart misses a beat but thankfully he just pushes past her reaches for a cold beer and joins the children in front of the TV.

'Dinner's ready' she calls as she places four plates on the red cotton gingham table cloth. He clears his plate in minutes, the children eat about half and then ask for chocolate while she just pushes her meat and vegetables listlessly around the plate. As soon as she has finished the washing up and everything is tidy Cordelia once again devours the fish languishing at the back of the noisy old fridge opens the back door and goes to stand in the pitch black tiny back garden.

She gazes up at the navy blue velvet sky peppered with diamond stars and she is sure that she can hear the barks, moans, and mournful haunting wails of her folk and oh how she yearns to join them. Her heart is breaking for the want of them but she cannot not like this not until she is complete.

'Del your kids need putting to bed......NOW!' and the kitchen door slams shut.

Once the children are tucked up in their beds with their nightlights on and cuddly teddies close by Cordelia sorts out the washing and gets the breakfast things ready. It's all delaying tactics in the hope that he will be sound asleep and snoring like the bull he is by the time she eases herself gently into bed but sadly for her he is still awake. He rolls onto his right side props himself up on one elbow and leans over her 'You stink of fish!' he hisses then he sits bolt upright, whacks her hard across the face with the back of his left hand and lies back down turning away to face the wall.

Cordelia does not move a muscle, she lies perfectly still but her heart is shattering further into tiny slivers of sorrow for what might have been. She wants to ask where he has hidden it, to beg and plead that he give it back because it is of no use to him. She has looked everywhere torn the house apart and yet there is no sign; so where is it?

They are both woken in the early hours when it is still dark outside and bone blenchingly cold by the flashing and ringing (Fisherman's Friends sea shanty 'South Australia') of his phone.

'Its a Shout!'

She gazes up at him beneath half closed lids. This man-mountain who only comes alive when he is called upon to volunteer with the local lifeboat. This human being whom she loves with every atom of her being but can no longer live with. She watches as he pulls on the yellow sou'wester and matching wellies with reinforced toe caps. She knows this is the last time that she will ever see him.

He turns and leaves the room without a bye your leave let alone farewell kiss and she knows that he knows she is awake.

Once he has gone - this time fortunately he does not slam the front door - she sits up and reaches for a cardigan from the pink painted chair by the side of the bed. It really does not matter what she wears.

She creeps softly into her children's bedroom. They look like little cherubs from one of those huge gilt framed paintings you see in the big London Galleries with their peachy cheeks and rose bud mouths. How can she say goodbye? She bites down hard on her clenched fist to stop her sobs. She loves them both her little pups more than her own life but she cannot stay. She backs away out of their room and out of their lives for ever.

She leaves nothing.

Just memories.

She tiptoes down the stairs and carefully opens the front door for the very last time closing it gently behind her and she heads for the beach.

 

The sea is out.

So she stands as still as a stone statue and listens. She hears them calling for her their lost daughter from their watery world far far away. Her deep brown liquid eyes fill with tears as she bids farewell to the place that has been her home for over seven years.

But she has to find it.

She cannot leave without it.

 

It is all that stops her from departing this world that never welcomed her full of people that love to whisper and point behind her back make fun of her for being different, being other and the man who showed his love by beating and insulting her. Yet she still loves the very bones of this proud fisherman - always will. So once again she begins her search only this time she has to find it.

This time there is no going back.

Dipping, diving, digging dirty like a dog. Whirling dervish like, desperate, despairing, seeking, searching. Shadowy shape shifter silently sobbing searching - and then.

She spies it. Submerged in silt, suffocating under sewage.

Skilfully she slides it free and she and her silky silver seal skin are as one. She slithers into her pelt whilst gazing up at the bruised rhubarb and liquid gold dawn and then swims joyfully away to her kinfolk and liberty and loss for she will always be a loser as she cannot live in either world without loss and she can never live in both.

Tricia Lloyd Waller has recently had work accepted by The World of Myth and Wildfire Words. She was last year's winner of The Pen to Print poetry competition.