By Maya Garcia.
A Troubling Love (creative writing)
Sometimes, the tiniest, most seemingly imperceptible gestures, can be heard loud and clear by those whose perception is tuned into them like a radio.
He admires her greatly, but he cannot show it. He fears discovery, as he is locked in another relationship. In the dark, he studies her pictures, and daydreams of a romance with her; of long, lazy afternoons under a shady tree, reciting lines of poetry to her, while drinking in the flecks of color in her eyes, as the light hits them. Of evening picnics on the beach, lying on a blanket under the stars. He remembers the years of happiness they'd spent together, somewhere back in time, like it was yesterday. While he loves and cares for his partner, he is filled with a remorse, an exquisite pain, because she doesn't fill him with the same sense of desire and completion that his fantasy lady love does- the lady from his dreams. He knew her right away, for she had the same eyes and mischievous grin, despite the many years which had elapsed since they last met.
So he wears the mask of anonymity in order to reacquaint himself with this bewitching creature. But it's no use; he can only go so far, get so close before the game is up. She asks too many questions and tears too much at his heart strings. And when she leaves him for another nameless, faceless, man it tears him up inside. Yet how could he possibly stop her, even though he knows this other man could never love her as much as he does? His soul cries out for her at night; in his dreams he's still jumping off of that cliff for her. Yet in the cold light of day, he faces the same old life; filled with friends, family, and other responsibilities.
In short, he is trapped in a prison of his own design. So he continues to sit and observe, watching her glow and twirl like a ballerina in a music box, endlessly dancing, chasing her elusive prince, knowing full well it's likely him she's seeking. He justifies it with rationale, though he knows in his heart she's telling his life's story, and killing him softly in the process.
She brushes her hair in the mirror, and then gently tousles it. She takes the lipstick tube off of the sink and, with a deft hand, reapplies it to her full, sultry lips. She doesn't know why, as it will surely be another night alone, after the laughter and warmth of camraderie fades. She loves spending time with her friends, but as she says goodbye and turns the key into the lock on her prefab, 60's-era home, she realizes she forgot to leave a light on.
It's dark and silent. Just like a tomb. "Perfect," she sighs, as she throws the keys back into her bag, stumbling through the hall until she twists the knob on the kitchen light, illuminating the house, in a wave of shadows and yellowy fluorescent splendor.
She wraps herself up in a blanket, and switches on the TV. The white noise drowns out her thoughts, but not very well. "Why did I tell him there was someone else? Why won't he write to me?" She lamented, as she mindlessly tapped her long fingers against the hard plastic remote control, in a syncopated rhythm only she knew the beat to. "Whose voice is this I keep hearing in my head? Is it him? He sounds so familiar, and yet not like anyone I know. He uses the same name as my mysterious stranger, but I just don't know!" Tap, tap tap. Her fingers kept drumming.
So many strange things had happened since she started to live alone again, her last love dissolved in a a haze as quickly as it had started. How quickly we rush into things when we're lonely! But this love affair she'd assumed was only a figment of her imagination, a product of dreams and fairy stories, had taken a most unusual turn in recent months. And yet, where was her mysterious suitor? She hadnt heard from him in months, after a prolonged spell of almost daily correspondence, yet 'the voice' was ever-present; at night, and at quiet moments especially. Those moments when she couldn't drown it out with food, friends or the television. At first she'd assumed it was her own voice, reimagined. But the language and cadence were completely different from her own. And for as much as she'd read books, meditated and used all of the new age lingo she could muster, she still didn't love herself as much as 'the voice' seemed to love her. She didn't even know for sure who 'the voice' was. Was he a ghost? An angel? Or another human being, with some sort of direct link to her, and her past? He certainly seemed to recall lots of shared memories with her, of times and places long gone but not forgotten. Why did she even remember in the first place? Fate? The order of the universe? Until she'd heard from "the voice," she took her memories with a grain of salt, though she'd met other "soulmates" along the way, who held a few fragments of her history, like pieces of cut-up old photographs. But this man, he seemed to know her as well as she knew herself, if not more. Despite her introspective tendencies, to the point of near-neurosis, she'd never seen herself in quite the same way as he did. Even her flaws seemed beautiful in his eyes. If only she knew for sure who he was, she'd move heaven and earth to find him!
Her fingers stopped tapping as she finished her train of thought, and she gasped as she opened the screen on her phone, to find a picture of the Sanskrit symbol for 'love' posted on her personal page, and a message from her old friend...
Sometimes, the tiniest, most seemingly imperceptible gestures, can be heard loud and clear by those whose perception is tuned into them like a radio.
He admires her greatly, but he cannot show it. He fears discovery, as he is locked in another relationship. In the dark, he studies her pictures, and daydreams of a romance with her; of long, lazy afternoons under a shady tree, reciting lines of poetry to her, while drinking in the flecks of color in her eyes, as the light hits them. Of evening picnics on the beach, lying on a blanket under the stars. He remembers the years of happiness they'd spent together, somewhere back in time, like it was yesterday. While he loves and cares for his partner, he is filled with a remorse, an exquisite pain, because she doesn't fill him with the same sense of desire and completion that his fantasy lady love does- the lady from his dreams. He knew her right away, for she had the same eyes and mischievous grin, despite the many years which had elapsed since they last met.
So he wears the mask of anonymity in order to reacquaint himself with this bewitching creature. But it's no use; he can only go so far, get so close before the game is up. She asks too many questions and tears too much at his heart strings. And when she leaves him for another nameless, faceless, man it tears him up inside. Yet how could he possibly stop her, even though he knows this other man could never love her as much as he does? His soul cries out for her at night; in his dreams he's still jumping off of that cliff for her. Yet in the cold light of day, he faces the same old life; filled with friends, family, and other responsibilities.
In short, he is trapped in a prison of his own design. So he continues to sit and observe, watching her glow and twirl like a ballerina in a music box, endlessly dancing, chasing her elusive prince, knowing full well it's likely him she's seeking. He justifies it with rationale, though he knows in his heart she's telling his life's story, and killing him softly in the process.
She brushes her hair in the mirror, and then gently tousles it. She takes the lipstick tube off of the sink and, with a deft hand, reapplies it to her full, sultry lips. She doesn't know why, as it will surely be another night alone, after the laughter and warmth of camraderie fades. She loves spending time with her friends, but as she says goodbye and turns the key into the lock on her prefab, 60's-era home, she realizes she forgot to leave a light on.
It's dark and silent. Just like a tomb. "Perfect," she sighs, as she throws the keys back into her bag, stumbling through the hall until she twists the knob on the kitchen light, illuminating the house, in a wave of shadows and yellowy fluorescent splendor.
She wraps herself up in a blanket, and switches on the TV. The white noise drowns out her thoughts, but not very well. "Why did I tell him there was someone else? Why won't he write to me?" She lamented, as she mindlessly tapped her long fingers against the hard plastic remote control, in a syncopated rhythm only she knew the beat to. "Whose voice is this I keep hearing in my head? Is it him? He sounds so familiar, and yet not like anyone I know. He uses the same name as my mysterious stranger, but I just don't know!" Tap, tap tap. Her fingers kept drumming.
So many strange things had happened since she started to live alone again, her last love dissolved in a a haze as quickly as it had started. How quickly we rush into things when we're lonely! But this love affair she'd assumed was only a figment of her imagination, a product of dreams and fairy stories, had taken a most unusual turn in recent months. And yet, where was her mysterious suitor? She hadnt heard from him in months, after a prolonged spell of almost daily correspondence, yet 'the voice' was ever-present; at night, and at quiet moments especially. Those moments when she couldn't drown it out with food, friends or the television. At first she'd assumed it was her own voice, reimagined. But the language and cadence were completely different from her own. And for as much as she'd read books, meditated and used all of the new age lingo she could muster, she still didn't love herself as much as 'the voice' seemed to love her. She didn't even know for sure who 'the voice' was. Was he a ghost? An angel? Or another human being, with some sort of direct link to her, and her past? He certainly seemed to recall lots of shared memories with her, of times and places long gone but not forgotten. Why did she even remember in the first place? Fate? The order of the universe? Until she'd heard from "the voice," she took her memories with a grain of salt, though she'd met other "soulmates" along the way, who held a few fragments of her history, like pieces of cut-up old photographs. But this man, he seemed to know her as well as she knew herself, if not more. Despite her introspective tendencies, to the point of near-neurosis, she'd never seen herself in quite the same way as he did. Even her flaws seemed beautiful in his eyes. If only she knew for sure who he was, she'd move heaven and earth to find him!
Her fingers stopped tapping as she finished her train of thought, and she gasped as she opened the screen on her phone, to find a picture of the Sanskrit symbol for 'love' posted on her personal page, and a message from her old friend...
Vintage postcard from the 1920s.
Clare
Vincent Duval was an accomplished concert pianist and songwriter. His long, elegant fingers were as recognizable as his slender, graceful frame. He had high cheekbones, huge, languid eyes and perfect, alabaster skin. Needless to say, he had many female admirers among the elite upper crust. Yet he only had eyes for one woman; the enticing chanteuse Claire Beaumont. She was of serene beauty, with long, wavy, strawberry blonde hair and warm brown eyes, like twin moons, delicately twinkling in the dancing candlelight. She was his chief muse, though he'd had more than his fair share of lovers. She sang for him, after much gentle persuasion, though insisted that their romance begin and end every night onstage alone. She wouldn't give him the time of day otherwise; she simply abhorred his many dalliances, and haughty manner. She haunted him. He craved her. He wrote countless love poems and sonnets. She tore them up. He sent her endless bouquets of flowers; enough to fill her dressing room. She let them wither and die.
"Tell me what I must do to earn your love, ma belle," he pleaded.
She sighed heavily, sucking in her cheeks, "there is nothing you can do, Vincent, for it is a lost cause; I will never, ever give you my love."
He walked away, knife firmly entrenched in his heart, yet determined as ever, “Ma chérie; "never say never. For one day, you shall be my wife."
She scoffed, "I will marry you when hell freezes over, or when you pass every single test I give you; whichever happens first."
Vincent raised an eyebrow, suddenly filled with hope, "oh? A test, you say? Pray tell me more, dear lady."
Claire shrugged her shoulders, as she proceeded to apply her makeup for the evening's performance, "ten tests, or missions, if you will. But you'll never succeed."
Vincent smirked, "never say never, dear lady. At your will, I shall embark upon my first mission tonight, after the concert. I shall prove to you that I am ever your faithful and humble servant." He lifted his top hat, bowing deferentially to his star. "I only ask one thing from my mistress in return."
Claire stared at him in mock indignation, "you take liberties, Monsieur by referring to me as your mistress. But please proceed to make your request nevertheless, and I shall confirm or deny it at my will."
Vincent bowed again, "but of course, M'Lady; as you wish. But I must ask; if I complete these ten missions satisfactorily, will you at least consider me to be suitable husband material?"
Claire laughed, in spite of herself, "Well, this I cannot deny, though I hardly think you will be successful. Now please leave me to prepare for tonight's performance."
Vincent gave another half-bow, clicked his heels and walked away, placing the top hatback upon his crown in a comical manner.
Claire chuckled, shaking her head, thinking, "He is a rogue, but a likeable one at that, I daresay. But I will never tell him that!" She powdered her face, applied rouge and lipstick, and then dressed in costume. This evening's performance was an adaptation of "La Traviata," sung chanson-style, in French. It was a revolutionary concept for the time, and it went down a storm with the hip, young aristocratic audience. The crowd gave the performers a standing ovation, begging for more. After multiple curtain calls, an exhausted Claire sank back in to her plush chair, in front of the vanity mirror, where she started removing the heavy stage makeup she'd applied earlier. As she smeared cold cream across her face, she heard a gentle tapping on her door. She sighed, "Oui? Entrez!!"
Vincent gingerly stepped inside, "mademoiselle, I wish to congratulate you on a brilliant performance. The audience fell in love with you almost as easily and completely as I have. Please accept this small token of appreciation." He laid a bouquet of beautiful roses and orchids upon her dressing room table.
"Merci, Monsieur Duval. And now if you will excuse me, I must disrobe, and you mustn't be here for the event."
Vincent laughed, thinking to himself, "Aah, to only have a glimpse of such a glorious vision as ma belle Claire de Lune, au naturel! Maybe one day." He sighed.
"Very well, mademoiselle, as you wish. I only wish to serve you." He bowed.
Claire sighed in a rare moment of pity (no doubt. brought on by fatigue, she fancied) stopped Vincent, as he walked away, "One moment, please. You asked for a mission earlier, yes?
Vincent immediately turned back on his heels, in a near-gallop, back to her side, "Oui, mademoiselle. Please proceed. I am ready."
She shook her head, "there is a fruit tree, in the garden at L’ Hôtel d'Orléan. It is on La rue de la Lune. I wish to eat only the sweetest, ripest fruit from this tree. I wish for you to procure some of this fruit, now, and deliver it back to me. You must gather the fruit also using only the thumb and first forefinger of your left hand. And I desire to receive the fruit to be presented to me in a wooden box, with a silk lining, and a large, toile blue bow. You must take an escort with you, to bear witness to me, confirming that you have completed this task successfully, according to my precise specifications.”
"As you wish, mademoiselle; I shall return forthwith." And off he dashed.
"He'll never do it," she chuckled, as she began unhooking her lace outer garments.
An hour later Vincent returned with one of the ushers, carrying a wooden box, wrapped in a blue toile bow. Claire's eyes widened slightly, as she addressed the usher, “well, did Monsieur Duval complete the mission correctly, and completely?”
“Oui, Madamoiselle Beaumont, to a tee.”
She sighed, “very well. You may go now.” The usher departed after receiving a generous tip from Vincent. He smiled triumphantly.
“Well, mademoiselle. Have I done well?”
“Yes, monsieur, you have. But may I remind you, you still have nine more missions to complete? And I still doubt greatly you will ever complete them.”
Vincent arched an eyebrow ironically, “have faith, mademoiselle. I won’t let you down. Bon soir. May I ask one small favour in exchange for my victory tonight? May I kiss your hand?”
She sighed, "You may." She proffered her hand, and he kissed it.
"Until tomorrow, where I hope to encounter your pretty visage in good humour, with another mission in tow." He sauntered off triumphantly.
She laughed, shaking her head, "the cheeky devil!"
As each day passed, Claire’s demands became increasingly elaborate, and ridiculous. Vincent met each demand with aplomb, good humour and devotion. The missions included securing a parcel of figs from Jerusalem, sent to the theater by a man, riding a camel; boiling fifteen dozen eggs to get one perfect specimen to serve on a silver platter, in an eggcup made by hand. The eggcup must be perpendicular in height to Claire’s right index finger. Learning how to sew and hand-stitching a new bonnet for Claire, in time for her debut as a milkmaid in his newest play. Of course, he must suffer the humiliation of delivering the bonnet to Claire dressed in a milkmaid’s costume. He did so most convincingly, dressed as a rather fetching young girl, with long braids.
One mission involved climbing to the top of Montmartre, to deliver a picnic basket to his mistress, along with an umbrella, as there was a powerful storm on the horizon. He then had to sit and watch her whilst holding the umbrella for her, so she wouldn’t get wet. Poor Vincent also had to escort her elderly grand'maman for the day, as she made her daily shopping trip to the open air market. He not only carried her bags and helped her navigate her way through the crowds, but he even sat with her upon her return home, listening to her stories about the war, and her misspent youth. Her grand'mamanraved about Vincent, and encouraged her ‘chéri Claire’ to marry him ‘in a hurry.’ She told her grand'maman she never would, yet hearing about Vincent’s exploits that day secretly warmed her heart.
The next day, Vincent was sent to Bordeaux, in search of the perfect bottle of wine, “not too dry, not too crisp, not too oaky; just the right balance of acidity. And you must only travel by foot, or by donkey.”
He obliged her, and a few days later, he arrived at her doorstep, ringing her bell. Her maid, Angelique, answered the door. “Madame Beaumont, a delivery for you.” She presented the bottle of wine¸ along with a signed, letter from the winemaker (on their official letterhead), confirming that Vincent had indeed arrived by donkey to taste and then purchase the wine, according to her exact specifications.”
Claire laughed, “The sly fox!” But she could no longer deny that he was indeed determined to win her hand. Clearly he was intent upon fulfilling her every whim. So she decided to set a slightly ‘easier’ task for him the next day; to climb to the top of the Eiffel Tower, with a bouquet of roses and a sign, declaring his love for her mother. Not only did Vincent complete the mission, but he brought Claire’s mother along with him, to watch the sign, as it was unveiled in her honor. This impressed Claire to no end, and she decided to kiss him on the cheek as a reward for his efforts. He went home in a daze.
Vincent was then charged with the task of carrying Claire on a palanquin from her home to the theater, which he accomplished along with another usher. Claire lived on the other side of the city. By the time they arrived at the theater, Vincent nearly collapsed from exhaustion. Yet he not only completed his mission, but proceeded to conduct the orchestra later on that evening, as Claire gave an inspired performance, portraying the role of a love-struck Spanish Infanta. She played the role most convincingly that night, as she furtively gazed upon Vincent, while he was in action. She’d never admit to doing so, and every time his eyes rested upon her, she quickly looked away again.
As the sun ascended on the last day of the last mission, Claire awoke with a renewed sense of mischief and purpose. She also awoke with a rattle in her chest.
As the sun began to descend lower on the horizon her cough worsened. After a hasty visit from the doctor, she sent for Vincent. He arrived as rapidly as his coach would allow. Claire’s maid answered the door, scarcely containing her look of concern for her mistress, “bonsoir, Monsieur Duval. Mademoiselle has been eagerly awaiting your arrival.” Vincent bowed, as he handed her his top hat and cloak.
As he stepped in to the parlour, he met the doctor. His concern for Claire grew. The doctor signaled for him to approach the master bedroom, where Claire was attended to by a nurse.
He approached the bedroom with trepidation in his heart. Why had Claire sent for him with such urgency, while she was in dispose? This did not bode well, he thought.
As he opened the large oak double doors, he sucked in his breath, and entered her bedroom. He found Claire lying in bed, propped up with a thousand pillows. Her face, while still serenely pretty, was wan and pale. She smiled as soon as she saw him, and held out her hand,
“Ah, Vincent, I am so pleased to see you. I sent for you, because I wanted to release you from any further duties or missions.”
Vincent’s heart sank, and his smile dropped instantly, “but why, Mademoiselle? Why are you in bed? What is wrong?”
Claire smiled, as she took Vincent’s hand in hers, “you see, Vincent, I am most unwell. In fact, the doctor believes I am not long for this world. I have advanced consumption. Therefore, I must ask that you go on and embark upon a new mission with someone else, as I shall wither away as a spinster.” She laughed slightly at her own joke then coughed profusely. Her nurse brought a handkerchief to her, and a glass of water.
Vincent sank to his knees, by her side. He took her face in his hands, “my beloved; I will not leave you. However long you have, you shall not be alone. And you shall not die a spinster. I shall send for the priest immediately.” He kissed her gently, careful not to deprive her of precious air. He held her in his arms, “If you will have me, of course.”
Claire smiled, letting her head rest on his shoulder, “of course I will. I shall consider it an honor that my last act on earth was to be your wife. But I do not wish to infect you with this disease that plagues my body. I must insist that as soon as we are married that you depart forthwith, and leave me to eternal rest.”
Vincent shook his head, “if you go, I will either follow behind, if it is my fate to do so, or I will carry on in your honour. I will not leave you.”
Claire smiled as she touched Vincent’s gentle face, “very well, then. So it shall be. I leave you to your fates, as I go to mine.” He rested his head on her lap. They lie together in silence for a spell, until the priest arrived. The nurse had procured flowers from the many bunches delivered over the last few days, and placed several orchids in Claire’s soft wavy hair. She applied a bit of lip stain on her face, and smiled, “I am not wearing a wedding dress. My nightgown will have to do. At least it’s white.” Vincent laughed, “my dear, you are as beautiful as I have ever seen you.”
The priest married the young lovers in a brief ceremony. The nurse and the maid were witnesses. Several ushers waited outside, along with Claire’s maman andgrand'maman, who were both in tears throughout. They were both advised by the doctor to stay out of Claire’s room for their own protection, yet they insisted upon congratulating the newlyweds. Vincent procured a bottle of champagne from the local grocer, along with the finest caviar that could be found at such a late hour. For the clock struck midnight, on another day, “Well done on completing your last mission, husband.” Claire laughed.
Vincent kissed her hand, “it is my pleasure, my wife.” He beamed at that last statement.As the moon was replaced by the sun, the young lovers slept peacefully in each other’s arms. As the sun loomed high in the sky, Vincent awoke with a start. He kissed his wife, “c’mon, sleepyhead. It’s time to greet the day!” He playfully tickled Claire, but she remained quiet and unmoved. “C’mon, slugabed. We have a dress rehearsal today. It’s time to wake up.” He was overwhelmed with a sick, empty feeling of dread as Claire remained unresponsive to his gentle tugging. “Claire?” He called for the nurse, who ran immediately to Claire’s aid.
As the pallbearers carried Claire’s lifeless body to the morgue, a letter fell out of Claire’s pocket. Vincent reluctantly opened it in a haze of tears. It was addressed to him, “To my beloved Vincent. I leave you this note, for I can only write the words I cannot say. In fact, I always knew you would complete this mission, and I am honored you chose me to be your wife and companion. I am sorry that our time together will be short-lived, but know this; I will carry your love with me wherever I go. Yours for Eternity, Claire.”
Vincent sank to his knees and cried for his wife of only 24 hours. He dedicated every song, play and poem he wrote henceforth to his beloved “Claire du Lune.” He lived on as a bachelor for several more years, before succumbing to a bout of liver ‘fatigue,’ brought on by overindulgence of absinthe, ‘the lonely artist’s beverage of choice.’ One can only speculate upon the meaning behind his last work, “Claire de la lune; la lumière de mes cauchemars.”
It is said that he had visions of Claire before his own demise; that she in fact beckoned to him from beyond the land of the living. Several letters were written during the creative process to his contemporary, the late Charles Henri Le Contes, chronicling his dreams and visions, whereupon he is still very much with Claire. These visions were most pronounced in the last days of his life. One never knows for certain what inspires an artist’s work, but one thing is for certain; the memory of Claire and Vincent lingers on, through his distinguished works of art, and through the muse, who inspired his art; La Claire de Lune.
Vincent Duval was an accomplished concert pianist and songwriter. His long, elegant fingers were as recognizable as his slender, graceful frame. He had high cheekbones, huge, languid eyes and perfect, alabaster skin. Needless to say, he had many female admirers among the elite upper crust. Yet he only had eyes for one woman; the enticing chanteuse Claire Beaumont. She was of serene beauty, with long, wavy, strawberry blonde hair and warm brown eyes, like twin moons, delicately twinkling in the dancing candlelight. She was his chief muse, though he'd had more than his fair share of lovers. She sang for him, after much gentle persuasion, though insisted that their romance begin and end every night onstage alone. She wouldn't give him the time of day otherwise; she simply abhorred his many dalliances, and haughty manner. She haunted him. He craved her. He wrote countless love poems and sonnets. She tore them up. He sent her endless bouquets of flowers; enough to fill her dressing room. She let them wither and die.
"Tell me what I must do to earn your love, ma belle," he pleaded.
She sighed heavily, sucking in her cheeks, "there is nothing you can do, Vincent, for it is a lost cause; I will never, ever give you my love."
He walked away, knife firmly entrenched in his heart, yet determined as ever, “Ma chérie; "never say never. For one day, you shall be my wife."
She scoffed, "I will marry you when hell freezes over, or when you pass every single test I give you; whichever happens first."
Vincent raised an eyebrow, suddenly filled with hope, "oh? A test, you say? Pray tell me more, dear lady."
Claire shrugged her shoulders, as she proceeded to apply her makeup for the evening's performance, "ten tests, or missions, if you will. But you'll never succeed."
Vincent smirked, "never say never, dear lady. At your will, I shall embark upon my first mission tonight, after the concert. I shall prove to you that I am ever your faithful and humble servant." He lifted his top hat, bowing deferentially to his star. "I only ask one thing from my mistress in return."
Claire stared at him in mock indignation, "you take liberties, Monsieur by referring to me as your mistress. But please proceed to make your request nevertheless, and I shall confirm or deny it at my will."
Vincent bowed again, "but of course, M'Lady; as you wish. But I must ask; if I complete these ten missions satisfactorily, will you at least consider me to be suitable husband material?"
Claire laughed, in spite of herself, "Well, this I cannot deny, though I hardly think you will be successful. Now please leave me to prepare for tonight's performance."
Vincent gave another half-bow, clicked his heels and walked away, placing the top hatback upon his crown in a comical manner.
Claire chuckled, shaking her head, thinking, "He is a rogue, but a likeable one at that, I daresay. But I will never tell him that!" She powdered her face, applied rouge and lipstick, and then dressed in costume. This evening's performance was an adaptation of "La Traviata," sung chanson-style, in French. It was a revolutionary concept for the time, and it went down a storm with the hip, young aristocratic audience. The crowd gave the performers a standing ovation, begging for more. After multiple curtain calls, an exhausted Claire sank back in to her plush chair, in front of the vanity mirror, where she started removing the heavy stage makeup she'd applied earlier. As she smeared cold cream across her face, she heard a gentle tapping on her door. She sighed, "Oui? Entrez!!"
Vincent gingerly stepped inside, "mademoiselle, I wish to congratulate you on a brilliant performance. The audience fell in love with you almost as easily and completely as I have. Please accept this small token of appreciation." He laid a bouquet of beautiful roses and orchids upon her dressing room table.
"Merci, Monsieur Duval. And now if you will excuse me, I must disrobe, and you mustn't be here for the event."
Vincent laughed, thinking to himself, "Aah, to only have a glimpse of such a glorious vision as ma belle Claire de Lune, au naturel! Maybe one day." He sighed.
"Very well, mademoiselle, as you wish. I only wish to serve you." He bowed.
Claire sighed in a rare moment of pity (no doubt. brought on by fatigue, she fancied) stopped Vincent, as he walked away, "One moment, please. You asked for a mission earlier, yes?
Vincent immediately turned back on his heels, in a near-gallop, back to her side, "Oui, mademoiselle. Please proceed. I am ready."
She shook her head, "there is a fruit tree, in the garden at L’ Hôtel d'Orléan. It is on La rue de la Lune. I wish to eat only the sweetest, ripest fruit from this tree. I wish for you to procure some of this fruit, now, and deliver it back to me. You must gather the fruit also using only the thumb and first forefinger of your left hand. And I desire to receive the fruit to be presented to me in a wooden box, with a silk lining, and a large, toile blue bow. You must take an escort with you, to bear witness to me, confirming that you have completed this task successfully, according to my precise specifications.”
"As you wish, mademoiselle; I shall return forthwith." And off he dashed.
"He'll never do it," she chuckled, as she began unhooking her lace outer garments.
An hour later Vincent returned with one of the ushers, carrying a wooden box, wrapped in a blue toile bow. Claire's eyes widened slightly, as she addressed the usher, “well, did Monsieur Duval complete the mission correctly, and completely?”
“Oui, Madamoiselle Beaumont, to a tee.”
She sighed, “very well. You may go now.” The usher departed after receiving a generous tip from Vincent. He smiled triumphantly.
“Well, mademoiselle. Have I done well?”
“Yes, monsieur, you have. But may I remind you, you still have nine more missions to complete? And I still doubt greatly you will ever complete them.”
Vincent arched an eyebrow ironically, “have faith, mademoiselle. I won’t let you down. Bon soir. May I ask one small favour in exchange for my victory tonight? May I kiss your hand?”
She sighed, "You may." She proffered her hand, and he kissed it.
"Until tomorrow, where I hope to encounter your pretty visage in good humour, with another mission in tow." He sauntered off triumphantly.
She laughed, shaking her head, "the cheeky devil!"
As each day passed, Claire’s demands became increasingly elaborate, and ridiculous. Vincent met each demand with aplomb, good humour and devotion. The missions included securing a parcel of figs from Jerusalem, sent to the theater by a man, riding a camel; boiling fifteen dozen eggs to get one perfect specimen to serve on a silver platter, in an eggcup made by hand. The eggcup must be perpendicular in height to Claire’s right index finger. Learning how to sew and hand-stitching a new bonnet for Claire, in time for her debut as a milkmaid in his newest play. Of course, he must suffer the humiliation of delivering the bonnet to Claire dressed in a milkmaid’s costume. He did so most convincingly, dressed as a rather fetching young girl, with long braids.
One mission involved climbing to the top of Montmartre, to deliver a picnic basket to his mistress, along with an umbrella, as there was a powerful storm on the horizon. He then had to sit and watch her whilst holding the umbrella for her, so she wouldn’t get wet. Poor Vincent also had to escort her elderly grand'maman for the day, as she made her daily shopping trip to the open air market. He not only carried her bags and helped her navigate her way through the crowds, but he even sat with her upon her return home, listening to her stories about the war, and her misspent youth. Her grand'mamanraved about Vincent, and encouraged her ‘chéri Claire’ to marry him ‘in a hurry.’ She told her grand'maman she never would, yet hearing about Vincent’s exploits that day secretly warmed her heart.
The next day, Vincent was sent to Bordeaux, in search of the perfect bottle of wine, “not too dry, not too crisp, not too oaky; just the right balance of acidity. And you must only travel by foot, or by donkey.”
He obliged her, and a few days later, he arrived at her doorstep, ringing her bell. Her maid, Angelique, answered the door. “Madame Beaumont, a delivery for you.” She presented the bottle of wine¸ along with a signed, letter from the winemaker (on their official letterhead), confirming that Vincent had indeed arrived by donkey to taste and then purchase the wine, according to her exact specifications.”
Claire laughed, “The sly fox!” But she could no longer deny that he was indeed determined to win her hand. Clearly he was intent upon fulfilling her every whim. So she decided to set a slightly ‘easier’ task for him the next day; to climb to the top of the Eiffel Tower, with a bouquet of roses and a sign, declaring his love for her mother. Not only did Vincent complete the mission, but he brought Claire’s mother along with him, to watch the sign, as it was unveiled in her honor. This impressed Claire to no end, and she decided to kiss him on the cheek as a reward for his efforts. He went home in a daze.
Vincent was then charged with the task of carrying Claire on a palanquin from her home to the theater, which he accomplished along with another usher. Claire lived on the other side of the city. By the time they arrived at the theater, Vincent nearly collapsed from exhaustion. Yet he not only completed his mission, but proceeded to conduct the orchestra later on that evening, as Claire gave an inspired performance, portraying the role of a love-struck Spanish Infanta. She played the role most convincingly that night, as she furtively gazed upon Vincent, while he was in action. She’d never admit to doing so, and every time his eyes rested upon her, she quickly looked away again.
As the sun ascended on the last day of the last mission, Claire awoke with a renewed sense of mischief and purpose. She also awoke with a rattle in her chest.
As the sun began to descend lower on the horizon her cough worsened. After a hasty visit from the doctor, she sent for Vincent. He arrived as rapidly as his coach would allow. Claire’s maid answered the door, scarcely containing her look of concern for her mistress, “bonsoir, Monsieur Duval. Mademoiselle has been eagerly awaiting your arrival.” Vincent bowed, as he handed her his top hat and cloak.
As he stepped in to the parlour, he met the doctor. His concern for Claire grew. The doctor signaled for him to approach the master bedroom, where Claire was attended to by a nurse.
He approached the bedroom with trepidation in his heart. Why had Claire sent for him with such urgency, while she was in dispose? This did not bode well, he thought.
As he opened the large oak double doors, he sucked in his breath, and entered her bedroom. He found Claire lying in bed, propped up with a thousand pillows. Her face, while still serenely pretty, was wan and pale. She smiled as soon as she saw him, and held out her hand,
“Ah, Vincent, I am so pleased to see you. I sent for you, because I wanted to release you from any further duties or missions.”
Vincent’s heart sank, and his smile dropped instantly, “but why, Mademoiselle? Why are you in bed? What is wrong?”
Claire smiled, as she took Vincent’s hand in hers, “you see, Vincent, I am most unwell. In fact, the doctor believes I am not long for this world. I have advanced consumption. Therefore, I must ask that you go on and embark upon a new mission with someone else, as I shall wither away as a spinster.” She laughed slightly at her own joke then coughed profusely. Her nurse brought a handkerchief to her, and a glass of water.
Vincent sank to his knees, by her side. He took her face in his hands, “my beloved; I will not leave you. However long you have, you shall not be alone. And you shall not die a spinster. I shall send for the priest immediately.” He kissed her gently, careful not to deprive her of precious air. He held her in his arms, “If you will have me, of course.”
Claire smiled, letting her head rest on his shoulder, “of course I will. I shall consider it an honor that my last act on earth was to be your wife. But I do not wish to infect you with this disease that plagues my body. I must insist that as soon as we are married that you depart forthwith, and leave me to eternal rest.”
Vincent shook his head, “if you go, I will either follow behind, if it is my fate to do so, or I will carry on in your honour. I will not leave you.”
Claire smiled as she touched Vincent’s gentle face, “very well, then. So it shall be. I leave you to your fates, as I go to mine.” He rested his head on her lap. They lie together in silence for a spell, until the priest arrived. The nurse had procured flowers from the many bunches delivered over the last few days, and placed several orchids in Claire’s soft wavy hair. She applied a bit of lip stain on her face, and smiled, “I am not wearing a wedding dress. My nightgown will have to do. At least it’s white.” Vincent laughed, “my dear, you are as beautiful as I have ever seen you.”
The priest married the young lovers in a brief ceremony. The nurse and the maid were witnesses. Several ushers waited outside, along with Claire’s maman andgrand'maman, who were both in tears throughout. They were both advised by the doctor to stay out of Claire’s room for their own protection, yet they insisted upon congratulating the newlyweds. Vincent procured a bottle of champagne from the local grocer, along with the finest caviar that could be found at such a late hour. For the clock struck midnight, on another day, “Well done on completing your last mission, husband.” Claire laughed.
Vincent kissed her hand, “it is my pleasure, my wife.” He beamed at that last statement.As the moon was replaced by the sun, the young lovers slept peacefully in each other’s arms. As the sun loomed high in the sky, Vincent awoke with a start. He kissed his wife, “c’mon, sleepyhead. It’s time to greet the day!” He playfully tickled Claire, but she remained quiet and unmoved. “C’mon, slugabed. We have a dress rehearsal today. It’s time to wake up.” He was overwhelmed with a sick, empty feeling of dread as Claire remained unresponsive to his gentle tugging. “Claire?” He called for the nurse, who ran immediately to Claire’s aid.
As the pallbearers carried Claire’s lifeless body to the morgue, a letter fell out of Claire’s pocket. Vincent reluctantly opened it in a haze of tears. It was addressed to him, “To my beloved Vincent. I leave you this note, for I can only write the words I cannot say. In fact, I always knew you would complete this mission, and I am honored you chose me to be your wife and companion. I am sorry that our time together will be short-lived, but know this; I will carry your love with me wherever I go. Yours for Eternity, Claire.”
Vincent sank to his knees and cried for his wife of only 24 hours. He dedicated every song, play and poem he wrote henceforth to his beloved “Claire du Lune.” He lived on as a bachelor for several more years, before succumbing to a bout of liver ‘fatigue,’ brought on by overindulgence of absinthe, ‘the lonely artist’s beverage of choice.’ One can only speculate upon the meaning behind his last work, “Claire de la lune; la lumière de mes cauchemars.”
It is said that he had visions of Claire before his own demise; that she in fact beckoned to him from beyond the land of the living. Several letters were written during the creative process to his contemporary, the late Charles Henri Le Contes, chronicling his dreams and visions, whereupon he is still very much with Claire. These visions were most pronounced in the last days of his life. One never knows for certain what inspires an artist’s work, but one thing is for certain; the memory of Claire and Vincent lingers on, through his distinguished works of art, and through the muse, who inspired his art; La Claire de Lune.
Artwork by Maya Garcia
The Necromancer, Part One
He always wore a red cloak, lined with the finest silks and gauzes. He stood proud and tall, long flowing black hair brushing past his shoulders. His bright emerald eyes sparkled in the sunshine, of which he was rather impartial, as did the silver pentacle, which always hung around his neck. The symbol of the Necromancer. He was more a creature of darkness and shadow, but not on this occasion! As he lifted his left arm in an elegant manner, elevating his palm up to the sky, he called out to the spirits "deliver me! Bring me the strength to conquer the mighty Bosphorous, in search of my lady love." The universe responded with a sudden crash of lightning, in the midst of a clear blue sky. The forest green resonated like an inland sea, like a wave of bucolic algae, it washed down over his head. He drifted off into a momentary hallucination, of colors and shapes and summertime shadows, looking for answers. He found them written in code on the back of a leaf, an alchemists' glossary, written in symbols, ancient scrolls on nature's parchment. After a brief respite, he began the long journey, first by way of the pedestrian, then by way of the sailor, to the distant shores of Mesopotamia. To this end he hoped to find the woman he'd deemed as his 'Sheba;' the dark beauty who'd haunted his dreams, the woman he foresaw as his future bride. For all of her dark locks and penetrating coal black eyes, she was the light to his darkness. She always wore a gown of white, a band of silver twisted through her hair.
Full of the warmth and the glow of the sun, her smile illuminated the dark wizard's heart. She was always forgiving, and taught him the ways of kindness and love, through her subliminal visits. She always spoke the truth, amidst his lies and subterfuge. With her, he always felt complete, whole and somehow delivered from the evil forces at play in his magic circle. He could leave the darkness with her help, and he was determined to do so.
As he cast his last spell, he justified himself by claiming it was for good purport; to find "her." A sort of cosmic tracking device was placed upon her pretty head. He never questioned if she was truly real; he'd had enough visitations to know she was not of spirit entity; she was a living, breathing woman, trapped in an ivory tower, across the great river, and he knew it would require all of his strength of will to rescue her.
She lay among the fig trees, watching ships swaying gently in the breeze, blowing off of the sea. It was calm sailing weather today. How she longed to escape on a craft, raising the mast towards the Aegean! For there was a wanderer from this land with whom she wished to meet; someone who had cast a spell upon her. She tried to forget him, blocking out the visual and aural memories of their last subconscious encounter, yet she could not. Like the after effects of her many potions, her daydreams became more and more elaborate, and felt more real. Could he truly be more than a mere figment of her imagination? He certainly felt very real; his warm embrace and soft kisses enchanted her as she slept. Yet in the bright light of day, she questioned herself. Perhaps one day they'd meet in the marketplace; many visitors from distant lands traded spices and exotic wares every week; their ships carrying cargo across the Bosphorous, to lands as far away as Africa and Asia. She'd met many of them, as a merchant's wife. Yet, her guilty pleasure was never to be seen here. She often doubted his existence. She'd married young; traded off like chattel by an unscrupulous uncle, once she'd lost her parents in a boating accident, as they crossed the Nile, towards the mighty Euphrates. Her husband was a brute of a man, and a lech. She bore him two sons, with whom he showered all of his affection and attention, saving none for her. She dreamed of escape plans, and devised schemes in her mind, yet did not act on them. She remained the dutiful, but soulless wife.
Yet, this man, this haunting sorcerer, was like no other. She'd never seen eyes so bright, and full of color! She looked forward to his nocturnal visits with great anticipation, often shunning her husband's clumsy advances in favor of sleeping in solitude, but rarely, if ever, in total peace. For he caused great upheaval upon his arrival; bringing a tempest of emotion and desire with him every time; causing trouble. She was convinced he'd cast a love spell upon her. The last time she saw him, he promised to find her, and steal her away in the night. That was but a fortnight ago. Where was he?
His cloak switched from red to black, to conceal himself in the darkness, the sorcerer slipped past the trees, hiding behind bushes and even under bracken to go undetected. Escaping the forest was one thing; escaping the magic circle was to put oneself at great risk, though they often traveled alone. They always sensed one another, and he must therefore take great pains to conceal his identity, lest he should be found and dragged away, to be made the object of one of their many rituals; to what end he knew not, for once you were found as a deserter you simply vanished.
He evoked a concealment incantation as he pulled the hood of his cloak over his head, and walked as quickly as his feet would carry him, towards the sea, and a waiting boatsman.
She lie with the baby in her arms, the young boy child, not yet two years old. As he played with her hair, she wandered into another realm, watching a mysterious man, clad in black, as he embarked upon a ship, to a destination unbeknownst to her. She said a little prayer to the Goddess for his safety, and drifted off to sleep, in hopes of meeting him beyond the waking realm.
The wind howled, whipping through the masts of the ship. The deck swayed to and fro, rocking the passengers, leaving a trail of sickness and fear. "Why must purposeful travel always be so perilous?" He thought to himself. He hid the pentacle beneath his tunic. He did not wish to be so easily-identified, yet his clothing and demeanor all bore the telltale marks of the Arkadian traveler; the mystic from the land of idyllic pastures and mountainous landscapes. There were many legends of the great sorcerers of Arkadia, who dressed as common shepherds when the cover of darkness escaped them in daylight. They were thought of as great men, messengers of light, yet this sorcerer knew better. With great power, there is always the risk of corruption, and his sect certainly veered off into this realm, for many years now. As he pulled his cloak tighter around himself, trying to fight off the feelings of seasickness, he recalled his younger days, as an apprentice magician. He believed the sect could do no wrong, and he initiated himself into their ways wholeheartedly. Yet, as he matured, he became disillusioned and wary. He tried to withdraw. But one must swear allegiance to the sect for life. So he fulfilled his duties while secretly developing an escape plan. And then the enchantress walked into his life, and it compelled him all the more to run away, towards the fertile plains of Mesopotamia.
The enchantress first caught his eye one summer night after an incantation ritual was performed. He'd had encounters with many women before, lovers, and the like, but none like her. Her eyes perfectly matched his in intensity. She bore holes deep within his soul with those eyes, yet he'd never seen her in the waking world. She was all but a mystery to him. Yet, if he saw her standing before him he knew he'd recognize her instantly. That look of warmth, devotion and love for the ages sparked an insatiable desire within him. More often than not, they'd meet by the river, bathed in moonlight. They'd immediately devour one another, merging into one being, one soul; inseparable, timeless, beyond guilt or shame. Then they would lie within each other's warm embrace, sharing hopes, dreams and thoughts, without uttering a single word. He had an intimate knowledge of his love just through shared thoughts alone; not a single syllable ever passed his lips. Language differences never came between them, for they spoke from the heart, the soul and the mind. The last time they met, she told him to wait for her on the banks of the Bosphorus, by the village of Eden. She told him she would go there every night until they met again. He packed his belongings that very same day, and departed in the moonlight the next day, with a hope and a prayer: to find her, to be with her, to save her.
There is never such a longing as there is when two ardent lovers are separated by distance or by circumstance. As she milked the cow, made the cheese, fed the chickens, harvested the vegetables, washed the linens, fed the children, made the bread, swept the floors and darned her husband's garments, she drifted off in to a reverie, wondering if her lover had made the passage across the river safely. She prepared to escape the nest that night, for a stolen moment by the river, in hopes that she'd meet him there. She wore her best gown, bathed and placed flowers in her hair, and kissed her babies goodnight and perhaps goodbye, for she knew not what fate awaited her that evening. She shed tears, but remained resolved to go to the river as promised, to await her love.
The boat rocked and swayed violently along the passage towards the Bosphorus. Silent prayers were said. "I am sorry, my love if I do not meet you again. I was forever true in my intent." He whispered, as the boat nearly lost its keel several times. There was little explanation for the violent waves. The weather was reasonably calm, if a little windy. He could only attribute it to the ill intent of those who wished to keep him apart from his heart's desire. This included several scorned priestesses, along with sectarians, who wished him harm. He continued to evoke a protective spell to combat the negative energy, until the boat finally reached the port with a powerful crash, sending all of its passengers straight into the cockpit. He stood, head spinning, and nearly fainted, but regained his composure as he stood up, in a very wobbly fashion. "Excuse me, captain, but where are we?"
The captain smiled, shaking his head, "miraculously, we are ten miles due south of Eden, on the banks of the mighty Bosphorus. If you walk in that direction (he pointed northwards) you should reach Eden by sunrise. May the gods and angels be with you, sir!"
The Necromancer gathered his satchel and, shakily started the long distance sprint towards the village which held his dreams; Eden, so aptly named, for the origin of love did live there.
She fell asleep beneath the fig trees, waiting for her destiny to arrive. As the sunrise peaked over the mountains she reluctantly awoke. Where was he?! He should have arrived by now, surely. The journey from Greece should have been a steady one. The rivers were calm this time of year. Hanging her head in disappointment and shame, she roused herself, and started to walk towards her cottage. As she neared the gates of her home she suddenly encountered a very familiar pair of eyes, as she walked past the marketplace. A weary, but beautiful stranger met her gaze as she walked past, and he stopped dead in his tracks the moment he saw her. So did she. Part of her wished to turn and run in the other direction. The other part, the one which lie deep within her soul, wished to cry out, and run to him, meeting him with an embrace to rival all others. But as it stood, all she could do was remain in place, frozen as a statue of Venus, staring back at her lover. He could but do the same. They remained in this position for some minutes, before he finally made a move towards her, clutching on to the strap of his satchel for dear life, his heart racing, and his palms sweating with anticipation. She was even more beautiful in the light! She started to walk away, but he reached her before she could leave, holding her forearm in a gentle, but purposeful manner. "Ziana?" He half-announced, half-asked, not certain if the name she gave him in her sleeping state was accurate. She turned towards him, smiling. "Anastasios?" He smiled in return, nodding, stunned to find that their dream and waking lives had finally merged into one.
He smiled widely, like a child who has just discovered the formula for making ice cream. Without uttering another syllable, he shared his joy at seeing her in the flesh, standing before him, and asked her to walk with him, away from the village. She smiled in return, killing the chill that lay within his breast. She nodded slightly, and began to walk beside him, glancing up shyly, studying his face as he spoke.
He appeared to be almost like a phantom to her; so pale and perfect was he, in her eyes! And how his eyes sparkled in the sunlight! Just like the brightest emeralds! She lost herself in his gaze. He in turn was mesmerized by her coal-black eyes, which seemed to reflect hints of grey and amber in the bright sun's glow. Her honey-colored skin glistened in the heat. Her scent, of patchouli and rose water was intoxicating to him. He nearly swooned, and had to stop briefly. Was it the heat from the sun, or from her that was making him dizzy? No matter; soon enough he would bring her back to the cool forests of Arkadia.
As the lovers walked away from the village of Eden, Ziana cried as she spied her former home beyond the grove of fig trees. Anastasios wrapped an arm around her shoulder, "how now, my love. Do not fret. In due time we shall return, and retrieve your sons, to be raised in the Arkadian idyll, along with our own children. Rest assured." He kissed her, tasting the sweetest honey on her lips.
As they passed the river and the sun set, they decided to stay overnight under an elm tree, some miles away from the village, far from prying eyes. Anastasios undressed Ziana, drinking in the warm dew on her soft skin. He tasted her flesh, and was intoxicated with a powerful spell, of love and desire. They bathed in the river, and consumed one another in a passionate embrace, their hearts, minds, souls and bodies entwined as the vines of the holy grapevine itself, not knowing where one began or ended. No shame, no fear was allowed in to their perfect union.
As they lay in each other's arms, directionless and without a home, they cared not. They dreamed of the babies they'd have, a home they'd build, a life of joy and infinite possibilities just over the horizon. They slept peacefully for the first time in months, years, until Phoebe was suddenly awoken by a terrifying feeling of doom. It shook her to her very core, and awoke her with a start; she shook from head to toe. Though she was naked, she was sweating profusely from within, anxiety taking over her body. Anastasios sensed her distress, and awoke with concern. He brought her some cool water, and tried to reassure her, but her heart was racing, and her breathing became heavier. "I cannot breathe. I must go home. I must see my babies!" She was at the point of panting.
Anastasios rubbed her back, "I understand. It must be very difficult. We will return to Eden."
Ziana suddenly shook her head, holding on to his arm,"no, no. He will beat me to death, out of vengeance, simply for being gone this long. no; we must continue our journey. Promise me we will return for my babies."
Anastasios smiled, brushing the dark curls away from her face, "we will, my love. I promise." As he lay back down he hoped this time he was speaking the truth. It was his intention to gather as many of his allies as possible, and return to Eden to rescue Ziana's children. But he knew it was no small feat, and the last thing he wanted to do was to start a war.
"Now let us rest. We've much ground to cover before we reach that boat."
Ziana sighed deeply, "yes." She wrapped a blanket around herself and Anastasios, and drifted off to a restless sleep.
The lovers awoke just as the sun was trickling down through the hills. They shook the dust out of their clothes and dressed hastily, before the heat surrounded them, like a veil.
The road was treacherous, winding around foothills and mountain paths, before reaching the coast. Anastasios held her hand as they descended the steep dirt road. He helped her up several times as she stumbled over rocks. At one point, as she is watching the desert flowers blowing in the hot wind, she has another premonition. She stops Anastasios with a gentle touch of his shoulder, "we must stop and hide. For there is someone trailing behind us. He is close at hand. Come with me."
She took him by the hand, leading him to a grove. She placed her black cloak over their heads, and they hid in the shadows of a large pine tree. They lie wrapped around one another. Ziana tried not to giggle as Anastasios whispered in her ear, "what if the ravens find us? They will either imitate us, or try to eat us."
Ziana tickled him, softly chuckling, "shh! Wait until this wicked energy passes." They heard a rustling of branches, the snapping of dry twigs, as heavy sandals tread upon them.
He always wore a red cloak, lined with the finest silks and gauzes. He stood proud and tall, long flowing black hair brushing past his shoulders. His bright emerald eyes sparkled in the sunshine, of which he was rather impartial, as did the silver pentacle, which always hung around his neck. The symbol of the Necromancer. He was more a creature of darkness and shadow, but not on this occasion! As he lifted his left arm in an elegant manner, elevating his palm up to the sky, he called out to the spirits "deliver me! Bring me the strength to conquer the mighty Bosphorous, in search of my lady love." The universe responded with a sudden crash of lightning, in the midst of a clear blue sky. The forest green resonated like an inland sea, like a wave of bucolic algae, it washed down over his head. He drifted off into a momentary hallucination, of colors and shapes and summertime shadows, looking for answers. He found them written in code on the back of a leaf, an alchemists' glossary, written in symbols, ancient scrolls on nature's parchment. After a brief respite, he began the long journey, first by way of the pedestrian, then by way of the sailor, to the distant shores of Mesopotamia. To this end he hoped to find the woman he'd deemed as his 'Sheba;' the dark beauty who'd haunted his dreams, the woman he foresaw as his future bride. For all of her dark locks and penetrating coal black eyes, she was the light to his darkness. She always wore a gown of white, a band of silver twisted through her hair.
Full of the warmth and the glow of the sun, her smile illuminated the dark wizard's heart. She was always forgiving, and taught him the ways of kindness and love, through her subliminal visits. She always spoke the truth, amidst his lies and subterfuge. With her, he always felt complete, whole and somehow delivered from the evil forces at play in his magic circle. He could leave the darkness with her help, and he was determined to do so.
As he cast his last spell, he justified himself by claiming it was for good purport; to find "her." A sort of cosmic tracking device was placed upon her pretty head. He never questioned if she was truly real; he'd had enough visitations to know she was not of spirit entity; she was a living, breathing woman, trapped in an ivory tower, across the great river, and he knew it would require all of his strength of will to rescue her.
She lay among the fig trees, watching ships swaying gently in the breeze, blowing off of the sea. It was calm sailing weather today. How she longed to escape on a craft, raising the mast towards the Aegean! For there was a wanderer from this land with whom she wished to meet; someone who had cast a spell upon her. She tried to forget him, blocking out the visual and aural memories of their last subconscious encounter, yet she could not. Like the after effects of her many potions, her daydreams became more and more elaborate, and felt more real. Could he truly be more than a mere figment of her imagination? He certainly felt very real; his warm embrace and soft kisses enchanted her as she slept. Yet in the bright light of day, she questioned herself. Perhaps one day they'd meet in the marketplace; many visitors from distant lands traded spices and exotic wares every week; their ships carrying cargo across the Bosphorous, to lands as far away as Africa and Asia. She'd met many of them, as a merchant's wife. Yet, her guilty pleasure was never to be seen here. She often doubted his existence. She'd married young; traded off like chattel by an unscrupulous uncle, once she'd lost her parents in a boating accident, as they crossed the Nile, towards the mighty Euphrates. Her husband was a brute of a man, and a lech. She bore him two sons, with whom he showered all of his affection and attention, saving none for her. She dreamed of escape plans, and devised schemes in her mind, yet did not act on them. She remained the dutiful, but soulless wife.
Yet, this man, this haunting sorcerer, was like no other. She'd never seen eyes so bright, and full of color! She looked forward to his nocturnal visits with great anticipation, often shunning her husband's clumsy advances in favor of sleeping in solitude, but rarely, if ever, in total peace. For he caused great upheaval upon his arrival; bringing a tempest of emotion and desire with him every time; causing trouble. She was convinced he'd cast a love spell upon her. The last time she saw him, he promised to find her, and steal her away in the night. That was but a fortnight ago. Where was he?
His cloak switched from red to black, to conceal himself in the darkness, the sorcerer slipped past the trees, hiding behind bushes and even under bracken to go undetected. Escaping the forest was one thing; escaping the magic circle was to put oneself at great risk, though they often traveled alone. They always sensed one another, and he must therefore take great pains to conceal his identity, lest he should be found and dragged away, to be made the object of one of their many rituals; to what end he knew not, for once you were found as a deserter you simply vanished.
He evoked a concealment incantation as he pulled the hood of his cloak over his head, and walked as quickly as his feet would carry him, towards the sea, and a waiting boatsman.
She lie with the baby in her arms, the young boy child, not yet two years old. As he played with her hair, she wandered into another realm, watching a mysterious man, clad in black, as he embarked upon a ship, to a destination unbeknownst to her. She said a little prayer to the Goddess for his safety, and drifted off to sleep, in hopes of meeting him beyond the waking realm.
The wind howled, whipping through the masts of the ship. The deck swayed to and fro, rocking the passengers, leaving a trail of sickness and fear. "Why must purposeful travel always be so perilous?" He thought to himself. He hid the pentacle beneath his tunic. He did not wish to be so easily-identified, yet his clothing and demeanor all bore the telltale marks of the Arkadian traveler; the mystic from the land of idyllic pastures and mountainous landscapes. There were many legends of the great sorcerers of Arkadia, who dressed as common shepherds when the cover of darkness escaped them in daylight. They were thought of as great men, messengers of light, yet this sorcerer knew better. With great power, there is always the risk of corruption, and his sect certainly veered off into this realm, for many years now. As he pulled his cloak tighter around himself, trying to fight off the feelings of seasickness, he recalled his younger days, as an apprentice magician. He believed the sect could do no wrong, and he initiated himself into their ways wholeheartedly. Yet, as he matured, he became disillusioned and wary. He tried to withdraw. But one must swear allegiance to the sect for life. So he fulfilled his duties while secretly developing an escape plan. And then the enchantress walked into his life, and it compelled him all the more to run away, towards the fertile plains of Mesopotamia.
The enchantress first caught his eye one summer night after an incantation ritual was performed. He'd had encounters with many women before, lovers, and the like, but none like her. Her eyes perfectly matched his in intensity. She bore holes deep within his soul with those eyes, yet he'd never seen her in the waking world. She was all but a mystery to him. Yet, if he saw her standing before him he knew he'd recognize her instantly. That look of warmth, devotion and love for the ages sparked an insatiable desire within him. More often than not, they'd meet by the river, bathed in moonlight. They'd immediately devour one another, merging into one being, one soul; inseparable, timeless, beyond guilt or shame. Then they would lie within each other's warm embrace, sharing hopes, dreams and thoughts, without uttering a single word. He had an intimate knowledge of his love just through shared thoughts alone; not a single syllable ever passed his lips. Language differences never came between them, for they spoke from the heart, the soul and the mind. The last time they met, she told him to wait for her on the banks of the Bosphorus, by the village of Eden. She told him she would go there every night until they met again. He packed his belongings that very same day, and departed in the moonlight the next day, with a hope and a prayer: to find her, to be with her, to save her.
There is never such a longing as there is when two ardent lovers are separated by distance or by circumstance. As she milked the cow, made the cheese, fed the chickens, harvested the vegetables, washed the linens, fed the children, made the bread, swept the floors and darned her husband's garments, she drifted off in to a reverie, wondering if her lover had made the passage across the river safely. She prepared to escape the nest that night, for a stolen moment by the river, in hopes that she'd meet him there. She wore her best gown, bathed and placed flowers in her hair, and kissed her babies goodnight and perhaps goodbye, for she knew not what fate awaited her that evening. She shed tears, but remained resolved to go to the river as promised, to await her love.
The boat rocked and swayed violently along the passage towards the Bosphorus. Silent prayers were said. "I am sorry, my love if I do not meet you again. I was forever true in my intent." He whispered, as the boat nearly lost its keel several times. There was little explanation for the violent waves. The weather was reasonably calm, if a little windy. He could only attribute it to the ill intent of those who wished to keep him apart from his heart's desire. This included several scorned priestesses, along with sectarians, who wished him harm. He continued to evoke a protective spell to combat the negative energy, until the boat finally reached the port with a powerful crash, sending all of its passengers straight into the cockpit. He stood, head spinning, and nearly fainted, but regained his composure as he stood up, in a very wobbly fashion. "Excuse me, captain, but where are we?"
The captain smiled, shaking his head, "miraculously, we are ten miles due south of Eden, on the banks of the mighty Bosphorus. If you walk in that direction (he pointed northwards) you should reach Eden by sunrise. May the gods and angels be with you, sir!"
The Necromancer gathered his satchel and, shakily started the long distance sprint towards the village which held his dreams; Eden, so aptly named, for the origin of love did live there.
She fell asleep beneath the fig trees, waiting for her destiny to arrive. As the sunrise peaked over the mountains she reluctantly awoke. Where was he?! He should have arrived by now, surely. The journey from Greece should have been a steady one. The rivers were calm this time of year. Hanging her head in disappointment and shame, she roused herself, and started to walk towards her cottage. As she neared the gates of her home she suddenly encountered a very familiar pair of eyes, as she walked past the marketplace. A weary, but beautiful stranger met her gaze as she walked past, and he stopped dead in his tracks the moment he saw her. So did she. Part of her wished to turn and run in the other direction. The other part, the one which lie deep within her soul, wished to cry out, and run to him, meeting him with an embrace to rival all others. But as it stood, all she could do was remain in place, frozen as a statue of Venus, staring back at her lover. He could but do the same. They remained in this position for some minutes, before he finally made a move towards her, clutching on to the strap of his satchel for dear life, his heart racing, and his palms sweating with anticipation. She was even more beautiful in the light! She started to walk away, but he reached her before she could leave, holding her forearm in a gentle, but purposeful manner. "Ziana?" He half-announced, half-asked, not certain if the name she gave him in her sleeping state was accurate. She turned towards him, smiling. "Anastasios?" He smiled in return, nodding, stunned to find that their dream and waking lives had finally merged into one.
He smiled widely, like a child who has just discovered the formula for making ice cream. Without uttering another syllable, he shared his joy at seeing her in the flesh, standing before him, and asked her to walk with him, away from the village. She smiled in return, killing the chill that lay within his breast. She nodded slightly, and began to walk beside him, glancing up shyly, studying his face as he spoke.
He appeared to be almost like a phantom to her; so pale and perfect was he, in her eyes! And how his eyes sparkled in the sunlight! Just like the brightest emeralds! She lost herself in his gaze. He in turn was mesmerized by her coal-black eyes, which seemed to reflect hints of grey and amber in the bright sun's glow. Her honey-colored skin glistened in the heat. Her scent, of patchouli and rose water was intoxicating to him. He nearly swooned, and had to stop briefly. Was it the heat from the sun, or from her that was making him dizzy? No matter; soon enough he would bring her back to the cool forests of Arkadia.
As the lovers walked away from the village of Eden, Ziana cried as she spied her former home beyond the grove of fig trees. Anastasios wrapped an arm around her shoulder, "how now, my love. Do not fret. In due time we shall return, and retrieve your sons, to be raised in the Arkadian idyll, along with our own children. Rest assured." He kissed her, tasting the sweetest honey on her lips.
As they passed the river and the sun set, they decided to stay overnight under an elm tree, some miles away from the village, far from prying eyes. Anastasios undressed Ziana, drinking in the warm dew on her soft skin. He tasted her flesh, and was intoxicated with a powerful spell, of love and desire. They bathed in the river, and consumed one another in a passionate embrace, their hearts, minds, souls and bodies entwined as the vines of the holy grapevine itself, not knowing where one began or ended. No shame, no fear was allowed in to their perfect union.
As they lay in each other's arms, directionless and without a home, they cared not. They dreamed of the babies they'd have, a home they'd build, a life of joy and infinite possibilities just over the horizon. They slept peacefully for the first time in months, years, until Phoebe was suddenly awoken by a terrifying feeling of doom. It shook her to her very core, and awoke her with a start; she shook from head to toe. Though she was naked, she was sweating profusely from within, anxiety taking over her body. Anastasios sensed her distress, and awoke with concern. He brought her some cool water, and tried to reassure her, but her heart was racing, and her breathing became heavier. "I cannot breathe. I must go home. I must see my babies!" She was at the point of panting.
Anastasios rubbed her back, "I understand. It must be very difficult. We will return to Eden."
Ziana suddenly shook her head, holding on to his arm,"no, no. He will beat me to death, out of vengeance, simply for being gone this long. no; we must continue our journey. Promise me we will return for my babies."
Anastasios smiled, brushing the dark curls away from her face, "we will, my love. I promise." As he lay back down he hoped this time he was speaking the truth. It was his intention to gather as many of his allies as possible, and return to Eden to rescue Ziana's children. But he knew it was no small feat, and the last thing he wanted to do was to start a war.
"Now let us rest. We've much ground to cover before we reach that boat."
Ziana sighed deeply, "yes." She wrapped a blanket around herself and Anastasios, and drifted off to a restless sleep.
The lovers awoke just as the sun was trickling down through the hills. They shook the dust out of their clothes and dressed hastily, before the heat surrounded them, like a veil.
The road was treacherous, winding around foothills and mountain paths, before reaching the coast. Anastasios held her hand as they descended the steep dirt road. He helped her up several times as she stumbled over rocks. At one point, as she is watching the desert flowers blowing in the hot wind, she has another premonition. She stops Anastasios with a gentle touch of his shoulder, "we must stop and hide. For there is someone trailing behind us. He is close at hand. Come with me."
She took him by the hand, leading him to a grove. She placed her black cloak over their heads, and they hid in the shadows of a large pine tree. They lie wrapped around one another. Ziana tried not to giggle as Anastasios whispered in her ear, "what if the ravens find us? They will either imitate us, or try to eat us."
Ziana tickled him, softly chuckling, "shh! Wait until this wicked energy passes." They heard a rustling of branches, the snapping of dry twigs, as heavy sandals tread upon them.
Tommy and Jennie
The lights on my Studebaker dimmed slowly as I raced out the door, slamming it hastily shut, then dropping my keys, cursing them as I pull them out of a puddle of rainwater. As I lock the door and storm off towards the large grey cinderblock building, my thoughts are a deluge, stabbing my mind. Will she still be alive by the time I get to her? Is she in pain? Is she asking for me? My heart skipped a beat, and my chest felt tight as I swallowed hard, trying desperately to quash the lump in my throat, and push back the tears that were quickly welling up in my eyes. She is my life; my heart, my soul, my best friend. My sister. She CAN'T die! When the news came, I was still in rehearsals, practicing the routine for tonight's revue. I was lost in the music, watching the notes climb the walls, forming shapes and patterns, like the swirls of cigarette smoke, which was never far behind. When that hand tapped my shoulder roughly I was lost in another world, dreaming of Betty Blue and a million other girls I'd had my eye on, not a care in the world. The news dropped like a German Luftwaffe bomb, crushing my world in one fell swoop. I dropped to my knees before I knew what I was doing, dropped the saxophone on the floor, and ran straight to my car. If I could have developed wings I'd have flown to that hospital to get there quicker!
As I ran through that parking lot like an Olympic sprinter, I remembered the day when she started walking as if it was yesterday. The day she said her first words, the first time she sassed me (I lost count soon after) the first time she came home crying over a boy, after the school dance. The number of times I had to hold back her hair while she got sick from the flu. The number of times I had to help with her math homework once Dad left for the war. I became her surrogate father that day, and she became my shadow, but one I never seemed to mind having around. I taught her how to arm wrestle and box after the school bully beat her up. I told her what to say to boys when they tried getting fresh with her. I bought her tap dancing shoes with my first paycheck. I taught her how to dance the foxtrot and the waltz. I loved her more than life itself. How could she leave me now?
Damn drag racers! Stupid teenagers, trying to be the big boys on campus, plowed down my beloved little sister with their suped-up Fords and La Salles! I told her not to go to the rally tonight, and as usual, she knew better than me! I wished more than anything at that moment she could be there for me to scold. But instead of standing in front of me, she lie in a hospital bed, either in a state of suspended animation, or escaping this world. I had to hold it together. I am the man of the house after all. As I approached the duty nurse I took a deep breath, fighting back tears and the urge for either a drink or a smoke to numb the pain, and I asked her to direct me towards the ICU, where they were keeping her hooked up to breathing tubes and IV's, like a character in a science fiction novel. My heart sank to the bottom of the ocean floor when I saw the nurses' face change from a look of purposeful calm to one of concern and pity. I paused for breath as she delivered the news, "your sister had to be rushed to the operating room. It seems she developed a blood clot in her left lung due to the trauma from the accident. The surgeons are with her now. It will be several hours at least before you will see her, sir."
She might as well have told me the angels are with her; the news ripped through my chest like a knife. I sank down into the first chair I could find, my head in my hands. There was a time for bravery, then there was this. I sobbed pitifully, like a child. I felt a soothing hand on my back, and smelled the familiar scent of gardenias. It was my aunt Bev, "there, there, honey. She's gonna be A-OK. I know it sounds bad, but these doctors have done this surgery a million times, you watch. Come here." She hugged me, smelling sweetly. I thought I detected a hint of Uncle Chazz's aftershave too when she wrapped her arms around me. Boy, was I glad she was there! Mom was still in New York, though as I learned later she was on her way home, on the red eye.
After I'd poured out what felt like the contents of the mighty Mississippi, mostly on my aunt's unfortunate shoulder, she said, "now dry your eyes, son, and let's go get a coffee in the cafeteria. Sitting here does nothing for anxiety but feed it."
Six hours later as I'm nodding off halfway through the sports pages, the chief surgeon emerges from the operating room. He claps me on the back triumphantly, a little worse for wear, "well, son. The operation was a success. With a lot of rest and a few weeks of observation in the hospital, your sister should be just fine."
Feeling resumed in my arms and legs, and so did my breathing at these words. I must have breathed a huge sigh of relief, because it woke up Aunt Bev, who was snoring away uncomfortably in a chair across the room. She woke with a start, then smiled when she saw the smiles on mine and the doc's faces. "Good news, huh?"
"I'll say!" I said, grinning like a Cheshire Cat. As Aunt Bev and I linked arms, I said a silent prayer, thanking the gods and my lucky stars. If there's one thing I taught my girl, it's how to be a fighter, and she didn't disappoint me. We walked through the large double doors, in to the intensive care unit, hearts racing, basking in the neon glow of bright hospital lights, and white, gleaming linoleum floors.
The lights on my Studebaker dimmed slowly as I raced out the door, slamming it hastily shut, then dropping my keys, cursing them as I pull them out of a puddle of rainwater. As I lock the door and storm off towards the large grey cinderblock building, my thoughts are a deluge, stabbing my mind. Will she still be alive by the time I get to her? Is she in pain? Is she asking for me? My heart skipped a beat, and my chest felt tight as I swallowed hard, trying desperately to quash the lump in my throat, and push back the tears that were quickly welling up in my eyes. She is my life; my heart, my soul, my best friend. My sister. She CAN'T die! When the news came, I was still in rehearsals, practicing the routine for tonight's revue. I was lost in the music, watching the notes climb the walls, forming shapes and patterns, like the swirls of cigarette smoke, which was never far behind. When that hand tapped my shoulder roughly I was lost in another world, dreaming of Betty Blue and a million other girls I'd had my eye on, not a care in the world. The news dropped like a German Luftwaffe bomb, crushing my world in one fell swoop. I dropped to my knees before I knew what I was doing, dropped the saxophone on the floor, and ran straight to my car. If I could have developed wings I'd have flown to that hospital to get there quicker!
As I ran through that parking lot like an Olympic sprinter, I remembered the day when she started walking as if it was yesterday. The day she said her first words, the first time she sassed me (I lost count soon after) the first time she came home crying over a boy, after the school dance. The number of times I had to hold back her hair while she got sick from the flu. The number of times I had to help with her math homework once Dad left for the war. I became her surrogate father that day, and she became my shadow, but one I never seemed to mind having around. I taught her how to arm wrestle and box after the school bully beat her up. I told her what to say to boys when they tried getting fresh with her. I bought her tap dancing shoes with my first paycheck. I taught her how to dance the foxtrot and the waltz. I loved her more than life itself. How could she leave me now?
Damn drag racers! Stupid teenagers, trying to be the big boys on campus, plowed down my beloved little sister with their suped-up Fords and La Salles! I told her not to go to the rally tonight, and as usual, she knew better than me! I wished more than anything at that moment she could be there for me to scold. But instead of standing in front of me, she lie in a hospital bed, either in a state of suspended animation, or escaping this world. I had to hold it together. I am the man of the house after all. As I approached the duty nurse I took a deep breath, fighting back tears and the urge for either a drink or a smoke to numb the pain, and I asked her to direct me towards the ICU, where they were keeping her hooked up to breathing tubes and IV's, like a character in a science fiction novel. My heart sank to the bottom of the ocean floor when I saw the nurses' face change from a look of purposeful calm to one of concern and pity. I paused for breath as she delivered the news, "your sister had to be rushed to the operating room. It seems she developed a blood clot in her left lung due to the trauma from the accident. The surgeons are with her now. It will be several hours at least before you will see her, sir."
She might as well have told me the angels are with her; the news ripped through my chest like a knife. I sank down into the first chair I could find, my head in my hands. There was a time for bravery, then there was this. I sobbed pitifully, like a child. I felt a soothing hand on my back, and smelled the familiar scent of gardenias. It was my aunt Bev, "there, there, honey. She's gonna be A-OK. I know it sounds bad, but these doctors have done this surgery a million times, you watch. Come here." She hugged me, smelling sweetly. I thought I detected a hint of Uncle Chazz's aftershave too when she wrapped her arms around me. Boy, was I glad she was there! Mom was still in New York, though as I learned later she was on her way home, on the red eye.
After I'd poured out what felt like the contents of the mighty Mississippi, mostly on my aunt's unfortunate shoulder, she said, "now dry your eyes, son, and let's go get a coffee in the cafeteria. Sitting here does nothing for anxiety but feed it."
Six hours later as I'm nodding off halfway through the sports pages, the chief surgeon emerges from the operating room. He claps me on the back triumphantly, a little worse for wear, "well, son. The operation was a success. With a lot of rest and a few weeks of observation in the hospital, your sister should be just fine."
Feeling resumed in my arms and legs, and so did my breathing at these words. I must have breathed a huge sigh of relief, because it woke up Aunt Bev, who was snoring away uncomfortably in a chair across the room. She woke with a start, then smiled when she saw the smiles on mine and the doc's faces. "Good news, huh?"
"I'll say!" I said, grinning like a Cheshire Cat. As Aunt Bev and I linked arms, I said a silent prayer, thanking the gods and my lucky stars. If there's one thing I taught my girl, it's how to be a fighter, and she didn't disappoint me. We walked through the large double doors, in to the intensive care unit, hearts racing, basking in the neon glow of bright hospital lights, and white, gleaming linoleum floors.
