A Slum and a Savior: Part I

by Anatolia Kozinski

“Blessed are those who mourn.” I woke up hearing this during the sermon, where Father was citing the beatitudes. I usually didn’t fall asleep during mass. But perhaps that’s a lie, because I was always ‘asleep’, eyelids shut or not.

A few days earlier:

Therese’ hair danced about in the wind, as it gushed up again over the hill. My bangs would make their way between my teeth as the wind blew in cool gusts. It was cloudy, and even though it was only late afternoon, it seemed fairly dark; the burrows and the trees were quiet, as they seem to be on such a day when the light is dim, makes everything look black and white . The wind began to die down into little wisps, and then left altogether. Finally Therese could tell me the news, my curiosity was eating at me from the inside. Therese however, begin to muse on the wind, telling me that where she had come from, wind would have been a lovely relief to the sitting heat, but now she could appreciate it for its beauty alone. I had never understood how the wind would be beautiful. Therese had been picked up from the Southern slums when she was eleven (I was four at the time) and yet she could still remember her old home as clearly as if she had left yesterday. She never spoke about it in detail, even where exactly it was besides the general southern direction. My parents wouldn’t tell me either. She has scars on her two arms that run a foot down from her shoulder blades. She said it was an identifying mark you received as a worker in the slums. I’ve been told we are distant cousins, but I have no idea why my Grandma and my parents of all people are her guardians. I actually look a lot like her, which I’d always thought was strange. She has stayed at my Grandma Mary’s ever since she came here: twelve years now. My parents were not fond of her, and never supported her. Therese was left to manage for herself. I wasn’t sure why but frankly there wasn’t much I knew about my parents. My dad was an important official for our quite a few regions in the North, and my mother was his secretary. And so I mostly stayed with Therese and Grandma Mary and barely knew my parents at all.

Nobody told me much about anything, and I was used to it. Luckily, I was not really a very curious person, or very active. Although Therese and I got along pretty well somehow, she was pretty much my opposite. She was involved in all these prayer groups and missionary organizations. I went to one of her meetings, and the topic was so sad and depressing I left early. I felt that I was just ‘not strong enough to handle all that’. Other people were  meant for that job, I guessed; Therese being one of them. What could I contribute anyway? People didn’t generally label me as a passionate person. I liked quiet and my calm lifestyle-with an endeavor here and there-it’s not like I could help anything anyway. But I had always admired Therese. I wondered that, if she used to live in those slums, how she could be constantly thinking about them and praying about all that? I had never understood it... but yes I admired it.  At the moment Therese had a broken arm, for the second time. I was hoping she would get the cast off soon, there really wasn’t much I could do with her with it on.

Therese would be leaving to teach again, and I wouldn’t see her until Christmas. Perhaps she had to tell me she would be getting the cast off and leaving sooner; it was usually something like that. I expected her to hurry up with the boring explanation, but instead she hesitated, stared at the ground, and twiddled with grass shoots as though they were the most important things on earth. I coughed a little too loudly, and finally she began to mumble a little:

“Family...vis...visiting.”

“Could you please use articles?”

After hesitating, she said:

“My family is visiting.”

“What does that mean? What family?”

There was silence.

“Are you trying to play me or something. It doesn’t sound like you…”

“No, you know, it’s complicated.”

In an effort to make something rational of out of my confusion, I said;

“Well, you know me, if it has to do with your prayer group thing I’m lost...the world is your family right?”

“Haha. Umm, no Miel, I mean my real family...my parents.”

I was still confused, but I tried not to show my annoyance because of it.

More silence.

“From…” I couldn’t finish.

“Yes from the slums, just say it…”

“But I thought they were de-”

“I never told you they were dead.”

I got up and paced up and down, fidgeting. I knew that Therese could spot the indignance in my face. I had always been annoyed that she never talked about her birth-parents, and now I am told out of nowhere that her parents are still in contact and... visiting.

“Miel?”

“And you’ve told my parents?”

“I’m afraid we need to keep it from your parents. It will only be for a day, and then they will go back…”

I was confused about the thing with my parents, but assumed it was because she thought my parents would make things awkward, or more complicated perhaps…

“I am giving them money”, she said suddenly, “enough to buy a better house there”.

“Enough to buy a house? That’s like all your savings-more than that even. Ask my parents to help-”

But I stopped: my parents would never give any money. They already didn’t do much for Therese.

She said nothing. She had obviously already made the same realization.

“Well, you don’t need me to add to the sum...do you? I mean I do have to send to the islands every year.”

Therese just nodded, I couldn’t follow her expression. Another silence followed from her, and I obliviously interrupted it.

“Well, how about my parents? Haven’t they been supporting your parents?” I wondered why my parents had never let Therese’s family live with us, I assumed mom and dad didn’t know they were still alive, and the idea was too ridiculous anyway. The Southern government probably wouldn’t allow adults to immigrate without a lot of contracts and binding legalistics, even if my dad was a government official.

Therese ignored my question. I assumed the answer was too obvious, my parents didn’t know her family was still alive-it was blatant. Still, this left a lot unexplained: Therese’s cold attitude, my parent’s dislike of her, why exactly she had to come to our family. In truth, I didn’t really want to know, I was sure getting involved would be too much for me. Therese interrupted my thoughts abruptly:

“I need you to drive me to the meeting place. Grandma Mary still isn’t back from her trip-she still has the car, and plus...” She lifted her arm slightly in explanation.

Expressing my frustration monotonously, I said, “Why can’t you just tell my parents?”

“I’d just, prefer not to. Please don’t tell them-I know I am asking you a favor, but just don’t. I’ll keep you out of trouble.”

“I don’t know…” I decided I had better just stick to my usual rule and not ask questions, besides, I owe her lots of favors. Anyways, it always worked out when she was in charge.

“Alright, I will drive you.”

“Thank you. We’ll go after Mass, when your parents are busy socializing.”

“Right.”

Therese smiled. She kissed me on the forehead, looked at me apologetically, and walked off.

I felt a little dumbstruck. Were her parents really coming? I guess I should go with her, surmise the situation, and then maybe tell my parents. Perhaps Therese was acting a little whimsical again, and it would be for her own good.

*    *    *

We were riding in the car in silence, just reaching a mile from the church.  Hills, almost pure green, surrounded us with rings of softer, green-hued trees wrapping themselves like a myriad necklace around them. The sun was soon to set, and the dim light shone through the tresses of the branches in soft rays, burning softly on my pants till I found myself curl up a little in the driver’s seat. “In the North it is usually beautiful like this day, so common that it is not as beloved, perhaps as it should be, but to the south, because of the rarity of beauty, it is more beloved”, Therese used to say to me when I was smaller than her. Now grown into peer-hood, the same person interrupted my thoughts with more hasty words of advice:

“Listen, I need you to leave right away. Right when I get there, promise me!”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

Therese just held out her hand for me to shake it.

“Wow, the old fashioned way.”

“They are often the more reasonable.” She let a slip a quick smile.

She was making me uncomfortable, and I shook her hand, perhaps out of that uncomfort, perhaps out of something else.

“Ok, so why do I have to leave?” I said.

“Because if you don’t you will wind up in trouble, and I made a promise not to get you in trouble.”

I saw a kind of guilty look on her face, and it puzzled me. Therese had never given that expression in her life...well, maybe once or twice. She was normal after all, if normalcy was defined by mistakes.

“Did you hear the sermon today?”, she said randomly.

“I was kind of thinking about your family. It’s a pretty shocking thing for me.” Actually, I had been asleep, and I was lying.

“Hmmm...”, she responded in politeful doubt of what I had said. “ Well, Fr. Frederick was reading the beatitudes.”

“Yep.” That much I knew.

“ ‘Blessed are those who mourn.’ Christ says this and he means those who deserve to mourn themselves, but perhaps he doesn’t exclude those who don’t suffer themselves, but mourn for the suffering of others. If we were all to mourn in love for the hardships of others, than we are blessed ourselves. This is not because of the absence of suffering, but because of suffering itself. If we do not mourn, then we cannot accept. If we do not accept, then we cannot understand. And if we cannot understand, then we cannot bless anyone or let ourselves be blessed. ”

She stopped.

It was the age old speech it seemed. Gibberish to me, but I had my usual answer prepared:

“I don’t know, it’s too much to think about all this in detail. We just psychologically can’t, we have to take small steps, you know.”

You are indifferent, she almost seemed to say, but instead she said,

“Have you ever suffered that much Miel?”.

I felt myself tense up slightly.

“That much? As what?”

“Ten times than what you usually suffer.”

“Again Therese, we just can’t always think about it, psychologically-”

“I know Miel, we can’t always think about it, because we ourselves suffer. But, if we cannot think about the suffering of others, how can we help ourselves? If we cannot help ourselves, how can we help anything?”

She was speaking with that philosophical rhythm.

I felt like I was being preached at, but somehow I didn’t think it was for me,  it was for Therese that she herself spoke. I received in a different way.

Therese directed me to the left, and we approached a run down neighborhood. It was a district that had been evacuated because of the mine collapse and the council had refused to fix it: ‘too small of an area’ apparently.  Now uninhabited. I saw a run down van on the outskirts of the town and two hispanic looking men.  What were those people doing there if they weren’t Therese’s parents? I pointed them out to Therese (gazing far in the opposite direction):

“Oh my gosh, those people look like rogues from Zorro. Why do evil people always look Spanish?” , I said in tone that almost mocked my own joke.

Shaking her head in artificial sophistication and giggling was Therese’s comforting reaction, but then her face dropped (reminding me in my strange thoughts of the surreality of a guillotine) when she saw them. She took the wheel with her unbandaged hand and veered to the right, while also managing to punch the gas. Probably the quickest game of ‘one-man’ Twister I’d ever witnessed. Oxymoronic. We skidded about ten feet., and I found myself driving with five times more celerity than my parents ever did in their most desperate situations. I felt my head flash hot and my underarms suddenly sweaty.

She quickly thrust an odd piece of clothing at me from the back seat.

“Wait what is...you have a bulletproof vest? Why are you giving it to me?”

“No time to explain.”

Definitely ‘movie-talk’, I thought. I suspected she was playing a joke on me...

We were far into the forest outside the rundown district when I got the vest on. Another smaller van was there, with a dark-skinned couple sitting on the ground beside it, timidly. Therese told me to stop and we got out quickly. I just stood there awkwardly as Therese embraced them hastily, but sensitively. There was no doubt they were her parents and my ‘practical joke’ state was quickly gone-like taking a cold shower after drowsiness. She ushered them into our car; I think she was whispering in a different language. There were so many things she hadn’t told me. Her parents were suspicious, and hesitated. They were asking Therese questions, probably to gain absolute assurance she was their daughter.

It was depressing to see them forced to be suspicious. Therese was not empathetic at that moment: she started ‘shouting’ at them and left me rather shocked. It might have been one of the first times I’d heard her with such frantic intensities. After having a vibrant yet fortunately short-lived discussion with Therese, the parents finally noticed and then scrutinized me, their faces transforming into shocked expressions. They asked Therese another question while pointing to me. Then they started to tear up. I felt a little strange after that. It must be a cultural thing, I thought. For a few moments there was silence, like the silence when you’re alone with a stranger, then Therese motioned for me to get in the van, and was obligated to drag her unforthcoming parents towards it. For the moment it was comical, but then a shot, clearly a gunshot, sounded and everybody froze. The wind blew suddenly making the dirt fly and wiping the sweat off my neck .I could almost hear my heartbeat proliferate. When the next gunshot fired I started to run without thinking. Therese shouted at me, but still I kept running. I was getting thicker into the forest, and it was only half a minute before I heard the van start: Therese must have been coming after me. Then I realized how stupid it had been of me to run, now I had no idea where I was. I stopped and caught my breath. Of course, I began to convince myself there was a shooting range somewhere near me, even though Therese’s somewhat petrified expressions back in the clearing had told me otherwise. My hands went to my sides as I thought about what to do next. Then I felt something in the bullet-proof vest I had forgot I was wearing. In the pocket there was a little box, and at the bottom of the box my name was written:  Miel. It wasn’t exactly Therese’s writing, but my gut told me she had put it there. Suddenly I felt ashamed, how much of a coward I had been towards her all these years, yet Therese was more of a friend to me than anyone I had ever known. Crack. I woke from the daze of deep thought. Something crashed over my head and seared like a thousand fingernails scratching and hot water falling. I clenched the box in my hand as the forest blurred and dwindled away. Black.

A Morning Fire

by Lane Bushmeyer

Rosy warming of cumulus,

purpling wispy radiance,

ignition of orange,

clouds crackling auburn,

crimson streaks scratching sky,

amber flameheart throbbing light,

blue heat drafts lifting

momentary flocks

of starry sparks.

The Legend Cycles: Part I: The Verza Cycle

by Fiachra Rottinghaus

A note on the legends of the Dracotauri-

The Dracotaur legends are divided into seven cycles, Verza, Tankil, Daerid, Fire, Stone, Air, and The End of Days. Each cycle is told in short segments, one to be recited every night. The Verza cycle and the End of Days are the shortest, at two nights each, and the Daerid is the longest at five or six.

This is the Verza cycle, or the Creation Cycle. -Hweyat, Scrollkeeper of the Gwentori

First Night

Once there was nothing. The sun flew alone in the heart of the Void, and she was lonely, for she was in herself the entirety of the universe.

She was the Verza, the sun-spirit, and she had been born out of the darkstorms of the Deep Void. As she dreamed of light, the stars appeared above and below her, until she swam in a vast sea of jewels. But the stars were cold and distant and unknowing, even as they gave light to the universe.

So the Verza created a planet, from the winds of the Void and the light of the stars and the marrow of her bones and the breath of her body. She was wounded, but she rejoiced, for she had made Delverzasson, Land born of the Verza. It was barren, and so she warmed it with the heat of her body and watered it with her golden tears, and from the tears of her eyes and the marrow of her bones sprang the grassy plains and the rugged mountains.

But the Verza was still alone, although her heart knew joy. She wished to give another the joy of the stars and the grass and the lightning, but she waited. She waited for many ages of the world, until the time was right.

Second Night

The Verza watered the young earth with the blood of her body, and from the blood clay she created all the small things that fly and run. Where her talons scraped the clay from the ground there was desert, and the desert, too, was good, like the mountains and the grasslands and the great northern rivers.

From the last of the blood clay she made the Dracotauri, and she gave them strong wings to fly among the stars and strong legs to run across the plains. But their hides, like the hides of the small ones, were weak.

So the Verza shed her scales, which fell like rain upon the weak Dracotauri to strengthen their hides and horns, and she became a being of light, and her wings were the wind and her breath was the fire rivers.

As she ascended high into the sky, a few last tears of sunlight fell, and landed on a few of the newborn Dracotauri. Verza Maerix was one of these, a firstborn spiritdaughter of the true Verza.

The Revolt of the Garden Hose

by Lane Bushmeyer

It happened on a hot summer morning

after all the dew had burned off, leaving

my front lawn dry as split ends.

I gathered its worn rubber coils in one hand

and began my rounds.

It sputtered and grumbled complaints about the early awakening

but consented to dribble a warm stream

onto my flowerbed, the soil shriveled and cracked between

stooped-over plants.

I urged it to get serious with a few good shakes,

its only response a snide remark

issued with the flow from its rusted lips.

This would not do.

I turned up the pressure.

A frayed spot in its skin puckered, snapped open,

and a cheap up-spray caught me in the face.

It leaped from my hands and whipped like

a snake with a grand mal seizure, lost in a wet-mouthed rant.

It soaked me from uncombed hair

to garden crocs and pounded trenches in the soil crust,

uprooting my new pansies and scattering their shredded Mardi Gras masks.

Then it turned its rage on the front of the house

and sprayed it down before I shut the water off.

Afterward it lay in the grass muttering obscenities with

its last trickle and no doubt scheming of social movements

that would change the world.

Change of Plans

by Abby Logan

  

    It was a hot day.  Blistering hot, but of course, Alastair Brant didn't know the difference.  He was sitting in a Taxi, the air conditioner turned up high.  Next to Alastair was his charge, an exuberant and enlivened four year old named Hazel Delaney.  Hazel sat beside him, her legs dangling haphazardly over the seat, her tongue stuck out slightly as she drew a picture.

   "Yes, it's finished!" shouted Hazel, startling Alastair from his thoughts.   Her crisp, babyish Irish accent was different then his own British one, and he was still getting used to it, plus her  hyper and emphatic character was extremely unpredictable.

   "Look! Look Alley!"  She squealed with delight.  He cringed.  He didn't know what to make of it when she called him Alley.  He looked down at the picture she had devised with her thick and chubby hands.  It was two stick figures, one tall and lanky, the other short and stout.  They were holding hands.

   "What is it?" he asked gruffly.  The little one laughed.

   "It's you and me!"  Hazel set the picture down and hugged Alastair's waist as best she could, being in the sitting position that she was.  She looked up at him her eyes large and shining.

   "I'm so glad you came and got me."

   Alastair had picked up the child from a rundown orphanage that had been disbanded.  He had been merely escorting her to a new orphanage in Dublin, but the plans had been abandoned when some vital information had been disclosed.  He felt sympathy for Hazel, having been an orphan in his early life.  It could be very lonely.  Alastair sighed and turned to look out the window.  What met his eyes was downtown London, all bustle and business.  Scores and scores of people peppered the sidewalks, gazing into shop windows or haggling with street vendors.

 Her father and mother had been murdered after Hazel's birth.  The entire situation had been kept hush-hush, up until the procuring of the child.  Now, Alastair was escorting Hazel to a secure location where she would be kept safe and more analyzing  of her past could be done.  They had made an seven hour drive to London, then caught a taxi to take them the rest of the way.  Their previous driver, an agent named McGreevy, had been called off to "more important work" and left them stranded in the huge city.

   "Here's your destination, sir," called the taxi driver, who had been silent the entire time. The taxi pulled up to the curve.  Outside was a tall dilapidated building that housed secret headquarters underneath.

   "Are you sure you gave me the right address?" asked the driver, eying the building.  His face bore an expression of obvious confusion.

   "Yes, thank you."  Alastair pulled at Hazel's short arm as he opened the car door.  "Come on Hazel.  Time to get out."  He paid the taxi driver and watched as he drove away, making sure he didn't stick around.

   Alastair was extremely thankful that the car ride was over.  Throughout the long journey,  Hazel had been loud and curious, asking questions about everything.  The only moments of peace had been when she took a two hour nap, exhausted by the day's happenings.  Even then, Alastair and McGreevy had dared not to make a loud noise or even talk with their voices above a loud whisper.  The stakes had been too high.

   Hazel followed, as close to docile as Alastair guessed she could get.  She made a scrunched up face.  "It's hot out Alley."  There it was again, that pet name.  She was indeed an audacious child.

   "Yes, come Hazel, we'll go inside where it will be cooler."  Hazel followed him, holding tightly to his large hand.  He thought of the picture she had drawn.  She was a sweet child, despite her energy.  She had also attached herself quite securely to Alastair.

   Alastair had a fleeting image of life with a child.  It seemed to be more interesting and colorful.  His own life had been getting drab as of late.  Being a secret service agent could at times be exciting, but Alastair had not been assigned to an exciting job in ages.

   Maybe Hazel could come and live with him, in his own house in London.

   Alastair stopped with the sudden revelation.  He turned on his heel, Hazel right behind him.  He hailed yet another taxi.

    "Where are we going now?"  There was whininess in Hazel's voice as she stood, waiting with Alastair for the taxi.  Her hand was still tightly clamped around his.

   Alastair looked down at her.  She was, he realized for the first time, very cute.  Her eyes were vividly green and round.  Her mouth was slightly puckered with complaint.  Her hair was mussed about in frizzy, blonde ringlets.

   Alastair smiled at her.  "We're going home."

The Tree Community

by Lane Bushmeyer

I have come to learn that Christmas, like almost everything else, is a process of change rather than a constant.  Its meaning shifts focus as we grow up.  Over the years decorations break and lights burn out, and we replace them with new ones.  Schedules vary, so that no two Christmases are the same, as much as we might like to repeat a particularly memorable holiday season.  The gifts change as we mature.  Perhaps saddest of all, we lose the zeal and excitement of a child’s approach to Christmas, with its attendant sense of wonder.  But for me, one feature of Christmas at our house has stayed relatively fixed, and that is our Christmas tree, which is the subject of a tradition that has remained almost unchanged, and that seems to be ever more important as the years go by.

To begin with, I’ve always had the uneasy feeling that we’ve been committing the Cardinal Sin of Christmas Trees year after year, because our tree is artificial.  Now, I know that plenty of people have fake trees.  They’re on the shelves of Wal-Mart every year, which probably means they’re socially acceptable, but to me, lugging the tree down from the garage attic instead of venturing into the winter air to seek it out is a task that carries with it a faint sense of sacrilege.  Besides, I hate artificial plants.

So why do we have it?  When my brother and I were younger, we were allergic to quite a few things (and I still am), and bringing a needle-shedding conifer into the house made us flare up.  Although we’ve improved, we all fell into the fake tree habit.  Ironically, the notion of a real tree ousting our traditional pre-lit affair is one I would now approach reluctantly and with some distress.  As much as I dislike fake plants, I like change even less, and it brings out the obsessive in me.

The reason for my obsession in this case is our vast collection (I might venture to call it a community) of ornaments.  With a new tree coming in to host them every year, I would worry that they wouldn’t all fit, that the tree wasn’t tall enough, fat enough, full enough.  Because in our house, the ornaments aren’t decorations, they’re the main attraction.

At first glance our tree looks heavy, even overloaded.  If it was a work of art, it would be called garish, unbalanced, in very poor taste.  If it was a city or a town, it would be called “diverse.”  Aside from a few colored balls dimly reflecting the light, practically every object on the tree is an individual, distinct from all the others, with all the variation of an international airport.  There are, of course, snowmen, angels, and various renditions of Santa Claus.  But surrounding them is an unlikely multitude.  There is a delicate glass bird, a glittering nest complete with eggs, and a tiny wreath made of bells.  Pom-pom mice lie in walnut shell hammocks.  A tree frog and a salamander lurk among the branches.  There are Nativity scenes made of glass and of wood from the Holy Land.

Some of the ornaments are simple, like a handmade paper star with my name on it and a piece of twine to hang it with.  Then there are others like a little wooden Noah’s Ark, with a moveable elephant and giraffe and a whale suspended below.  The Batmobile hangs next to a golden T. rex skeleton and a grill.  The Star Wars logo looms heavily in the branches.  SpongeBob makes an appearance, as does Spider-Man, slinging a present from a rope of webbing.  Undersea life swims in midair—a humpback whale, a sailfish, and a jellyfish.  Other animals include a fox, a koala, elephants, and penguins.  Bigfoot peeks through the branches beside a large pendant ladybug.  There is our long-surviving pickle, which nearly shattered in a fall some years ago.  Among many others hang a piano, a guitar, and a knight with a feathery plume.

In my family there is a tradition in which my brother and I each receive new ornaments every year, and the community is often further diversified by additional ornament gifts in addition to these.  Fitting them all on the tree is an interesting challenge, and this year, for the first time in living memory, we’ve left some off.

It is the memories, I think, that make our tree community such a significant facet of Christmas, coupled with the novelty of discovering it anew each year.  I’m always amazed at what I’ve forgotten when we open the red and green plastic tubs.  But when all the ornaments come out, I can remember each one from previous years, as far back as I can remember Christmas.  Some are as old as I am, others even older.  As a child I would pretend they were alive.  I imagined them arguing over the best spots on the tree or hoping desperately to be placed beside their best friends.  They would assess any newcomers, sometimes with suspicion but more often with welcoming.  And in a way they were like friends, even though I only saw them for a few weeks each year.  Yet they’ve always been nearby, in the house or in the garage, and when I look at them they compel me to pause and remember previous years and, like a calendar with unfilled days, to look forward into the future.

I treasure the variety on our tree.  To me it serves as a reflection of the variety in the earth and in life and human beings.  I think this panoply of variation is one of the greatest blessings in this earthly life, and our tree and its ornaments remind me, every once in a while, to stop and wonder at it.