Tag: short-story

Wellspring of Love

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excerpt

“That’s all, Dad. We’re not going out anywhere, I promise.”
“Fine. Give Lyssa’s clothes back to her. Now sit down and let’s get
started before everything gets cold. All right, Bobby, go ahead.”
Once again they joined hands around the table and bowed their
heads for Bobby’s shortened grace.
ͣͣ
With the twins settled in their beds – but not without complaining
that it was still light outside – Tyne returned to the kitchen to pour
two cups of freshly brewed coffee. She added fresh cream and carried
them outside to where Morley sat on the porch swing.
“Where’s Bobby?” Tyne asked as she handed him a mug and sat
down beside him.
“Doing a final round in the barn and taking Sparky for a run.”
Tyne sighed. “Poor old Sparky. I don’t think he’ll be with us much
longer, do you?”
Morley took a sip of coffee and shook his head in the negative.
“No, I’m afraid not. He’s lived longer than most big dogs live. But he’s
not suffering, just losing energy and his zest for life.”
Tyne placed her hand on Morley’s where it lay on his knee. “It
will break Bobby’s heart when Sparky dies. They’ve been inseparable
since the day I brought the kids home for what was supposed to be a
temporary stay with us.” She laughed lightly with the memory.
Morley took her hand in his big one and squeezed it. “Almost ten
years ago. Can you believe it? I sometimes wonder how we did it all
with everything that went wrong that first year.”
Tyne smiled and turned her head to kiss him on his stubbled
cheek. “You know how we did it. Only with prayer and God’s faithful
guidance.”
They sat quietly for a few minutes as the swing moved gently back
and forth. The only sounds were the familiar bawl of a calf in the barn,
and from the chicken house close by, the rising and falling murmur of

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Jazz with Ella

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ILLEGAL INTENT
ULYANOVSK, JULY 18, 1974
Maria’s eyes were dreamy and romantic as she twisted her own “first promise” ring. “They were such a cute couple,” she sighed. “Did you see how he looked at her—with so much love?”
“I only hope she feels the same way,” Jennifer said.
“I can’t believe he just walked out of that park without a backward glance,” said David. “I couldn’t do it. Leave my life behind, my family back in Canada…”
Jennifer, Ted, Maria and David had gathered at a dinner table aboard ship where they were reasonably sure there was no bugging device. They had determined this the day before by the simple expedient of dousing the table “accidentally” with a pitcher of water. A waiter had immediately stripped the table and replaced the cloth while they watched.
“We have to be cautious,” said David, indicating the room at large. Only a few other diners were present and the dinner had been delayed once again. “Our first item of business…”
“Excuse me. Have we elected you leader?” Ted asked.
“Could you at least listen to me? Our first item of business is how much we tell the others—here’s Hank now and he looks as if he wants to sit here. And then there’s Lona, who some of us mistrust, and we should decide that before she arrives.”
“Everyone’s got to know,” pointed out Maria, “except Natasha, of course. Don’t you think people are going to miss Paul? Though maybe not everyone needs to know about the second part of the plan, about Volodya…”
“Agreed,” replied Ted. “But there will have to be a few of us who know about the second part so that we can help.” Jennifer thanked him …

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The Circle

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“Thank you, Hakim; I’ll be in touch when I’m in L.A. Bye for now.”
He has committed himself to the task he and Ibrahim discussed the last time
they were together. This makes Bevan Longhorn feel more relaxed and peaceful
inside. His good, old friend, as he calls him, is right and Bevan knows what needs
to be done, before the end of the year.
Hakim’s mind flutters to a variety of things, as he tries to figure out what the
Admiralmeans by his crypticmessage about needing to see Ibrahim before the end
of the year. He shreds themessage and then sits at his workstation and opens the line
to communicate with his uncle. It’s no later than ten o’clock at night in Baghdad.
“Hello my dear uncle; are you there?”
“Hello, my dearest son. I’m here doing some paperwork; Mara is in bed already.
How are you?”
“I’m good; Talal is flying today via New York. He is flying with American
Airlines, flight number A3552. Expect him in Baghdad by four o’clock in the
afternoon, tomorrow.”
“Good. I’ll have Rassan pick him up; is Emily Roberts with him?”
“Yes, of course. Bevan sends his regards.”
“Oh, thank you, my dear boy. Please tell him hello when you see or talk to him,
alright?”
“Yes, my uncle, everything else is the same here. Bye for now.”
About 12:30 p.m., Hakim and Jennifer start off to pick up Talal and Emily.
Jennifer is still jittery and Hakim tries to calm her down.
“Come now, baby, relax. You behave as if you are the one who is traveling;
it’s Talal and your mother. They’re going to be just fine and will have a good
time, you’ll see.”
“I know. I know all that; yet, my mind doesn’t know how to stop worrying.
What do you want me to do?” she looks at him distressed.
“I know what you need; when we get to the airport I’ll show you. Don’t forget
you must be strong and relaxed for your mother’s sake.”

Emily is still very upset about the idea of flying on such a long trip. Talal goes to
the bar and pours two glasses of wine.
“Come, my love. Have some wine. It will relax you; we’re going to be fine.
Don’t worry; you’ll make Jennifer worry if she sees you like that. Then she’ll have
a hard time while we’re away.”
Thinking about Jennifer and with wine in her system she feels better in a
matter of minutes, and when Jennifer and Hakim come in, they find Talal and
Emily relaxing on the couch waiting for them.

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The Unquiet Land

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and, unlike Padraig, who did his best with what physical strength he had, Michael was a farmer to his finger-tips: strong and tireless, with an instinctive knowledge of the land and its needs, bred into him through countless generations of farming ancestry. For these very different characteristics Caitlin loved them both.
Michael was late today and that was unlike him. He knew how much Caitlin hated unpunctuality and he never showed up late for anything without good cause. Something had delayed him. Caitlin stood up from the rock on which she had been sitting and started along the footpath to the harbour, hoping she would meet Michael on the way. A strong breeze from the sea flicked her 1ong, black hair and flappered her skirt like a flag on a pole as she strolled along the path. Tussocks of grass bent over in the breeze like peasants in potato fields. Seagulls sliced the wind with bladed wings. Shags skimmed over the waves, and gannets plunged for fish like suicides. The air smelt of sea-wrack and salty pools.
Then Caitlin thought she heard her name being called. She stopped and turned and saw Nora hurrying towards her. She waited till Nora arrived beside her, breathless and smiling, almost laughing.
“You seem to be in good form today, Nora,” Caitlin said.
Nora linked her arm through Caitlin’s, and they dandered on towards the harbour. “Oh Caitlin, Flynn’s back. He’s back for good. We’re not going to live in Dublin after all.”
“Well, no wonder you’re in good form,” Caitlin said. “I’m glad you’re not leaving. I’d have been lost without you.”
The girls sauntered along in silence, arm in arm, almost mirror images of each other, save that Caitlin wore an old blue cardigan and Nora a brown, woollen coat. An unbiased observer might have said that Nora was the prettier of the two. There was a hardness to the line of Caitlin’s mouth and a certain insensitivity in her eyes, both of which were absent from the gentler, softer features of her sister. Otherwise they bore the physical characteristics of twin girls. As they approached Purdy’s Point they stopped to watch the waves break on the black dike and the wrack-covered rocks. Nora kept her arm entwined in Caitlin’s but she said nothing.
“What’s on your mind, Nora?” Caitlin asked at last.
Nora hesitated, her eyes still fixed on the choppy sea. Then she turned to Caitlin and said, “I was wondering about you and Michael.”
“What about me and Michael?” Caitlin asked, though she knew well what was coming.

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Arrows

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When he had finished with my face, he gave me an appreciative
look and nodded his satisfaction. Then, he extended the gourd to me
and told me to do the same over the rest of my body. I was reluctant
at first, but after a spell he left, and I began to feel the itching ease.
Good enough for me, I thought, and proceeded to do as I was told.
I was squeezing the last of the sap and applying it to my groin
when Guacaipuro appeared, still wearing his perpetual scowl.
“Mareoka,” he said.
Apparently he was resuming our conversation. He extended his
hand, palm upward. I looked at it stupidly and then at his
countenance, failing to grasp his meaning.
“Mareoka,” he repeated. He thrust his hand toward me again. I
felt as though there was a tiny monk running amok inside my head,
looking in every corner for something related to this one magic word
that was the gateway to his witchcraft.
“Ah! Mareoka!” I slapped my forehead, as if I suddenly
understood.
For the first time, Guacaipuro smiled, as if he had finally won me
over. From the pocket of my habit I extracted my copy of the New
Testament that he had previously rejected by tossing it onto the
ground. I offered it to him again. “Mareoka,” I said, solemnly.
If I was agreeing that Mareoka was superior, it was only to allow
me the freedom to prove to him otherwise. I hoped God would
forgive me.
“Tamanoa,” I said, pointing to my friend.
Guacaipuro was more interested in the strangeness of the book. I
seized the opportunity to take advantage of my newfound
respectability by untying the ropes. Guacaipuro did not appear to
object. I moved slowly, deliberately, until Tamanoa was able to
stand beside me, free.
Guacaipuro shook his head, dissatisfied. He took the rope and
tied Tamanoa’s wrist to my wrist. This was his compromise
solution. I must not allow my servant to run away. As soon as I
gleaned his intent, I yanked hard on the rope, jerking Tamanoa
beside me.

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Yannis Ritsos – Poems, Volume II

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Neighbourhood Afternoon II

No — it’s nothing — I’m not hungry, you hear me?
It’s just a little headache. I rather go lay down
to put the chin close to the knees — to go to sleep
listening to the wind that grinds its teeth outside.
These faces look so strange
the steps on the sidewalk so strange
and the pepper trees of the street also strange —
the children get frightened by them — and
they pull their hairs without saying any words.
They had tied the rope on the trees over there —
five men stayed there for three nights and three days
like riders of the galloping wind who never got away.
The light of the lamp doesn’t recognize our hands —
the glass is smoked up, you see;
our hands on the table resemble dried up plane-tree leaves
they can’t hold a harmonica, can’t say thank you
or the day after tomorrow;
only when they hold another hand
they become hands again — and then the circle created
by the light of the lamp resembles a dish with warm food
from which two or three or more men can eat
and feel content.
Look, the evening star is rising. A purple dusk
after the rain — the evening star is
like the first I love you of a different spring. Look.
Freshly washed fence walls — the letters are still visible.
Stay by the window for a while yet. Here. We’ll look far away.
Over there to the corner of the road where our old spring
resembles
a green kiosk with many colorful magazines hanging
on cloths-pins fluttering in the breeze as if they clap
joyously;
a kiosk with many cigarette cartons
that the workers stop and buy after work,
a kiosk with small mirrors
where the neighborhood girls stop and pretend
that they don’t look into while absentmindedly
look at the young worker who passes with his hands
in his pockets
and as the mirrors hang slanting in a way
it gives them the impression that the young worker
will fall on them —
as they absentmindedly fix the curls of their hair
that slides on their foreheads like the light slides
on the upper crack of the door that leads to
the next room where two lovers kiss.
Look, then, the evening star has risen.

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Fury of the Wind

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what she had been through since four o’clock that afternoon the
condition of the interior of the house had afforded the most welcome
relief she could imagine.
Ben did not look up so she spoke above the voice on the radio.
“I hope you won’t think me rude if I retire early, Ben, but I’m extremely
weary.”
He nodded. “Be turning in myself soon.”
“Very well. Good night.”
He looked up then and smiled briefly. “G’night.”
In the bedroom she closed the door firmly behind her. There
was no key in the lock. After a moment’s hesitation she carried the
chair from beside the bed and shoved the high back under the door
handle.
She took a cotton nightgown and a hair brush from her overnight
bag, removed the dress she had worn for three days on the
train and hung it, along with her underwear, on a two-inch spike
in the bedroom door. When she had pulled the nightgown over her
head she went to the window, pushed the lacy white curtains aside
and raised the sash. If the flies wanted to come in, so be it, because
she could not stay in that room without fresh air.
Twilight lingered, streaking the western sky red. There were no
outbuildings on this side of the house. The wind of the daylight
hours had diminished to a light breeze in which a field of wheat
waved gently. The faint sweet scent of goldenrod wafted in through
the window. On a fence post a robin sat to warble its evensong.
To the right of the house stood a clump of poplar trees surrounded
by scrub brush. Through them, Sarah discerned the outline of
a small rooftop. Realizing it must be an outhouse she experienced
a moment of panic when she suddenly felt the call of nature. Why
had she not thought to go out before she readied herself for bed?
She didn’t feel inclined to dress again but she certainly had no intention
of embarrassing herself by running into him as she passed
through the kitchen in her robe and slippers. Besides, who knew
what wild animals or species of snake may lurk in the bushes in the
fading light?
Only one hope remained. Sarah quickly got down on her knees
and lifted a corner of the counterpane to peer under the bed. Yes,
there it was – a white chamber pot. She sat back on her haunches…

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Water in the Wilderness

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Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, be with us sinners now and the hour of our death. Amen.”
After a moment, she said aloud, “Please keep Morley safe, Lord. Send him to me, I need ….” Her words cut off by another sharp pain, she cried out, “Dr. Rosthern, please hurry.”
Rachael knew she couldn’t go any further. Her feet and hands were blocks of wood. Her whole body felt as though it didn’t belong to her. To make matters worse, she was beginning to see things that weren’t there. Several times she had called out to Ronnie where he walked ahead of her breaking the trail.
“Ronnie, look,” she’d called, “there’s a house up ahead of us.”
But each time he had dashed her hopes. “No, there’s nothin’ … no buildings … nothin’.”
She had felt like crying but was too exhausted to do even that; anyway, her tears were all dried up.
She glanced at Bobby on Ronnie’s shoulders. Her brother had been quiet for a long time. His head had fallen forward, and he looked to be fast asleep.
Sleep – that’s what she needed. She absolutely could not go on another minute without sleep. She stopped walking, sank down on the snow and let her eyes close of their own accord.
“Rachael, get up. Get up.”
She struggled to open her eyes. Her mother was calling her. She must have overslept and she’d be late for school. She tried to sit up, but a heavy weight on her whole body seemed to be holding her down.
“Rachael, Rachael, please get up. You can’t go to sleep. We’ve got to keep moving or we’ll freeze.”
Ronnie stood over her, jolting her back to reality – the reality that seemed more dream that real. He grasped her arm and pulled her to her feet.
“Bobby’s sleeping,” she said tonelessly. Actually, it made no difference to her whether she slept or whether she froze. She teetered on her …

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Jazz with Ella

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“You too,” she said sincerely. “We’ll miss you.” She smiled at Vera who nodded. “There’s something I’d like to give you.” She reached into her purse and removed her wedding ring from where she had tucked it. “You might need this. Please take it. It brought me happiness for a while.” Paul nodded. Vera took the ring wordlessly. Her eyes filled with tears.
“Uh, aren’t you forgetting something else?” asked David.
“The leather jacket? It’s in my cabin—for you.” They all laughed.
“Hey, thanks. But I was actually thinking about what we should say to people back in Canada. Do you have any family at all, Paul?”
He shook his head.
“Any friends who might report you missing?”
“Not any who’d really care. Jen’s been my best friend. Oh, but you can tell Dr. Sommer at the Russian department what happened and tell her that she’s an excellent teacher. I couldn’t have done this without her. But otherwise, no, there is no one. My mother’s been dead a long time now, and so has my grandmother who was my guardian. My dad disappeared—probably because of gambling debts.”
By now Vera was crying openly. “You have family now,” she told him, and Jennifer was overjoyed to see how eagerly he hugged her.
★
Just three blocks away, their tour guide, Natasha Alexeyevna Kuchkov, was sitting on the warm cement buttress of a public fountain. Two other women dressed in sarafani, light cotton dresses, were dipping their bare feet in the fountain’s pool and giggling. Such behaviour was not for her. In any case, the telegram recently received from her director had induced a cooling effect right to the bone. Phone me directly you reach Ulyanovsk, it had ordered. They don’t know what it’s like in the field any more, she thought. When we arrive, I have visits to organize, vouchers to fill in, local staff to supervise. How much time do they think I have?
Thus she had been almost relieved when the rebellious students asked for some afternoon time off, though she wouldn’t admit as much to them. It had given her an opportunity to find the nearest postal and telegraph office where the long distance phone booths were located. She dialled her director on his personal private line and after some buzzing, whining, and several hang-up clicks, she was finally put through.

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The Unquiet Land

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“He’s given them up. He doesn’t like Dublin very much anymore. He wants to stay in the village and work in the quarry again. He says that’s the only life for him.”
“Oh Nora, that’s wonderful news.” Mother Ross was almost weeping. “I didn’t want you to go to Dublin. It’s so far away. I think that was worrying your father too. He was beginning to think you’d leave and he’d never see you or Dermot again.”
“He’s silly, Mammy.”
“He’s old, Nora. You said so yourself.”
The two fell silent, each distracted by separate thoughts of Finn MacLir.
Then Mother Ross sighed, sipped her tea, and stirred in another spoonful of sugar. “There’s shortbread in the biscuit tin by your elbow.”
“No thank you. The tea’s fine on its own.”
“Push the tin over here then,” Mother Ross said. “I’ll have some.”
Nora did as her stepmother requested. “I think you’re eating too much, Mammy.”
“Oh, don’t you start, Nora. I get enough of that from Dr Starkey.” Mother Ross took a bite from her wedge of shortbread, ate it with obvious relish and then said, “So Flynn’s decided to stay in the village. The big city’s not for him after all.”
“No. He keeps thinking he ought to be in Dublin. His Uncle Finnegan there is very fond of him. But every time he goes to Dublin he gets homesick for the mountains. He’s up at the quarry now to see about keeping his job there. He’s been in Dublin since the general election in December, over two months now. But they’ll take him back. He’s a good worker. He’s a Drumard stone-man, Mammy. He’ll always be a Drumard stone-man.”
Or stone dead. The thought rushed unbidden into Mother Ross’s head, but unlike the voluble palm reader her tongue refused to give it utterance. Nevertheless she felt impelled to say something, if only to warn Nora. Perhaps she should talk to her husband and remind him that his responsibilities to her and their son were greater than his commitment to Republican idealism.
“I’d be a lot happier,” she said, “if Flynn Casey wasn’t also Rebel Casey.” Mother Ross clasped her stepdaughter’s hand to emphasise the seriousness of her words. “Nora, I’m very fond of Flynn. I know that a lot of people don’t like him, and perhaps some of them have good cause not to. But, Nora, there’s a mood in the country. An ugly mood. If there’s going to be trouble, Flynn’s going to be mixed up in it, and I’m afraid for both of you. And for little Dermot.”

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