A Love Lost and Regained: Installment VI

Installment I

Installment II

Installment III

Installment IV

Installment V

Mark DenHoed and John Ahern write (or, rather, transcribe),

A Love Lost and Regained: Installment VI

What light now comes gleaming
through the bars of my cell?

What new song comes singing
past the strong gates of hell?

It is only one thing
one and the same

It is Love, fresh as Spring
A Love with no name

-Thompson

Chapter 10: A glimmer of hope

I stopped running, exhausted.  I looked up and saw, all around me, the tall, twisting branches bursting into high blooms, framed against the deep, star-filled sky.

The stars continued in their unending, slow turning dance.

Suddenly, I heard footsteps coming up behind me.  There was Avery, his dark, braided hair falling behind his shoulders.

“Cantaloupe,” said Avery, “What’s the matter?”

“How can you ask what the matter is?!  How can you say anything?  How can all this be happening?!  Oh, be a man and give me some answers!”

“What answers?”

“Your last name is Willowbend, is it not?!  Why didn’t you tell me?!”

“Yes, of course it is.  Cantaloupe, it just never came up!  I didn’t think it was important!  After all, what’s in a name?”

“Do you deny that you have an elderly relative named ‘Mrs. Willowbend’?  Do you?!”

“I’ve never heard of any such person, dearest!  There are no elderly in our village.  At least, not in mind.”

“So, you don’t have a relative who has a deep, dark, dank hatred of all that is good?!”

“Not that I know of.  Cantaloupe, what’s the matter?”

“Oh, Nothing!  Everything!  Don’t you see?  Oh, Avery.  I just don’t know who to trust… I don’t know if I can trust you!  It’s as if you’re not really opening yourself up to me.  Like I can never get to know you!”

My life is a search,
a tireless quest,
When in a lurch,
to find my rest,

How can I
Ever escape
From those who lie,
who show a false shape?

To trust someone
is the best thing,
Shine like the sun,
Make a bell ring

These were the thoughts running through my mind…

As if he heard every thought, Avery said, “That’s lovely, Cantaloupe.”

“How do I know you really mean that, MR. WILLOWBEND?” I desperately inquired.

Avery looked hurt, really hurt, as if my distrust stabbed him in the most sensitive part of a person: the heart.

“Just go, I must be alone,” I declared.

“Anything, Cantaloupe.”

“Don’t call me that!  How can you?  My name is my own, no one else’s!”

“You probably need your space,” said Avery in a hurt, yet manly tone.

He walked back the way he came.

I slumped down to the floor by one of the great trunks/branches of the Haven (they are one!) and cried, huddling up on myself as if to protect myself from the cold, hard reality of the cold, hard world.

Several minutes later, I heard more footsteps, but these were lighter, not weighted down by the cares of this world.

There, around the corner, glided Morril.

He sat down beside me and looked up.

“Beautiful night.  The moon is so bright, smiling down on us.  It’s when your really look at Nature that you see what a wonderful world we really are in.”

“Is this about Avery?” I asked.

“Well, yes,” he confessed, “He’s very hurt, Cantaloupe.  He doesn’t know what to do.”

“Do you know whether he is lying?”

“No, Cantaloupe.  I can never tell you that.  For we all must have mystery in our lives.  I will say this though, Avery always follows his heart.”

Those words, ‘follow your heart‘ echoed in my ears.  But why?!

My mind shot back to so many years previously, back when my parents were alive.  I was five.

I was so happy at that time, just thinking back to it gave me the sniffles.

Mother and Father were always so involved in the community.  They always made sure that the law was kept up and always did their part.  There was a horrible old lady next door.  She had a small camping trailer, which she had illegally parked on a gravel part of her driveway. We reported it.

Anyhow, this old lady had a son.  And he was horrid!

One day, I was watching the servants taking out the recycling and I saw him on the driveway.  He was horrid.

My family and I went to a picnic sponsored by and for the our gated neighborhood.  At the tender age of 11, I wasn’t allowed out of the house without my parents and body-guards.

“Cantaloupe,” called father in his lovely, musical, 2nd tenor voice.  “We’re leaving for the picnic!  Please find your own way out to the car!”

“Coming Father!” I shouted from the window.  “And Mother,” I happily added, seeing my mother’s shocked expression.

I collected my high-heel shoes and parasol and walked out to the car.

We drove out of the driveway, across the road, and into the parking lot (gravel of course, never asphalt) by the neighborhood’s private park.

Father looked back towards me as we got out of the car.

“Cantaloupe,” he said, eyes shining.  “I want you to have fun today.”

“Oh, daddy,” I exclaimed, and hugged him.

Mother and father walked from our car toward the park and I walked in-between them, holding both their hands.

The park had some gently rolling hills with quite a bit of flat area.  There was one big hill, in the park, on top of which sat a small marble gazebo.  My father would jokingly refer to it as “Our own little Mount Olympus”.  From the gazebo, one could see the entirety of the 40-acre park.  Towards the edges, the trees were more dense, though the became more sparse in the middle.  At the bass of the hill housing the gazebo was a small blue lake.  Fish lived in the lake and would often jump out of the water in glee.  Great oak trees rose out of the ground, their stiff branches waving, bending in, yielding to the wind.

“Your mother and I were involved with the planning, and construction of this park, Cantaloupe,” father told me.

“That is amazing, father,” I said, surveying the beauty all around me.

“Yes, we got the builders to make it resemble a place that was very dear to us, where we got married,” he said.

By this time, we were at the gazebo.  There was a big line of poor common wretches in front of the food.  How I pitied them.

The mayor of our town (and chairman of the gated community’s housing association) greeted us and led us to the front of the line.

“Anything for our financiers and honorary parks commission members,” he said.

“Go ahead of me,” I said to mother and father, “I’m going to wait for a minute.”

They gave me happy glances and moved up the line.

I turned away and walked down the hill a little, looking over the pond and the gently curving park, as it fell away into the distance and eventually succumbed to the artifices of civilization.

I heard some movement behind me and there was the horrid little boy from next door!

“Well, lookie there!  It’s Little Ms. Cantaloupe,” he said, “Come out of your cushy little house into the real world for a change?  See any more illegally-parked trailers to report?”

His words slashed toward me like a sword.  It was as if he advanced verbally, foil drawn.

“I do not associate with the likes of you, boy!”

Parry.

“Why are you always so mean, Cantaloupe,” he asked with a shattered voice.

“Why,” he continued, “don’t you realize how my heart is so broken?”

“Oh,” I said, “I’m so sorry!”

“Haha,” he snickered cruelly.

I looked at him not believing what I was seeing.  Here was a person so twisted as to manipulate my emotions for selfish ends.  I then realized that some of us are just like that deep, deep down in us, if we look hardly.  If this had been 13 years later, I would have thought about what Jack had told me, that it was not what we do that makes us what we are but WHO we are deep down that makes us good or bad.  I would have despaired, at first and the mortal implications of that statement, and then at my own malleability and helplessness.  But I soon learned that I was mistaken.

“You’re horrid!  Wha… What is wrong with you?!”

He laughed, and left.

I was crushed and ran crying and running to my mother for comfort.

She looked up from her potato salad, deviled eggs, and broccoli salad to see me coming up.  She was sitting in a wicker chair under a large oak tree in the park.  Behind me, I could hear the boy(and others) playing soccer.  Father was smoking a cigar with his friends by the gazebo, laughing about the sports.

“Why,” I asked mother, “Why must people be so… so…”

“Human?” finished my mother, in a low voice.

“Wha-wha-what?”

“Cantaloupe,” she said, “The Unenlightened will always be looking for ways to drag you down with them.  You know what to do when they try that, right?”

“Sulk and…”

“No, Cantaloupe.  Never sulk.  Always smile!”

“Huh?” I asked.

“Cantaloupe, laughter is the thing that makes us human.  Without it, we are only like the savage beasts of the Sahara.”

“Oh,” I said, almost understanding.

“Never compromise who you are, Cantaloupe. You see, once we give in to the bad stuff, once we let all the sadness get inside us, we lose.”

“Lose what?”

“Why, our love, Cantaloupe!  We lose those we love, and our ability to even love them!  And it’s important not to let this happen, Cantaloupe.  A Love lost is not easily regained.  Don’t you see, Cantaloupe?  That’s the whole point of life!  When bad things happen, you need to just keep loving everyone in spite of it.  There’s even a little song to help you remember it.”

“Never cease in your love,
Everyone is your friend
They are sent from above
to accomplish good ends

But if you don’t love them
Everything will go sour
They shall, you, condemn
It shall be your last hour.”

A haunting melody.

“That’s so inspiring, mother.  I see now that that is what I should do,” I stated.

“Yes, darling.  You need to love everyone Cantaloupe, like I’ve been hoping, like I hope, even now, that you always will.  Always love, Cantaloupe.  Always follow your heart!”

“Oh, mother,” I said, and hugged

“But s-sometimes it’s just so hard, Mother, and I just want to give up!  Is that normal?  Does that make me evil?”

“Of course not, Cantaloupe.  Everyone is good deep down!”

“Even those who are lost?

“Even them, Cantaloupe.”

“Even the boy next door!?”

“Even him, Cantaloupe.”

“Even Willowbend,” I whispered to myself, gazing up through the leaves of the Haven at the bright moon.

Was she really all that evil?  I just didn’t know!

Could it be counted as Avery’s fault that he shared a name with Mrs. Willowbend?  He had no choice in the matter!

Or, perhaps he was telling the truth and didn’t know anything about her.

But what if he wasn’t?!

I was so confused… I began to cry.

“Cantaloupe,” said Morril.  “Are you OK?”

“Yes…  I said, wiping away my tears, “You may tell Avery that I am ready to speak with him.”

Soon, after Morril left, Avery returned!  He had a gravity about him.

I was simultaneously attracted and wary.

I admired, but still distrusted and feared him.

“Oh, Avery, I’m sorry for how I treated you.  I still don’t trust you.  But I should still give you a chance.”

“Cantaloupe, before all this happened… I… I was going to ask you…

“Yes,” I said, breathlessly.

“Our annual Harvest Ball is tomorrow evening.  Would… would you accompany me to it?”

“I don’t have a dress!”

“That can easily be remedied.”

“Oh…,” I said, conflicted, for I had just remembered that Jack was still waiting back in the village.

“What about Jack?”

“What about him?” asked Avery, towering.

“He’d want to come dance with me!”

“Oh, there’s lots of girls here, Cantaloupe, though none are so beautiful as you.  Jack will easily find someone… worthy of him.”

“Oh, Avery… I can’t.  I must not abandon Jack.”

“Very well, Cantaloupe.  But know this.  I shall not be bringing anyone to the ball, for I hope still, I hope against hope, that I may dance with you tomorrow night.”

“Maybe one dance,” I said, politely.

“We must return to the village,” said Avery, with a dark look, the blue light shimmering off his long, dark, braided hair.

“Very well,” I said.

With that, we walked toward the carriage, and rode toward the village, and toward the future.

To be continued…