Once, there were two flowers who were planted into a garden. This garden was the only place that received water for many miles around. Both flowers were told many things by the Gardener, and one in particular. “If you wish for your seeds to be watered and grow,” He said, “then they must be planted in this garden. If you drop a seed into the earth, I will water it, and that will tell you that it will live. If you do as I command, your offspring will multiply and fill the garden.”

The first flower, when it was ready to seed, dropped its seeds into the ground around itself. Soon enough, the Gardener came with His can, and watered the seeds. They began to sprout. While they were growing, the first flower told them what it had been told about the garden. Soon, they were mature flowers, even more beautiful than the first, and there were many of them.

Now, the second flower heard the gardener’s instructions, but had a strange interpretation. It thought that it had to let its seeds decide for themselves whether they wanted to grow or not. So, it grew up alongside a wooden fence, and when it was time to seed, dropped every last seed onto the hard wood. Then, the flower sat and waited to see if they would fall into the garden or not. But the very next day, the sun came and beat down on the seeds, and they withered. The following day, a hot wind came and blew most of the seeds off of the ledge, into the dry hard earth outside the garden. Those seeds were never watered, and died. Some fell into the garden: but these were few.

Which flower was wiser?

With this restriction in place, are there any exceptions to the prohibition of abortion? All Muslims agree upon the point that ensoulment occurs around one-hundred and twenty days into the pregnancy. Hanafi scholars, however, whose views are predominant in Turkey, the Middle East, and Central Asia[1], “permi[t] abortion until the end of the fourth month… but [the mother] should have reasonable grounds for this act”[2]—example reasons being the presence of another child who still requires a wet nurse[3],  while a majority of past Malki jurists described abortion as “completely forbidden.”[4] But even among those groups which expressly forbid abortion, all agree that it is allowed in cases where the mother’s life is put in danger because of the pregnancy —or if the pregnancy would cause difficulties prior to ensoulment, according to Ayatullah Sane’i[5]—due to the principles of the lesser of two evils[6] and the alleviation of distress[7].

The lesser of two evils, known in Islamic law as al-ahamm wa ‘l-muhimm (the more important and the less important), applies to situations in which either the mother or the fetus will survive, and not both. If such a situation occurs pre-ensoulment, the abortion of the fetus is considered the lesser of the two evils, as it is not yet human, but merely has the potential to become one. If the danger is discovered after ensoulment, again the abortion of the fetus is considered the lesser of the two evils because the mother is a fully grown human.[8] She may be able to bear more children, but the fetus “cannot make up for losing the mother.”[9]

The second of the exceptions, the principle of the alleviation of distress (nafy al-haraj) comes from the Qur’an and the hadith, particularly such verses as Surah 2:233, which states that “no soul shall have a burden laid on it greater than it can bear.”[10] In discussing the alleviation of distress, Sane’i holds that “in cases where [abortion] is sought to alleviate from the mother a danger, or even a difficulty, related to the bearing of a child, abortion would be permissible prior to the fourth-month stage of ensoulment.”[11] After the ensoulment, this exception is narrowed to circumstances where the life of the mother is in danger[12], in which case the abortion of the fetus, again, is a lesser sin than allowing the mother to die.

Islam’s emphasis on preserving human life unless it is demanded by justice is met with a labyrinth of questions, verses from the Qur’an, hadiths, and circumstances that must be carefully examined when it goes to define its position on abortion. Centuries of Islamic scholars have made comprehensive studies of the questions regarding the nature of life, the soul, the spirit, the beginning of human life, and concerning the stage of ensoulment. Though ensoulment itself is a critical part of human development, in determining at which point abortion is prohibited, it is the fetus’ potential for ensoulment, and thus its potential for rational thought and a human soul, that proves most important. As Islamic law considers the potentiality of ensoulment enough to grant a fetus inheritance rights and the right of diya, the prohibition of abortion also depends on this potentiality, which most scholars have determined begins with the implantation of the fetus into the uterus. After this point, Islam forbids abortion, save for circumstances in which the continuation of the pregnancy would be fatal to the mother.

[2] Akbar, Khalid Farooq. “Family Planning and Islam: A Review.” Hamdard Islamicus XVII.3 (1974). Web.

[3] Syed, Ibrahim B. Abortion in Islam. IRFI. Islamic Research Foundation International, Inc. n.d. Web. 12 Nov. 2009.

[4] Akbar, Khalid Farooq. “Family Planning and Islam: A Review.” Hamdard Islamicus XVII.3 (1974). Web.

[5] Hussain, Arif Abdul. “Ensoulment and the Prohibition of Abortion in Islam.” Islam and Christian-Muslim Relations 16.3 (2005): 239-250. Web.

[6] Rizvi, Sayyid Muhammed. Marriage and Morals in Islam. Scarborough: Islamic Education & Information Centre, n.d.Web.

[7] Hussain, Arif Abdul. “Ensoulment and the Prohibition of Abortion in Islam.” Islam and Christian-Muslim Relations 16.3 (2005): 239-250. Web.

[8] Rizvi, Sayyid Muhammed. Marriage and Morals in Islam. Scarborough: Islamic Education & Information Centre, n.d. Web.

[9] Kandil, Elsayed. “Abortion in Islam.” Salam Magazine, 1 Jan. 2005. Web.

[10] The Qur’an. Trans. Ali, Abdullah Yusuf. Elmhurst: Tahrike Tarsile Qur’an, Inc., 2008. Print. Pg. 22.

[11] – [12] Hussain, Arif Abdul. “Ensoulment and the Prohibition of Abortion in Islam.” Islam and Christian-Muslim Relations Web.

Part I Part II

Little yellow millet seeds slipped through clutched fingers, and the hens cackled and clucked around Aida’s bare feet, leaving little red lines where their talons scratched her. A long sigh wheezed down, and she let all the grain fall at once. A flurry of wings erupted, and she reached into the bag for more millet. It trickled down to the chickens.

“My goodness,” said Aida suddenly, “I don’t even know who he is. He must be a west sider.” She dumped the whole bag on the crowd at her feet and stomped out of the coop, leaving the indignant chickens to shake the millet out of their feathers. She muttered to herself as she stalked to the weaving shed. “What do I do. What do I do? This disastrous oaf is going to ruin everything. How in the world do I get rid of him?” She put her hand on the handle of the door and bit the insides of her cheeks. “Creep,” she said, and went in.

She made an inordinate amount of mistakes that afternoon. Usually she was the one sorting out Helena’s endless snarls, but today Lysias had to come and help her undo an awful knot. Her father snapped at her and Helena looked smug. Aida looked at her. “If you were a dragon,” said Lysias, “fire would come out your eyes.”

“They don’t have fire out their eyes,” said Aida.

“What’s a dragon?” said Helena.

“Never mind,” said mother, “you’re about to get a snarl.” Mother didn’t even ask Aida to fix the snarl when it inevitably came.

At the end of the day, Aida had a pile of extras much larger than anyone else. She played games with the others, a game involving pebbles and a game involving sticks, but she kept losing, so she took her stick and left. She went to her enemies, the chickens, and poked them into a riot with her stick. “What would you do,” she said to them, “If you had been discovered?” No oracle came forth. “Even if I change my habits, he’s sure to find me. I don’t know whether he’s intelligent or not. But he’s assuredly curious. And curiosity killed the cat. Funny how they never say whose curiosity. And you assume it’s the cat’s. But they never said so. His curiosity is going to kill me.” She poked at the chickens again and took a deep breath of the foul air.

“Aida!” came the dreadful high pitched voice. “We’re going to the priest’s now!”

Aida ignored Helena. It was a mere formality. Helena yelled again. Then, “It’s because she’s embarrassed about her big pile.” Feet pattered off.

“No I’m not.” Aida kicked at the chickens, erupting a satisfying white flurry.

Presently, she went inside. She went to the corner of the kitchen, where there was a table full of kitchen implements. She watched her slim fingers fumble with the clasp of a dark mahogany box. It opened, and she saw her eyes reflected suddenly in the polished blade of a long square meat cleaver. She took it by the black handle and pulled it out. She looked up and down the blade and felt the edge with her thumb. She caught her eyes again and shuddered. She put the knife back, shut the box, and did the clasp rapidly. She rubbed her nose violently with her shoulder and ran out to the weaving shed.

She put her hand on the handle and paused. Her lips moved apart and together as she debated within herself. She felt grotesquely aware of her tongue hitting her teeth and running up her gums as she thought. She pushed the handle down and felt the door yield softly. She found her pile of threads and scooped it up. Little bits drifted to the floor, colorless in the dim light.

“Well,” she said, “so now what.” She closed her eyes and dropped the pile onto the floor again. Fumbling, she found the knot in her belt and tightened it. Then she bent down and grabbed manically at the threads, picking them up, stuffing them down her shirt, feeling around for any she might have dropped, all the while seeing nothing but the backs of her eyelids.

“Blast,” she said suddenly, standing up and opening her eyes. “Either hide them or take them to the priest already. You don’t have time to moon about.”

She banged out the door and began striding toward the priest’s house. She walked past several houses, making sure to stay in the shade of the trees, then turned to the left, away from the priest’s house. Past three more houses, then right, toward the woods. She nipped behind a tree, breathing hard. People were returning to their houses.  Once they were all safely tucked indoors, she continued. After a bit, the shudder she had been putting off overtook her, and she turned right again. She was almost there, wherever there was. She was only a few houses away from the clearing, and then either the priest’s house or the forest. She felt her artificial paunch and waited. Then she opened her mouth and ran her tongue over her teeth and undid the belt. She watched the threads being born, then tied her belt back on. She bent to pick up the threads, filled with the crawling feeling that she was being watched. She stood there, fingering the threads and imagining them in nice rows in the Boy’s garden. “What a creep,” she muttered, and looked around wildly. There was a large thorn-bush behind the next tree, the kind that was thick and formidable. She marched forward and put her hand gently on it. If she could get to the middle of it, no one else would think to look there. She began gingerly spreading its branches apart, precariously avoiding thorns. A moment passed with her hand in the bush and the threads under her other arm.  Her heavy lids went up and down. Then she took a step back and the branches sprang back, scratching her dry hand. Better to just go to the priest.

“You can’t stop now,” said a voice in her head. Disturbed, for she wasn’t prone to hearing voices in her head, she parted the branches again quickly and shoved the threads in. She withdrew her hand and began pulling thorns out of it. Of course she couldn’t. Not now. She marched to the priest’s house and delivered her customary lie, holding her slightly bloody hand slightly behind her back. The priest’s face looked more saggy than ever, which somehow paradoxically contributed to the birdlike look of his eyes staring out. Aida wondered suddenly if he were really there.

Once outside his house she shook herself out, shaking away thoughts of the priest and what he must think of her, and put her hands on her hips. “All right, Boy, now what?” She was met only with eerie silence, and then a cricket started up. “Well?” she said again, softly. She felt the nasty feeling of eyes once more and wheeled around. Nothing was there, and the priest’s door was firmly shut. She licked her lips and looked about. She hated the dark.

Slowly, forcing her steps to be calm and measured, she walked home. When she reached home her resolve crumbled, and she ran up the steps of her house, burst into the front room, and scampered off to her bedroom, ignoring the looks of her family.

Helena was in the bedroom, drawing something on the floor with a piece of chalk, and she looked up with an annoying triumphant little sister look when Aida burst in. Aida gave her an unprecedentedly successful withering glare and flopped onto her wavy bed, feeling her nerves being played like a hardanger. So she had put off the disaster, whatever it was, for one night. Joy.

The same thing happened every night. Horrible inward debates, the awful feeling of being watched, forced calm with panic inside, all accompanied by growing irritability. Every night she went with stomach aching trepidation, and every night nothing happened. It was far worse than something happening.

Her mounting insanity made her careless. One night she made her way to the priest unhindered, as usual. Instead of destroying the threads before her visit, she waited. Once safely done lying, and back outside, she waited to see if the boy would materialize. He did not. This made her nervous, as usual, far more nervous than his coming would have. She waited and waited. When the nerves got too much for her, she cautiously left. She kept looking behind her, but he was never there. Finally, she hastily undid her belt and let the threads out. She knelt down and scrabbled a shallow hole with her fingers in the ground, and buried them. It was a crude, obvious job, but she was in a hurry. Her nerves were getting too much for her.

She straightened up, dusted her hands off, and tried to pat down the earth to normal position with her foot. She had dirt under her fingernails.

She cast a hurried glance, and ran off.

Hardly had she run ten paces, though, when the boy popped out from behind a house into her path.

She screamed.

“You buried them,” he said in a gently accusing tone. “You buried the pretties in the ground.”

Her terror overcome by a flood of relief from madness, Aida rushed at him and grabbed his wrists. “Not a word about ‘the pretties’, you hear? And leave me alone.”

He smiled and extricated himself. “So distraught,” he said. “Calm down.

His eyes grew serious and Aida froze. He took her hand. “I’m sure you think you know what you’re doing,” he said softly.

Aida tried to pull away, but he held fast.

“It’s not a game,” he said.

Aida felt a chill go up and down her spine. This seriousness was the most unnerving thing about him. At these moments, she felt sure he was fully in possession of his senses. But what motives could a person in his right mind have to act as he did? Someone sane would not act like that without serious motives. Suddenly, Aida realized she should take her chance while he was sane. “You’ll help me?” she said.

He tipped his head on one side. “If you play it like a game,” he answered, “you’ll lose.”

Aida felt hot and cold all at once. “Who are you?” she asked.

His head was still tipped, and a smile began to spread.

“No, no!” yelled Aida, and grabbed his arm. “Snap out of it! Come back!”

But it was too late. “I’m Boy,” he said proudly. “That’s what they call me. Boy.”

Aida looked into his eyes, but they were vacuous. She sighed. He was a maniac with moments of sanity. That was it. The most dangerous combination of all.

Suddenly, he turned and fled. Aida gaped after him until he disappeared from sight. Then she walked slowly home.

When she arrived home, the lights were on. Lysias met her on the porch. “Oh there you are,” he said, “Helena is sick.”

To begin with, I think we have to ask what a holiday is? Is it essentially just a big celebration or party? If so, then maybe Reformation Day as a holiday should be carefully considered before we make it an institution. A day to say “Yay us!” and “Crush the RCs!” and whatnot might be counter-productive if you take the long view. (although it might be a lot of fun) The same argument could be made about lots of holidays, though. Take US Independence day. We’re celebrating a war with the British, who have been our allies ever since, essentially. Hm. What are we trying to do?

Well, the thing about Independence day is that we commemorate an event that happened “once for all time” as ERH might put it. That is, before that the US did not exist, but on account of that war it came into existence and exists to this day. It is what makes us Americans, and therefore must exist for us in the form of a holiday in order that we may enter into the event too, so that it becomes part of our lives and experience.

Such things are lost if not commemorated. If we don’t celebrate the holiday, we say the thing is unimportant to us, that it may as well have not happened. It doesn’t touch our lives. That was then, this is now. And we may even be lesser men because of this attitude.

Nature cycles endlessly. Spring-Summer-Fall-Winter-Spring. Over and over and over. One day or month or year may be different from another but it won’t really be remembered. Perhaps you have a hurricane or earthquake, but doesn’t lastingly change anything; it happens and is forgotten. But we men don’t have to be merely natural, we have a surprising chance to be supernatural by making landmarks in time. If something happens that changes us, we make a holiday and in this way the thing is passed on to our children and becomes a part of their lives too.

So back to Reformation Day. The question should be whether something was gained or recovered then that is worth keeping. If so, it is not only okay, but fitting and right for it to be commemorated with a holiday so that what was hard fought for does not become an event belonging to nature, to be forgotten in the past. Of course, it can be argued about what should be passed on, but when deciding whether a thing should be commemorated by a holiday the biggest question should be whether this event belongs to your age or to the ages. And if it is the second, then you’d better do something about it.

Disclaimer: I only referenced Reformation Day because the post that inspired me was on that subject and because it offers a good excuse to think about the nature of holidays. This post is not about the Protestant  Reformation, so please discuss only the topic at hand.

Some storm-tossed sailors have just landed on some coast outside Africa. They’ve just been saved from a gale sent by Juno, who has a thing with these Trojans. Venus, who has a different thing with these Trojans (Aeneas happens to be her son), comes whining to Zeus, calling him out for not keeping his promises to the poor, destitute Trojans. Not particularly worried about pandering to the special interests of lobbyists—he is a somewhat partisan figure himself—Jove consoles Venus, telling her that, in fact, the Trojans’ luck will turn. They’ll settle in Latium and someday have an empire. Bigger than anybody else’s. An imperium sine fine.

Vergil’s famous words are usually, and somewhat metaphorically, translated as “an empire without end”. We think immediately of duration—it’s going to last forever. But finis has a more fundamental meaning of “boundary” or “limit”. This is a limitless empire. Dictionaries even have “goal” as a denotation of finis. But surely Vergil isn’t saying the Roman empire is an empire without a goal. Surely not.

Take a look at modernity for a moment. Whenever anyone talks about modernity (if they want to remain reputable), they always have to qualify it with “whatever it is…”. We don’t exactly know. Even worse with post-modernity. You try to define it or quantify it or even qualify it, and somebody is sure to say, “You just don’t get it.” Well, sorry, maybe I don’t, but you’ve just proved my point. My point is that modernity (and its relatives) is limitless. It has no boundaries. It only has one rule—Do Not Limit.

You can see this everywhere. Do not limit my abilities. Do not limit my sexuality. Do not limit my ownership (oddly, this can apply to the most radical free marketeers and the most radical communists equally). Do not limit my profession. Do not limit my nationality. Do not limit my knowledge. We hate diseases and “gender roles” and ignorance and poverty. Picasso can’t seem to stand three dimensions. Schoenberg itches to be rid of the overtone scale (never actually managing it). Perhaps Philip could enlighten my ignorance, but isn’t that the point with Derrida as well? Or you could look at the two political philosophies of the last century—classical liberalism, which despises the limitations imposed by government, and modern liberalism, which despises the limitations imposed by poverty. Both speak endlessly in terms of liberal, which comes from another Latin word meaning “free”. Or look at Darwinism, the science in which taxonomy is only a matter of time and distinctions between me and an ape are transient at best.

Along with the European Union and other amusing attempts at globalization, you have, in the last two centuries, the largest-scale attempt to subvert Scriptural authority. Pardon me if I do the offensive and delve edgily into the ethos behind this, but why is it that Thomas Jefferson scissors out the parts of the Bible he doesn’t like? Why is it a woman priest in the Methodist church is not likely to believe in a logocentric Christianity? Because she doesn’t want to. It is only ever superficially a matter of academic persuasion. If it were fundamentally a matter of an well-founded academic disbelief in the infallibility of Scripture, then there would have been many more Karl Barths in the Middle Ages. People weren’t stupid back then. Higher criticism is not a function of higher intelligence, it’s a function of modernity. It’s lower tolerance to limits. We would rather have a god whose limits we define than be ourselves defined by the limits of a god. The imperium sine fine signals the end of the reign of Jove and the beginning of the reign of Augustus. But first you have to get rid of all the religious documents that put any boundaries on belief.

But take one more look at the phrase—an empire without end. This time think of telos. Think of “end” not as “finish” but as “purpose”. Finis as “goal”. Is that another reason why nobody ever lets you define (post-)modernity? Because, in the end, there’s nothing there really to define? Why is it that modern science makes the assumption that, if there is knowledge to be gained, it ought to be gained? Why is it that there is no knowledge of good and evil that is forbidden to us? Why must we know it? Only in a few noble instances is it so that we can find a cure for cancer or an end to suffering. But motives like that have always existed. Motives like that don’t explain tax money going to fund explorations of string theory. We seek to know simply because we can. No matter what the cost—having found a way to destroy everyone at once, can we really say our scientific exploration saves more lives than it endangers?—we continue to explore. To what end? Why? Pretend you’re Number 6. Type that question into the computer that seeks to answer every question and it’ll explode.

I began this poem on New Year’s Eve and finished slightly after midnight. Although the solar year is now nearly two months along, the lunar year, to which the lunar imagery seems fitting, has just begun. In this poem, I was particularly reflecting on my survival of the previous year’s difficulties and trying to look forward with hope.

Once in a blue moon, I look down and see
Around my heart this flesh, pallid and cold
In fear, but living still: So let it be
Tonight, while the full moon is red as gold.
Smoothly and still in safety runs so red
The river’s streams, pulsed, quickened by Your will,
O You the Living Light who ever led
Heart from its wilful darkness, and lead still.
Let me not live unless to seek Your face.
Let me have strength to say: I shall yet live.
Let me not fall save, Lord, upon Your grace.
Let me not doubt You that Your hand will give
          Both in Your sovereign wisdom peace and pain.
          Let me so trust that life is not in vain.

For some reason, Aida was just standing there. She had gone late, empty handed, to the priest, and the smell of his house was still making its way up her nostrils. Now she was about ten paces from his door, hesitating. For some reason.

She wasn’t looking for an excuse; she was a professional excuse maker now. At first her family had been suspicious: they knew she liked to be alone, but they also knew her mortal fear of the priest. So they thought her sudden propensity toward going late was odd. At first she too thought it was odd. Somehow, though, once she realized the priest was deceivable, she was no longer afraid of him. She had thought him omniscient; now she knew he was just a man like anyone else. It was only heredity that gave him the job. Anyone can be born.

Aida was still scared of the woods at night, but she was also still scared of being found out. So she continued dumping her threads in the brook. She never intended to be in open rebellion. She just wanted to perform a private experiment. So sometimes she brought her threads as usual. Besides, she thought, surely hypocrisy is most loathsome to the gods of all.

“Uh. Hello!”

Aida whirled around to face the voice, but whirling around seemed awfully suspicious, so she tried to make it seem natural by hopping a little into the air. It didn’t.

He ignored her weird behavior. “What do you do with the extras?” He looked at her with a half-witted sort of look on his face.

Aida’s breath stopped. He couldn’t possibly mean what she thought he meant. Extra whats?” She asked.

He blinked. “Extra threads.”

Aida felt the guilt crawling up her face. “I—I don’t always have any. I, uh, didn’t have any tonight.” She paused to regain control. “Besides. How do you know?”

He smiled at her innocently. “Always you’re late, and mostly you don’t have threads.”

“Who are you?”

“And so after a while, I wondered what you did with them.” He spread his hands apologetically. “The extra threads, I mean.”

“Who are you, you little snoop?”

He stood silent for a moment, looking blankly into Aida’s eyes. Then his eyes lit up. “Ah, I know!” He said, “I’ll show you. Come here.” He reached out to grab Aida’s hand.

Aida jerked her hand out of reach. “Where?”

His eyes sparkled, and he tapped his fingertips together. “I will show you. Just follow me.”

Aida came to a conclusion. Either this fellow was a lot younger than he looked, or he was slow in the head. In either case, he probably wouldn’t be dangerous. “All right,” she said, “let’s go.”

He reached out his hand again, and she took it. Then, without warning, he started running. Aida yipped and was forced to run as well or lose her arm. His grip on her hand was like a vice. Once she voluntarily took hold of it, there was no letting go.

She followed him into the forest, and she was amazed at his sure footing. He knew all the trails and paths, and the darkness did not bother him at all. He had obviously spent much time in the forest.

Suddenly, he stopped. He let go of Aida’s hand and turned to look at her. “Close your eyes now,” he said eagerly, “this part is secret.”

After the mad dash through the forest, Aida trusted his guidance. She closed her eyes.

He led her slowly and carefully now, and she had no fear.

“Open your eyes now!”

She opened her eyes and saw him beaming at her.

“Look!” he said.

They were on the edge of some sort of miniature Paradise garden, lit by lanterns. The brook flowed through on the left edge, and there was a bridge over it. The ceiling was formed by arches of trees, and little flower beds were arranged in a geometric pattern in the middle, each bed having little ground cover flowers according to color. The brook sparkled in the lantern light.

“It’s beautiful. Is it yours?”

The boy was in some sort of silent ecstasy, and Aida respected his silence. Finally, he spoke. “Look, look!” he said. He pointed to the flower beds.

Aida looked.

“No, look!” he said, exerting impatience on the second word. Then he left Aida’s side, and ran toward the nearest flower bed. He crouched down and pointed at it. Then he looked at her and smiled. “Come, come!”

Aida came and crouched down next to him. Immediately she stood up again. What she had taken to be ground cover flowers were actually neat piles of threads. Weaving threads.

“How did you come by these?” Her voice quivered. This naïve boy had deceived her. His inquisitive smile now seemed mocking.

“They came down the brook,” he said simply.

Aida looked at him.

Suddenly, his face changed. It lost its happy half-wit look, and in its place came a sober intelligent look. Intelligence, Aida found, was frightening on him.

“I thought it unlikely that there were two,” he said, standing up.

Now Aida was really scared. She had been incredibly foolish to follow him. Now she was alone with him, in the forest, at night, and he was not what he had first seemed to be. “Two what?” she said, shrinking back.

“Two people keeping back their extra resources.”

Aida slowly retreated a safe distance, then got angry. “How dare you accuse me of such things?” But at the end her voice trembled.

His imbecile grin came back, and he came toward her extending his hand. “Don’t be angry. We won’t speak of it anymore. Isn’t it beautiful?”

Aida retreated a step further. She no longer trusted his innocence. And the way he assumed her guilt was uncomfortable. How did he know? How long had he been watching her?

“Look, look!” he was saying again. This time he pointed upward.

Warily, Aida joined him and looked where he was pointing. A thin sliver of moon peeped through the leafy ceiling.

He clapped his fingertips. “Pretty girls should not be out this late. You must go now. Hum?” He cocked his head and looked at her like a bird.

“I don’t know the way home.”

“Oh. She doesn’t know,” he said to himself. “Come, come. I will show you.”

Reluctantly, Aida let him take her hand. She closed her eyes and let him lead her out. Once they were out of the secret place, he began to run. Aida opened her eyes unbidden, and stumbled along behind him.

When they reached the edge of the forest, Aida was panting. She tried to slip her hand out of his grasp, but he held tightly.

“No, no,” he said, “You should not go alone. Not even across the village.”

“I’ll be fine.” Aida was now thoroughly frightened of him, and the last thing she wanted was to give away the location of her home—if he didn’t know already.

His eyes narrowed. “She’ll be fine,” he muttered to himself, assessing the statement. “She’ll be fine…yes, you’ll be fine. Goodnight!”

Before Aida could reply, he had let go of her hand and disappeared into the forest. Aida stood trembling for a moment, then broke out into a terrified run. She did not stop running until she reached her home.

It was dark; apparently her family had given up on her. She let herself in and stole quietly to her bedroom. She flopped on her bed, and lay there breathing heavily. Helena shifted in her sleep.

Finally, Aida climbed fully into bed without changing. She lay facing the wall, staring but not seeing, for a long time. When she finally fell asleep, her dreams were restless and bad.

I normally wouldn’t do this, but it’s year three; and I’d hate to disappoint him now.

This isn’t a normal poem;  I only wrote two words. The rest are stolen from John Donne, Emily Dickinson, Gerard Manley Hopkins, and Robert Frost. Is this a valid form of poetry? No, probably not. But perhaps it will broaden your knowledge. Before using Google, you might try your hand at discerning who wrote what:

There is one, yes I have one
On winter afternoons.
Oh, to vex me, “He may be small”
Only compared to stars and moon.

Happy birthday, Nick.