John R. Ahern writes a set of haiku about the Matter of Britain,
long fingers of trees
poking our eyes, and beetles—
near love, said Yvain
I sat down to write a true story I’ve had in my head nearly my whole life. Somehow, I ended up writing this instead:
I seem to have sent most of my life in sleepy little towns. Some are sleepier than others, of course, but there is still that indefinable air to them, something that makes them, and the thing that happen in them, the same. The people and the places differ in the little details, and yet it is these details which make them the same.
The hardware store in Monroe was just like any other hardware store. We didn’t know this as kids—we just liked it for its toy aisle full of farm toys, and the fact that it had enough interesting tools to keep us entertained for however long Dad was in there. And besides, the store held two great fascinations for me: a cat that lived there, and a lifesize cutout of the Maytag Man. View Full Post
Mark DenHoed and John Ahern write (or, rather, transcribe),
A Love Lost and Regained: Installment VI
This is a brief educational skit done in the style of the television show ‘This Is Your Life”, written for my church’s annual Reformation party.
We used this TV show idea once before, when presenting a skit on St. Ambrose, and it was such a success that we had to try it again. The best part about it is that no one (aside from, perhaps, the Announcer and Tyndale) needs to memorize any lines, as they are almost all delivered from behind a curtain.
The script is specifically written to involve everyone in the church who wants to participate. We’ve seen our pastor and session, older women, young adults, and small children all performing together, and part of the fun of the skit is the casting. For the debut performance, we had a local printmaker as Peter Schoeffer, a former philosophy major as Erasmus (he chose to add a heavy New York accent to the character), and all the children at the party on stage. View Full Post
Hannah Roorda writes:
John Richard is sixteen today!
Sing jibbalee-loo, and jibbalee-lay.
Bring him a robe and prepare a tea tray!
Sing jibbalee-loo, and jibbalee-lay.
Sing tooraloo-raloo-ralay,
John Richard is sixteen today.
John Richard is sixteen today!
Sing jibbalee-loo, and jibbalee-lay.
We’ll all celebrate in an elaborate way!
Sing jibbalee-loo, and jibbalee-lay.
Sing tooraloo-raloo-ralay,
John Richard is sixteen today.
Hannah Roorda writes:
Well, I know I promised more poems– but as soon as I said that, a large number of other poems turned up on this blog. I’m not used to that, and it threw me off. I said, surely no one wants to read that much poetry all at once? So my Wednesday night poems are still just scribbled on the back of church bulletins in my car, and you’ll have to keep waiting. But, if you are one of those who starts to get dizzy after a few attempts at amateur verse, find relief, dear friend.
First– this is the blog’s 100th post! A significant milestone I am sure.
And second, the actual posty bit:
I’ve never given a great deal of thought to all the times in the Bible God talks about sheep. I usually take them for granted– sheep figure into everything. The patriarchs raised them, Moses sacrificed them, we went astray like them, and Jesus died as one. Sheep are always there! But that is probably a good reason why I should pay more attention when they come up.
During the past few weeks I have been reading a lot more of the Bible– I’m trying to read through it in 90 days. It’s definitely challenging, but so far it has been extremely rewarding. I’ve gotten behind recently, largely because I got a hands-on application opportunity earlier this week!
On Tuesday night, I had been planning to take some time between work, supper and choir rehearsal, and finish reading Deuteronomy. I wasn’t looking forward to it– I’m pretty tired of everybody wandering in the desert, and I’d really like to read about Joshua and Jericho right now. But I had to get through it, so after I got home from work I grabbed my Bible and headed to my room to read.
Not very long afterwards, my mom called me downstairs. I was irritated– couldn’t she tell I was trying to read the holy scriptures?! But it was my friend Lauren on the phone– her sheep had gotten out, her family was gone, and she was letting me know she wouldn’t make it to choir rehearsal that night because she had some sheep to rescue. Now, I am not exactly the paragon of self-sacrificial friendship, so I think my reasons for volunteering to drive out to her farm and help her might have had more to do with not wanting to read about the children of Israel being disobedient than with eager urge to help someone in need. But whatever my motive, in just a few minutes I was in my car making the 15 minute drive out to Lauren’s house, a change of clothes tossed in the backseat for the off-chance that I might still make it to choir.
When I got there, she explained the problem. Her neighbor had called to let her know the sheep were out– but we didn’t know where they were. I threw on a pair of her younger brother’s boots and followed her and her dog out to the lower pasture. We scanned the fence, but didn’t see any breaks, so we had to walk down to both ends of the pasture. The fence on the west end was intact, so we knew they must down at the east end, across the creek. It took us a few minutes to walk down there, but when we did, the little escapees were easily spotted. They were standing in the neighbors’ soybeans, contentedly eating. They didn’t look like they were suffering from any pangs of conscience!
We easily rounded them up and chased them back towards the barn and the other pasture. When we got there, Lauren opened the gate into the upper pasture– the sheep were almost there– but we had rejoiced too soon. Half of them headed for the other end of the pasture we were in, and half of them ran back towards the creek. I didn’t react soon enough, and the creek-bound half easily made it past me and started high-tailing it down there. I ran after them in exasperation, the mud boots slapping against my legs.
Before I had come close to reaching that group of sheep, I heard more little hooves running along behind me. I turned around, and there was the other half of the herd, chasing their friends and I. I stood my ground, more out of desperation than determination, and yelled at them, “So help me, if you don’t turn around and go right back where you came from, I WILL get an ax and slaughter you all!” I don’t think they understood all the words, but the tone was clear, and they headed back to Lauren.
I turned my attention to the original group. By now they were nearly at the creek, and my window of catching them without having to jump the creek again was narrowing. I ran along the fence line, trying to ignore the way my feet were beginning to hurt and the thought of how badly I’d smell if I ever made it to choir. I eyed the gap between us– if I beat them to where the fence turned a corner, I could circle around, stop them from crossing the creek, and get them headed back towards the barn. I managed a final burst of speed– but they beat me. But I wasn’t going to cross that creek again, no way! I was yelling again: “You dumb sheep! Don’t you cross that creek! Oh, I’ll make you regret it!” With an inhuman speed, I ran around them and was now between them and the creek. They looked at me. I looked at them. If they’d wanted to, they could have split center and gotten around me– but I was counting on their herd mentality– and it came through. I dashed at them, and they turned around and finally were running towards the barn.
I started to holler at Lauren as I ran along behind them. “We’re coming, I got them, get ready!” As they approached the fence, she swung wide the gate to the other pasture, and with a bit of cutting them off as the dashed first too far right, then too far left, we got them inside.
Except for one.
One little sheep decided she’d be better off down at the creek, and she was headed there again, ignoring the rest of the herd in the other pasture. I took a deep breath, rolled my eyes, and pursued, Lauren running along the other side.
Fortunately, at this point Lauren’s dog decided to intervene, and she scared that little sheep back towards the barn. I turned around and chased it away from the creek while Lauren got the fence ready again. We zig-zagged around the pasture awhile– the sheep crazily turning left, right, backwards, forwards again– anywhere but inside the gate. I followed along behind, guarding the way to the creek. But after a few tiring minutes of this, I eventually cornered it in the barn. I glared at it. I was out of breath, my feet were beginning to blister, I smelled like the pasture, and I was late to choir. The sheep glared insolently back. All my epithets forgotten, I merely stood, staring, until Lauren rounded the corner and tackled the straying sheep. It collapsed, sincerely offended, and had to be dragged into the other pasture.
After we finally pulled the gate shut, the sheep still lay on the ground, motionless. Lauren prodded it, checked it for injuries, pleaded with it– but it wouldn’t get up. We agreed to come back later to check on it, but as we climbed out of the pasture, it at last got over itself and got up.
As we changed into clean clothes (a must!) and made our way to choir, at least half an hour late, we were both thinking the same thing: God calls us sheep, and boy, it’s a good thing grace is free.
From the desk of the editors/transcribers, Mr. Mark C. DenHoed and Mr. John R. Ahern -
A word of explanation and recapitulation. This story is written by Russe” ******, found by Ahern and DenHoed outside Reno on Interstate 80. This installment is a good deal longer than the previous installments due to the fact that, as we deciphered the script, we could find no good breaking point. We continued until we came, at last, to a good place to stop. We beg the indulgence of the reader towards the excess length of this manuscript. We have yet to begin on Installment V, so we can’t promise that it won’t happen again. For now, just find comfort, as we do, in the fact that this is not our fault: it is Russe*’s fault.
Thanks, and have some fun,
A Love Lost and Regained: Installment IV
My love is gone, so far away
Gone
Lost
Never to return
The cords that bound us are snapped
The ties that bind are broken
I shall never love again
That day I lost my love
As in the fields, the stars shone above
-Pherden And
Chapter 8
I remembered waking up on my birthday 7 years ago. I was 11. As my beautiful amber hair lifted from the pillow, Burton, our butler, entered the room.
“Miss Cantaloupe,” he said, “Eet ees quahtur to 10 and your parents ‘ave asked that I wake you. Mais oui? You will, no doubt ruhmember dat today is your birthday. And,” he added, “your parents have a surprise or two for you!”
I smiled.
“Thank you, Burton,” I said.
“O, la, la! Joi de vivre!” he replied, and strutted out singing Rossini.
Our house was a beautiful Victorian mansion. It had more rooms than I could count (about 27, I think), many sprawling acres of lush, green land, and a dock on the ocean. Our front was faced with the most beautiful stain-glass windows. They showed a lass and a lad in a beautiful forest playing amongst the dandelions. He would play the fiddle and she would dance. It was so lovely that every time I looked at it, tears would well up in my eyes. Then, the hag from the mountains came, carrying in her wake distension [sic] and fear. She broke the bow of the fiddle and broke heart of the girl.
The uppermost windows were crowned with eagles, and rampant lions stood proudly before two enormous columns of the shiniest marble. Everyday would our maids would rub the columns up and down so cleanly that I could look at my face in it. It always used to make me laugh so.
As Burton left the room, I pulled out my finest ball-gown. It was a scarlet silk frock with lavender diamond sequins and a beautiful sky blue and magenta bow. I put on aqua-green emerald ear rings inset in gold, a diamond bracelet, and silver-leather shoes.
It all looked so beautiful. I flung open the great mahogany door and tore down the marble hallway. As I came around the last turn in the cast-iron spiral staircase, the light shining on and illuminating the gentle, delicate, golden-hued folds of the ball-gown, I saw my family waiting for me around the table, smiling. I slowly made my way through the golden-tinted room. The sun, gazing through the pure and the colorful windows, filled the atmosphere with its warm rays of gold, forest green, bright blue, and blood red.
My father looked over the top of his paper and set his crescent-moon spectacles lower on his nose. His lenses caught the glint of the sunlight, reflecting a glint of sunlight onto the table. He had a kindly, weathered face. His face was not young, but weathered and kindly. His short graying hair shone brightly in the warm morning light.
“Ah, Cantaloupe,” he said, tossing me a carefree grin, “I trust you are well rested after your nice sleep.”
I laughed. Father often made the wittiest comments.
“Oh, Father,” I cried, so happy I thought I could bust. [sic]
“Come here, you rascal,” he said, reaching toward me. I screamed and ran about the table, giggling. My mother – oh, she was so beautiful – looked upon the scene and smiled, sipping her coffee.
“Now then,” said Father, “Back to our game.”
Father pulled out our chess set. It was a beautiful mahogany set, with delicately carved pieces.
“Now where were we?” asked father, adjusting his spectacles.
“As I remember,” said father, “the board was something like this.”
Father began placing pieces on the chess board.
“Wait, daddy,” I said, “As I recall, I had an Alekhine’s Gun on C1 through C3.” I gave him a sharp look and smiled.
“You’re so clever, Cantaloupe.” I blushed. “Well, I recall that I had a Maróczy Bind, here,” he said, pointing at the center of the board. We decided to just start anew. The game was begun by me with a strong King’s Gambit Accepted. It was replied in typical fashion by father with a Cunningham Defense.
“Not so good at chess now, are you?” I taunted later in the game, as I set up a brilliant Philidor Position, my favorite endgame strategy. “J’adoube,” said Father, adjusting his king.
I took father’s last pawn en passant. He fell into my trap, taking my rook. As I moved into the setup for checkmate, I said, “Your move, father,” with a victorious ring. Father, visibly embarrassed, swept the pieces from the board. He took off his glasses and put them in top of the chess set, which he then put in its box, which, in turn, went into the cabinet in the corner.
“Now to the business of the day. What would you like for your birthday?”
“Father,” I said, looking into his deep, shining eyes, “All I want for my birthday is a father’s love! It’s all I could ever want! What else could there be?”
“Oh Cantaloupe,” he said, hugging me, “You have such a good Heart. I’m sure it will serve you well. But, you know, there are people out there who don’t have Hearts as good as yours.”
I felt tears well up in my shining eyes. “What?” I said.
“Steven,” whispered Mother, “Don’t bring that up, especially on Canty’s birthday!”
“You’re right, June. Remember, Cantaloupe,” he said, turning toward me, “As long as you keep thiiiis much -” here he stretched out his large arms as far as they would go – “Love in your Heart, nothing can ever happen.”
“But I already have Love in my Heart,” I said.
“I know you Love your mother and me, Cantaloupe,” he said, “But to Truly Love is to be Loved.”
I began to cry. “But don’t you and mother Love me?”
“Of course we do, Cantaloupe,” he said, softly, patting my shoulder lightly, “but, everyone in the whole wide world, all the way past those hills and mountains, all the way over the great bay, must Love you, Cantaloupe. Everyone you meet. Only then can you truly Love!”
“Remember, Cantaloupe,” he added. “Remember these words, for they shall prove useful. I’ll always be there for you!”
He then began to tap his foot, as he always did when about to sing. He quietly began to put forth a haunting melody. Mother joined in, harmonizing as only she could. The words were sung in a foreign tongue, but one that my heart could understand. These are not the words, but a shadow and shimmer of the magic conveyed in those beautiful syllables.
The way to your home is in your heart,
The path of life is in your soul.
You must always do your part
Make it your unceasing goal.
To love the people in your sphere
It doesn’t matter who they are.
For it is fine to shed a tear
One for every blazing star.
Make Love your well practiced art
To love the world, in its whole.
The way to your home is in your heart,
The path of life is in your soul.
“Oh, daddy,” I exclaimed, “That’s so beautiful!”
“Yes, it is,” he said, “Now, come, dear, it’s finally time to open your presents.”
We went into the cozy family room that had a lofty ceiling stretching up 20 feet to the heavens. Near the hearth of the fire were a pile of presents, wrapped in packages and bows of all sizes, shapes, and colors.
“Oh! Mommy! Daddy!” I jumped up and down for glee while they watched on with big, encouraging smiles.
I remember so well those presents – a new dress, a new pair of shoes, a new deck of cards, dozens of books by Finley, Blackmore, Curtis, Burnett, Burns, Woody, and Sebastian, a new, shiny blue cart for the pony, a new pink hair brush for me, a red one for Saza my pet tiger, a new necklace, and gold-leaf harpsichord with pictures of baby angels with rosy cheeks shooting arrows into the hearts of happy mortals, painted delicately on the side. While Burton took away all the presents to my room, I hugged and kissed my parents and sat on their laps.
“But there’s one more present we – your mother and I together – must give you.”
I heard the sound of water lapping at the side of the boat. I opened my eyes and surveyed the boat. Antonio faced his tan, beautiful features towards me, smiling, rowing as no other man had never rowed before in all of history. [sic]
“How are you holding up, dearest?” he asked.
“Oh, Antonio, I’m fine. You’re not getting tired, I hope.”
“Of course not. We Italians do this – what is it you say – rowing all day.”
I pulled out my heart-shaped pocket watch and watched as the crimson radii slowly made their way across the watch’s face.
“Why, Antonio, it’s gotten to be eight o’clock,” I exclaimed.
“Eight o’clock?” mourned Antonio. “And we have not eaten a thing!”
I reached into the larder and pulled out some sandwiches I had made.
“Thank you, my heart’s desire,” he said as I handed him one of my trademark tuna and grilled zucchini sandwiches. “Oci ciornie!” He put his fingers to his lips and kissed them as they sprung away from his face, in a picture of ecstasy. In that face, I saw Heraclitus, Julius Caesar, Constantinople [sic]….
“We must not take long with Dinner. If I stop rowing too long, we may be caught in a riptide and drift further out to sea. I’ve been rowing to the shore all afternoon and I do not want to lose progress. For your sake, of course.”
I laughed. Antonio was so smart. But, deep as I loved him, I missed Jack. “Antonio,” I asked, “Do… do.. do you drink?”
“Only a little.”
“Oh, Antonio”, I laughed, scrunching up my freckled nose, “you’re so funny sometimes.”
“Shhh,” yelled Antonio, “Can you hear that?”
I closed my eyes very tight and listened as hard as I could.
At first, I heard the sound was a bell from a wharf. But then, I heard over that the familiar sound of garden chimes. The gentle tones reverberated through the air, rising and falling with the wind. I saw that the world is full of magic.
“Antonio,” I exclaimed, “That sound… those bells… I-I-I recognize th-them. I don’t know where, but… I’ve heard them somewheres before…”
“Then we have hit land!”
Antonio found new vigor, rowing with new-found vigor. After being at sea for so long, I could almost cry at the sight of land.
I cried.
“Oh, Antonio… we made it! I almost lost hope!”
“There seems to be a dock,” said Antonio as we came upon the dock.
The grass had all withered. The old weeping-willow tree was bent almost to the ground. It was a dreary sight.
The wood of the pier was old, stiff, rotting, and beautiful. All that was left of what was once, no doubt, a boathouse, was a plank of wood, standing on end, like a sentry, watching over the old dock, keeping out the foreigners. They hung a bell which tolled morosely in the maritime blue. There also hung the garden chimes, singing in the wind, which I had previously heard, several yards away up the path from the dock.
I slowly stepped out of the rocking boat onto creaking dock. I wondered, asked, pleaded of the world, the reason for the condition of the dock. Antonio jumped out of the boat in his own strong way. I wrapped my jacket tight about me, for the fog was so cold I thought it would freeze my bones. The bracing breeze swept my long hair out of my face, and I thought, deep in my heart, that I could hear a small child crying off in the distance.
It was all too much for me.
I ran.
The cool wind streamed through my face as I tore up the cobblestone pathway. My feet splashed softly through the puddles on the path. A fog hushed all of nature like a wet, cold blanket of moisture. The only sound I could hear was that of my own fevered crying. I knew that something terrible had happened here long ago. But what? I listened very hard and I thought that I could, just a little, make out the sound of dripping water. I hurried on ahead.
I stopped and stared. A lone tear made its winding way straight down my cheek.
It was the saddest thing I’d ever known, seen, felt. There was a rosebush, small and fragile, with nothing but its own inner strength and unbreakable spirit to shield it from what fate might bring. It had but one rose, just budded.
I felt Antonio’s presence behind me.
The one rose was covered with golden beads of water from the fog. The beads collected and, hesitantly, began to gently [sic] slide down the petals. Then, converging into one large drop, they edged to the tip of the petal, stood for a moment, and fell, falling like the last breath of a faerie as it dies from the loss of a silent lover. That infinitesimal tear splashed into a small puddle in the ground. The waves – oh, how small! – reverberated unto the edge of the water and were no more. The glassy surface of the puddle stood still, reflecting the hazy image of my tear-stained face.
>
I cried.
Antonio’s strong arm came around my shoulder.
“There, there, Cantaloupe,” he said reassuringly, “All will be well.”
“Oh, but Antonio,” I cried, “How can it? There’s so much evil and hatred! How can anything ever be happy again?! It would be better for nothing good or bad to have ever happened than for this one thing to happen!”
“Oh, Cantaloupe,” he said.
He burst into song. His tenor voice was magical and delicate.
“Just hold on to your hope,
Cantaloupe,
Open your mouth and sing,
Dearest thing,
Everything will be alright
Just stay bright.”
“It’ll be alright,” he said, “As long as you hold onto your hope and keep your chin up!”
“You’re right, Antonio,” I said, wiping away my tears.
Now that my eyes cleared, I caught a faint glint amidst the rubble.
“A-antonio,” I said, “What’s that?!”
We slowly made our way through the soaked stone and wood.
We came into an open area of what I now realized was once a building. A huge stone claw, as if of a tiger or a jaguar, was tossed on its side. Beautiful, delicate glass was strewn here and there, and Antonio and I had to make the greatest efforts that our feet not be pierced. The remains of a spiral staircase stood, ready to topple at any second. There stood in the corner a box of delicate wood with blue and gold paint pealing off and metal wires sticking out in all directions like the snakes on the Gorgon’s head.
The glint that had attracted me was sometimes stronger, sometimes weaker, than when I had first seen it, but now, as I had almost lost hope of finding it amidst the chaos, the light was refracted in a swan-shaped pawn in a brightness that practically blinded us. It was made of the most transparent glass, except for the rose in the swan’s beak, which was a rosy-red colored glass.
I clutched the pawn in my blushed hands. And put my hands to my chin.
“En passant,” I whispered.
Memories once more flooded back on me.
Father put me down and walked to the hearth above the fireplace. Pressing on the hearth, he balanced his weight forward, and there was a rumbling as two secret cupboards arose from the ground on either side of the hearth. Out of the right one he took a small object wrapped in tissue paper.
“Here,” he said. “Unwrap it.”
I unwrapped it, and there inside was the most beautiful pocket-watch I had ever seen. It was dark gold in the shape of a heart, with pink arrows for hands. The band was made of silver. I looked on the back. The word “Love” was inscribed in delicate golden cursive.
“Treasure this watch forever, Cantaloupe. And always keep my words with you. For, with Love, Wisdom, and Power, you will inherit the greatest treasures. And Cantaloupe, don’t forget this – never forget this – Lamas Therion!“
I hugged him. “Thank you, Father.”
And then…
And then…
[Editor's note: We edited out several more "and thens" for the sake of space. Just realize they're there.]
There was a commotion in the other room. My father looked at my mother.
“Burton probably just spilled something,” mother said.
“I shall treasure this watch forever,” I said, hoping to keep the magic. But it was gone.
“Cantaloupe,” said my mother, “I’ll tell you what. Let’s go shopping for a new gown!”
“Oh, that would be delightful, mother! Is father coming?”
“No, I can’t come, Cantaloupe,” said Father, “There’s…there’s a house wreckage I have to go adjust.” Father was an insurance adjuster, you see, and his job often involved all sorts of horrible tedious work.
“Goodbye, Father,” I said, as Mother and I left.
“Goodbye, Cantaloupe,” he yelled after us.
“Have a good time, June,” he added.
Mother and I had a glorious time shopping. And when we came back…the house was gone. Burnt. To the ground. In a pile. Of ashes. And soot. And smoke.
The sound of Antonio’s voice returned my thoughts to the present.
“Cantaloupe, what’s wrong? Where have you seen this before.” he asked.
“I… I think that…”
“What? What do you think?”
“This was my house!”
Antonio and I both gaped at the gravity of my startling revelation. For, if this was my house, I must have lived here!
“Cantaloupe… I don’t understand,” said Antonio.
“You’re right,” I said, my hands twitching, “You don’t understand! It’s you that can never understand. My parents were wrong! Everything is wrong! JACK was wrong!”
Suddenly, I felt an indescribable pang of sadness pierce my heart, like a sword skewered into an innocent pig, only to be used for the food of greedy men.
“Oh, Jack. Jack. I miss you! Can’t you come back!”
But I am right here.
It was a voice not in my ears, not in my head, but in my heart. My heart lept at the feeling. I felt an indescribable, all-consuming joy welling up from the very depths of my being as I slowly felt the full impact of those beautiful syllables. I slowly, hesitantly, turned around.
Antonio suddenly starting turning around, slowly at first, and then began twirling faster than my eyes could stand. And then he came to a gradual halt. Only, it wasn’t Antonio anymore. It was Jack.
“Oh, Jack. You’re back. Why did you disguise yourself like this?”
“To test your love. Now I know, my dearest Canty, that you truly love me. Nothing can separate True Love. Not even death or not paying the bill.” He slipped his strong arm around me.
“Oh, Jack. I love you so much.”
“And I you, Canty. Only, do you have a drink?”
I laughed, really laughed, for the first time in months.
Suddenly, a voice said, “Da mihi basia mille, deinde, centum….“
We turned around, and there stood Mrs. Willowbend, with a little smile on her face.
“Mrs. Willowbend! You were speaking in tongues!” I exclaimed.
“Mrs. Willowbend!” Jack shouted out in a voice that I’d never heard before. It was not angry, but it seemed to call upon all the inner forces of nature and goodness and the unbreakable human spirit with authoritativeness. “My Watch!”
Mrs. Willowbend mused for a moment, and then brought her head up with a jerk. “Ahh! Your watch. Quite right.”
Fumbling about in her pocket, she brought out a simple pocket watch, and then smiled. “You want your watch, deary?” She took it off and dangled it invitingly in front of her face. “Come and get it!”
Jack leaped towards her like the prince of the deers, only to find himself caught in a trap laid by Mrs. Willowbend!
She looked up in a mystified amusement. “You know, I thought my relatives were bad, but you really do amaze me. I didn’t think anyone could possibly fall for that.” And then she let out a fearful laugh that filled our ears with hate, anger, and despair.
Oh, hold on, Jack! I’m coming for you!
To be continued…
Hannah Roorda writes
It’s been an interesting summer, and I’m sure I don’t need to describe all of my time commitments for you to come to the conclusion that I’m about to make the excuse that I’ve been too busy to blog. Ah, reader, you are brilliant.
But, I did find some time to write. My church has a book study every other Wednesday night, and one of the features of this study is that there are a few people who like to talk a lot during the study who seem to sometimes miss it when someone else would like to talk (tip: don’t put two pastors in the same room). I’m fine with this, as I recognize there are many more moments in my life when I’m talking and just won’t shut up than there are moments when I can’t get a word in edgewise.
But when one wants to talk and one is not given opportunity to, it can be very frustrating. To alleviate the problem of boredom, I have taken to writing short poems about historical theological leaders. They’re not strictly Clerihews, since I rarely like following the AABB rhyme pattern, and they’re not usually limericks, since that’s hard (whine, whine). They’re just short little things.
I’ll be posting them over the course of the next few weeks. To start, here’s one on Rushdoony (look him up if you need to):
Nobody messed with Rousas John Rushdoony,
For he was really quite feared.
When others would speak, he’d bellow,
“Hush, loony!” And frighten them off with his beard.
Installment III
Adorable Cassandra,
Thou breath of all my being,
Who with suitable candor,
Has turned my soul to wooing,
My soul is in tears,
I like your head, your dears
your eyes!
oh to see you once more before goodbyes!
-Margrave
Chapter 7
That night, I slept a fitful sleep. I was so afraid. Questions raced around and around in my head. Why had my mother died? Where had Jack gone? Was I to trust Antonio? Would it only hurt me in my quest to find my father to keep on refusing the Captain like this? Why was Mrs. Willowbend so set upon evil? But then I remembered what Antonio had taught me. Fear is only another barricade for true love and happiness. Oh, Antonio – my beacon of light!
Suddenly, I heard the key turn in the lock.
“A-A-A-Antonio?” I cautiously asked.
“Only a lowly Captain,” brawled the captain calmly. “Recognize me? I wouldn’t expect you to without my mustache.”
He had shaved. All the happiness and joy and peace and love that welled up on in me for Antonio were brutally dashed.
“Now I’ve had some time to cool down, I realized that you only refused my offer to heighten the passion that you know exists in my heart for your love. Will you marry me? Or is it to the Americas for you?”
“NEVER!”
“Then it’s the plank,” he said, roughly dragging me up the stairs by the hair.
The plank, I soon found out, was a large piece of oak wood stretching off the muddy deck, with nothing underneath but the aqua-blue perse waves frothing sordid colors. “H-H-How does it work?” I pondered.
“Step on it,” ordered the Captain. As I did, he produced from his seaman’s vest a big saw, obviously intended to cut something. And then, slowly, ever so slowly, the Captain knelt down onto the deck and began to saw off the plank. I felt faint. Antonio would not come. He had deserted me. Memories flooded in, of Jack, of Mother, of Father, of Aunt Catherine….
“Look, the girl’s crying!” the Captain guffawed.
The horrid crowd of ruffians laughed and jeered. I searched their dirty, disheveled faces for Antonio’s clean-shaven face. I could not pick it out from the crowd. Why was all this happening? Could it all be part of a plan? Seconds became minutes. And minutes turned to hours. And still the plank stood. The captain hit himself and swore and swore and swore. I hated it. Dam’ him!
“What in the name of St. Peter is wrong with this saw?” cut in the Captain sharply.
“The game is up, Fitzwilliam,” shouted a loud voice near the back.
“Who said that?” roared the Captain.
There was a stir amongst the sailors, and Antonio emerged, with scintillating [usage sic] black hair streaming in the wind, and tan skin shining in the happy streams of sunlight. He wore a leather vest over his red sailor’s shirt. The sea sparkled in his eyes.
“I did.” Antonio’s deep voice seemed to surprise and intimidate the Captain.
“What is the meaning of this, sailor?” raged the Captain infuriated.
“I took Ms. Verbatim’s nail-file and used it to dull the blade of the saw,” explained Antonio in his romantic Spanish accent.
“Curse you,” wailed the Captain.
“Oh, Antonio! ” I yelled, flinging my arms around his neck.
“Oh, dearest Ms. Verbatim!” he screamed. Happiness exuded out of both our hearts. I felt like singing and laughing and running through a field of daises. Just before I was about to step back onto the ship, Antonio said in an urgent voice, “Ms. Verbatim, there’s something I must tell you about your parents -”
There was a loud bang and the sound of splintering wood. A shotgun shell splashed into the already churning waters. I looked through the hole in the plank and there was Mrs. Willowbend. She licked a martini-soaked olive off the end of a toothpick, dropped it back into the glass, and blowing the end of the barrel, aimed the 12-gauge at me and smiled.
I looked deeply into Mrs. Willowbend’s eyes and I saw, for a fleeting moment, a nice old lady like my great Aunt Catherine (I had only met her once back when I was little), trying to break through the hard exterior of painful experiences and give me a hug. Jack’s words from yesterday flooded back – “It’s not what you do that makes you, it’s who you are. Deep down. There in your heart.” All in a flash, as the first rays of sunlight come beaming over the horizon on a cool June morning, or as the first leaves come out in spring on a March full moon, I saw the real Mrs. Willowbend. The real Mrs. Willowbend was really a good person. Deep down.
I smiled. She just needed warmth and understanding.
“Would you like some tea?” I asked.
I flung myself into Antonio’s arms as the plank exploded in the gunfire.
“I’ve got a martini, thanks,” she responded.
“Quick,” cried Antonio, “We must leave!”
“But Mrs. Willowbend – I can help her!”
“Quick, Ms. Verbatim.”
We ran to the other side of the ship. “Into the lifeboat,” said Antonio. I got in.
“Antonio… aren’t you getting in?”
“No, dearest Ms. Verbatim. I must deal justice Mrs. Willowbend and the Captain!”
“Oh, Antonio, you valiant man!” I said it with remorse, for I felt this might be the last time I see Antonio. And then – oh! Hope! – I didn’t know why, for it was almost as if there was another voice speaking through me – “I give you your new name ‘Thrimhas, the Brave’!”
“Thank you, Cantaloupe!”
And he was gone.
My lifeboat drifted away from the ship and into the dense, murky, cobalt fog, lined with the sinister figures of drooping leaves.
Antonio boarded the boat, muscles rippling in the sunset as he swung himself over the side. He stealthily stole down the deck and around the front of the ship. He came up to the Captain’s cabin and hid outside the window. He grimaced and swept his beautiful dark hair out of his eyes. Antonio had a small goatee. From inside the cabin, he heard Mrs. Willowbend talking to the Captain.
“You understand, Fitzwilliam, that while I must disagree with your methods, I do believe that you have fulfilled your contracted function in this matter and that your part is finished. I thank you for the use of your watch and I shall return it when I am done with it. In the meantime, I have some cookies in the oven, which should be ready in.. oooh… five minutes. If you will excuse me, I am going to go clean up.”
She started for the door. Antonio, the strong muscular man he was, climbed atop a nearby barrel and swung himself onto the roof of the cabin. Mrs. Willowbend walked out, slumping over, as she retreated toward her own cabin. She hummed A More Humane Mikado to herself and Antonio heard her singing a small ditty about scuba gear.
Then, the same realization that hit me hit Antonio. Mrs. Willowbend baked cookies. She also liked scuba-diving. She hummed the Mikado. She was just like anyone else, and was a good person, deep down. There could be no justice dealt to the innocent. Antonio saw, as I so fervently wished in my heart that he would, that would never solve anything. He felt through his linen pockets. He only had 5 pence left. He hopped off the top of the cabin and followed Mrs. Willowbend. She darted through passageways on the ship and Antonio began to despair of catching her. At last, he encountered Willowbend coming out of her cabin wearing full scuba gear.
“Willowbend!” he yelled.
“This ought to be interesting,” she muttered to herself as she turned around. “What,” she asked aloud, “do you want from me?”
“I…I just wanted to…to give you this,” he said, holding out the five pence. “Take it. It’s yours. To keep. With this money, Willowbend, you can make a new life for yourself. You can go out and buy a
farm, and, while I realize that most of your life is past you, you still have this chance to get out of this rut that you’re in. You must take it, Willowbend. Happiness is knocking at your door. Will you answer?”
He held out his hand farther, inviting her to take the money.
Mrs. Willowbend looked up at him quizzically.
“What, pray tell, do you expect me to buy with five pence?”
With that, she hit Antonio over the head with an oxygen tank. Antonio’s hair waved in the scintillating twilight as he reeled back. Mrs. Willowbend calmly walked over and delicately pushed him off the deck. Upon hitting the water, Antonio awoke from the shock. He looked in his hand. The five pence were gone. He knew Mrs. Willowbend had reconsidered and would turn her life around.
Antonio swam away with Herculean strides, muscles bulging, from the ship, and, a few minutes later, he came upon the lifeboat, for I had drifted far from the ship.
He climbed aboard and I offered him a towel.
“Oh, Antonio,” I quietly said, “You saved me!”
“I’m afraid not, dearest, sweetest thing, ” spoke Antonio, “These are infested waters and we have no food.”
But he was interrupted by a bang and a loud roar. I looked behind me to see the ship go up in a ball of flame. The heat singed my face and tears.
“Oh, Antonio! Mrs. Willowbend!”
“All will be well.”
“B-b-but… Mrs. Willowbend,” I choked, “She couldn’t have survived that explosion! She’s… she’s… dead…. Oh, is that word so hard to say? Do we yet retain the irrational, inarticulate fear of the end? Could it be that man never really changes no matter which are the pedestals of sophistication upon which he sits? Past all the layers of societal graces and customs, perhaps Man really is still a barbarous savage underneath the facade, terrified of death, fearful of retribution, waiting in mortified expectation for the final stroke to be dealt. It is only when confronted with the reality of and the possibility of life after that the disguise falls apart; it is only then that the man is unmasked, shown as he truly is: no different from men of old. None of us, when confronted with death, are sure of anything. I think we should help save Mrs. Willowbend’s orphanage! She would have wanted it that way. ”
“Yes. She would have.”
“And then we can try to find my father!”
“Of course, dearest Ms. Verbatim.”
“And how many times must I ask you to call me Cantaloupe?”
“At least once more,” said Antonio.
“Will you call me Cantaloupe?”
“Cantaloupe.” I smiled. “That’s a beautiful name.”
“My mother always said so. I miss her so.”
As we sat waiting, I thought of my parents and remembered.
To be continued…
N. D. Wilson, a children’s author for Random House, consented to an interview with Pontification Ad Nauseam on what advice he could give to young authors – style, plot, the ideogenesis of themes, characters, milieu, and, of course, personal influences.
Mr. Wilson passed all our expectations, and I really recommend the interview below to anyone who’s writing fiction. It completely changed my approach to writing a (serious) story, in any case. You may have heard the things he’s said before, but I can assure you you’ve never heard them quite like he says them. Nobody in my lilliputian knowledge has ever compared writing a story to a shopping spree.
The interview took place over Skype, and special and highest thanks to Mark DenHoed for putting in a lot of time and effort editing the file. He never officially gets heard or acknowledged during the interview, but he’s behind the scenes doing important things.
Still. We qualify Mr. Wilson as a blockhead.
N. D. Wilson Interview
The Bug — (no comment.)
We will be posting a Google Documents Text Transcript as soon as possible.
