Makalani

 

It was an illusion. Every numbed sensation, every untraceable hue, a mere nothing. It would pass – it must. Though formless darkness pledge insanity of ever-night, its promise was made already broken. Why? Where hope is life thrives, and where life is hope lives. And this symbiotic existence preserved itself, solitary and strong, in a single beating heart. Ring upon golden ring echoed out through cavernous darkness as every pulse fell, like a drop of liquid light, into the empty silence: Hope . . . life . . . hope . . . life . . . hope . . . life . . . hope . . . Each beat rang, sounding one against the other with a harmony like pealing bells.

“It’s just an illusion,” Enid whispered, nurturing her hope and reaping life, “There is an end and it will come. All I have to do is wait.”

Wait – but for how long? Eternity? The heart skipped a beat. In the darkness there opened a ring of unbroken blackness. Tighter pressed the sealed eyes as silently they gazed only within.

“No,” Enid said, “Even eternity must end in light. All things end in light.”

And so Enid spoke softly to her heart, enlivening it with scenes of hope and hoping for life in that which would surely come.

“Darkness must end somewhere, sometime,” said she, “If I hope strong enough, perhaps the light will find me!”

Faster rang the peals of light as broader grew their golden bands. Like water over-flowing from a fount the light spilled farther and deeper into the darkness, sealing over every break and shrinking the parched voids until the very last hole had been smoothed over by ripples of gold. Such a wealth of light glowed from within her that Enid felt as if the very glory of it would burst her heart asunder. With a smile like dawn she opened her eyes.

Shadows melted and darkness was torn apart before the sword-like beams of her lifted gaze. Richer than white and purer than gold; sweeter than silver and brighter than the brightest sunrise, the rays streamed from her eyes into the crumbling darkness.

But this is not goodbye.

Thalassa will return:

3/14/21

to

3/14/41

 

Dear heart of sure and grim resolve

You wish you felt the woe of love

That, letting go, yet whimpers 'No'

You lack regret and feel so low.

So much relief you feel, 'tis strange

And makes you wonder if you'll change

Or just go on with a new name:

Selfish, fickle, and the same

As you have been. You want to be

A new person, but what is 'Me'

Apart from what the Me has been?

Can you renounce your past and win

Your future, lacking every source

Wherefrom the streams of passion course?

You've never been to a cross-road

Quite like this one, and though you've stowed

Each reason, passion, deep within

Who are you, 'part from who you've been?

The bending road you've left behind

Is lined with byways of the mind

You could have taken, but forewent

To chase the dream you've lived and spent.

Who knows, dear heart, what lies ahead.

You may wish you had stayed instead,

But life's too short and loves too few

To tarry over worries. You

May yet accomplish all your goals,

Discover all the waiting souls

Whose stories wait for you to tell.

Dear heart, you'll never know until

You walk the road; you reach the end

And find it but another bend.

 

Once upon a time I wrote "Unsung Symphony"

But there was a symphony before the one above, and it went like this:

The hall is dim and hearth is cold

The dusty stones are cracked and old

No music fair rings in the air

No lamps are lit – no tales are told.

The lofty rafters creak and groan

As through the crackéd stones doth moan

A windy breath that sings of death

And grieves for songs forever gone.

Of heroes tall in glitt’ring mail

And decked in gems to make stars pale;

Of journeys long and battles won

Through many a great and glorious tale;

Of these and more when days were young

And tapestries were wove and hung;

Of heroes bold the harpers told

But now, alas, they go unsung.

The hall is gray and hearth is bare,

A sadness lingers in the air.

All harps unstrung, all songs unsung

As if they never had been there.

 

Recall and regret that deep dark night

When the war was o'er. We'd won the fight

Almost made peace, almost struck light

But you were too cold to forgive.

Recall and regret with a bitter chill

What lives were laid upon your will;

What hopes were dashed and yet you still

Would not but say “Forgive.”

Recall and regret your frozen heart

That as it cooled so tore apart

The peace we'd gained. No warming start

Of love could make you forgive.

Recall and regret the great forfeit

Of love and trust you made – and yet

You would not thaw – would not let

Your heart but say “Forgive.”

Recall and regret as by the sword

Of your own pride – of your cold word

Your faithful fall, and in accord

say “Why could you not forgive?”

Recall and regret as all alone

You face the world – your heart is stone

Your flesh is frost and ice be bone

For none now can forgive.

 

Between sleeping and waking Anastasia lay, beneath a rumpled bed-spread of grayish white. Brightly shone the moon through bars of swaying tree branches, painting her other-wise un-colored coverlet in hues of silver-blue and deep, liquid black. As the trees swayed so swayed the pattern and as the wind danced so danced its leaves. A slender, pale hand loosed itself from beneath the heavy folds to gently trail one finger along the shadowy branches. Otherwise inanimate, Anastasia’s eyes flickered dimly and the ghost of a smile lifted the edges of her lips. It was a lovely pattern.

Through a crack in her window Anastasia could hear the wind sing as it soared through the tree-tops to play a lilting soprano and hummed between their trunks a stirring bass. Her eyes flicked upward and after dancing across the far wall (which, like her bed, was latticed by the shadows of the trees) gazed out the window. Faint and far-off behind the moon a blooming field of stars shone, adding keenness to the moon’s majestic luster by their intense gaze.

Over the wind Anastasia began to hear a different and far-less melodious sound. Like flapping cloth followed by a whispering slide as of sand-paper across a smooth beam, it broke into the harmony of the night. Anastasia frowned and averting her gaze from the deepening heavens, turned her head to listen towards the door. Shuffle, shuffle, scratch. The noises continued, growing closer every moment. Just as she was about to call out and alert the person or thing to its own nuisancery, the handle on her door turned. With a high-pitched squeak the door eased a slow foot open and Anastasia, her eyes narrowed in annoyance and disbelief, sat up in bed.

“I have come for you,” a low and grating voice growled from the shadows beyond. Anastasia only rolled her eyes.

“What do you want, Timothy?” she demanded in a low and irate voice.

“I have come for you!” the voice insisted again.

“Yeah, and I’m a hot-dog.” She retorted. A stifled snicker came from the shadows, followed by another slow, ominous comment.

“In that case I had better mustard up some ketchup!”

“Enough with the puns, Timothy,” Anastasia hissed and throwing her covers off, stalked over to the door. Laying hold the handle she jerked it roughly forward, stepping back at the same time to dodge the slight figure which came hurtling into the room.

In a jumble of knees, elbows and a long, eagle-hooked nose the ‘specter’, his hand still latched onto the door-handle, tumbled to the floor. Not a second later and he was on his feet again, grumbling something about ‘manners, warnings and all that’. Anastasia’s eyes widened as she took in his attire and upon making this observation her entire demeanor changed.

“You going somewhere, Sherlock?” she queried, cocking an inquisitive eyebrow.

[here the manuscript ends]

 

You watch as time ticks slowly by – painfully the color drains from the little boy’s face.

“No time to waste,” you think. Ahead you look and wonder what is beyond. Down you look and realize what must be done.

“I will not pass by where I can help,” you think, lowering beside the hole, “This bridge is broken,” you glance up, eyes lighting on one of the glowing strands, “And I’m going to help build it.”

Swinging your legs over the edge, you plunge into the hole.

It is cold – so cold you cannot move, nor can you think. Down you plummet, speed ever-increasing in the chilling vacuum. It is like falling through a fog made of ice – or as if radioactive rays could be bullets of searing chill. The ice permeates you, stilling your heart, breath and mind. You can’t even think to gasp for air. It is so cold . . . too cold . . . you wonder if this is what death feels like.

But the cold could never last forever. No, warmth does not sweetly blossom to steal your chill away. Like the rain of a hundred tiny arrows, both within and without, a sudden heat strikes you, knocking all the remaining breath from your lungs.

It sears and burns and all you want is to get out of it. The heat wraps you round and, somehow, you understand that though it pains, it wants – if heat can want - to help you. You relax, trying to think through the blinding pain.

Light slowly grows from the heated darkness, revealing a little of yourself and the darts. They are like flashes of the light, but somehow darker than it.

“Light? Dark?” you think, mentally shaking your head at the absurdity of it. As if they understand your scorn, the darts strike harder and deeper. You gasp, looking down at yourself.

You are still gray, though the light about you blooms orange and tinged with red and gold. Then you see: every place the darts are striking takes on a little color. Are they infusing you with life? Turning your consciousness into a being?

“It is a strange way to translate from one world to another,” you think dreamily. The darts begin growing less painful, fading away into a sweet oblivion. Once more, you feel cold, and as the darkness engulfs your mind, you wonder when you will stop falling . . .

You must have been asleep, you think, as a blue light shines through your eyelids and into your mind. Upon the canvas of your thought the light shifts and forms shadows. A tree, a mountain, and a stallion. What are they? A man, a boy, and a knife. Wait, where did that last one come from? You struggle against the darkness in your own mind. There’s something here . . . but you can’t grasp it. You’ve seen those images before . . .

“Gotta wake up,” you think, and then that is all you can think. You need to wake up now. You need to wake up now. You need to wake up NOW.

You open your eyes and see nothing but a blinding golden light. It is so bright – you are surprised it does not sting and burn. A moment later, something soft brushes against your cheek and whispers, like a melody, in your ear. You shift, turn, and look.

Grass – long golden grass all veined with pale green and brown. The touch is a breeze and the tune it’s song. The air is sweet and heavy with the smell of rain and pine-trees. You breathe in, relishing the prickly scents. You shift, feeling the gentle hilliness of the ground beneath you. You laugh – it is good to be alive again!

Rolling over, you struggle to your feet, at first staggering a little as the blood rushes downward and into your legs. Soon, however, your head clears, and you view a broad landscape spreading from beneath your feet.

You stand, as it seems, near the crest of hill whose sides are cloaked in the long, golden grass. Here and there, a small tree flows upward from the billowing grass, ascending like the tips of towers through a sea of golden cloud. The sky is bluer than you have ever seen – but no so much as to shock the eyes. It doesn’t look more blue, so much as the blue in it looks more. As if it were made of something solid and liquid all at once. The sun is bright, but you can look straight into it. Warm is the air and soft its breeze as a gentle wind blows through the leaves. Everything is so beautiful.

Warmer the breeze blows suddenly around you, and on it, you sense the flavor of rain. Looking further than the rolling plain, you see hills in the distance. Maybe there are people further on? Then again . . . you turn, and look behind you.

A forest. It must be leagues and leagues away, but appears close enough to touch. And behind the rising ranks of green-clad lords, mountains rear their proud heads into the clouds. Glancing up, you shiver just to see the patches of brilliant white near their tips.

As you stand, gazing at the scene behind you, you espy beyond the mountains a mass of dark clouds.

“Hello,” you think, “So that’s where you’re coming from.”

A bird appears against the mountain backdrop, wheeling and soaring on a strong updraft. If I can see it from here – you reason – it must be a great bird.

Where to next? The rolling hills or the mountains? You can see no signs of people in either direction, but maybe that is just your point of view. To your right and towards the mountains, a larger hill rises. If you just crest that, you may be able to see far enough and decide which is the best direction to take . . .

Running swiftly down the hill, you end up rolling to the bottom. A little too steep for speed, you think, rubbing a sore elbow and flexing a bruised knee with a grimace. Ahead, the hill looms like a small, golden mountain against the sky.

And you climb. It is a long way up, and more winding than you had at first assumed. Cresting the final rolling hump of land, you see below a single hut. Smoke rises, curling in the breeze and sending a faint scent of something delicious up towards you. Your stomach growls and, unconsciously, you lick your lips, stepping forward.

A loud bay shatters the sweet stillness as something strikes you full in the chest, knocking you down in a whoosh of air. You blink, and find yourself staring straight into the teeth of a very angry dog. Time seems to stop as you wonder, sadly, whether your adventure will end here.

“Wait, what was the adventure about?” you think, suddenly afraid you have forgotten something very important.

“Elkor, down!” a voice shouts. Instantly, you are relieved of both lung-crushing burden and knock-out doggy breath. Gasping, you struggle to your knees.

“Forgive me, sir, and my dog - we are not used to strangers,” the voice says again, this time nearer. You look up, your eyes meeting the gaze of a young boy.

“A boy. A boy. A boy. A boy,” your thoughts echo as the shadows reappear in your mind, “A boy. A boy. The boy! The BOY!”

You gasp, starting to you feet, hands instantly flying up to burrow in your thick hair.

“Where is he?” you mutter, casting about for the boy. The boy from the shadow-mirror – the boy you came to save!

“Sir?” the child says, “Are you looking for someone?”

You turn back, really looking at him for the first time. Appearing to be around eleven years old, he is strongly built with a shock of glossy black hair, firm jaw and brilliant green eyes.

“Like a cat,” you muse, then remember he just asked you a question.

“Yes, I . . . um, well, he . . .” and your voice trails off. How do you describe him to this boy? How do ask you for help? “I’m looking for a boy, younger than you, whose hurt bad. Dirty blond hair and, no, I don’t know his name. No, I don’t know his location, or the color of eyes, or who his parents, village, clan . . .”

Impossible.

But you need to find him! Glancing over the boy’s head, you gaze into the further, mountainous distance. You need to find him – but how?

[here the manuscript ends]

 

“They’re both a chance for adventure,” you think out-loud to yourself, “The right so rich and the left so decayed . . . but I don’t care for riches.”

You glance at the dull, wooden bridge, letting your eyes stray slowly along its un-finished length. Yet how can you be certain that taking it will lead to adventure?

“Would it not be more adventurous to take an un-carved path?” you question the stillness. It replies with silence and you wonder if silence means ‘no’ or ‘yes’. You shake your head and smile somewhat bitterly.

“As if shadows could talk,” you step back from the edge and, on impulse, look behind you.

Nothing but darkness meets your gaze. At first, you wonder if, perhaps, a path could be carved through there? But no – you decide – that leads nowhere save back to the waking world, and you want to go somewhere new for a change.

“But if this is a dream,” you reason, “Why can’t I make my own bridge? Or, better yet, what if I . . .” you turn and step closer to the chasm’s rim.

It’s a long fall – a fall into eternity. Yet, this is a dream, so nothing bad could happen, right? Besides – you glance first at the golden bridge, then at the wooden – you don’t want to follow a path already-made. A gleam comes into your eyes as you think of all the times you have taken paths chosen for you by others. You are tired of it. It’s about time you carved your own path.

Below you the shadows seem to beckon, promising adventure and a new chance. A place to restart, rethink and redo. Remake a past you have no pride in and nothing accomplished worthy of merit.

“It’s so deep,” you think, gazing into the bottomless well of blackness. You feel yourself drawn to it – the promise of a new path, “A path of my making.” Shadows seem to reach from the void, taking your hands, your feet, and drawing you in to their embrace. You lean out over the chasm.

As if a sudden hand had seized your arm, something jerks you back from the brink. You find yourself breathless, your pulse racing and eyes wide. What are you doing? That’s suicide! Or, wait . . . you shake your head, trying to clear your thoughts.

“It’s only a dream,” you remind yourself. But for some reason, you don’t believe it – not really. Somehow this is more than a dream. It became so the moment you chose to take the path. Looking up, your eyes light, once more, upon the golden bridge.

“It too promises,” you think to yourself, “The gold and light are a promise of perfection – but it’s all wrong, like the darkness.” Neither can be trusted, for both pledge wonders too good to be true – to good to be good.

You blink, and look at the wooden bridge. After a long pause, a single thought whispers through your mind.

“Help.”

Unlike the darkness and the light, this bare, broken path promises nothing. No joy, no sorrow, no wonder, no adventure. It gives no pledge and begs no trust. But there is something else – something truly unique about this bridge. You glance, first at the darkness, the light, and then the wooden bridge. Moments slip by . . .

“Hope,” you murmur. The wooden bridge is so broken, yet its timbers are bound together with hope. The darkness is empty – it has no hope. The light is resplendent – but it has no hope. This bridge – this ugly wooden structure, falling to pieces and decay - it has life, if only just enough.

“If bridges are worlds,” you think, “Then this one needs help.”

“But who are you to think you can help?” The darkness taunts.

“What claim has that thing to your help?” The light flatters.

Walking down the chasm’s brim, you stop before the bridge. A deep breath, not a glance behind or beside, and you step onto the bridge.

It is firm. Another step forward and you feel the planks beneath your feet groan. You pause and listen to the thunder of your heart. Glancing to the right, you wonder if you’ve made the right choice. The golden bridge is gone.

“Right or no,” you mutter to yourself, “I’ve got nowhere else now.”

You close your eyes. You’re so afraid of falling – wouldn’t it just be better to jump? You lean against a rail, feeling it shift. If you push hard enough, maybe . . .

“No!” you exclaim. Your eyes fly open and you straighten. Now that the light is gone, the darkness pulls at you more incessantly. But you will not give in. Clenching your jaw, you set your eyes straight ahead and, without bothering to look for your footholds, you stride across the bridge.

“I have chosen it, so it will bear me and where it doesn’t bear me the emptiness will,” you think and through sheer force of will, realize that you are still dreaming as the holes your feet land on are firm as stone.

“Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” you murmur.

It seems like a long time has passed, before you pause and look about you. Darkness beside, darkness behind, above, below and all around you. How can you see then? With a start, your eyes land on the ropes of the bridge. Those silver strands in them – they’re glowing? You step closer to the side and finger one of the ropes. A smile spreads across your face – that is the hope!

“Wow,” you whisper, shaking your head. Maybe there is more to this bridge than first meets the eye. Lifting your eyes, you gaze onward, into the receding darkness. It’s so long. Where would the bridge end . . . if ever.

“No giving up,” you say to yourself, and as your hand rests on one of the glowing ropes, a light wakes in your mind, “What if,” you wonder, “What if I just . . . hope? Hope for an end to come or a door to appear. Yeah,” you start walking again, “I’ll hope.”

For the next age you keep alert, watching for any signs of ending or beginning, door or portal. As you walk, you see the bridge change, as if it were the structure of time, molding first this way then that to picture each age, decade and year. Maybe even seconds. For a seeming millennia, no door appears.

“What am I looking for?” you ask the stillness. Walking has become so natural, you don’t even consider that you’re doing it, “Where do you want me to go!?” you call, still walking.

Ahead, there appears a hole in the bridge. Spanning from rail to rail it stretches on for at least three yards before the bridge resumes its onward course. You pause at the brink and look down into darkness. Endless night.

The darkness in it – it seems almost watery. Without thinking, you lower on one knee before it and reach a hand into the rippling shadows. They shock you, like ice-cold water, but you don’t pull your hand out. Something’s in there . . . you feel a solid, smooth object touch your fingers. You grasp it, and pull it from the hole.

A . . . mirror? Not exactly. It looks more like an enormous silver plate. But the center – it’s not solid. You touch it and again feel the shocking cold.

“More like moon-light on mist than anything else,” you murmur. Peering into the billowing center, you think you can discern shapes. Shadows.

“What do you want me to do?” you whisper. A sudden urge to submerge your face in the watery brilliance steals over you. No, that’s crazy! It’d freeze your brain, or . . . you look closer. There really is someone in there! It looks like a man and, someone shorter – a child? You lift the window closer.

A memory blows through your mind:

“Welcome, Seer,” the old voice had said.

“Seer? What’s that?” You had replied. At once you realize that the old man never answered your question.

“What am I supposed to see?” you wonder aloud. The images shift and morph, forming first a tree, then a mountain, then a stallion, then the man and child. You see the child grasping the man’s hand. He lowers on one knee, drawing the child into his arms. Dark figures appear behind the man. They seize him, pulling him away from the child. You hold your breath and feel like your heart is rending in two as the small shadow seems to cry out. The child runs and the picture moves with him. He runs until he stumbles and falling, lays still. A dark pool appears beside his head.

“NO!” you scream, but the scene changes. The man again! But he is chained and gagged. You see him lift his head and hands, grasping for a thin ray of light. You see him kneel in it and bow his head. He is still for a long time. His shoulders shake. He is crying. You blink, trying to clear your sight. They’re just pictures! Why does this hurt so much? Again the dark figures appear and again they drag the man away. The window turns dark.

“No,” you whisper, reaching into it again, “No, no, you can’t stop there!” you wave your hand through the vapor, trying to will the shadows back.

The window is still. You start to your feet and look beyond it into the hole.

“If I jump, can I save them?” you whisper. The darkness shifts and begins to glow like the window in your hands. You lay it on the bridge beside you and kneel down once more, leaning close.

“What do you want to show me?” you ask. The shadows swirl, morph, and solidify into a single picture. The boy, but this time no longer a shadow. There is color and life! But something’s wrong. You look closer and realize it is the same picture from before. There is blood on the ground under his head, staining his light brown hair dark. His eyes are closed though tear tracts run from them down his face. You see his lips move and mouth open just slightly. He’s alive! But for how long . . . you lean back.

Dare you jump?

You look ahead. It wouldn’t be hard to climb the railing and cross the hole. Maybe there’d still be a door ahead. Maybe this is just a trick. You look down again. What if it is?

“How can I know what I am seeing is true?” you whisper. The window does not shift or reply. You close your eyes. Onward, back, inward – which do you choose? For all you know, this drop could lead to destruction. Then again, it could lead to salvation. But the way ahead – there must be a door! After all – if this bridge is time, then maybe you’re only in the middle of it. It has to stop somewhere, and there is where nothing yet has happened. Then how could this be empty? It doesn’t make sense.

You stand, and opening your eyes, gaze down through the window.

“If I wait it may be too late,” you murmur, “But if I go . . . I might die and have done no good.”

 

You sleep, and while you sleep, you dream a dream.

There is darkness behind you and darkness before you, yet you sense that though the darkness behind is perpetual, if you try, you may find light ahead. You start walking, the only sense to prove your progress, the faint sound of your feet gliding across a barren ground. Through the shoes on your feet, you can sense that this earth is not stone – it is not hard enough for that – but neither is it grass. Hard, packed earth, so dense that no dust rises from beneath your feet, meets every step. The ground is level – it does not rise or fall. As if . . . as if it had no life.

Everything, from the darkness to the earth to the very air – so still yet not stale, more empty, as it were – feels alien, but not in the sense of something other-worldly. No, but this place – if place it may be called - feels instead as if it were un-worldly. You know, instinctively, that it cannot be a world. Merely a place between the worlds or . . . you shiver to think – cut off from them all. Could it be . . . a Beyond? Perhaps, and if so, what might be found in the blank Beyond? Nothing. No light, though you believe it must be there – there is always light. It doesn’t make sense so that, even as your mind rebels, your steps pursue onward, each tread the beat of your heart.

You walk on.

The stories are not always right when they say that a long walk with expectation ahead and dread behind may seem to take forever. One moment, you are contemplating the nature of Beyond, the next, you are standing on the brink of a chasm.

No, the stones on the edge do not slip off and fall into dark emptiness to warn you of its never-ending depth. Remember, there are no stones here. However, there is light. You realize it, suddenly, as if a lamp had just been turned on, though you know the light has always been there. How strange. Did it come into being when you believed it would be so? Or did your belief open your eyes to see that it had always been there? You shake your head. No, it doesn’t make sense – but it does make wonder.

You think, at first, that you are alone. Or, rather, you never dream that anyone might be here with you. But then that is the strange thing about dreams. You survey the chasm, stepping closer to its brink. Something tells you that you will not fall, though you were to walk out upon the very air. The only thing which might cause your fall is . . .

“Welcome, Seer,” a voice says in your ear. Without even a start, you turn to face the speaker. No, you were not expecting the voice, but now that it is here, its presence makes all the sense in the world.

“Seer?” you say, “What does that mean?”

Beside you, there shimmers into sight from the gray-and-black shadows, the form of a tall man. He has a long, silver beard and is robed in a garment of shimmering hue. You think to yourself ‘It is a rainbow’ then realize that though you know it has many colors – like mother-of-pearl – you cannot perceive them. Glancing down at your own hands they appear gray to your visage. This place - this Beyond - has no color?

“No,” the old man replies to your thought, “Color is created by life, and there is no life in the Beyond.”

“But,” you say, “I am alive.”

The old man smiles, and reaching out, waves a hand through your arm.

“Perhaps I should say ‘tangently alive’ then,” he says. Your eyes widen and, involuntarily, you reach to wave your hand through his.

“Impossible,” you whisper.

“No,” the old man replies, “Remember, you are dreaming. Anything is possible.”

You are surprised that he tells you this, but only for a moment.

“If this is Beyond,” you say, “Then what is Beyond?”

“Beyond is the place leading to places. The hall wherein doors to the worlds are found,” the old man replies.

“I thought that was the Wood Between the Worlds,” you point out.

The old man smiles, “Yes and no,” he says, “Each man pictures the Beyond – or Between, as some have called it – in his own fashion. Some use portals, others pools, still others picture-frames, and it all depends on the person’s own mind, or,” and turning his gaze from you to the chasm, he murmurs, “Their destination.”

You follow his gaze and fall into a contemplation of the shadows. If this is your Beyond, then where are the doors? If not – whose Beyond have you stumbled upon? If you were able, you would shiver, but there is no temperature in this Beyond, so you tremble inside as the shadows seem to grow deeper.

“Where are the doors?” you whisper and feel the old man’s gaze return to you.

“That,” says he, “Is for you to find for yourself.”

You consider his words for a moment, then ask, “How do I find? Where do I look? What should I expect?” with the last sentence, you turn to face him, and . . . find yourself alone.

But the sudden abandonment does not strike you as hard as it might’ve for, along the chasm’s brim, you see a thin, faintly glowing path has appeared.

“Do I follow it?” you wonder, even as your steps touch the shimmering gravel, “Is it safe?” you walk down the length, “Maybe this is a trap,” your steps quicken, “I should stop and think,” but you don’t. Such thoughts continue to whisper through your mind, yet not a one deters your from following the path. It feels right, without feeling at all, and makes perfect sense, though you can sense nothing. It is all so very strange.

“But remember,” your consciousness whispers, “You are dreaming.”

You walk on.

Deep gray dusk ahead begins giving way to a paler, colder hue until, at once, the path ends. You are still standing on the brink of the chasm, but now, there lies another road before you.

A bridge, wooden in appearance with ropes binding the stays together and visible nails protruding outward. Pieces of timber are broken off in place and the railing, or the foot-boards, are simply missing in others. Missing, as if they never had been made. Yet for all its brokenness, this bridge appears neither weak nor ugly. It is majestic in a half-built, dreamily imaginative kind of way. Stepping closer, you can just see the intricate carving in some of the pillars and patterns of silvery threads woven throughout the ropes. It is beautiful – in an intriguing and ancient way.

Upon your eyes, there glimmers a sudden gold. You glance, involuntarily, to the right, and observe another bridge. Slowly, your steps lead along the chasm some fifteen yards until you are standing before it. This bridge is solid gold and so bright, you know that if you were to walk on it, the darkness would appear as day, and the empty coldness would become warm as summer sunshine. This bridge is complete, and splendid. Graceful and majestic, it arches across the chasm into a vanishing distance, leaping like a young, powerful stallion. In the gold are set jewels of many radiant hues (though, remember, you have impression of their color, but you cannot really see it) and around them whirl patterns of shimmering gold leaf. Gazing along one shining rail, you see the phantoms of the metal-work seem to come to life, weaving their aura-like figures in a dance. They are telling a story, yet more than a story - a history. There is a tale here – you can see its antiquity and majesty. The bridge is beautiful – in an awesome and ancient way.

But your gaze strays back to the wooden bridge, so small and insignificant as compared to this gargantuan splendor. Slowly, your steps lead away from the golden bridge.

Glancing further ahead as you walk, you see, with little surprise, that the path which brought you here, is gone. You know, somehow, that here is where you must be. That here is where you must choose.

Stopping half-way between the intriguing and the awesome, you wonder which road to take.

 

This is a comedy wanna-be-novel I began some time ago, but never continued. 

I still hope to someday continue and complete Fil's story. He is one of my favorite characters I've ever created.

Fil

In the town of Higensburg there stretches a busy main street where all the people and buildings look the same. All but one, that is. That’s the place I work for. With tall green vines climbing up its brown, brick walls and a gloriously messy assortment of flowers blooming a-top its big, flat roof, Ms:

Fraulien Fern’s Fruiterary and Flower-shop

has got to be the most fantastic store in the town. Maybe the whole world. I once pointed out to my sister, Lindsey, how flipping friendly and fantastic it was. She snapped back that I should stop trying to be so funny. I cracked up.

“That too!” I exclaimed, ducking a smack to the ear, “Funny, fantastic, fruity, flowery, friendly flipping fun and-” she got me, knocking that last word clear out of my head. I still haven’t found it . . .

Needless to say the ‘quirkiness’ (as my mom’s friends liked to call it) of Ms. F’s store and person, tends to rub off on me. As a result, I am one of the cheeriest, weirdest kids in town.

Not that I wasn’t already weird before I started working for Ms. F. Sometimes, I’ve had the funniest feeling that she asked me to work for her because I am quirky. We got along great, had more than a few good laughs and, as I grew older, became better and better friends every day. I even changed the ‘Ph’ at the beginning of my name, out for an ‘F’ – just to keep things clear. It also came with the added bonus of ‘Fil’ looking way funnier than ‘Phil.’

After about three years of working for Ms. F, every Tuesday and Friday (yep, I worked on Friday) I graduated from sophomore to junior. That was the year my world changed for good.

My Mission

“Ferocious.”

“Fierce.”

“F-”

“Fil! Get down here!” my mom bawled from below.

With a snarky smirk, I gave my reflection one last wink, and snatching up my fuchsia baseball cap, trotted out of the bathroom.

First day being Junior, I decided that for the next nine months, I would choose an F-word a day to bring with me to school. First day’s word: Ferocious.

Not that I was much of a ferocious sight, plummeting down the stairs in all my fuchsia base-ball capped, neon-green sneakered and tie-dye shirted glory. Appearances weren’t the point. I wanted feel ferocious, which is why I spent fifteen minutes making faces to myself in the bathroom mirror. Now, I was ready for anything.

Even Lindsey. In fact, I wanted her to bug me. I was not disappointed.

“See here, squirt,” she growled as soon as the front door closed behind us.

“Correction,” I said, sticking up a finger, “If you’re going to call me something small and squishy, make it a fungus. After all,” I grinned, “I am a fun guy.”

She grabbed my collar. That was unexpected.

“You better listen, ‘cause I’m only telling you once,” she snarled.

I smiled sweetly, “Anything you want, Sis.”

“You don’t know this school like I do,” she went on, ignoring my sass for once, “Sure, you’ve been in the freshman and sophomore classes, but those are different,” she leaned in close, “Everything changes in Junior, and if you try to embarrass me, I will not be there to rescue you. So drop all your funny business right now, or you’re on your own.”

“Wow,” I said, nodding my head slowly, expression grim, “Gotcha, Sis. Cadet Fil the Feracious going alone. Roger that and make a note of it!”

With a sigh, she let me go, stalking ahead towards the bus stop. Little did she know that under all the bravado, I had officially been scared. As I trailed after her, my mind was driving faster than a Ferrari on the freeway.

“Oh boy, are we in for it,” my inner pessimist groaned.

“Naw, for all we know she could just be trying to scare us,” the optimist replied.

My sister was a Senior, eager to graduate and head off to college. It was all she could think about. Ever since she started high-school, Lindsey had tried to act like a grown-up. As I, her little brother, and used-to-be best friend, watched her change and grow slowly quieter and more consistently upset, I promised myself I would never, ever try to be a grown-up. I would stay silly and do my best to have fun. If being all grown-up is what made Lindsey miserable, I wanted no part of it.

“Ferocious,” I whispered to myself, trying to throw off my gloomy thoughts. A feeling of power filled me from my feet to my head. Ferocious – that was the word. With a grin, I sprinted the last few yards to the curb.

“Fil the Ferocious, reporting for duty,” I monotone, snapping a smart salute. Lindsey gave me a wicked glare.

“You’re gonna wish you’d listened,” she said quietly.

I turned away, still smirking, and as the bus squeaked to a stop, I thought to myself:

“You know what, I don’t care. I’m gonna be Fil, and if you, the school, and the whole world don’t like it, that’s fine by me. I’m going to have fun and be fierce, ‘cause at least that way, I’ll be happy.”

Following Lindsey with my eyes as she mounted the bus stairs, the smile disappeared from my face.

“If I play this right,” I thought, “Maybe I can make you happy too.”

And that became My Mission.

[here the manuscript ends]