On the Road to the Valley of Bones

The stars began to fade into a dawning sky as donkey and I left the darkened streets of Gidean behind and came to the outskirts of town. I could sense, more than see, tidy fields and dim outlines of farm houses and barns along the dusty road, while the area directly ahead hinted at an empty and barren land ahead. The grays of night were slowly shifting to a sober palette of umber and burnt sienna. On the horizon brown hills lay mute and brooding.

“Time for breakfast,” I said, “Why don’t we stop awhile to eat and rest. Donkey was silent and plodded on. She’d never greeted me when we met and all during the long, dreary night, she hadn’t said a word, not even offered her name.

“We can talk now if we like. It’s daylight; we don’t have to be afraid of waking up the town.” Perhaps she’d been warned not to irritate the locals, I thought. I was grateful for her silence in Gilead, but the wilderness we were heading into needed the cheerfulness of friendly conversation.

“I don’t suppose you knew Geraldine, did you? I asked. “We shared quite an adventure last time.” Geraldine had been grumpy as hell and prone to sudden fits of weeping, but I loved her and grieved when the news came that she’d died. Donkey shivered beneath me.

Certain that food would be the answer, I fished about in the pannier strapped to donkey’s left side and discovered a mouthwatering sandwich of peppers and egg on a roll and a thermos of coffee. Tucked in next to to it was the perfect bribe for a stubborn little donkey. Leaning over I gave her a pat on the head and whispered, “Breakfast, Silent One,” as I offered her a fresh carrot. With a grunt of distaste, she shook her head and continued on.

“This is ridiculous! We’ve been traveling all night; we need rest and food. Enough, you obstinate beast! Stop, let me off!”

The donkey neither slowed, nor spoke.

A sudden feeling of despair clutched at me and I think I cried out in fear. From the waist up I was strong and normal, but my legs felt leaden and refused to move. It was then I knew, that even if it took a lifetime, we would not stop until we arrived at the valley whose name stirred so ominously in both our hearts.

Magical Abbey

My home base in Lemuria is the Abbey. Although my cell was sparsely furnished when I arrived, it was all I needed for writing and art. To my amazement, the wide slit of a window that gave perfect light, but had been totally unreachable, lengthened and lowered as my creativity blossomed.

Yesterday after I returned from visiting the Abbey garden, a small, but perfect circle appeared on the wall above my cot. I hoped it was not mold since my window overlooks the beach and the Lemurian Sea. Too busy to investigate, I retrieved my colored pencils and continued the drawing inspired by the garden roses. This is what I drew. This is the stain glass window that the circle on the wall became.

My Inner Donkey

Dazed and disoriented in the darkness, I reached out to steady myself and latched onto a rim of greasy, cold metal that tipped and nearly sent me sprawling. The full trash can and I slammed into the one next to it with a resounding crash that should have awakened all of Gilead.

Instead, one lone, gravelly voice protested, “Hey! watcha’ tryin’ to do, murder a guy?” A formless mass lumbered up from the ground and coalesced into a lumpy, hulk of blacks and grays. In the dark night, full of shadows thrown by the buildings surrounding us, the man appeared to be boneless, held together with coal dust and grime.

“Sorry, I lost my balance. Hope I didn’t hurt you.” I wasn’t about to admit that I’d tumbled into him because of a malfunctioning walnut shell. Transport behind the tavern in Gilead at midnight the Enchanteur had said, but since I almost always get lost, I wasn’t sure where I was. I didn’t see any other tourists and there was no sign of a donkey.

“Nothin’ worse than a drunken female,” I heard him mutter.

“I am NOT drunk,” I informed him, “I’m supposed to be part of a touring group, but I’ve missed them some how. I don’t suppose you’ve seen a group of women riding donkeys?”

“Donkeys, ya’ say? Well, now,” he said, scratching his head, ” thought that was the drink playin’ tricks with me. Left already, they did. Long about midnight.”

“What time is it now?” I asked, wondering if this was a time zone fluke, since I’d left at precisely twelve.

“Well, I dunno, let me check me watch,” he answered sarcastically, squinting at his bare wrist.

There was a peculiar shuffling sound in the alleyway behind me and the vagrant pointed a grimy finger toward it. “Your noble steed awaits, m’lady.” He stifled a chuckle, then lowered himself to the ground and curled against a filthy cardboard box eager to continue his interrupted sleep.

I was not so eager, but dutifully climbed aboard the donkey, who gave a huge yawn and then carried me of slowly into the night.

Seeds of Change

The potting shed on Owl Island has been calling me. It’s mid-February and my body and bones ache for warmth; my mind and soul yearn for the promise of renewal that planting brings. In times past, I’ve planted seeds for creativity and watched them quickly sprout, strengthen and flower, but not this time.

I’ve come to plant seeds for a friend who’s very dear to me. The seeds I’m looking for can’t be purchased at home and I don’t even know if they’re available in Lemuria. The sign nailed inside the shed door reads, “Here we can watch ideas germinate, grow and develop.” Hmmm, not quite what I had in mind.

None of the categories listed on the numerous drawers will help:seeds of wonder, seeding your poetry garden, fancy rhizomes for fiction writers, character seeds, journalistic bulbs, Harry Potter mandrake roots and on and on. It seems all the genres and needs are here but the one I need.

Then I remember, this is Lemuria, the hidden continent. These seeds will be tucked away out of sight. As I turn slowly, in the tiny shed, a shaft of light illuminates a corner of the sloping ceiling and reveals a packet the color of old wood and forest moss. Fading letters spell out “Seeds of Change”. The paper crackles when I touch it. It’s never been opened–either I’m the first to discover it or it’s been rejected by people who hate and fear change.

I choose a fairly large terracotta pot and fill it with ample soil mixed with a bit of peat moss to lighten it and help it hold water in a parched climate. The seeds are varied–some fine as dust others thick and tough. With my penknife, I make a slit in three of the larger ones, then soak them a few minutes to give them a head start. After they are planted deep, I sprinkle the delicate ones on top and cover lightly with soil and mist the pot thoroughly.


I pierce the packet with a stick, label it Heather’s seeds of change, and plunge it into the pot.

.

Interview with Zinnia Edwards

Why was I drawn to interview Zinnia Edwards? It turned out to be more than my interest in the art and craft of carousel horses.

porchsitter:First, Ms. Edwards, perhaps you can clear up a small point for me. Your exquisite carousel horses are found in Duwaimish Bay on the Marina–but you live here on the Island of Temple People? That’s quite a commute!
Zinnia Edwards: I was invited here by the island’s “elders” after they learned of my work in Duwaimish and elsewhere in Lemuria. I don’t actually commute, although I do return to Duwaimish at least twice a year to add the finishing touches to my horses.
porchsitter: Oh, then you’re not still carving and painting them yourself? Do you have a large staff?
Z. E.: I rely on two master craftswomen, Beatrice and Eleanor and they each have an apprentice. Lemuria may appear rural, even primitive at times, but we have Internet access between the islands and I’m in constant touch, sending drawings, critiquing progress, making business decisions, etc.
porchsitter: And your training was in Duwaimish or “elsewhere in Lemuria”?
Z. E.: “Elsewhere,” but not Lemuria. Actually, I was born in the States and began my career in New Jersey.
porchsitter: Jersey!? I live in Hudson County!
Z. E.: Well, then, you must remember Palisades Amusement Park. Their carousel was my first solo job.
porchsitter: I loved the carousel; I named my favorite horse Silver!

What happened to the rides when they dismantled the park?
Z.E.:. Most are scattered across the USA, but the carousel wound up in Canada’s Wonderland in Maple Ontario. It’s been completely refurbished and the horses still live there.
porchsitter:Live there?
Z.E.: A slip of the tongue. You know how strongly artists feel about their work.
porchsitter: Ms Edwards we’re both aware that Lemuria offers artists much more than other venues. I have permission from Le Enchanteur to speak with you, so you can be perfectly candid about your work, besides, my next interview will likely be one of the stablewomen at Riversleigh, so there’s really no reason for you to be hesitant.
Z.E.:Is that some sort of veiled threat?
porchsitter: My goodness no! It’s just that we’d all like to hear how you felt when you discovered that your horses were coming to life? And the night mares? Are they your creations as well?
Z.E.: porchsitter, this interview is over!

Zinnia’s Portrait is by Heather Blakey of Soul Food Cafe. For lovely, copyright free horses

Timeless Lemuria

Thank God for a week of sea days before we reach our first port of call, whatever and wherever that may be. Just like l’Enchanteur to book us on a year long cruise and give no itinerary except Lemuria. She thrives on mystery, but I have to say, she’s generous to a fault. It was wonderful of her to let me bring both Henry and Molly; said she remembered them fondly from the old Soul Food Cafe.

I insisted they both sleep late today. They’ve been over whelmed by all the excitement and glamor of sailing day and the Gala on E-Deck. So have I, for that matter, but I haven’t been homeless, living in an abandoned theater for years. Hope all this excitement doesn’t undo their meds.

I nearly made a grab for those meds, myself, when we unpacked! Molly and I had already emptied the suitcases with all the deck and sightseeing outfits. At my age I tend toward elastic waists and comfortable footwear. Molly had lined up my shoes on the closet floor, tucked nightgowns and undies in the dresser and hung my robe behind the bathroom door. I handed Henry the key to the trunk, thinking Molly could fluff out the cocktail dresses and hang them in the closet while I put the jewelry away.

Suddenly Molly uttered an unintelligible whimper and Henry began to stammer, the way he always does when he gets nervous. “M-m-m-must’a g-g-got the trunks mi-mi-mixed up.”

He reached for the baggage tag, which was still attached and held it up. It read Barbara/Believer/porchsitter–S.S. Vulcania–Sailing 12th Night 2009–Lemurian Waters’ Suite–B-10. Both of them stood stock still, mouths agape with looks of total disbelief on their faces.

And so did I.

These were not dresses for women of “a certain age,” not the ones we we’d gone shopping for in the women’s department and packed in the old steamer trunk. No plus sizes here, no long sleeved, high necked affairs made to hide aging arms and shoulders, no shirring to camouflage a bulging stomach and wide hips. These dresses had scoop or v-necks that didn’t plunge, but certainly dipped, waistlines nipped to accommodate a slender 24 inches, skirts that flared and barely skimmed the knee. Hanging in the upright trunk, red chiffon billowed, black taffeta rustled and flowered silks fluttered. And the Emilio Puccii dazzled!

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but I did know I had to reassure my assistants? helpers? surely NOT servants! that they were not at fault for this strange happening.

“Lemuria is “timeless,” I began. Remember I told you we might meet Oreo and Tookie? My pets passed away two years ago, but in Lemuria time works differently. That must be what happened to the dresses. The trunk is very old and we took it on many cruises. These are the dresses I wore as a girl on the Brasil and Nieuw Amsterdam and other ships. Remember, Molly, I told you about the Pucci.”

Molly stepped forward to gently touch the sensuous fabric. Henry looked bewildered, but calmer.

“Wh-wh-wh-what will you wear?” he asked.

“Oh.” The realization hit and tears sprang to my eyes. Not one of the beautiful illusions would fit my heavy, matronly figure.

Molly put her hands out and made a shooing notion to Henry, then when he didn’t move, propelled him to the door and gave him a pat, as she closed the door. She returned to the trunk, carefully lifted the Pucci from its hanger and held it out. I shook my head but her eyes refused to waver, so slipping off my bulky velour top and slacks, I let her slide the dress over my head. I put my arms through and was surprised to feel the silky fabric float down and cling in all the familiar places. When Molly pointed to the mirror. I gasped in disbelief.

I hadn’t worn a size ten in thirty years, but the dress fit perfectly!
Strange things have happened to me on Lemurian adventures but none so personal as this;there’s never been this kind of physical transformation before. Could I trust my senses?

Holding my breath and closing my eyes, I prayed “Please don’t let this be a cruel and grotesque joke.”

When I opened them an instant later to look at my face in the glass I sighed in relief and my heart said, “Even if this is just for tonight–thank you.”

Life Boat Station B-10

Boat drills are serious business, so why are these folks smiling? Perhaps they’re trusting in L’Enchanteur’s magic talisman to keep them safe. Better not get over confident–Lemurian waters can get very rough!

Gala Night on E-Deck

This pink bow being displayed by the handsome, (sigh) French waiter was concocted entirely of sugar and had been used for midnight buffets and galas on the S.S. France for two years. Sadly, moments after the camera clicked the bow spontaneously collapsed and reverted to its former granular state.
Handsome, French waiter and I shared a glance of dismay. Was this the price we payed for our delightful flirtation?

Be warned ladies–actions can have serious consequences!

Coming on board

Glimpses of Poverty — I

Recently a friend gave me a box of Whitman’s Sampler. The yellow box with its vintage embroidered look triggered the following memory.

There lived a woman, many years ago, who was old when I was young. I met her briefly, never knew her name and never saw her again but she permanently changed my perception of the world. Greed, poverty, truth, passing judgement, compassion and reality, were all experienced in one vivid moment that I can never forget.

My parents and I were traveling on Grace Lines Santa Maria and had gone for a walk on the dock in Cartagena, Colombia. The Second Steward, a charming man named Sal Renzi, had offered to accompany us for safety sake when we decided to hand out candy to the young boys who’d been diving off the pier for quarters in the hot tropic sunshine. The children gathered quickly as soon as they saw us.

In the midst of this lively crowd, she appeared, black as tar, bent and withered from age, stretching forth knobby fingers and begging silently for candy.

“Children first,” my father told her.

The sea of waving, grasping hands, at first charming, quickly frightened me, as though Medusa had taken on the form of innocence. There’s a moment of fear when you are surrounded by people who have nothing and want desperately what you have. The climax arrives when you know your generosity will be exhausted before their needs are met.

Dad was trying to distribute the candy fairly and blocked the woman’s hand several times, but despite her age and frailty, she held her ground and remained insistent.

“Just wait!” he said, clearly annoyed.

“She only wants one of the brown papers,” Renzi told him and I saw Dad glance at him in confusion. “She’ll save it to smell.”

At the end, Renzi told the boys to move on and Dad gave the woman the two chocolates that remained, along with the crinkly cups and the box. She never said thank you, but her face declared it and, clutching her treasure protectively, she walked out of our lives.