The Muses are Curious

The muses are in a state of flutter atop Mount Helicon. They have heard that a troupe of travelers are waiting to depart on Twelfth Night with Madame Enchanteur. The muses are curious and will be watching. Or, perhaps, if we are lucky, they will appear and inspire us……………

A little bit about the muses….

“[They are] daughters of Jupiter and Mneomsyne (Memory). They were goddesses of memory and later of the arts and sciences. Their number came eventually to be fixed as nine. They lived on Mt. Helicon and were put in charge of Pegasus by Minerva. Their names and special domains were:

Calliope–epic poetry; Clio–history; Erato–love poetry; Euterpe–lyric poetry; Melpomene–tragedy; Polymnia–sacred poetry; Terpsichore–choral dance; Thalia–comedy and Urania–astronomy. Apollo was their guardian and leader…..”  (Bullfinch, pp 928-929)

L. Gloyd (c) 2007

Photo: Taken at the J.Paul Getty Villa, Malibu, CA

Who are these women?

I made these sketches several years ago and I have totally forgotten who these woman are.  Maybe you can tell me their stories…….

 Lori Gloyd (c) 2006

The Canyon

 

The woman stirred leached acorn flour into the basket of boiling water. She was proud of her basket– woven at two hundred stitches an inch from dried rushes, so tightly woven that when coated on the inside with asphaltum, the basket would hold water. She had dropped heated stones into the basket, one-by-one, until the water came to a boil. As the acorn gruel began to bubble, the woman’s stomach growled.

She was hungry most of the time. The coastal oaks which provided the acorns were scarce and she had gathered most of the acorns from the local trees. She frequently walked down to the mouth of the canyon creek where it emptied into the Pacific Ocean. She would scavenge the rocks for mussels and the beach for clams. Even these had grown scarce as well. She would have to move her camp up the canyon to the Topanga, the “above place” to find more oak groves and their precious acorns.

Moving camp was dangerous though. It stirred up the bad spirits that lived in the canyon. They tormented her, whispering things in her head. But when they came, she would be ready for them. She would sing. She would draw upon the songs of the ancient Tongva and some from the Chumash from up north. Sometimes the spirits dragged her away into darkness– but she would come back– she always did.

The woman sat beside the firepit and looked at the domed hut she had constructed from willow branches. She regretted having to take apart the structure, but then she brightened: at her new camp she would construct a temescal, a sweat lodge. Ordinarily, only men used a sweat lodge for purification and vision questing, but sometimes women would as well. Yes, she would build a temescal.

After she finished breakfast, the woman quickly packed up her camp, bundling the willow branches and filling a large travelling basket with her tools and other belongings. She slowly stepped her way up the boulder-strewn canyon, pushing her way through the choking brambles. She kept watch for snakes and listened for the voices that were sure to come.

By the time the sun had peeked over the rim of the canyon, she had reached a clear area near a familiar outcropping of rocks. Within a short time she had kindled a fire and reconstructed her hut. She found a grove of oak trees nearby and replenished her cache of acorns. When she returned to her campsite, she filled a small basket with acorns and climbed with it to the flattened top of the rock outcropping. She found the mortar holes that the women of the canyon had used for thousands of years to mill acorn flour. Centuries of pestle stones smashing and grinding the hard seeds had worn deep holes in the rock.

The woman paused for a moment to feel the presence of the women who had gone before here, to ask for their blessing as she worked. Then the woman knelt before one of the holes and dumped a handful of acorns into it. With her stone pestle, she crashed it into the acorn-filled hole. She quickly fell into a rhythm, rocking to and fro, pounding stone against stone.

In keeping with the rhythm, songs began to fill her head and eventually they issued from her mouth. She chanted of Quaoar, the Creator, who sang into existence the three worlds: the sky, the earth, and the place of the spirits. She sang too of Coyote who flung the stars into the vault of heaven. And she sang of Swordfish who provided the People with all good things from the sea.

As the woman sang and rocked, she felt herself melting into the fabric of the canyon. She became the trees, the rocks, the trickling water in the creek. She smiled as she sang.

Then a voice pierced her mind: “….no fires here….trespassing… must come with us……”

The woman stood up and dropped her stone. She began to dance atop the rock, still singing. She called upon the spirits of the People to protect her. A strong hand gripped her elbow.

“C’mon, Professor… you know you can’t have an open fire this time of year… you wanna set the whole canyon on fire?” The woman tried to pull away from Sheriff Whiting. Her singing grew louder.

“Aw c’mon, Professor, don’t give us a hard time. We’ll just take you to County Med, get you stabilized, and you can go home. Okay? Ramirez, give me a hand here, will ya.”

The Sheriff’s partner took hold of the woman’s other arm and together they pulled her off the rock.

“Ramirez, stamp out that fire– Professor, I’m gonna just put these cuffs on you, real light, just so we’ll all be safe, okay?”

The woman stood before the men, still rocking and singing softly to herself.

“Why do you call her ‘Professor’?” asked Ramirez.

“She taught at Southhill– anthropology or environmental science– something like that– an expert on the local tribes. A real activist– y’know that ‘get-in-touch-with-nature’ stuff.”

Whiting and Ramirez led the woman up the canyon trail towards the highway.

“What happened to her?”

“Dunno. Just flipped out one day and the school canned her. She lives in a house down near the mouth of the canyon– perfectly harmless when she stays in her own backyard– but then she starts wandering up and down the canyon, ticks off the neighbors with her wailing, lights fires, geez….”

“And no one knows what set her off….”

Sheriff Whiting gently eased the woman’s blonde head into the police unit and shut the door. He chuckled, “Maybe it was the evil spirits….”

Ramirez frowned at Whiting, but the woman laughed and sang even louder.

 

Image and story: Lori Gloyd (c) 2006

Tai Shan and the Temple of Heavenly Blessings

by Lori Gloyd

Inspired by the SFC prompt “Walk the Imperial Path”

Chen Suh’s gnarled, spotted hands pushed a thermos of hot tea into her bag along with some rice cakes wrapped in lotus leaves. She would need food on her journey today. Chen Suh was going to Tai Shan, the sacred mountain, and she would not be taking the cable car to the peak. Instead she would take the seven hour hike up the steep stairway path to the Temple of Heavenly Blessings. She would walk the path in the way her grandfather had, stopping along the way to read the inscriptions carved into the cliffs and to burn incense and pray at the smaller temples.

Chen Suh had always been a loyal Party member, working all her life in fields and factories for the good of the People. She had turned a blind eye, even though her heart broke, when the Red Guard destroyed the ancient sites and artifacts and arrested for treason those who tried to adhere to “old thinking.”

When Chen Suh reached an age when she could no longer do heavy labor, she went to work at a freshwater pearl farm. Each day as she drilled hole after hole in tiny pearls, she would gaze out the dusty window next to her work area towards Tai Shan in the distance. Her grandfather’s stories emerged in her mind, first as a whisper and then later as a roar. She knew time was short. If she was to walk the path, she needed to do it now.

Yesterday evening when her shift ended, she stayed behind as her co-workers shuffled out. She informed the farm manager that she would not be coming to work the next day. He glared at her but nodded his permission.

Chen Suh rose before daybreak and slipped on her canvas shoes and quilted gray jacket. Autumn was closing in and she knew it would be chilly on the mountain. She caught the proper bus and watched from the windows as the mountain loomed larger and larger before her.

A burst of groans and protests erupted from a group of college-aged people in the back of the bus. One young man was unsuccessfully trying to convince his comrads to walk up the mountain instead of taking the cable car.

A middle-aged man in hiking boots and a tweed jacket leaned across the aisle and whispered to Chen Suh, “Look at them. Lazy, inpatient. All they want is immediate gratification. No appreciation of the Renovation….” Chen Suh nodded and continued to peer out the bus window towards the mountain.

When they reached the stop, the students piled out of the bus and headed with most of the other passengers to the cable connection. Chen Suh and a few of the others tramped to the trailhead to begin the slow ascent up the 7000 steps to the Dai Miao and the Temple of Heavenly Blessings.

The stairs wound in and out of groves of pine and cypress. Maple trees in flaming oranges and reds poked through the canopy of deep green. Song birds flitted from branch to branch seranading their mates. Chen Suh took deep breaths of the scented air. She frequently took breaks, not only to rest and eat her rice cakes, but to contemplate the sutras etched into stones along the path. At a small kiosk she burned incense in honor of her grandfather and ancestors.

Chen Suh continued on her way. Rounding a curve she encountered a vendor selling postcards and trinkets. She shook her head and continued on, only to find another and still another vendor. They seemed positioned every few hundred feet and there was no escaping them. The stairway became congested as more and more tourists ascended up the stairs. Chen Suh had difficulty focusing on her path.

She was tiring but she gathered strength when she saw the Southern Heaven Gate looming at the top of the stairs. She was nearly there. An energy filled her forming a connection to all the emperors, commoners, artists, and scholars who had ever made the pilgrimage up Tai Shan.

Chen Suh passed through the gate and emerged into the Dai Miao temple complex. Colors of gold and terracotta, blues and greens enveloped her as she beheld the structures: the Yaocan Pavilion, the Bronze Pavilion, and the Azure Cloud Temple. The centerpiece of the complex was the Temple of Heavenly Blessings, an exquisite three-storied structure with red pillars and carved stonework surrounding it.

Scores of people crowded the complex and Chen Suh had trouble navigating towards the Temple. She heard a familiar voice. The man in the tweed jacket stood before a group of tourists, “….they were misguided in their attempt to lead us on the right path by erasing our past, but we have been successful in restoring these magnificent buildings….” He went on to expound upon the Wisdom and Glory of the Party. Chen Suh frowned and moved herself away from the speaker and his display of hubris.

She slowly walked around the temple, drinking in its beauty. Her senses came alive. She entered the Temple and stood for a moment before the altar. She bowed, but she did not kneel. Instead, she exited the Temple and went to an escarpment that overlooked the stairs, the valley, and the great world beyond. She pulled a reed mat from her bag along with her thermos of tea. She spread the mat on the ground and sat herself crosslegged upon it. She opened the thermos and poured a cup of oolong tea, its sweet, musty steam rising like incense.

She watched the late afternoon sun as it sliced shafts of gold light through the pine groves. She sipped her tea, closed her eyes, and turned her gaze inward.

Lori Gloyd (c) 2006

The Blue Zenith

Natalie roams at night. She long ago stopped hauling herself out of a warm bed for early morning jogs, and when an elderly neighbor lady threatened to shoot her for petting her cat, she decided that late afternoons were out too. She waits until later, after sun-down, when she no longer hears the clinking of her neighbors’ dinner dishes being washed and put away, and the blue glow of TVs begin to flicker in their windows. Then she slips on her worn sneakers and starts her wanderings.

One Saturday night last autumn, she started a walk down Blackmore Street near her house. A night mist had rolled in from the beach, shrouding trees and shrubs with condensation and making orange halos around the street lights. She passed in rapid order: innocuous stucco homes, Craftsmen houses from the Twenties, Spanish-style bungalows, gentile-looking with red-tiled roofs and graceful archways—all remnants of a suburban paradise desperately trying to keep the onslaught of urban misery at bay.

Natalie’s shadow slipped among palms and rubber trees of one yard and then passed among spruces and maples of the next. Bougainvillea, engulfing a garage roof, glowed blood-red under the street lights, and she could smell the sweet scent of Night-blooming Jasmine. It was a couple of days after Halloween and some of the houses still had orange twinkle lights and jack-o-lanterns decorating their yards. Then she remembered: it’s the Day of the Dead, El Dia de Los Muertos. How appropriate: she allowed herself a moment of whimsy and imagined the forces of good and evil duking it out on her dull little street in suburbia. She wondered who would be the victor.

As she approached the intersection of Pine Street, she heard a faint shuffling sound behind her. Slightly breaking stride, she turned and looked back over her shoulder. About halfway down the block was a figure. Natalie caught her breath. The figure, moving every bit as fast as she, did not appear to have any arms or legs. It was tall, with broad shoulders, and its head seemed square-shaped. It glided smoothly down the sidewalk. “What IS that?” she muttered. The figure entered the shadow of a low-hung magnolia tree and passed from sight.

The voice of her mother echoed in her head: “You shouldn’t go walking after dark. It’s not safe. You don’t know what kind of perverts are out there.” Oh yes I do, Mom, perverts with no legs and arms, she chuckled to herself. She rationalized that the figure was just some trick of light and shadows. Nevertheless, she picked up speed and decided to change her route. She turned right on Pine Street, walked quickly to the next street and turned left. After a couple of blocks, Natalie paused for a moment at the corner to catch her breath. She glanced up the sidewalk. About sixty feet away was the legless figure, quickly closing in. She could see a full silhouette now and that it was in fact not a legless phantom but clearly a man in what appeared to be a full cape. A cape? A momentary image flashed in her mind of her being the main act at tonight’s gathering of a cult. Convinced that the man had circled around the block in order to intercept her, she turned right, crossed the street and broke into a jog. Three blocks later, she stopped, sweat starting to trickle down her back. She looked down the street. Nothing. Natalie stood for a moment, waiting for her panting to subside and thanking God that she’d lost the guy.

Then a movement caught her eye. The caped silhouette loomed out of the shadows heading right towards her. Natalie gasped. She wheeled around to look for an escape route. She realized then that she was in front of St. Peter’s Orthodox Church. The large double-front doors were slightly ajar, and she could hear voices coming from within. Any port in a storm, she thought and bounded up the front steps, two at a time.

She slipped through the door and quietly pulled it shut behind her. The doorway entered straight into the sanctuary, a surprisingly small area of about the size of a large living room. The room was packed with about 75 people, all standing. A woman stood near the door trying to comfort a fussy infant. The priest held his place at the front near the altar and was saying something in what Natalie supposed was Russian.

She wanted to get as far from the door as possible so she tiptoed behind the back row, a group of about five or six teenagers. A boy poked a girl in the ribs. “Cut it out!” the girl hissed. The sanctuary was surrounded by several arches, each leading into small alcoves. Natalie slid around the side in front of one of these alcoves and squeezed between a middle-aged woman in a business suit and an elderly man with a hearing aid and gold embroidered red vest.

Natalie’s heart was hammering, and she was still breathing heavily from her sprint down the street. She lowered her head, covered her mouth and tried not to draw attention. To her surprise, she was shivering.

A moment later, she felt an arm encircle her shoulders. She looked up. The woman next to her was smiling and pulling her closer. She thinks I’m crying. Natalie smiled at the woman and indicated that she was fine. The woman released her and returned her attention to the priest.

A chorus of voices erupted from above. Natalie craned her neck and noticed a balcony rail above her. The choir must be up there, she reasoned. The congregation began singing. Natalie relaxed a little and looked around.

The small size of the sanctuary lent an intimate feel to the proceedings. A huge oriental carpet of maroon, blue and white designs spread across the center of the floor, and an enormous crystal chandelier glittered overhead. On each of the pillars that separated the sanctuary from the alcoves were silver sconces holding lighted candles. Behind the priest was a large altarpiece, its center panel depicting a large Christ figure. Every open bit of wall space held a gold, silver, or wooden-framed icon. The faces in each one varied in style from Byzantine to something almost akin to a Modigliani. Each one glowed with gold leaf and paints in rich, sumptuous shades of crimson, ivory, blues, and browns. Natalie looked at the one closest to her, a rendering of Mary holding the Christ Child. She had a white gown inlaid with sparkling stones. Each icon seemed to pulsate with life under the flickering light of the candles. The room, in spite of its intimacy and warmth, had an unearthly quality about it.

Strangely, the most striking element of the room was its simple vaulted ceiling. It was painted in a stunning sky blue. Natalie’s eyes were drawn upward, and she marveled at how much the ceiling resembled a real sky at mid-day. She continued to stare at the midpoint of the ceiling, and she allowed her imagination to spiral upward, carried by the voices of the choir toward that blue zenith. She felt as if she were being swallowed up by Heaven itself. Her face flushed, and a quiet warmth spread over her. She thought she felt the wind blowing.

Natalie didn’t know how long she stood there, but the harsh wail of the fussy infant by the door roused her. She noticed then that the people were beginning to file out, many of them genuflecting and kissing the picture on the icon-stand in the center of the room. She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do, and began to feel self-conscious. With the service apparently at an end, she decided she’d better make a break for home, hoping her stalker would be long-gone.

The woman next to her tried to ease by. As Natalie stepped back to allow her to pass, she felt herself step on a foot. Natalie turned around to excuse herself and found that she was staring into someone’s broad black chest.

“Oh, excuse me. I’m so sorry,” she said. Natalie stepped back and was surprised to see that the person behind her was a priest dressed in full regalia: long black cassock and a small, square cloth hat.

“That’s quite alright,” he said. He was a distinguished looking man, about fifty, with intense blue eyes and a striking silver goatee. “It looks like I wasn’t the only one late for Saturday Vespers,” he smiled.

“Excuse me?”

“I saw you running to church….Forgive me, my name is Father Dmitri. I’m visiting Fr. Vladimir for a few weeks.” He pulled one of his hands out of the pocket of his cassock and extended it to Natalie.

My stalker is a priest? Natalie started to chuckle.

“Did I say something funny?”

“Not at all, Father.” She took his hand in both of hers. “Not at all—you’ve just made my day, that’s all.”

“Well….. my pleasure.” He looked at me with amusement.

“Good night, Father.” She released his hand and walked out the door. When she reached the bottom of the front steps, Fr. Dmitri called to her from the doorway.

“Be careful on the way home. You don’t know who might be out there.”

As the darkness enveloped her, Natalie started to laugh.

Lori Gloyd © 2006

More Lemurian Greening

 

New life rising from the murky depths of our souls….

The flower in Heather’s drawing reminded me of this one I took a few weeks ago. Does anyone know the name of this type of flower?

Image: Lori Gloyd (c) 2006. Lake Shrine Park, Pacific Palisades, California.

On Sloughing

With my feet propped against the railing and a friend’s borrowed laptop resting on my knees, I sat on the veranda of the cafe. I was trying out the computer and the establishment’s wireless connection, trying to decide if the freedom provided by both would enhance my creative endeavors.

“Hey there, honey!” I jumped in my seat and nearly sent my half-caff, low-fat caramel macchiato spilling on the laptop. That piercing shrill voice could only belong to Arvilla.

I pulled my feet off the railing, sat up straight and stared in disbelief.

“Now, darlin’, I know exactly what yer thinkin’—‘what is SHE doing here after that unfortunate misunderstanding!’”

At our last meeting, Arvilla, my Inner Critic, had been unceremoniously booted from my life—at least I thought so at the time. Apparently, I was wrong.

The tall, garishly red-headed woman plopped down next to me.

“Arvilla—“

“Sweetie, don’t have a hissy fit just yet—I’ve been sent—“

“Sent? To me?”

“Yes, sent. Let me finish, please. I was sent by ‘The Powers-That-Be,’” she rolled her eyes upward, “who say I need to start using my talents in a more ‘constructive way’. Honestly, they have no understanding of my abilities. After all, I’m the one that keeps sub-standard drivel from ever being published. No one appreciates that!” Arvilla sniffed.

“You should get an award, Arvilla.”

“Oh, don’t you get all snotty with me, missy. You’ll be thankin’ me in a minute.”

“Really.”

“Yes, really. So…. What are you doing?”

“Answering e-mail. So?”

“So? How much of that e-mail you’re readin’ and answerin’ is really important?”

I shifted in my seat and looked away.

“A lot of it is prattle, isn’t? And those people writing the prattle— how productive to you think they’ve been this week?”

“Well, not much, but that’s their choice. If they want to waste time……”

“And you’re not wastin’ time with them?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Really? How much have YOU written this week–other than answering their e-mails, of course? “

“I haven’t had time to write stories. I’ve been busy with other things too, y’know.”

Arvilla glanced down at my caramel macchiato and the laptop.

“Don’t give me that look. This is where I get a lot of mental work done—coming up with new story ideas. And I’m testing this laptop to see if I want to buy one myself.”

“Ah, so you will have a new and improved high-speed way to waste even more time on the Internet? Good thinkin’, honey.”

“I do research when I’m on-line!”

“Ah, is that what you call it?”

“Don’t you judge me!”

“That’s my job, sweetie.”

Arvilla rose to her feet and gave me a long, cold stare.

“Avoidance, sweetie. There’s a name for it. ”

I was speechless. Arvilla was right—for a change. I needed to slough it out of my life. After a long moment, I closed the laptop.

“Well! My job’s done here. Forgive me, darlin’, for leaving so soon, but there’s a young man in New Zealand who spends all his time in a pub instead of painting. I need to drop by and see him. Oh, how I will be glad when I’ve paid off my debt. The jet-lag is killin’ me. Ta-ta!”

I sighed. I hate it when she’s right.

Lori Gloyd © 2006

Riding the Cosmic Wheel

Fire from above, moist darkness beneath– from these my creative self emerges and rides forth.

 

Lori Gloyd (c) 2006

Duende

by Lori Gloyd

Inspired By The Alluvial Mine Project– Duende

*****

Duende:  A dark, creative force experienced by many creative persons but most especially by Flamenco entertainers; also a type of imp or magical spirit.

*****

Marta whipped her red Mustang around the corner and slipped into a parking space behind the Café Andaluz.  Resting her pounding head on the steering wheel, she listened to the tick-tick-tick of the cooling engine and tried to calm her nerves.

She jumped as her cell phone trilled.  She grabbed it from her bag and flipped it open.

“What?!……I’m here, Bryan!  Just chill, will you?”   She ended the call with a loud snap and crammed the phone back into her bag. 

Marta scrambled out of her car, scanning the dimly lit lot behind the Café.   As she headed towards the backstage door, she heard a rustling noise from the dumpster in the corner of the lot.  She stopped and stared.   A figure of a man stood next to the dumpster.  His eyes glowed red.

“Go away and leave me alone!”, Marta shouted.  She sprinted through the stage door and nearly collided with Bryan, the stage manager and director.

“It’s about time you showed up.  Your call was two hours ago.”

“I know, I’m sorry.  I got held up.”

“’Sorry’ doesn’t cut it sweetie.  Esteban wanted a dress rehearsal of your number.  You do remember, don’t you, that the dance reviewer from the Weekly is coming tonight?  Esteban is having a royal hissy because of you.  I swear, that man is gonna break a string if he keeps strumming his picados so hard.”

Marta had stopped listening to Bryan and stared at his face.  For a moment, his face seemed to transform from his fair boyish looks to something darker, more sinister.  The image vanished as quickly as it came.

“Marta!  What is wrong with you?  You’ve got 25 minutes until the curtain goes up.  You’re the fourth number, right after Luz and Maria’s cante chico.  Get into costume now, puhleeze, and, omigawd, tell me that’s not how you’re going to wear your hair tonight?”

Marta ignored Bryan’s last remark as she headed down the hall to the dressing room.  When she entered, she met Lupe, the wardrobe mistress, who glared at her.

“You are late….again.”

“Sorry.”  Marta slipped off her sweat pants and t-shirt and began putting on her costume, a flaming orange gown over layers of white lace underskirts.

“You need a manton for your routine,” Lupe flatly stated.  “Which one do you want?”

“The long black one, please.  Thank you.”

Lupe waddled down the hall to the wardrobe closet to fetch the fringed shawl that would be an integral part of Marta’s dance.    Marta was pleased to have the dressing room to herself for a few minutes.  The other flamencas were already dressed, waiting in the wings for the curtain to go up.   Marta buried her face in her hands.  Every evening, the same thing—he comes—the dark one—to whisper in her ears.

The visits began about six months earlier right after she had auditioned to dance at the Café.  Hector de Borromeo, the owner of the Café Andaluz, had muttered over and over as he watched her audition:  “Eso es! Asi se baila!—That’s it; that’s dancing!  Duende!  She has it!”  Senor de Borromeo hired her on the spot.

Then it started.  Every afternoon on the days she danced at the Café, as she tried to get a few hours of sleep before going to work, he would show up.  At first, it was only his voice, penetrating her dreams as she tried to sleep, then later, while she was awake.  Lately, he had been manifesting in physical form, moving in and out of the dark recesses of her apartment, only for a moment, but long enough to cast his red eyes upon her.  Always he would say, “you are mine—remember me when you dance.”

Then the headaches began—blinding migraines that slowed her down and made her late for work almost every night.  She was afraid to say anything about the migraines for fear they wouldn’t let her dance.  She certainly did not mention the voices or manifestations, for obvious reasons.

Marta began assembling her makeup and hair accessories. She looked up at the mirror and began to apply her foundation.  Her eyes widened in horror.  He was here, behind her, his face unseen.  He had never followed her into the Café before.

She swung around.  “Get out!”

“No, you need me,” he softly replied.

“No, I do not.  I don’t even know who…or what you are.”

“I am Duende.”

Marta snorted.  “Fairy tales.  There’s no such thing.”

“If I am a fairy tale, then for certain you are mad.”

Marta had already considered this—a number of times.

“Come to me….”  He reached out his hand to her.

Just then the door opened.  Lupe, holding a folded shawl, entered, looking around the room.  “Who are you talking with?”

“No one”.  Marta turned back to the mirror and began brushing and tying back her hair.  Lupe raised an eyebrow and put the shawl on the dressing table “Bryan says hurry up.”  

Marta quickly applied the rest of her make-up, slipped on her dance shoes and smoothed her hair.  She heard the sound of applause and knew that the show had started.   Marta made her way to the wings and waited for her turn.  She scanned the corners and rafters of the backstage looking for the dark man. 

Luz and Maria finished singing their cante.  The curtain fell and Bryan cued Marta to find her mark on the stage.   Marta positioned herself, placing one hand on her hip and arching her back.   She lifted the other arm high above her head, twisting her wrist into a graceful curve.  The curtain rose and the spotlight fell on her.

Esteban began an aggressive strumming of his guitar.  Luz and Maria clapped in rhythm with Esteban as Marta began rapid-fire tapping of her feet.  Esteban’s deep voice boomed across the stage in a somber, resonating canto jondo.

As his singing became more passionate and the music rose in intensity, Marta became less and less aware of her surroundings.  Esteban and the dancers faded from her sight as did the audience. It was just Marta and the music.

Suddenly, unseen hands gripped Marta’s shoulders, and she could no longer move.  She was frozen in the darkness.  She felt a hand release one shoulder and begin to caress her cheek.  She lifted her eyes.  A light fell across his face and she could saw him.  He was swarthy with angular features and full lips.  Gone were the awful red eyes, but though they were now dark brown, they still bore straight through to the deepest part of her being.

Marta opened her mouth to say something, but he put a finger to her lips to silence her.  She felt a tingle grow in her stomach.  A terror gripped her, yet she could not pull away from the man.  Still gazing in her eyes, he slid his hand from her mouth, tracing with the barest brush her form all the way to her waist.  He then slipped his arm around her to the small of her back and pulled her to him.  

With his other hand, he lifted her face to his and pressed his lips to hers.   Marta felt as if she were falling into the darkness, her soul merging with the duende.

Suddenly, her awareness was thrown back to the stage.  Her routine had reached a climax, Esteban strumming furiously as Marta’s feet tapped in rhythm  to the music.  With a great flourish of her arms, Marta froze at the sound of the last down stroke of the guitar.  The audience erupted into vigorous applause and shouts of  “Jaleo!  Jaleo!  Brava!”

A photographer leaned over the edge of the stage and flashed a picture.  Another man rapidly scribbled in his notebook.   Marta smiled and with a graceful sweep, she took her bows.

Duende!  It had rocked her to her foundations.  She had submitted to it.  She savored the terror and pleasure of the encounter, as she had before and would again.  Tomorrow, he would visit and their terrifying courtship would begin all over again.

Image and story:  Lori Gloyd © 2006.

Another Gift for the Keeper

Pulsing with viriditas, a mandala reminiscent of black opals seems an appropriate gift for the Keeper of the Mine.

 

Lori Gloyd (c) 2006

To Whom Much is Given…..

by L.Gloyd

Inspired By The Alluvial Mine Project:  Divining Rods

*****

Laurel-Ann perched herself on a large granite stone under the dying oak tree. Pale brown leaves, dried and curling, fell around her like a papery snowfall. Waves of heat shimmered from the ground. She grimaced as she fingered the brass tubing of the divining rods she held in her hands. I never should have come up here, she thought, but Great-Aunt Maybelle had called and so nagged her that she found herself jumping the next flight to SeaTac and renting a car. The drive up to Owl Creek Valley on the Road was slow and winding and gave her plenty of time to think.

Her ancestors in the old country, she had been told, received the Gift of dowsing and used it serve their communities. It was an honored profession and, presumably, it had been passed down the generations, first to the farming New Englanders and then on to the NorthWesterners when then came to the mining camps.

Great-Grandpa Horace had helped the miners find their veins of gold but when the mines played out, Horace settled on farming and used his dowsing skills to sink wells into an ever-changing water table. The Gift had been passed to his daughter Bernice and then to Aunt Sally. Both had been dead for several years.

It was said that Laurel-Ann was the One with the Gift, but she did not want it. The Gift was no longer the honored profession of her ancestors. As a child she had endured the whispers and the side-ways glances.  Once, she flattened a classmate, Lewis, who had called her “Water-Witch” and had beaned her with a loaded water balloon. As soon as she was old enough, she left Owl Creek Valley to make her way in the big city down south.

But now drought had come again to Owl Creek, which had become a mere trickle, and the farmsteads of the Valley were thirsting for water. The community leaders, some of whom as children had taunted her in school, had come to Great-Aunt Maybelle and pleaded for her to help them. Maybelle could not. She did not have the Gift. Cousin Rodney tried his hand at it until, unfortunately, he dowsed the septic line at the Mayor’s farmstead and filled the entire lower Valley with noxious odors when they drilled the well.

It was then that Maybelle called her.

“Honey, we need you– they need you. You must put aside your feelings and help these people. You have the Gift. You are the One. “

Maybelle pleaded and then argued with Laurel-Ann for nearly an hour and then finally ended the call with “Mind you, ‘For of those to whom much is given, much is required’”.

“Oh, all right, I’ll come!” Laurel-Ann always caved in whenever Aunt-Maybelle quoted the Book.

When Laurel-Ann arrived at the farm, she was quickly whisked away by Rodney and Maybelle. They rattled up the Road in Rodney’s old pick-up towards to the Mayor’s place.

“He’s worst off,” said Rodney. “If we can make him happy, I figure we’ll get clients lined up from all over the Valley.”

“Rodney, we do NOT charge for our services”, said Maybelle. “Never have, never will” she warned. “And don’t make that face, Rodney…..Here we are. Laurel-Ann, honey, you just go have a seat under the tree and compose yourself. You remember how Aunt Sally taught you, right now?”

“Yes. I remember.”

“Good, here are Aunt Sally’s rods.” Laurel-Ann took the rods and slid out of the pickup. She crunched through the dead leaves to the tree and sat down on the rock.

A few minutes later, Laurel-Ann heard the sound of voices. They were coming. A lot of them. It seems half the Valley had shown up to watch, including Lewis who had never quite forgiven her for beating the daylights out of him up when they were kids.

Laurel-Ann sighed and lifted the rods. She felt the thin rods resting lightly in her hands. She stood up, shifted one way and then another, taking a few steps forward and swinging around. She heard murmuring from the crowd. She glanced up and glared at the crowd.

“It’s alright, honey, just relax. You can do it,” urged Maybelle.

Laurel-Anne refocused and tried to remember what Sally had taught her. She felt the rods begin to vibrate. She felt compelled to turn to the left and head away from the tree.

The Mayor shouted, “Hey, where’s she going? I need that well sunk here, not way over there. It’ll cost a fortune to pipe that water from way out there.”

“Ah, don’t worry Harold”, chimed Lewis, “she’s not going to find a thing.”

“Yes, she can!” Rodney turned to Lewis and the Mayor and began to argue with them.

Laurel-Ann tuned out the exchange. Her attention was fully focused on the divining rods in her hands. They were crossing and un-crossing. She turned and stopped. They crossed again. Then the rods pulled downward. She felt the power coming up from the earth through her feet, through her body, down her arms and to the rods. The rods began to get warm. She had found water.

“Hey, look at her. She doesn’t know diddly-squat.” shouted Lewis.

“Shut up!”

“Losers– all of you!!” With that Rodney rushed towards Lewis and shoved him in the chest. “I said, Shut up!”

Laurel-Ann’s attention was drawn back to the group. The momentary glow of her success faded away as she saw the two men struggling with each other. She threw the rods to the ground and stomped towards the Road.

Maybelle called to her: “Laurel-Ann, where are you going?”

“Home. I don’t need this. It’s exactly what I said it would be.”

“You can’t leave. They need you!”

“They don’t deserve anything! They deserve to rot!”

Lewis gave Rodney a huge shove that sent him sprawling to the ground, and then shouted after Laurel-Ann. “See? Look at her run away. WITCH!”

Laurel-Anne broke into a run and headed down the Road, the jeers of the crowd in her ears. The last thing she heard was Maybelle yelling: “You can’t leave! Much is required. You are the One!” Laurel-Anne covered her ears and continued running.

When she was out of ear-shot, Laurel-Ann slowed down. Breathing heavily she finally stopped. She was at a low point in the Road, where a dry gully cut across it. In the rainy season, the Road was often washed out at this point. She sat down on a large boulder on the side of the Road.

Maybelle’s words echoed in her mind: “To whom much is given, much is required.”

“No! Not from me!”

A rumble from the mountain echoed through the Valley and large drops began to spatter on the hot pavement. Good, they don’t need me afterall. They’ll get a good soaker and that’ll be that.

The wind picked up and the rumbling grew louder and more constant. That’s not thunder she thought. The leaves swirled around her as the wind turned into a gale. The rain began blowing sideways, stinging her face and arms,  and the rumbling grew louder. Laurel-Ann got up from the boulder and turned around, looking for some sort of cover.

That’s when she saw the enormous wall of raging water come crashing down the gully towards her.

No one ever knew what became of Laurel-Ann– not that they gave her much thought. Their water problems were over, it seemed, at least for a while. The rains returned, the water table rose, and Owl Creek flowed.

But Maybelle knew: to whom much is given, much is required– one way or another.

Lori Gloyd (c) 2006

 

Viriditas

As we move along, our “greening” continues.  Things we saw in the spectacles of our imaginations become clearer and more beautiful.

Image:  Lori Gloyd (c) 2006 at the Lake Shrine, Pacific Palisades, California

Through the Magical Specs

When I hold up my magical spectacles to the Lemurian sky and peer through them, I see all manner of wonderous things– Far away lands with lush flowering gardens, brilliant light and flowing water.    The great 12 century abbess, Hildegard von Bingen, spoke of viriditas or “greening”, that power of nature that pushes forth toward the light.  We push forward, grow and transform in our own ways.  Le Echanteurs glasses show us the way.

Lori Gloyd (c) 2006

A Step Forward

Portal….Schmortal… I don’t need one….I’m already on this side of the Portal. I’ve been hanging out in Lemuria for months now, traveling the Silk Road and the Serpentine Trail, resting in the House of the Serpents, the Hermitage, and the Old Abbey. I have dipped my feet into the cold waters of Duwamish Bay and I have lived in Cyberia for many weeks now. I have enjoyed the cool mists of the forest and the dusty beauty of the Land of Stones.

Now I am sitting on the other side of the Portal waiting for new visitors to come.I have seen Faucon of Sakin’el stride by with stately confidence. Carol the Travelling Troubador also passed by, singing her lovely lays. Ha! Soul Sister plopped right in, just missing a wet landing in mud puddle. She must have irked le Enchanteur. The rest should be coming by shortly, I’m sure.

As for me, I will just lounge here on the portal benches to wave at the others as they come——

Hello? What is that?! There’s a bright light coming– a mist is starting to swirl about me. I hear a rumbling and I smell the sea…. what is happening to me?  

Instantly, I was no longer at the portal. I find myself on my back, soft powdery sand surrounding me. I dig my hands into the sand.  It is cool and moist. I open my eyes and am blinded by a blazing sun directly overhead in a clear cerulean sky. I taste salt on my tongue and feel a tempering cool breeze caress my face. I hear the surging roar of surf.

I sit up. I am on a long beach. I am overcome by colors: Shades of blue, gold and brilliant white.   I am so humbled. How could I have been so arrogant to believe that once I had passed through one portal to Lemuria that I would never have to pass again. There are many layers to Lemuria and each requires a step forward to embrace new adventures, new discoveries.

In the distance I see the other travellers. They are waving and motioning me to come along. And behind them stands le Enchanteur, smiling.

 Lori Gloyd (c) 2006

Greetings

Greetings to my fellow travelers.   I have my pen and notebook in hand and am ready to set out to explore this new road through Lemuria.

Lori