Plantagenets and Paupers

A fairytale beginning. Though the speaker is blind there will be heroes; Plantagenets and paupers. Who will be the hero? I cannot decide. Will it be the moon dipping to drink from the sea or the Imam, holy warrior of the Saracen hoard, saying his s'Allah's, giving thanks in riotous rhapsody.

Odysseus embarks on his journey as the moon dips to drink from the sea. The tide is right: a half formed answer to a prayer and the wind billows the sail, ready to fulfil the quest beyond a blue horizon.

 A new shape emerges inky purple hovering between sky and sea.

The fruit of Plantagenets and paupers deconstruct their lives, feverish in their need to conquest, their right to attack, to liberate the land for themselves. A chance for honour? But while the birds scribble their message into the sky the Imam calls the faithful to prayer singing his beliefs in a calligraphy of song to be translated in the clouds of God's ear.

They will defend their land from the invaders and the Republic of love will embrace all new comers with a clear heart. All that lies between one God and another is the difference between a smock and a djellaba .

So it is the Imam who is the hero, for he holds a mirror to men's souls so that they will see the folly of their ways.

Magical Journey Day 1, Essaouira, Morocco 2016)

A Fairytale beginning

A fairy tale beginning before the noise and clamour.

Say your s'Allah's, give thanks for the open ended possibilities.

A fairytale beginning, it's a very good place to start, before the noise and clamour all the possibilities are open ended; fairy tales from the sea. Heroes shape the new day, drink to future landscapes.

See the shape of the noise, the smoking gun, the clamour, the s'Allah's: give thanks for the gifted sea, the good place, the shape of the future.

See the landscape: an open ended s'Allah, sea, fairytale: the shape of future landscapes clamour from the sea. 

There will be noise. What shape will it be?

Give thanks for all the possibilities. Be open to the smoking gun, the noise, the clamour.

There will be a fairytale beginning.

(Magical Journey, Morocco 2016)

The Little Wooden Horse

It was Thursday and the clock on the mantle was edging it’s hands toward 9.23 as cook bustled Martha out of the kitchen with words that stung like a pin cushion. She would not have the child underfoot on a Thursday with milk curdling in the pan and over 6 pounds of cheese to make ready for the cold store. Martha tucked in her bottom as she ran ahead of cook, fearing the flat of her floury hand on her skirts even more than the dark insides of the bread oven. Mother would not forgive her meddling so easily. She had been chided already this week for going through the hidden door beneath the stairs to the kitchen. But that subterranean world bustling with life and energy felt so much more exciting and colourful than her own buttoned up existence.
She crept up the dimpled stone stairs towards the hall, sounds of life diminishing with every turn in the stair, clutching her little wooden rocking horse in her hand.  He had such a brave countenance she took confidence from his presence but in truth he could go nowhere without her.  She had hoped to scare up a wooden clothes peg and dress it in uniform from her scraps box so that the little horse would have a gallant Russian prince to ride him but that looked hopeless now.
A loud clatter made her start just as she gained the top step and Martha tumbled through the door and back into the echoing marble hall crashing headlong into Will Stoner.  He was usually to be found in the gardens but as Demitri was visiting his mother this week she guessed Stoner had just finished laying the fires.  His eyes always seemed alive with nature and were the colour of polished chestnuts, his voice as mellow as cocoa.  She imagined he could charm the birds from the trees with his soft trusting manner.
“Whoa there little Miss, where are you off to in such a hurry”
“I’m looking for a rider for my horse, he wants to join the cavalry charge” she said, holding up the rocking horse in her hand for him to see. Stoner stroked the smooth neck of the polished wooden horse thoughtfully.
“Not every horse is meant to go to war Missy.  This horse for example, I can see he is a fine brave horse, but do you see his short back and strong legs? He is a carriage horse, See his fine red and green livery? This little horse could pull the winter sleigh of the Tsar. Yes, look, see how his poor tail has been clipped so that it does not fly in the driver’s face?” Martha listened to this recreation of her story being spun, wrapped with new imaginary possibilities. Stoner took a piece of twine from his pocket and with the skill of a rope-wright created a halter and tracers for the little horse and handed it back to Martha.
“Thank you Stoner, that is most kind.  He will be tired after all that work, I will go and take him to the stables for some oats and meadow hay and a good brush of his fine coat. Such a fine horse deserves only the best don’t you agree?”
“Exactly as it should be Miss.”
Stoner smiled started at his eyes and he watched the little girl gallop away allowing himself an indulgent chuckle.  She was a dear girl and so caring.
Over the next few days Martha happily played with her reinvented horse between lessons and loved it  all over again.
A few weeks later on the occasion of her seventh birthday Stoner came to the house and waited for her under the stairs, knowing she would be likely to sneak down to the kitchens to see what delights were being prepared for her tea and sure enough she came. He pulled from his pocket a cotton wrapped parcel and handed it to her.
“Happy Birthday Miss Martha.”
Martha unwrapped the cloth to find inside a finely whittled piece of Silver Birch in the likeness of a sleigh, the perfect size for her brave wooden horse.
Tears glistened in her eyes as she flung her arms about Will Stoner’s neck and kissed his ruddy cheek.
“Thank you,” she whispered, “this is my favourite present ever”. And Martha Keplinsky treasured that little wooden sleigh until the end of her long and remarkable life treasuring always the simple kindness that had brought it to her.

Sacred Heart

A new chapter of writer's convenes within the medina's sacred heart. We are wearied and blessed by the journey and the joining together but our cares are met with more consideration than we could hope for. Delightful rooms are laden with moorish charms, Moroccan lanterns and woven rugs, whispering enclaves and glowing hearths. Roses and spice, alcoves filled with curiosities furnish the inner sanctum. We come together over many miles to stir the soup of words within us and enjoy the creations that spring forth. To celebrate the wealth of our collective selves. New characters will be birthed, stories written, worlds of imagination will collide and spark and create a new generation of possibilities. There will be laughter and tender care in this sacred heart and we will know ourselves and each other better for it.The journey has already begun.

(Magical Journey Essaouira 2016)

Farewell

The hour glass can synch its waist no more and light expands daily across the sky. The sun is shining and the ground is losing its ability to hold a grudge in frost. The solace of spring sings between icy gusts in the greening air threatening her arrival at some undefined date and time, blossomful of emerging scent and clover. I walk slowly to the car, a stone lodged in my throat, ignorant of the gnawing wind, ice still biting with a vinegar sting.

I had taken plump sweet cherries to my Aunt this time, a promise of sweetness to come. Had I been trying to deliver hope, a message of something worth holding on for? How human of me, how frail: to want to give her a reason to hold on even now when she was in so much pain. I knew that she believed with all her heart that her place was with God. She would soon taste the sweetness of heaven. What were cherries to her? I had to hold the fruit to her lips for her to suck. so undignified.  But she was grateful I think. She knew I was doing it out of kindness, out of compassion. Dear Aunt Lucille,Sister Magdalena as she’s known to her order, she has suffered cruelly and with such patience. The cancer has been like opposing armies advancing from multiple frontiers, romans versus saxons, vikings versus celts, arterial wars eroding her away with the monotony of drizzle until her body has become a ravaged war zone.  There is no further treatment to hold back the invading army now but as her body turns against her, mutated and vengeful, she takes solace in her community, in prayer, and the knowledge that she will beat the cancer in the end: she is going to God, and it cannot follow her. 

She lay in bed, her shrunken body all but invisible under her white tucked sheet, her face ashen and bruised all at once, lips stained cherry red like a geisha, a besmirched queens head, walking a white tight-rope as she treads a path in her mind from pain to prayer, from Manchester to memories. I take her hand, hot and dry in mine and feel as it jitters like a flailing butterfly agains greenhouse glass.  There is no escape. Tears sting my eyes as I bend to kiss her farewell. Will this be the last time? It’s hard to tell.

A flyer on the wind blows into my face forcing the present’s immediacy. I don’t remember taking my leave of the Sisters, signing out in the visitor book, pulling on my coat and scarf and yet here I am in the car park, stepped through a worm hole in time. I stoop to admire a little yellow daffodil at the foot of a tree admiring its optimistic deportment. Is it stealing to take these little public offerings of nature? I’m never sure. Sleet begins to fall and I pluck it hastily to save it from the frost, snapping the stem, a trail of sap wetting my finger, un petit mort.I walk to the car and get in hastily, wrapping the stem in my parking ticket then sit motionless looking at the light prism through the sleet drizzle, considering, good or evil. The bitter sweet morphine in the cherries, just enough for a fond farewell. A little death, not really murder, a helping hand, but could I get away with the evil deed.

The Dragoon's Proposal

I watch him from the french doors of the salon. He comes in state and stiff uniform, trotting his mare up the drive. His brass buttons glint their false promise in the sun, through a camouflage of dust from the horse’s hooves. He dismounts smartly his sword swinging a sweep of the pendulum: my time is up. He addresses my father as he comes to the door.

“I’ve come to take your darling Dorris away”

The words tumble out of him and I see the moment my Father’s heart cracks open with anticipated loss, a brief chasm in the space time continuum. The Dragoon hands over a small parcel tied with string: a prize for a prize.  My Father is still picking his wits from the dust motes dancing in front of his eyes so my Step Mother intercepts it with a curt nod of her head.  A gift from the dragoon to sway my heart.  Some trinket to pay the price from maiden to madam; a ribbon for my hair. A gift of his love or his longing? I cannot tell the tale written in his heart; I know nothing of the language of love. Maybe this is a business transaction?
I fear being ripped from my childhood innocence, all that I know, and run from the salon clutching my hand to my heart. Nothing will come of it but I cannot help this desperate attempt to escape the inevitable.  Onse I reach my room I dive for comfort in my tenty little space between the chaise and the armoire. I duck down in a nest of feathered pillows, huddled beneath silken shawls from across the Ottoman empire.  My toy dog, Monkey, peeps from under a bolster and whimpers at my distress. I pluck a bonboniere of chocolate dipped cherries from a side table and begin to suck furiously at the juice, trying to distract myself from the hard stone at the centre of my fearful thoughts. The alarm has sounded, the red lantern raised, making me search labyrinthine alleyways in my mind for a way out. But thought is a complex device and the more I chase around it the more I rip holes in the fabric of sense. I will hide here until I feel safe or until I can climb a pole to the sky and ride a dolphin through the clouds of confusion back to safer shores.

This hour is my step-mother’s child, I am sure of it. She is a wolfish queen with a trebuchet for prickly words that she flings into the peace and contentment of our lives. She choses her ballast carefully, rolling words around her mouth, testing them for strength and efficacy. She only releases them when she can be sure of maximum damage then stands back with a wry smile enjoying the devastation her power wields. She wheedles my Father when he is most pleased with her. Like a fat greedy cuckoo, she slowly pushes the natural chick from the nest. I remember now.  It started with the argument about my girdle. That evening I had heard her talking with my Father.

“She is like a wild thing. She needs to be tamed, Henri. She is too old to be running barefoot in the woods looking for fairies. You cannot have your ‘little girl on tiptoes’ forever. She must be warmed to the ways of womanhood. Leave it to me, I will take her in hand.  I will make you proud Henri.”

Then there was a whispering silence and I knew that they were sealing this pact with a private affection I knew nothing of.

But why must I be brought in hand, have my hair pinned and my girdle pulled tight?  What kind of horrible sanity is this that I must make dark the light and reach up through the waves to grab an anchor to live by. No, I will not do it. I will run from here, away from the dark edges scything the greenery of my youth. I will roam free with the gypsies and learn the messages in the lark-song. I will dance to the fiddle with bells at my ankles and ribbons streaming in my hair. I would be a bride to nature and keep the red side of the apple for myself.