“I’m going to need a guide,” I said aloud to myself, making my right foot cross over the threshold of the gate exiting my home. When my left foot followed on its own, I began to feel my heart in my ears, and I couldn’t quite breathe right. Something kept making me catch my breath short in the same way breath comes during a feverish cough.
“Eventually,” I added, noting to myself that if I kept the Sister on my right and the Brother on my left—or was it the other way around? No mind: if I’m between Brother and Sister, I’ll have plenty of food and plenty of roads until the river on the right disappears into the east country up north and the one on the left bends completely west toward that lawless land of kings. If the East doesn’t have kings, then what do they have?
It was my uncle, or my father’s uncle, who told me stories of his travels when I was very young. He had a habit of bringing me sweets—and sweets to Mother—Father was always testy with me afterwards: “Why does he insist on bringing sweets?” Bedtime was always early for me on those days.
He was the man who painted pictures with his words, sitting beside the fire with me late (on days he did not bring sweets), sitting in the low chair, pulling himself forward in the chair so that he appeared to be crouching upon his haunches, like some ancient beast-man from the wilderness. His appearance stood stark in my memory, but his tales were always wandering about in the fog of my lazy mind. Father always admonished me to learn to remember, but I preferred, of course, the easier paths: kicking balls and dust, throwing balls and dust, staring at balls of dust. Hauling dust in some form was my goal, an easy living without a terrible lot of mental effort.
My uncle (or Father’s uncle) had a habit of crouching on that low chair, demonstrating with his hands this point or that turn in his descriptions while he rested his elbows upon his knees. He knew stagecraft, possibly. He knew just how to play the light of the fire, turning his head to bring shadows down his brow, putting the fire into his eyes, bringing his hand up to his beard to pull his face down even further, wringing out fear from my heart. Lions were vanquished. Bears were slaughtered. Vipers were stamped out of existence. Other creatures appeared in his face, those whose names I did not recognize so I was unable to remember. I was able to remember that, in his country, every animal is a combination of speed, claws, fangs, and power. Some ran, some flew, some crawled; all of them were fast and lethal. He was more lethal still, wounded several times, but telling the tales.
“Eventually what?”
As for me, I had a habit of narrating my near future aloud, so that neighbors could hear everything I was about to do, at least in bits and pieces, and they could plan accordingly, that is, if I did anything other than buy milk and cheese at the market. And beer. This time I had narrated to the young goddess of next door, whom I had not seen bending down to pull thistles from the garden.
She was a plump figure, fine, plenty of woman, but still a girl—lovely hips and a healthy smile. She was never too shy to show her smile to passers by, declaring the virtues of the day, high skies or low, rains or winds. Piles of hair made her even larger, absolute darkness upon her head somehow causing her happy face to radiate even more. She was something to look at, with all respect to her father and mother, a true gift to the neighborhood, pleasant looks and pleasant smiles and pleasant conversation. Who did not think of her as the presentation of a mystery from on high? She certainly had come down, and I was honored to live nearby to her so that I could be seen by her and greeted by her, even though this time I was unhappily surprised that she had overheard my master plan.
“Eventually,” I stuttered, “I’m going to need help finding my way.”
“Oh, then you’re leaving,” she said. Her face darkened ever so—it never lost its divine brightness, nor was it overshadowed with care and concern, not for a little man like me. It was delightful to see that my leaving caused something in her that did not equate immediately to continuing delight. “I will pray for you.” And she was delighted in that thought. She rested her hands on her waist, which was not plump, I could see. Why did she always wear such dark clothing?
Of course she will, my conscience stabbed. What will you be doing while she is praying?
I didn’t really know any prayers, though I was taught many. It was not for spite or in rebellion that I did not know many prayers—in fact, I knew snippets of very many prayers, prayers to be prayed in every situation imaginable, even in sadness and in fear—it was for lack of effort, the desire to not expend energy on remembering prayers. After all, I reasoned, when I need to pray, a prayer will arise. I never thought to consider how my mind would put itself to hard labor in an effort to remain lazy.
Laziness, if there was any shadow over the goddess of the neighborhood, had overcome me. Always I had struggled against laziness, rousing myself when the sun was already high, taking hourly wages working when others were wise enough to escape from the sun—so I made a little more for the time, but my skin burned every day, and my brain boiled—and late to bed. Rarely did I foray to the market after hours to drink (I liked my beer near bed and in quiet), but turning in for the night was such a chore to me. If I escaped bedtime until very dark hours, then, irrationally, I had somehow made the chore easier.
“Is it possible,” she ventured, “that you will return?”
And so, to do away with the chore altogether, I chose a task which rendered bedtime completely irrelevant. I would not have any patterns beyond that of moving one foot in front of the other and eating. Why would I, I reasoned, travel to the north country, which is somewhere beyond the experience of everyone I knew, to return? Why?
I looked at her. Gazed, I think is the word. She had cocked her head in curiosity, letting some of her hair spill upon her right shoulder. I realized that I was terrified of leaving home. I was not able to hear myself speak over the sound of my heart and my own short breath. I smiled, nonetheless, and said, “No, not likely.”
And she cried.
She came up to the wall which was separating us, crying, all delight gone away, all light faded, all happiness removed, and flung her arms around my neck, pulling herself up. Her tears wet my neck. I remarked to myself the strange experience of the softness and coolness of her warm body. As the experience continued, every sensation fought against itself. She was soft and cool and warm. Her entire body pressed against mine, except where the stone wall was. Her half-embrace added to the strange experience: cold stone, hard and sharp, hot from the sun, pressed against her and me while she pressed herself against my own self. It was a kind of breach, but pleasant. I was glad the wall was there to keep the incursion to a minimum.
No, I had never seen her demonstrate in this way before. And as quickly as she had begun crying, she recaptured her sunshine in the very moment her mother called to her from the house. She ran from the wall, while I stood there gazing, with the word “eventually” still somewhere nearby. Her mother removed herself from the doorway, returning herself to her preparations. At this realization, the goddess of the neighborhood turned to me again to say this:
“Has it not occurred to you that you may need a guide before ‘eventually’?”
“How do you mean?”
“The way north of the city is not safe from man nor beast—the barbarians!” she cried out.
No, I had not considered that the country between mine and his might be somewhat, though not comparably, dangerous. Even so, I supposed, dead is dead. In fact, it just at that moment occurred to me that perhaps he had been terrifying me with stories of the country between mine and his, not his own civilized land at all!
Everything was gone: furniture, clothing, cookware, utensils, tools; the house was sold, and my feet had been the last things remaining inside. My money was on deposit with a financier, whose manager assured me that the token he gave me was part of a network of financiers between Brother and Sister. Nevertheless, I had coppers and silvers in my pocket enough to sustain me for many days in the unknown places beyond the city.
We lived on top of a little rise—had lived—which allowed us a clear vision of the tower in the central part of the city, where our King lived, a very small vision of a great, tall tower, multitudes between our house and it, of houses, businesses, streets, restaurants, inns, hostels, of people, cats, dogs—dogs! Summoning up courage to leave my home had caused me to forget my dog!
“Rescue!” I cried out. “Rescue, dear Rescue! I’m coming!” I didn’t think he had quite discovered I had left him, my friend and companion through many adventures. One time, when I was hauling debris for the neighborhood, he chased a viper from a pile of rubble just before I started lifting stones and mortar, rescuing me from certain death and, worse than that, the mortification of dying publicly of snakebite. He, incidentally, also managed to avoid the fate from which he rescued me. On another occasion, he alerted me to the coming inspection of my foreman, giving me ample time to feign illness and hide evidence of yestereve’s insobriety. Rescue was a fitting name for a fine dog of his inferior pedigree, I believed. Nevertheless, it was beyond me how it came to pass that my foreman would come to the house to fetch me for work, which I eventually did attend to that day, following a thorough tongue-lashing, and similar encouragements.
Even before I crossed the threshold of the gate leading to my home—my house—which I had sold—I noticed that I had left the door open. So I went back inside. I shouldn’t have done that.
The sun traveled a long way before I mustered up the courage to leave again. I had never known another dwelling place: in it was my entire childhood, beautiful mother, stern father, brother and sister, and that uncle who on occasion visited from parts far away. I wondered if I could find him, knowing nothing of him, seeing nothing of him for years. Rescue thought we were going on a walk, so he led the way away. This time I closed the door, sealing into my memory home, where it dwells.
The sun had, indeed, traveled a long way; the shadows were stretching the other direction. I should have reached the inn beyond the tower by now, for night number one, the greatest night, the celebration, to place the waxen seal upon the past, that secure and genuine seal known as beer and board. Who knew if I would even need room? But not tonight.
I saw the goddess of the neighborhood again, this time cutting some flowers and herbs for the evening meal, which I could smell from beyond the stone wall, which reminded me again that I had not reached the inn, and would not in time for roasted fowl or whatever delicious oily board.
“Lily,” answered the sharp tongue of her mother from within the house. Lily paused for a moment, listening to the tongue, which commanded her to finish the cooking in her behalf, then deferentially, she exchanged places with her mother, who did not finish cutting flowers, but, instead, came to me with a command: “You will stay with us tonight.”
This was a command that allowed no protest, an invitation with a furrowed brow and eyes that poked so that her fingers did not bother. This was also the first time she had uttered a word to me, she whom I had known from before my memory. More than that, I could see her face—it was a familiar face: divinity was within it. She was the goddess-mother, with lighter skin and lighter hair and lighter eyes, the mother of Lily, the goddess of the neighborhood, whose morning had just broken.
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“But you must remain here until my husband returns.”
Fear, I have discovered, lays a foundation for fear. The entire day had already been muted fear under bright sunshine. Now I was bound by command to encounter the dark father of Lily, the husband of the goddess-mother, a man of enormous reputation, being very dark—that swarthy foreigner, my father used to call him—with a powerful accent so that I could never understand what he was directing me to do when I was helping him at his business. He was convinced that I was an imbecile, I knew from the way he constantly repeated the incomprehensible phrases issuing from his mouth.
“Do you know nothing at all?” he once slowly articulated.
“That swarthy foreigner,” my father once exclaimed, “came here to steal the finest maiden of the village and the best manufacturing.” Mother was at the market at the time. “She was notorious for her beauty and honor,” he continued, “a woman who stopped the marketplace, both men and women together, to gaze at her. The men, of course, fought each other to gain her attention and the attention of her brothers and father (some even through her mother), but she would have none of us. I think, son, she was a mystery. She spoke with us, but without paying attention to us. We always felt free to converse with her, but never invited to pursue her. Oh! It was maddening. She, I mean, she was maddening this way! I worked my way into business in order to make my living as quickly as possible—your poor mother: to move next-door to the queen of the village. Ha! But never, son, have my eyes strayed. Only in my memory do I see this woman. She belongs to that swarthy foreigner, and she deserves such an authoritarian world in her home. Only in my memory, son. Only in my memory. Your mother is a spectacular woman, as you know, worthy of all the respect of a husband such as myself, and sons such as yourselves, but—only in my memory…”
And he trailed off, just like that.
After a few lengthy moments, he returned from wherever he was: “What’s the name of that daughter of hers? Lotus?”
“Lily,” I corrected rather quickly.
“Hmm, Lily, yes…” he said. “She is about to come to life isn’t she?”
“I hadn’t noticed,” I said, again, rather quickly.
“Neither have any of your worthless friends.”
Friends. Two years after that conversation, I was waiting outside the stone wall for that swarthy foreigner, the father of the goddess of the neighborhood, Lily, the blossoming life-flower of the day, far away, now, from the home my father provided for me, though it was standing right behind me, just up the hill from where I was stationed.
He appeared suddenly upon the path, leaving my stomach no time to work its way to my feet or my heart to thrust itself into my throat; they just suddenly possessed me. Here was a man whose visage was darker than his own shadow, a severe-looking man, and, even with his head down, seemed taller than the house he lived in, a man who caused large objects, trees, buildings to lean toward him when he was near, and caused people to lean away.
He was not a brutish figure, that foreigner. Instead, he was a figure of mental strength with a physical presence to support his figure, nothing fearsome, with the exception that his hands were massive, more like the pads of a lion. Thus, he cut a formidable figure.
His gait was rapid, regular, and paced. He did not break his gait, but he did slow his pace enough to ponder my own figure, waiting there in pause beyond the stone wall of his property. He reached one of those pads to the latch of his gate without so much as a word; he had no need, his eyes said enough by themselves, and I was wise enough only to lower my own eyes and keep my mouth shut. I was proud of myself. I had a mental image of myself trying to greet him, rising above my character—or what he thought of me—then tripping over the lip of my sandals or drooling on myself or something elsewise mortifying.
Nonetheless, I knew that I had been invited to stay with him in his abode, an invitation written on the stele of her brow, and I knew that I was hungry. I was glad to have a measure of coins and that token because I did not see how I was ever going to build the stamina nor the discipline to endure a day without a solid meal. So I followed him to his home, from where supper was inviting, and the two women were singing, chanting back and forth to each other in a traditional plainsong. I had often heard Lily’s response, but not her mother’s call. While Lily’s was entrancing, her mother’s was enticing. It was, at the same time, devout, wholesome, pure, and also sensual, provocative, carnal.
When she saw her husband, the furrow she implanted upon her forehead for my encouragement instantaneously transformed itself into something marvelous, a magical transformation from defensiveness to sublime submission, and she smiled. It was that smile, but it disappeared in an instant. In that instant, he had shouted greetings to his bride, with a broad and happy face, and for that instant, their countenances shamed those of the freshly cut flowers which were mere faded symbols of the happiness that exploded into being when these two joined. That swarthy foreigner was a man at home with his bride, and in an instant, she buried herself into his body with an affectionate hug and cries of welcome. And then, she kissed him. No, he kissed her. It was difficult to discern. But it was such a kiss, of some passion firing deep within them both, that it warmed all the space within the home, and my eyes, without any will of mine, averted themselves to Lily. His eyes forthwith averted themselves to me, but it was too late. I had seen one of the bodies of the sky: was she the sun or the moon? She had issued from this joining, and I was now participating in the same joining so that, not only did my eyes gaze, but also, I found, my face had lifted itself up, again, apart from any will of my own, into a smile. He began to frown.
“He will stay with us tonight,” one of them echoed faintly in my ears. “He will stay with us tonight.”
It was the thyme, I think, that caused the echoing to finally cease. A kind of wrath had unleashed itself upon me; he did not strike me or push me into a wall, nor did he even try to break any of my bones with his lion paws. A sigh had come from him that reached into my conscience, which was dormant, and broke some bones of mine on the inside, bones I didn’t know I had—or, if I did know, they had lain sleeping for quite a while. This sigh had signified to my inmost that I had committed a great injustice and that I would be severely punished if I reached out to take Lily as a possession for myself before I atoned for my injustice. I felt guilty. In my mind I had no idea what crime I had committed, but I was guilty, without alibi or defense. How guilt emitted from love I did not understand; Lily’s mother was still greeting her husband, and Lily was still looking at me, bound to do so by the love being suffused throughout the home. Lily was looking at me, and I had been looking at her with the same love, but my eyes grew afraid, ashamed, and averted themselves to a nearby wall or piece of furniture. In an instant I managed to avert suspicion of my wrongdoing, which was still unknown to me, but perceived by the universe of love somehow, by remarking very robustly that the meal pervaded into the soul though it was still in the kitchen. Was that thyme? I asked.
“It is thyme,” said Lily, “fried in oil for a moment before a bird is placed in the roasting pan, along with leeks, plenty of spring water, and a method of my mother which is beyond telling. Wait,” continued Lily, “until you are seated and a plate is set before you. Then you will know why my mother secrets her method from others.”
“The sun himself, who sees all, could descend,” declared Lily’s father, “to demand to know what arts my bride employs, but she would refuse, and by the justice of heaven, he would have to return in humility to his courses in the sky, bowed by my bride.”
A lovely woman, the bride of Lily’s father, and she revealed that smile once more, still clutching her husband. It was, indeed, the same smile as adorned her daughter, and I suddenly hoped that the smile and the thyme came together. And then I felt a pain of guilt pass through my body again. I sat down at the table, hoping for some relief.
“My dear boy,” sighed Lily’s father. “We live between the Brother and the Sister, yet you sit before you do as they teach.” I arose as quickly as I heard these words—and I must admit, his words cut me with authority, yet I did not fall away or fight the wound. He had a manner—perhaps it was his accent—that was impatient and patient at the same time, mocking and playful. His home, perhaps, filled with his wife and daughter, added the second to the first, the second being absent when I worked for him. I arose, and he took me outside where he showed me a contraption of his own design.
“I love the river,” he said. “He teaches us many things. They are simple, and basic, and life. We learn life from the river, you know, sometimes without our considering. Therefore, we cease to learn more life.” It was running water in his backyard. He had manufactured his own irrigation, a thing of farmers, but a thing causing wars. His was of stone, bringing water from a nearby spring into a tiny cistern filled with charcoal. From a hole near the top of the cistern water flowed into a large stone bowl. The overflow of the bowl was carried away into the creek of the spring. The gray of the stone bowl accented the clarity of the water.
“Look,” he demonstrated. “The river carries all the filth away from the land southward into the sea, where all filth is churned away in the great waves, both above the water and in the deep. I have a little river carrying my filth, and the filth of my home, into the creek.” And he washed his hands. I had never thought of a river in that way before.
I was going north. This seemed portentous.
Clean, we returned inside to eat.
“Our Father, who brings the river to my back door, bless this food, which is enlivened by the same. Make it nourish our bodies with joy and thanksgiving, which are our life, that our eating is an eating of the gods.”
And we sat down, finally, to eat. I thought I would die before I could bring the spoon to my face—aha! But I did manage to pause just long enough for everyone else to taste first, that is, except for Lily who held her spoon until I had tasted pure heaven. Without a doubt I had died; I tasted all the flavors of heaven: some sort of bitter herb in a broth of fowl, a broth with no fat, as clear as the water outside, if it had been poured into a golden bowl instead of gray, the fat reserved for gravy to pour over roasted potatoes. The gravy was gray, with flecks of dark green leeks, and was perfectly salty for the potatoes which had soaked in butter and water until the water had evaporated, causing a crunchy exterior to crust over the bottom of a very succulent tuber. My mother had absolutely nothing—I remarked to myself this far before the next bite, because the rest of the thought didn’t matter for so many reasons. Onward to the greens, which were cold, breaking apart to yield up their coolness, perfect for this warm evening. What else was there? Broth, potatoes, gravy, greens…the bird. The roast fowl.
Lily’s mother had served the bird in a shallow plate so that the steam of the meat and the broth reached the nose in combination, yet the meat drained, presenting itself to the eye as a lotus flower upon a lake shore. When my mother had roasted fowl, we were encouraged and obliged to use a knife, for politeness’ sake, rather than tear at the poor dead beast with our hands—now, my mother made a fine bird, very tasty, but “aged” in the oven, I think, so that we appreciated the sustenance of the thing rather than the eating experience, such as Lily’s mother gave unto me that evening, a miserable beggar, poor, ignorant. A spoon loosened a morsel of the flesh, cooked just done throughout, and scooped a bit of broth simultaneously—I did not wish to insult the broth or the bird by showing favoritism—and, if fear did not prevent, delivered divine to the very body and soul. How had Lily’s mother added sweetness to a bird?
My memory tells me that the portion was not terribly sizable. I remark this way because I do not remember thinking, upon sitting down veritably starved that day, accustomed to eating twice as much to fuel my lazy occupation, that the portion was not terribly sizable. Neither do I remember after finishing my portion that I should resist the urge to request more. I was filled, satiated in all senses: sight, smell, taste, touch, feel, and intuition. Lily’s mother had produced something truly good, and the blessing requested was upon it.
What happened after we had each finished our portions? They were equally distributed to us four, a quarter of a chicken each, from the least, Lily, to the greatest, Lily’s father. Lily’s father rose to his great height, darkening the room in the way that someone wrapped in the garment of a thundercloud might darken a room; he rose from his place with a properly satisfied countenance, appeared in the rear doorway, reached for something hidden in a little rivulet of his stone river, then emerged from his cloud with a tall flask. It was wine, of course, chilled, burgundy and heavy, served by Lily’s father while Lily’s mother dealt bread. She had baked it with the rising of the sun, but had warmed it on the hearth while we ate the evening meal. I was overcome by the desire to bribe the remaining juices from my plate with her bread; when I glanced up, wondering if I had committed some sort of household breach of etiquette, I noticed that I was last to do so. The desire was natural and good, and bribery created a way to sweeten the bread. Oh, come to me, sweet broth, delectable joy of my innermost! Let me fix this culinary experience into the memory of my soul with the eating of this bread and the drinking of this fruit of the vine! Life and love passed into me through my eyes, my ears, my mouth, my nose, tingling the skin upon my flesh and rattling alarms within, where fires are stoked.
Lily’s mother had decreed and so it was: a place was going to be prepared for me on the couch near the fire. Even so, the sun was only just sinking out of sight; the fire, as well as our tummies, made it too warm for us to retire. Lamps were lit in the cool part of the house, near the garden where a shade tree had kept the sun off the house while he wound his way down his path unto the western horizon. The same herbs which had participated in the evening meal sent from the garden their greetings on the evening breeze. Others were there, too, exotic flora and herbs I did not presently recognize. Perhaps another meal would introduce me to them.