Escape from the Calabar

Posted by Barbara in Lemurian Grand Tour, Barbara’s Journey, Pirates. add a comment , edit post

The Calabar Felonway ain’t no ship fer me, not a ‘tall. Th’ shoutin’ ne’er lets up, always those green eyes checkin’ on yer werk, barkin’ new orders t’ follow, ne’er a time t’ rest or relax. Tha’ scowlin’ scoundrel, th’ one claimin’ t’ be th’ Cap’n, why, tha’ face follows me wherever I be, even into me sleep. She howls in me nightmares and wakes me from me deep snore, me a drippin’ in sweat. No, this ship ain’t no ship fer me. I’m plannin’ to go overboard, an’ soon.

I planned it darn good, too. Ever’ thing planned for a go a’ two hours a’past midnight. The moon set awhile back an’ only a few stars blinked into th’ sea waters, th’ clouds mostly coverin’ the skies. Th’ wind were blowin’ mild and the ocean blue weren’t quite lookin’ like a piece a’ glass, but ’twere nearly. I hoisted th’ dinghy from its bed a’ rope an’ tossed me pack into th’ bottom. Me pack was bulgin’ with fresh water flasks an’ strips o’ salt meat an’ a bottle of grog or two. Th’ cleanest wad a’ clothin’ an’ a’ blanket I could find, I scrounged from under th’ deck. If they had vermin, I couldn’t tell an’ I didn’t much care at this point. Me sharpened knife were slid in me one boot and me iv’ry handled pistol were in me other. I hain’t tellin’ where tha’ purty gun a come from, an’ no one best ask. A belt a’ bullets hanged across me chest, covered by me tunic and black slicker. Me bandana and felt hat sat on me head, pertectin’ me from th’ sun an’ wind. Me flint ’twere wrapped tight in me waxed packet, along wit’ me compass an’ th’ telescope I stole from th’ cap’n’s chest. Me oars, an’ then a extra pair too, lay on the wood planks in th’ bottom a’ th’ boat. I packed up what I needed an’ I thinks me got it all.

Me friends, Ol’ Scotch and Reddy Rover, had kep’ a good lookie whiles me were a loadin’ up, an’ now they’s lowered the dinghy into the sea and let me loose. The sea took me o’er as I pushed me craft away from th’ pirate ship. As I took a glance at th’ ship one las’ time, I see’d a face a peerin’ at me from a low port hole. Me heart, it flip flopped. ‘Twere so dark, I couldn’t see nothin’ but a slice a’ green eyes a lookin’ out at me. I heaved the dinghy further away from the Calabar, oars sloppin’ in th’ water, and no alarm rung out, so I relaxed a bit. I ‘magined I’d done skipped from tha’ crazy cap’n. Me breath come out with so huge a relief, it almost rocked th’ boat o’er on its’ side. In th’ back ‘er me mind, thar were a nag of a doubt, but I pushed tha’ away, and waited fer the sunrise. Fer th’ first time in a long while, me rested a bit withou’ th’ threat of a strap rippin’ on me skin. I tell ya th’ truth an’ nothin’ more. Tha’ cap’n were as mean a soul as th’ devil himself.

I chawed on some meat and sipped at me water an’ then slept awhile. When th’ blue a’ th’ morn’ come up from th’ horizon. I pulled me telescope out ‘er me bag t’ check th’ horizon, an’ me heart did another flip. To th’ east by southeast, a vessel a’ some sort were makin’ time t’wards me. Even at a distance ‘tween us, I could see th’ flag a’ th’ crossbones flyin’ straight out with th’ breeze. Thar’ was no doubt. Thar’ was no other pirate ship on these waters, so’s I could only ‘magine th’ cold-hearted Cap’n were a’ chasin’ me down. An’ th’ trouble I’d be in once I’d a be captured were not to be pondered. Me legs shaked so hard, I couldn’t stand on me two feet an’ I had t’ sit me down ‘n catch me breath.

I swings all ’round and peers through me glass. A hint of a’ island shows itself t’ me. Jus’ a speck at first, but growin’ bigger an’ bigger as I row. Inside a’ hour, I finds meself in a hidden cove and pulls me dinghy on to the boggy land. Me feet are wobbly on land, but I ignore th’ sway an’ pull me boat into th’ rushes that’er packed tight enough ta make a good hidin’ place. I take extra time to cover me dinghy with clumps a’ grass an’ weeds ’til it’s purty much hidden gone. The Calabar’s now in sight, but a’ distance away yet. I throws me gear in me pack, puts me four oars in another hidey place, an’ high-tails it t’wards the middle a’ th’ island. ‘Twer’ lush an’ green, an’ me sees mushrooms an’ berries fer me takin’. Scat marks the trail I follow, so I know thar’s game on th’ island. A granite cliff rises up high in th’ sky, an’ caves spot th’ side. I make a torch a’ rushes an’ lights it with me flint. I goes into a few a th’ caves. I sees plentiful rooms fer shelter and two with runnin’ waterfalls, cold an’ fresh. I’m still explorin’, when I walks out from one a’ th’ highest caves and sees th’ Calabar’s search party crossin’ o’er th’ gang plank, tha’ green eyed Cap’n’ keepin’ watch o’er ever’one .

I needs t’ hide some’eres quick. I turns on me feet and hurries fast through the tunnels into th’ deepest cave, runnin’ lthrough th’ mazes’ rights an’ lefts. Finally I reaches a dead-end room, no bigger than a coupla caskets layin’ side by side. Thar’s another hole, low to th’ ground, jus’ big ‘nough fer a skinny body ta wiggle through. While most a’ Calabar’s crew is well muscled, I’m skinny and tall, though I can keep up in a fight with mos’ anybody. Th’ hole is muddy from drippin’ water, but I slithers through an’ covers me tracks with a swabbin’ blanket. This bitty cave is only big enough fer me ta sit inside nex’ t’ me pack.

An hour goes by. Two hours. Three. I’m considerin’ crawlin’ from me hidey hole when I hears the faintest of sounds. In minutes, boot steps of two or three pound on the stone floor of me cave. There are turnoffs to get lost in and I prays they takes a wrong ‘un. ‘Tis th’ first time I prays since I’m a lil’ nipper, but I s’poses God lissens to prayers from both sinners an’ saints. The footsteps comes close: I hear heavy breathing. Bodies push into th’ casket room.

“Nothin’ in here,” says Ronnie. “Not even ‘nough space t’ turn ’round in. Jus’ a dead end.”

Bonesy heads ‘way from me hole, mumblin’ ta Ronny. “Let’s hope the other search party found ‘er. We’re in big trouble if’n we don’t come home with ‘er. Jus’ can’t find any sign. How’d she get away?”

“Wishes I knew. I’d do th’ same. Mebbe she ain’t on the’ island. Might a’ capsized or rowed so fast she’s outta sight by now.”

“Good thinkin’, Ronny. You go explain tha’ ta th’ Cap’n’. Mebbe she’ll award you First Matey.” Bonesy laughs.

“Mebbe I’ll stay on th’ island. Looks purty fine t’ me. Water, food, fish. Better ‘n our fate on th’ Calabar.”

“Know what, Ronny. I’m game. We’ll make a go of it, or we’ll a die tryin’. An’ mebbe Ol’ Bo will turn up with some a’ her sea-farin’ gear.”

Ronny looks down at the Calabar. Then she stares into the cave and gazes around the deep greenery. Birds were squawking in the air. Waterfalls were scattered in the caves and down the face of the cliff. ”We can only pray, Bonesy. We can only pray.”

They sit on a stony outcrop, staring at the ship and her crew scurrying about. “The other crew’s on and thar’ pullin’ up th’ plank. Bet they’s thinkin’ we’s gettin’ a good punishment.”

“If’n they’s only knew, Bonesy. If’n they’s only knew.” And they break out in a hearty laugh.

I laughs inside the cave, echoing thar’ sounds. In a few days, I’ll make meself known. They’ll ‘preciate a pair a’ extra hands an’ me flint and meat, too. Think I’ll keep me’ knife and pistol on the quiet side, though. At least ’til I know who’s on whose side. “‘Spect we’ll all be on each other’s side. No more ol’ green eyes. Won’t that be grand.” An’ I throws me hat into th’ air. No more piratin’ fer me. Nope. Bo’s gonna go straight.

A Meeting in the Faraway Tree

A Tale of My Meeting with Dame Washalot in the Faraway Tree,
based on Week 10’s travels on the Grand Lemurian Tour.

The scrubbing brush, a coarse bristle hand brush and pale yellow in color, looked to be a fearsome thing. Its bristles were sharp and left red marks upon any skin it scrubbed. And that skin was soon to be mine. Not that I didn’t deserve a good scrubbing. I did. And Dame Washalot claimed she could scrub all those nasty wrinkles right out of my life. And who wants to sport a mass of wrinkles? Certainly not me. Why, those life wrinkles were getting deeper each day. So did I want to choose living with those gully wrinkles or enduring the scrub of a lifetime?

I thought it over a millisecond, turned chicken and scrambled to my feet to climb down the Faraway Tree, but not before Dame Washalot reached for my arm. “You’re not leaving now, are you?” she asked. “We’ve barely begun. Take off that first layer, Dearie. Get rid of those old clothes. They’re full of old memories and nasty ones at that. I mean to scrub you clean of niggling thoughts, all those needless worries that you carry everywhere, those ’should a done’s’ and ‘could a done’s.’ But I can’t scrub off those ancient, creeping memories that surround the air you breathe. I can burn them away if you wish, but you must first let them go. They’ve taught you nothing useful, nor will they ever.” I squirmed under her gaze as I fiddled with my buttons. She gave me a more determined look and stamped her foot. The tree leaves surrounding us quivered and a few dropped through the thick branches. “No more fussing, Dearie. Hand me your clothes. Why, they’re tattered with memories. Into the fire, they’ll soon go. You go ahead and jump into my tub; relax in that warm, comforting water. Think pleasant thoughts and I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

I hesitated, her words whirling in my mind. “Pleasant thoughts? I haven’t any pleasant thoughts to think, have I? I haven’t had much practice…” Yet I leaned my head against the bath pillow, perfectly anchored on the edge of the tub. I was working hard to fill my mind with pleasantries, when the Faraway Tree was jarred by a whoosh near the blazing fire. Looking over, I was surprised to see Dame Washalot dancing by a tiny, enclosed hearth with a roaring fire and smashing little darts of flames which were escaping the blaze. “Whoosh! Whoosh!” She snapped at the flying embers with her wash rag, snapping them into oblivion. Then suddenly I no longer saw the raging fire. I only saw the Dame standing over me with her yellow scrub brush.

“There, there now, Dearie. All gone, that terrible pain you’ve carried. All gone. But you must help me with the next ones. Think about those thoughts that come visiting too often on long afternoons or dark nights. Those thoughts that force feed you guilt and sadness. Quick, now. Give me a thought. Just throw me the first one that comes to mind.”

Suddenly, there were jagged thoughts stabbing my consciousness and I couldn’t wait to pull out the sharpness. “My mother. My sister. I worry about them all the time. I know I should be taking care of them, keeping them safe and comfortable. I could make enough space, let them live with me.” Tears began to sting my eyes.

“Ah, yes. That’s a big thought you slung off, first. A mighty big thought.” Dame Washalot scrubbed and scrubbed, bubbles gurgled and surfaced and floated through the leaves and out of sight. As she scrubbed, she whispered a few words in my wet ear. “Your mum and sister, they’re happy for now. They like being on their own, and they’re okay. So let them be happy and independent as long as they can be.” She patted my arm and went on. “When it’s time, there’ll be decisions to make, but never ones you’ll need to make alone.”

“But those decisions!” I wailed, nearly sliding underneath the tumbling water. “I’m so afraid of those decisions. I’ll need to take care of them or put them away. It’s my responsibility.” I sniffled as the tears tumbled down my cheeks.

Dame pulled me half out of the water and shook me a bit. “Your responsibility? Seems I remember you’ve been told to take care of yourself. That’s your responsibility and it’s plenty enough for you to handle. Let your mother and sister do for now.” Dame wiped the tears from my face, and gave my streaked cheeks a scrub or two.

“But I’m the only living relative they have…”

“You want them to continue having a living relative, don’t you? Then don’t use the bit of strength you can muster trying to care for yourself and them, too. Listen to your doctors, your husband. The answer’s been staring you in the face, but you’re too busy looking over your shoulder for the shadows. Let me know when you figure out what to do.”

In a show of uncertainty, I shook my head. But I really did know the answer and Dame Washalot knew I knew. She nodded at me and then towards the gauzy sky. “Oh, all right. I’ll give you a hint. Let those worries fly away. Only you can let them go.” She scrubbed and scrubbed down to my very bones. And soon I watched large bubbles float above the forest breezes and pop on the very tops of the pointed evergreen trees.

By now, I’d had some thinking time, and everyone’s advice was beginning to make some sense. So I gave it a try, speaking my own mind. “Maybe I do understand. I know the course I should follow. I need to use what strength I have, prudently and wisely. Am I right?”

“Yes, quite right. Listen to your advisers’ opinions, think on it carefully, then the final choice is yours to make.” I then noticed she was watching me closely, but I couldn’t read the look in her eyes. She eyed me from the tip of my soaking wet head to the tips of my pruney toes.

Puzzled, I felt dizzy and was thrown quite off my feet. The tree branches jigged underneath me and shook me hard. I felt different, somehow. Maybe a little better than before. Finally, my neurons connected. “Dame Washalot! The weight on my shoulders is lessening!”

“Indeed it is. Let me scrub awhile over there, Dearie, while you tell me a bit more. Out comes your next thought…”

So I fretted and stammered once more. The Dame was right. I did have another big worry, but I didn’t know what she could do about it. After all these going ons, I was still a Doubting Thomas. What could she do about the persistent nagging deep in my heart, the one I’d never shared with anyone. After all, I thought, she was only a wash woman.

The Dame spoke sharply to me for the first time. “Careful now, Dearie. I can read those thoughts of yours.” In a brief fit of pique, she banged her scrub brush on a thick branch, and bruised its bark. Realizing what she’d done, she immediately turned repentant, scrubbed the bark gently, and gave it a light kiss. Finally she turned her attention back to me. “Sorry about that bit of temper. Dames aren’t 100% perfect, though we like to think we are. Now about the rest of those worries. I can’t scrub them away quite yet. You must tell me about them, acknowledge that they’re unwanted lurkers, and swear you’ll tolerate their presence no longer.”

“But, Dame Washalot, I’m not sure I can.”

“No, buts. I will not listen to anymore ‘buts’ from you. Those trapped ideas feed your guilt with extra fodder. And why? What are they nagging you about?”

I knew the ideas of which she spoke. I heard them constantly berating me, and I did wish for them to disappear. Still, it was hard to deal with more guilt, even though I felt like exploding. “Because. Because. It’s because I’ve been such a terrible mother. When my children were young and in need of a mother’s touch and love, I wasn’t there for them. I am a selfish and self-centered woman. I don’t deserve to be a mother.”

“You surely have a really bad case of guilt; I’ll need to scrub you even harder. By the way, you don’t listen to your guides, do you? Once again, let me tell you. You weren’t acting selfish or self-centered. You were doing the right thing. Before you learned to take care of your babies, you needed to learn how to love yourself. And you fought for both your health and your life. You fought that battle, not only for yourself, but also for your family. And you threw out your demons using a large serving of Mother’s Love, the strongest kind of love there is. Can’t you see? You won!”

“Then why do I feel I’ve disappointed them.”

“Dearie, maybe I need to scrub inside your ears. Listen up! Are your children happy? Fulfilled? Independent? And do they show you their love?”

“Hey, you’re scrubbing too hard.” I was skilled at procrastinating when I didn’t want to play her game.

Dame Washalot, however, wouldn’t let me skulk away. She was on a mission. “I’m scrubbing as hard as you need, and as hard as I can. Now answer me!”

“Okay! Okay! They’re happy and fulfilled and independent. And I guess they love me.”

“So let your guilt fall away. Freedom from guilt, that’s what you need most of all.” She swiped her hand through the tub water and churned her fist in the dirty, scrubbing muck.

Hundreds of bubbles broke away from the suds. They floated towards the heavens and I heard tiny explosions as the bubbles popped. When I finally looked into the water, the surface was clear. And it was hard for me to trust what my eyes were seeing. I saw my loved ones’ smiling faces. All my family who I felt so guilty and worried about. They were smiling and waving, and I heard them say over and over, “We love you. We love you. And we know that you’ve always loved us and cared!”

That last bit they said? The caring bit? That finally did it. The guilt that was still trapped in my heart floated away through a tiny hole. And then that hole stitched itself closed so well, it didn’t even leave a scar. I hollered then, smack dab into Dame Washalot’s right ear. “My family loves me! They’re telling me so.” I hollered those words over and over, as I stared at the faces in the water.

“Hmmmph.” She finally looked over at my rejoicing family and snorted. “Well, my job’s finally done. Looks like you’re all spruced up now, pure as a newborn, but I’ll give you one of my spare brushes just in case. You start carrying that nasty stuff on those shoulders of yours, I want you to scrub it away. Hear me?”

“Yes. Yes, I hear you. And I want to thank you so much.” I nearly curtsied, but held myself in check, and simply pumped her hand up and down.

“Well, Dearie, you can thank yourself. You did all the work. You knew the answers well enough.”

A fantastic thought came to my mind. “I’m just like Dorothy in Oz,” I said, a bright smile on my face. “And you’re my Glenda.”

Dame Washalot gave me a strange look. “Dorothy in Oz? Glenda?” She snickered into her fist before she gathered enough presence to speak without spurting out her words. “Why, Dearie, don’t you think you’re getting your children’s literature quite mixed-up?”

Then the good Dame and I laughed together ’til we nearly choked and we rolled about until we slipped through the leaves and landed on the forest’s cushioned earth. Oh, it felt so good to laugh hard like that. I tumbled about with joy and abandon. And when I stood up, I stood straight and proud. That is, until Dame Washalot gave out another loud “Hmmmph.”

“I would suggest,” she said, all prim and proper, “if you plan on prancing through this part of my forest, you might put these new clothes on. You’re carrying about bum naked.” She pointed her finger at me and I blushed everywhere I could possibly blush. Then I snatched up those clothes and nearly jumped into them. As I hit the ground running on the familiar path toward the Manor’s back door, my face was bursting with the biggest smile, ever.

And do you want me to tell you just one more thing? I haven’t stopped smiling yet.

A Map of the Heart

Lemurian Tour — Adventure Calendar 9

Atria, ventricles, mitral valves, aorta, coronary arteries and veins. Pumping muscles, swooshing blood, constant machine, beating, beating, beating. Life.

Canvas, acrylics, clay, oil paint, collage and mixed media. Squirting media, plopping gesso, blobs of color, creating, creating, creating. Life.

Handmade paper, India ink and calligraphic pens, metallic markers and stamping pads. Calligraphic script, hand carved stamps, pens for outlining, writing, writing, writing. Life.

Wisconsin, West Coast, East Coast, Grand Canyon, Caribbeans and New York City. Nature trails, ocean views, sandstone mazes, Big Apple, traveling, traveling, traveling. Life.

Husband, daughters, son, mother, sister, friends, all talking, visiting, sharing and playing, loving, loving, loving. Life.

my heart, my art,
my words, my tours,
my many loves, and He above…

Life.

Mining the Alluvial Mine — Day 10

Mining the Alluvial Mine — Day 10 March 18, 2007
Posted by Barbara in Lemurian Grand Tour, Barbara’s Journey, Mining. add a comment , edit post

Do I enter the mine or do I return to Riversleigh feeling like a quitter? Damascus will be disappointed if I don’t reappear and tell him of my explorations and discoveries. I don’t want him to think poorly of me. Why, my feelings run quite deep for my mule. I want him to be proud of me.

“Okay,” I mutter to myself. “I’ll go through the door and enter the mine.” I swallow hard, pick up my tools and blow out the candle. Taking my first steps into the cavern, its brightness makes me wish for sunglasses. I shade my eyes with my free hand and gaze around me. The ceiling is covered with massive crystallized stalactites; the walls with bits of sparkling jewels in a myriad of colors. Red, green, blue, purple, yellow, orange. I do not know the many different jewels’ names, but I am in awe of their beauty.

I look about the floor, searching for some sort of guide. The ground is covered with crushed jewels, demarcating several paths, each in a different hue. A red path switchbacks down the steep incline into the pit of the room. A green path on my left gradually rises up, hugging close to the eastern wall, and leads into a dark tunnel. A yellow passage creeps away from me, hugging the side of the cave and traveling around the edge of the bottomless hole. It follows the western wall and also disappears into a black passageway. I study the pathways carefully, trying to decipher the mystery of the cavern’s jeweled ground. Which trail shall I follow? I glance back at the doorway considering a quick escape, but the door is closed. Did it close itself? Did Maria close it? I have many unanswered questions.

I startle when I see a swooping shadow cross the vacuous space and dive towards me and duck under my arms. Then I sigh in relief when I see Pigeon settling in front of me. He scratches about in the loose crystals, then looks me in the eye.

“Pigeon, where have you been. Were you exploring? Any suggestions?” I take a few steps on the green passage, but Pigeon blocks my way, flapping his wings and squawking raucously.

“If you are so wise, show me the way.” I pause to see if Pigeon will give me direction. I am eager for any sign, for I cannot fathom which direction is the way. What illumination am I looking for anyway? “Come on, Pigeon. Where shall I go? I wish you could speak!”

Pigeon lands gently on my shoulder and pecks at me affectionately. Then he flies along the descending path. This is the very passage I want to avoid, but I do not want to hesitate and lose the trail of Pigeon. The luminosity of the cavern darkens as I peer over the edge of the pit. I cannot see its bottom.

I search my pack until I find a cylinder containing long, wooden matches. It is fortunate I kept hold of the candlestick and candle. I light the candle and prepare to descend. Am I to come face to face with my demons? I shudder and feel damp and cold. Again I reach into my handy tool pack and grab a heavy sweater and a woolen cap. I am ready, again. I can still see Pigeon’s wings flapping ahead.

My heavy work boots and jeans protect my legs as I carefully pick my way through giant crystal boulders and ledges, following the lead of Pigeon. Halfway down, I catch myself from falling by grabbing a rock, and cut my hand on the razor sharp points. Again I reach into my pack and search for a bandage and canvas gloves. Again I find what I am looking for. I begin to think I possess a magic pack. It provides whatever need.

I continue to watch my bird closely. He has led me before and I followed without question. I do not doubt his ability, although I cannot fathom how he knows the answers.

He continues to lead me down into the deep, and I regain some of my courage as we descend. After several hours, we reach the bottom. Then the going is rough because the jewel stalagmites cover much of the floor. Again the sharp points cut my exposed skin. I keep moving further and further into the depths of the caverns, until Pigeon leads me into a small clearing. With relief I lean my pack against a stalagmite and i sit down, leaning against my pack.

With rest, I become calmer than I have felt since entering this mysterious land. I seem to lose my uncertainty and my weariness as I journey into the depths. My eyes focus: I am infused with a curiosity I have never felt, a thirst for the nectar of creativity, the stirring of an overfull cauldron of knowledge. The struggle I endured in this land has come to fruition.

I pull the tiny wings from le Enchanteur’s bag, let Pigeon perch on my finger, and fly gracefully to the entrance. The door is ajar. I hurry through the corridor and pull away the overgrowth that hides the cave’s opening opening.

Damascus sees me and hee-haws with joy Pigeon and I race to his side. Again I rub my face into his shaggy mane, but this time I am crying with laughter, not fear and sorrow. We rejoice together as I tell Damascus of my discoveries.

“Where do we go now, Damascus?” I look around, anticipating good times to come.

“Just up the road, Dear. Not far away. Only minutes, really.” Damascus sniffs.

“Minutes,” I say. “Where are we going in only minutes?”

“Why, Dear, you have completed this leg of your journey. I now deliver you to the portal which leads to Riversleigh Mansion. Only steps away from tits back door, actually.” Damascus sniffs again.

“And, Damascus, what about you? When will I see you again?” I hold back my tears, rather unsuccessfully.

“Why, Dear,” replies Damascus carefully. “You will see me in your dreams, in your thirst for knowledge, in your quest to create what you see in your heart. You will see me often.”

“But, Damascus…”

“Look. Here we are. Now off you go, you and Pigeon. Through the passage, and then you’ll be safe without me. No good-byes, now. We’ll see each other again.”

I peek through the portal, and I can see the back of the Mansion. At the last moment, I turn towards Damascus. I must say good-bye.

I scan the surroundings, but I cannot see him.

He is gone.

Sloughing — Day 9

Sloughing — Day 9 March 17, 2007
Posted by Barbara in Lemurian Grand Tour, Barbara’s Journey. add a comment , edit post

Damascus stops under the willow trees near the cave entrance. He shakes himself so violently that the bag of tools slides from his back. My pack is also dumped onto the hard, crackled ground. The heat is becoming unbearable as I shoulder the tools, reach instinctively to touch le Enchanteur’s bag hanging around my neck and take deep breathes. My palms are sweaty and I feel the beginnings of a migraine banging around inside my head. Stress always gives me a headache.

Damascus noses me away from him and towards the entrance. “Go. I will wait for your return. Remember the secret door to Riversleigh behind the Mine Keeper’s chair. You may choose the other way and escape from this mysterious mountain in Lemuria. It is not a choice I would make, but it is always available.” His voice wanders off into nothingness as he gazes towards the mountain peak. Eventually his attention returns to me.

“You may take Pigeon. If for some reason you cannot continue, send Pigeon with a message to let me know. There are always other travelers coming who require a companion.” He turns his back to me and takes a couple of steps. Then he turns his head slightly. “Please return, Dear. I know you can complete the journey. Have faith and take one step, then another. I will be awaiting your return.”

I rush to Damascus’ side and throw my arms around his neck. Burying my face into his shaggy mane, I cry until I have no more tears. My head is exploding with pain. I do not want to leave Damascus and the comforts of the Valley.

“Dear, it is time. You must go in the mine now. Your assistant, Maggie, is awaiting your appearance.”

I know I have delayed too long. I again shoulder the pack of tools and stumble my way to the cave, my eyes still blurred by tears. Pigeon flies ahead, then waits for my approach. As I pull the overgrowth from the entrance, he alights on my shoulder and pecks my cheek. I swallow hard and step into the darkness. It is cool, a relief from the heat, but the smell is dank.

“Hello, Dear. Hello, Pigeon” The slightly lilting voice of a figure in the shadows greets me. “I have been waiting for you. Follow me, but first don’t forget your candle.”

I go to the table by the Keeper’s chair and find candles, just as I did on my first visit. One of the candles catches my attention. It is glowing slightly, it’s wick flickering ever so faintly. I take that candle and remove the candlestick holder from my bag. Once the candle is in the holder, it begins to burn brightly and casts a warm glow about the cave. I look to Maggie and she briefly smiles, a thin wavering smile. “Well done. Now follow me, please.”

She quickly sweeps down the long hall. I follow her, pain banging harder against my skull with each step. Midway down the hall, I can no longer walk unaided. I close my eyes in pain and drop my pack of tools, but when I lean against the damp roughness of the cave I feel a slight pulsing. Under the pressure of my hand, the power increases with each surge.

I open my eyes, wincing. The pulsing of the wall matches the pulsing of the pain in my head. I continue to touch the wall and feel its pulse grow stronger as the pulsing in my head disappears. The wall heaves violently and a dull redness creeps into its crevasses. A darkness hovers against the wall. It is the shadow I have owned since my earliest years. With all my concentration, I slough the shadow in its entirety from my soul. The darkness leaves me and it is sucked into the glowing rock. There is a sudden lightness in my body. Shaking with new energy, I run deeper into the cave to search for Maggie. She has continued down the corridor, unaware that I was lagging behind.

As I catch up to her, she suddenly stops. I trip over her feet and am thrown against a heavy wooden door. In the light from my candle, I see red ochre sketches on the wall — symbols — some of which I recognize. A bull, a ring, a serpent. A fish, a spear and many others figures that resonate with me, even though I cannot place their meaning. I feel a sudden fullness that I cannot explain.

Maggie pulls a piece of red chalk, darkened with age, from one of her many pockets. “Here. This is for your use.” Then she simply waits. Save for a slight dripping of water, the cave is silent. I know I must make my mark upon the wall of many marks, yet what should I draw? I do not know what is expected of me.

Slowly the hint of an idea creeps into my mind. I do not have to draw what I think is expected. I need simply draw that which is a part of me. Only I can know that my symbol is right. Hesitating no longer, I find an open area and render a simple drawing of a flame.

Before I can return the chalk to Maggie, she has disappeared. As I hesitate with uncertainly, a draft of heat draws my attention towards the door. Carved upon its surface is a hand print. I place my hand upon the print; they fit together perfectly. A slight tremble shakes the entire cave and the door swings open slowly. Pigeon, the daring bird he is, darts through the opening. I peek into the interior and I am awe-stricken. Before me is a intricately carved cavern that I can barely believe exists. Do I enter or do I return to the portal to Riversleigh?

Packet of Dream Seeds

Packet of Dream Seeds April 2, 2007
Posted by Barbara in Helpers of the Land, Lemurian Grand Tour, Barbara’s Journey, Dream Seeds. add a comment , edit post

I was having such a good time at Riversleigh, I forgot the next task I had to perform before following the next spur of the Lemurian Tour. I was feeling wanderlust, so I headed to the gardener’s greenhouse. My directions were to plant a dream seed. I heedlessly selected the nearest pack in the dirty wooden box. Feelingsecia. What type of seeds are these? I’ve never heard of such a seed. The words on the packet are written in a fancy, faint calligraphy so I take the seeds outside to see a little better. The name of the flowers are Feelingsecia. I squint as I read the directions outloud.

“Plant one seed at a time. Feed with the sap from the tree of perseverence. Let the plant sit in the warm eastern sun, where it will be gently and happily bathed in sunlight. Do not set its pot in the harsh western sun for leaves of carelessness will grow. Water it with the elixer of success found only in Lemurian rainwater. Stay close to the plant as you sing or dance or knit or paint or weave or do any other type of artistic creation. Whisper kind and loving words to the plant three times a day.” My goodness! This plant requires continual care.

I turn over the packet, and there is another bit, written in tiny letters. “Eat the fruits of this plant and the following will occur. 1)
When you are working on a project you will have the gift of perseverance. 2) You will take care of yourself with gentleness and happiness. 3) One of the gifts from the plant is creativity. You will receive buckets of creativity whenever your well is running dry. 4) People will think kind thoughts about you and you will be forever loved.” I realize I am the owner of exceptionally precious seeds; I must work with great diligence to enjoy the fruits of the plant.

The faeries who have watched me pick this package come running towards me. They are dancing with excitement as they squeal in wee voices, speaking all at the same time. They tell me that the seeds are very olde and were once owned by a very famous, other-worldly Queen. The faeries tell me the Queen could never grow the plants for she had too many other things on her mind, and she quite neglected them. I am not surprised to hear of the Queen’s failure. As for being olde, the seed packet looks to be of a very Victorian sort, with dancing sprites hovering about an oddly shaped, exotic plant.

The faeries lead me to the perfect soil, deep black earth, in which I must plant the seed. I fill my pot with soil and carry it to the greenhouse. Once the seed is gently covered, I water it from a bucket of rainwater. from which the gardener had Luckily the gardener had left bucket out which collected rain from the last gully-washer. Then I stare at the pot, reluctant to leave.

“Come on, dearie,” said the lead fearie, all dressed in sparkly gold leaf, and with a tiny gold crown upon her head. “You can’t watch that seed 24/7. You’ll make it nervous and it won’t show itself. Now go into the kitchen. There’s a hot cuppa and biscuits awaiting you. Now, whoosh!”

And that’s how I found myself, sitting in the kitchen in a comfy chair, nibbling on chocolate cookies and sipping Earl Grey tea. Had I daydreamed the seed story? I was anxious to go to the greenhouse and look. But just then, I saw the golden Faerie shaking her head through the window and pointing her finger at me. Guess I’d better give the plant time to acclimate. I’ll stay right here and warm myself by the hearth. But still I wonder…

Bo

Hazel and Harry Firth, and the Day Before — Day 8

Posted by bfahrenbac in Leaning Birch, Lemurian Grand Tour, Barbara’s Journey, Home Hosts. add a comment , edit post

Hazel and Harry Firth could not be friendlier folk. When I return from my meeting with the Mine Keeper, they show me their home and outbuildings. The setting in the Lemurian Valley is a perfect site. To the west, there are the ancient rock formations — the hoo-doos — spiraling into the sky. To the east, the rolling hamlet of Leaning Birches is spread out below the homestead. Looking closely, I follow the Owl Creek which flows through the center of town, and winds towards Mount Olympus. Hazel points out seven or eight houses snuggled into the hollow and others dotting the country nearby. The town has a church, a general store, a livery, the raven postal service. Hazel watches me as she adds slyly, “and we have a coffee shop, complete with internet service.”

How is that possible, I ponder. Did I misunderstand? “Internet? Are you sure, Hazel? Our internet? Everything seems so –well — quaint. Not that it’s bad. I don’t mean that. I just didn’t expect….

“Expect that we keep up with the world? You’re mistaken, my Dear. It is possible for us to know what the world is like in your land.” Hazel tsked at me a bit. “It is simply that we choose not to follow your way. We prefer our life as it is. But if you wish to go to town and send a message to your companions, why there’s a computer all set up for travelers. I’ll take you there myself.”

I have to think this through. “Maybe in awhile, Hazel. First, I’d like to see the rest of your property. Everything is so lovely.”

Harry overhears me, and together, the Firths take me on a tour. We explore the garden, all a color with reds and pinks and whites. (”My favorite colors,” says Hazel.) The greenery is so deep and shiny, so multi-colored, it is a spectacle in its own right. Harry lets me peek into the garden shed which is as immaculate as a kitchen is at home. The brick floor is recently scrubbed, and the shelves are painted and embellished with tiny paintings of flowers. Each flower corresponds to the seeds above them. Against the other wall are bins of potato sets, soon to be planted in the furrowed fields. A storage shed is behind the garden; the potatoes from the recent harvest are stored there, ready to be distributed to the Lemurian colony. Behind the house is an enclosed pen housing chickens and goats. Two baby goats cajol and dance with each other, occasionally butting their tiny horns. I find myself amused with their antics, and I wish I could be as carefree as they seem. The chickens, Hazel proudly informs me, lay enough eggs to supply all of Leaning Birches’ families.

We return to the barn, which is a simple structure, yet light and airy. Harry has his own mule, a stubborn cuss named Simon, Harry says. “You can’t imagine your good fortune having a donkey like Damascus. The most impressive beast I’ve seen in many a year.” Of course, even though Damascus is gobbling down another stash of hay, he overhears everything.

“Why, pleased to have you be so kind,” says my donkey, demurely. Can I believe this? Not only is Damascus turning coy, why, he’s blushing. (I’ve been with him long enough now, I can read his every expression.)

I resist bursting into hysterical laughter by stepping into the house with Hazel. I hadn’t had time to look about the home when I dropped my pack off earlier this afternoon, but now I stand in the central room — all living room and dining room and kitchen in the one room. A pot belly stove sits on one side of the room and a wood burning cook stove is on the opposite wall. Comfy furniture and crocheted afghans and doilies make the room cozy and well-cared for. The dining room table is set with three places, and the smell of home cooking fills the room. Flowers in tin cans are set about the room and a canary sings on its perch. Everywhere I look there is yet another tiny treasure to enjoy.

“Now, you go on and wash up, Dear. Here’s your room, off the kitchen. A nice view of the flower gardens and warmth from the stove. Daresay, you’ll want for nothing.” Hazel shows me into a spacious room with windows for walls on three sides of the room, and flowers and vines climbing up the window trellises. The bed is dressed in pure white, layer upon layer of linen and pillows. A small bureau with a porcelain wash bowl atop it and a lovely cushioned rocking chair fill out the room. There is a basket on a shelf that contains everything I might need — soap, brushes, lotions, shampoos, and other goodies. There are rolled up towels and a plush white chenille robe in just my size. I sit upon the bed to think a moment.

Hazel calls to me through the door. “Why don’t you rest a bit before dinner, Dear? You have about thirty minutes.”

Grateful for a little time alone to calm my racing thoughts, I muster a thanks. There is so much to think about. How will I prepare for the mining of the cave? When will Harry tell me his secrets of mining? Will I succeed in my quest? I think of writing an e-mail to Riversleigh — now how weird is that? I decide to fore go modern technology and be satisfied with my journal.

Hazel calls me to dinner while I am yet mired in far flung thoughts. Breathing deeply, I gather myself together and come to the table.

“Look at this,” says Harry. “Why Hazel had gosh darn gone all out for ya, Dear! And I get to eat all the special treats, too.” Harry spoons piles of food onto his plate, while I decipher what is in these heaped-to-the-top serving bowls. Mashed potatoes in one, with gobs of melting butter sliding down the mounds. Scalloped potatoes and ham in a second dish. Potato and vegetable soup in a tureen. And potato dumplings in honey for desert.

“Why it all looks so good, Hazel. Let me try everything,” I say, a little amazed at quantity of the food. I only need look at the table a second to know I am amongst potato farmers. But I eat all the food, and fully enjoy it, especially those honeyed dumplings. Yum. I wonder what will be served for breakfast, but this is hours away and I don’t waste any thought on that.

After dinner, Harry speaks up. “Dear, Damascus has finally had his rest and grub. He’d like to talk to you for awhile.”
I shake my head in shame. In all this time, I have not given a thought to Damascus and his needs. I am ashamed as I go out to the barn, but my feelings are dispelled. Damascus is in a fine mood and Pigeon has made himself a tiny nest and he is sound asleep. Both my companions seem content.

“Well, Dear, did you have a nice rest and dinner? I am truly satiated and my nap has revived me.” He hee-haws a few times to show me he is in good spirits. “I’d pass on that trip into Leaning Birches for the time being. Harry will talk to you tonight, and we’ll start out at dawn tomorrow for the Alluvial Mine.”

“Oh, Damascus. I don’t think I’m quite ready for mining yet. Maybe in a few days…”

“Sure you are, Dear. Just keep a stiff upper lip and listen carefully to Harry. You’ll do fine tomorrow.”

As Damascus returns to nosing about in the hay, Harry calls me. “Dear, meet me in the garden in a few minutes. Do you hear?”

“Sure, Harry. I’ll go now.” I turn to Damascus one more time. “Wish me luck.”

“Luck?” he guffaws. “Why, you need courage and discipline and persistence. Well, and maybe a little luck. Now, begone with you.”

So Harry and I walk and talk in the garden until it is black outside and I can see only the glowing windows in the house. I try to remember all the things Harry is saying, but I feel a little overwhelmed. When he finishes, he tells me to get my rest. That is the last thing he says to me. Hazel wakes me in the morn.

In the fragile light of dawn, I eat riced potato porridge and then half-stumble to the barn. Damascus is ready for me to load him and in mere minutes we are on our way. Pigeon flies ahead as our lookout. It is finally time for me to explore the mine.

Damascus turns his head and eyes me. Then he turns away, keeping his head forward, watching the road. “Courage, my Dear. Courage,” he says to me.

Courage, I think. “Yes, indeed, Damascus. Thank you very much.”

le Enchanteur’s Bag — Day 6

Damascus lay by the fireplace for hours, sleeping fitfully at first, then more peacefully. He wakes with a start and he seems more like his normal self. But he looks around at the inside of the cottage, heaves a great sigh, and shakes his head in disgust.

“Just why are you molly-coddling me,” he asks, staring particularly at me. “Because of a slight injury, we have lost nearly an entire day of travel, and you are even more behind the others. Can you not think if I am not nudging you in the right direction? Think, Barbara, think.”

I startle when he calls me by my proper name. He never calls me anything but Dear, and I have grown attached to the sound of it. “Damascus, what have I done wrong? You are hurt. Surely we cannot travel with your leg injured. Tell me where I am at fault.”

I look around for Rosa or Tom Tubby to support me, but they both have conveniently disappeared into the garden and are hoeing and weeding vigorously. Pigeon perches on the wood box, preening himself and turned away from me. Certainly he is listening, but he is not very helpful. Why should Pigeon be out of sorts?

“Perhaps if we talk to each other like decent human beings, we can solve this problem,” I say. Donkey hee-haws at this and now I know he is laughing at me. Pigeon jumps up and down. “Now what have I done to amuse you?” I am a little testy.

“Humans?” guffaws Damascus as Pigeon flies to settle on the donkey’s back. “You called us humans. I think you do us a disservice and perhaps you should watch what you say in the future. Pigeon and I forgive you this once, but now you must use your brain. I can no longer solve all of your problems. It is not my journey. Remember? You’re the one with grand ideas of adventure. I’m only along for the long haul. Tell us, what should we do?”

I am at a loss. Damascus seemed in charge of the trip so far. I had grown to trust his wisdom. But he’s right, as usual. It IS my journey. I sit down in the rocking chair, and move back and forth, racking my brain for the solution, according to Damascus, I should know.

I am no further in solving our problem when Pigeon flies to me, and lands on my shoulder. He digs into my neck with his beak which happens to be sharp.

“Pigeon, what are you doing? You’ve drawn blood.” I try to push him away, but he has the cord to le Enchanteur’s bag between his beak. He pulls it a few times, and then lets the cord drop. He returns to Damascus. I think I see a conspiratorial look pass between Damascus and Pigeon. Or do I imagine this?

I reach for the cord of my bag. Pigeon gave me a hint, God bless his soul.

My hosts are now working in the barn, so I take out my silken bag, and spread the contents on my lap. “Hmm. Think hard, Barbara,” I whisper. Of course Damascus can hear me, no matter how quietly I speak. (Sometimes I think he can read my mind.) He pulls himself to stand, and takes a painful step to me and noses about in my treasures. I lift each object, but the answer eludes me.

I lift each item. “The candlestick? I can’t possibly think what I can do with this. Doesn’t even have a candle. Then my tiny scissors? There is nothing that needs cutting. I hook the spectacles over my ears, but I see nothing unusual. The wings? The dream seeds? Why can’t I figure this out?”

I pick up the last object. It is the well-worn medallion with the imprint of the Unicorn barely visible. Obviously it is very old and well-used. Again, I am clueless. I stare at the features of the mystical creature. An idea blossoms and I wonder outloud.

“Damascus, let me hang this medallion around your neck. Maybe the Unicorn will work his magic.” The donkey leans his head forward so I can reach him. I touch the medallion to his neck, and a blinding light surrounds him. Damascus does a sort of jig, of all things, and shakes off the brightness.

I stare in amazement.

At just that moment Rosa and Tom Tubby come in, hauling a pail of fresh vegetables. “Thought I’d make the invalid a nice pot of vegetable soup,” says Rosa. But then they both look at Damascus. Tom Tubby’s eyes google and Rosa opens her mouth in wonder.

Damascus’ injury is healed. Now my donkey starts braying — braying loudly – and continues to dance around the cottage, knocking over the pail of vegetables. Distracted by the food, he noses about and eats a red pulpy bulb similar to Riversleigh’s radishes and a parsnip-shaped tuber or two. He looks me in the eye and I see a twinkle of mischief.

“I’m full. Let’s go,” he demands. “Rosa, would you be bothered to pack a cold meal or two for Dear? We have far to go and if we don’t have to search for food we will make better time.”

Rosa moved closer to Damascus and ran her fingers through his mane: she gingerly touched his injured leg.. “Oh, my, Damascus. There’s not even a scratch. If this isn’t something. I’ll have your food packed in the time it takes you all to be ready.”

I run upstairs for my gear and stuff everything back into my pack.

“Put your pack on my back, Dear. Just because there’s a bit of magic around, I’m still your old Damascus. And I’m stronger than I’ve ever been.” He nearly skips, if a donkey can skip, as he goes outside. “Just a bit of hay and I’m ready, so pack me up.” I fasten our gear onto his back and Rosa tucks a package into my pack. Damascus, Pigeon and I are ready to go.

“Wave your good-byes and move on out,” says Damascus. “We’re on the road again. Next stop, a visit to the hoo-doos and a good friend of mine.”

“Hoo-doos?” I say, unsure if I hear correctly. “Just what is a hoo-doo?”

“Why, you’ve become most curious, Dear. But I’ll not ruin the surprise. Towards mid-afternoon, you’ll find out for yourself.” Damascus hee-haws and hee-haws until he’s nearly choking. This time I’m not fooled. He is laughing at me. I’m 100% certain.

Pigeon and I laugh along with him, and when all quiet down, we begin our journey in earnest. Or more truthfully, perhaps, I begin my journey again and my friends honor me with their company.

.

Safety and Danger — Day 5

 

Damascus plods along the Owl Creek Road with Pigeon on his back. I walk along side of him, sometimes skipping a bit, sometimes singing a few lines of a ditty. Although Damascus warns me my gallivanting will use energy I will be wanting later, I cannot not help but show my excitement traveling on Owl Creek Road. On my way to where, I cannot imagine, but I know there is a mine ahead and I’m sure it will provide adventure. Well, I’ve never been one to shirk from a little sport, and I am in the most pleasant of companies, so I am happy. But after we walk hour after hour, with no end in sight, I begin to question my donkey’s wisdom..

 

 

 

“Damascus, where is this creek? After all, this road is Owl Creek Road. Surely there’s a creek. My canteen is empty and I’m getting quite thirsty. Hungry, too.” After an afternoon of walking, I am uncomfortable and a little whiny. The road covers me with a heavy layer of dust, and I also swallow my share. My mouth is so dry, I can hardly force my words out.“Be patient, Dear. I was warned you travelers are an impatient bunch, and that’s truly true. The creek is several miles yet. A sharp curve towards the mountains and then we will travel along the cooling water. Then you can drink until your body and spirit are quenched and I shall greedily join you. Do you not think beasts of burden thirst and become uncomfortable, yet I try not to complain? And have you noticed that Pigeon has been gone quite awhile? It would be wise for you to pay attention to your surroundings instead of dancing about. As for Pigeon, I daresay he has already partaken of his share of liquid refreshment.”

I become quiet. Damascus is right, of course. He is right most of the time, I discover. It is good that I try to pay more attention to his words. Words from Donkeys are surely of a magical nature.

“I am sorry, Damascus. I suppose my human-ness is showing.”

“Why, Dear, do not fret. Do you not yet know a Donkey’s patience is seldom tested? Now look up ahead and celebrate a bit if you must. Here is the curve in the road. See the stream; it is ahead.”

I must admit I half-run to the flowing waters. It races clear and cool, passing over small rocks and sandy flats. I pull off my shoes without further thought and wade into the sand. Scooping water with my hands, I assuage my thirst and splash my face and arms. Damascus joins me, stepping into a rocky portion of the creek, slurping water and spraying it upon my clothing.

“Stop. Stop. You are acting like a wild animal.” I laugh at his antics. I think he is laughing, too, but remember it is hard to read a donkey’s facial expressions. He is braying though, and that seems to indicate he is pleased. I spot Pigeon bathing in a shallow pool.

“Pigeon, where have you been? I have hardly seen you this entire day. You must stay with us for it is now dusk and our dinner can’t be far away.” I try not to let my worry show.

“Do you not know my job in this foreign land?” he cooed. “I am the look-out, watching the road for the least sign of danger. Do you think I am flying about on a lark?” Pigeon sounds indignant, as he may very well be. He is right. I do not notice what I should.

For the second time in as many hours, I find myself apologizing to one of my companions. I hang my head down; I want to cover my face and cry. “Sorry,” I say. Of course you are doing me a great service.”

“You better believe it, Dear. Now look ahead. Lights twinkling from a window. We have come to our place of rest. You rely on Damascus and me, we will care for you as if you were a helpless babe, crying in your cradle.”

Now chagrined at my lecture from Pigeon, I refuse to speak until we arrive at the house. Before I open the rose covered gate, the door to the cottage opens and an enormous man stands in its interior’s illumination. He steps forward, and I see an sparkling grin on his whiskered face. His frame fills the entire entrance.

“Welcome. Welcome. Damascus said we would have company tonight.” He waves a hand and belly-laughs.

I slip Damascus a surprised look. This donkey is worth more than I first figured. Here I thought I would be caring for him, and it is I who am being cared for. Just then Pigeon lands on my shoulder. I stroke his feathers and he ruffles himself. I am lucky to be in the company of my two friends.

I turn my attention to my host. “Why, thank you. I do admit we are tired and hungry. Damascus said we should stop at your home. I hope we are not causing trouble.”

“Trouble? Heavens no. We have dinner and a soft bed prepared for you and accommodations for Damascus and your bird friend. Rosa has a tub of steaming water for you to bathe in and dinner is nearly ready. I shall feed and bed down Damascus and I believe I have seed here for your bird. Go on in.”

“But I don’t even know who you are,” I say, hesitating at his invitation.

Damascus rolls his eyes and hummfs at me. Under his breathe he mumbles. “I never got a proper introduction from Dear until Pigeon stepped in, and now she questions my good friend! What manners do these travelers have?”

I hear Damascus and blush with embarassment. “I am Barbara, although my new friends call me Dear. I am pleased to stop at your home.”

“And I’m Tom Tubby. Pleased to meet you, Dear. Now up and in over the threshold. Rosa is most eager to have some woman-talk.”

Damascus whispers to Tom Tubby and Pigeon hovers over the two of them. I slow my walk so I can hear too. “Any trouble lately? You both doing okay?”

“No. It’s been quiet and I hope it stays that way while we have a guest. Our dogs are out and about. Jess and Jobie will set up a ruckus if they come anywhere near.” Pigeon looks over at me, hesitating on the stoop. “Big ears,” he says, so they break up their meeting and get to the evening chores.

I wash up and change into fresh clothes while Rosa takes my dusty shirt and pants and soaks them in a pan in the sink. I bring my sketchpad and pencils into the kitchen. “Can I help you do anything or would you mind if I sketch a bit and write a few words? I want to remember everything.” As if I would forget, I think to myself.

“Go right ahead, Dear. I gather we’ll hear your stories over supper, and a treat that will be. All these days passing, with only a man to talk to. Gets a frightful bit lonesome, though don’t take that as complaining. I love my Tom Tubby.”

She scrubs my clothing with lye in a pan of water. “I usually use the creek for washing, but it’s not always safest outside. The dark brings out all manner of creatures. You never mind though. Our home is cozy and safe. Now go ahead and do a bit of writing. Your clothes will be fresh in the morning.”

Quite awhile later, Tom Tubby squeezes himself through the door. “Let’s dish that stew up and pile that cornbread on the platter. Why, Rosa, it all smells so grand.” He rubbed his belly and turned to me with a big grin.

“My Rosa is the best cook along side the whole of Owl Creek,” he boasted. “And Rosa, Damascus says our traveler has had herself an exciting time since entering Lemuria. We’re sure to hear a good tale tonight.”

The couple and I exchange pleasantries over the hearty food, and then the real conversation begins. I tell them of the day’s happenings. They cluck and tsk over my story of the anchor and I feel embarrassed for a second. Then they say how fortunate I was to have the tiny anchor, and they think that everyone from the Old Place would be well to have one while in Lemuria. They do not know of le Enchanteur’s parting gifts.

After the hearty supper, Rosa scoots me off to bed. I lie awake in the comfort of the feather bed, piles of quilts covering me, and think over the day’s events. I am drifting into my dreams when I am yanked fully awake by a spooky howl. The howling is not in the distance; it is too nearby to feel comfortable. The dogs begin barking, and I hear shouts downstairs and a door slam.

“Rosa,” I call as I clatter down the steps. “What is happening?”

She is looking out the only window in the cottage which faces the barn, dressed in her nightgown with a quilt thrown over her shoulders. “Why not go up and climb back into bed, Dear? Tom Tubby can handle everything.” She turns away from me and peers closely out the glass. Again I hear the piercing howls. Again it is nearby. I find myself unable to leave Rosa; I look out the window, too.

“Ah-ooo! Ah-ooo!” I see dark shadows nearing the fence which surrounds the yard. It is only a picket fence and provides decoration, not safety. “Hee-haw! Hee-haw!” Now Damascus is braying from inside the barn. I see Pigeon no where in sight, but surely he is safe from whatever travels on the ground. His wings carry him far from danger.

“Not to worry, Dear. Tom Tubby has a gun. He protects us when the wolves attack.” My heart does a double beat as I hear a gun fire. Then several more shots ring through the air. Tom Tubby is yelling, but I can’t make out the words. Minutes seem like hours, but finally the door latch turns and Tom Tubby lumbers through the door.

“They’re gone, Rosa and Dear. Gone for now. I’m afraid they were after Damascus, but we fought them together. Your donkey is safe enough.”

“You both fought them? How is that possible?”

“Why, Damascus does a sort of kick-boxing. Didn’t you know? All the companions of travelers are trained in the arts of protection. You couldn’t ask for a braver donkey. Afraid he’s got a bit of a wound on his leg, though.”

“Damascus is hurt?” I start for the door, but he holds me back.

“Now worry does one no good, so let’s not think the worst,” Tom Tubby gently reprimanded. “Rosa, I’d like to bring Damascus into the cottage to care for him. He’s a gentle animal and will cause you no trouble. He’ll be safer in here if the wolves attack again. He can’t protect himself as he is.”

I held my breath, waiting for her reply. Would Rosa let a donkey inside their home?

“Of course Damascus is welcome. Let me get the spare blankets so he can lie down comfortably. Dear, help me move the table and chairs against the wall so there’ll be room.”

Tom Tubby and I went out and half-carried Damascus into the warm room. Damascus could barely put weight on his foreleg. We gently placed him on the pallet. My heart sank when I saw his injuries, but perhaps when the wound was cleaned, it would look better. My friend, Damascus, was hurt and I no longer had my donkey to accompany me on my journey. I burst into tears. Not only was I heart-broken, I was also terribly afraid.

 

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The First of Many Lessons — Day 4

 

 

The moment my feet touched the ground, I heard the most terrifying screech I could imagine. Although I looked about me, to the left and to the right and behind me, I could see no person or thing. But hear them I did. Horrid name calling that I had heard throughout my entire life was being replayed in my mind. Words that I thought I had erased from my memory, numbed from my consciousness, were being re-broadcast on my own personal tape recorder. Over and over, the caustic words echoed.

Panic gripped me as I listened to my past’s ghostly voices and then I felt my feet disappear into the mucky sand. Suddenly I remembered my companions and their pact. Were they really going to help me or were they going to ignore me in my predicament?

I turned about, searching for Damascus and Pigeon, as the sandy ground continued to suck fiercely, now engulfing my ankles. Damascus stood placidly at my side, yawning and swinging his tail. He was nonplussed by my situation; in fact, he was totally unaware of it. If anything, the donkey looked quite relaxed, almost asleep standing upright.

“Damascus, aren’t you going to help? You did say you’d help me, you and Pigeon.”

“Hmm. What’s up, Dear? You look a little troubled.”

“Troubled? Troubled? Of course I’m troubled. Those voices. Can’t you hear those devilish voices tormenting me? Screaming insults at me. And aren’t you worried about the quicksand? I’m sinking deeper and deeper. Can’t you see?”

Damascus took his time, but eventually he swiveled his eyes downward and examined the sand which was gripping me more tightly. He looked a bit irritated. Then he blew a warm swoosh of air into my face.

“Of course I can hear and see. What kind of donkey do you think I am?” I think he gave me a nasty look, but I couldn’t be sure. Damascus shook his head, pawed the ground. I noticed he was standing on solid ground. “I’ve heard of these sorts of problems, but I’ve never come face to face with such things. Voices, you say? Nasty ones?”

“Yes, nasty. Very nasty. Calling me all sorts of names. Stupid. Liar. Traitor. Crazy. Bad. Scaredy-brat. Even worse names and screaming in voices I recognize. Mother. Father. Friend. Teacher. Are you listening to me, Damascus?”

“Perhaps you need to clean house before those voices will disappear. It’s been said that one can’t carry old baggage in Lemuria, because there’s too much new baggage to carry. See those mining tools next to the brush. There’s our new baggage.” Damascus turned his head away, reached for a bit of grass and chewed it.

“But I don’t understand. Damascus, you aren’t making sense.”

“Dear, give up those voices. Throw off those names. Too much baggage, understand?”

I closed my eyes and underneath my voice I began to chant. I am good. I am smart. I am brave. I chanted over and over until I started to believe what I was saying. “I understand now, Damascus, about the voices. I can make them be still and disappear. I am in charge of what I hear, of who I am. Is that what you were trying to teach me?”

“Yes, Dear. A good lesson learned.”

“But the quicksand? I still can’t move.”

Damascus shook his head and snorted. He looked me straight in the eye. “Are you sure that old baggage is gone? Its weight can take fast hold of you, make you unable to go forward. You won’t be able to make progress until you forgive the past, focus on the present and plan for the future.”

“Those are pretty philosophical words from a donkey’s mouth,” I couldn’t help saying that, but he didn’t seem to hear me. Or did he?

“Yes, indeed. I’m a pretty philosophical fellow. If only you keep listening, we’ll get along fine. By the way, how are your feet?”

I lifted my right foot, then my left. “They’re free. Oh, Damascus, you know the answers. You’re wonderful.”

“Aw, Dear. Not wonderful. But perhaps old donkeys become wise, forever traveling strangers through this mysterious land. Now to be certain you’ve shrugged off those voices for good, open your bag from le Enchanteur and take out the little anchor.”

“And just why do I need an anchor in the middle of this country. I see no water anywhere.”

“And you’ll need no water for this anchor to do its job,” sighed Damascus just a bit. “Throw this net, yes it’s invisible but it will do, over the remains of the voice-makers. Now fasten it to the earth with the anchor.”

I lifted the anchor, but I could only move it a fraction. Damascus helped nudge it with his nose and together we pushed the anchor into place.

“You needed a mighty heavy anchor to hold down those memories, Dear,” said Damascus, ” but this part of your journey is done. Now if you would please load that pack of tools on my back, we have many stops yet to make. Let’s be off.” Damascus smiled, though I didn’t notice. It’s hard to tell when a donkey smiles.

“Wait. Let me signal for Pigeon.” I whistled through my fingers and there was Pigeon, perched on Damascus’ back.

Damascus brayed and Pigeon hopped from foot to foot. “Now we shall follow Owl Road while it is still light enough to see. I’m starving and I know just the place to find a home-cooked meal. Let’s take the welcomes while we can, for soon enough we’ll be eating many a meal from a cold tin, and looking over our shoulders at every sound.”

« An Introduction to Damascus, the Donkey Day 3 Safety and Danger — Day 5 »

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Author : bfahrenbac–>
• Date : 6 March 2007
• Categories : Barbara’s Journey, Grand Tourists