I found this piece going over some old writing, and it kind of fits how I feel right now. Kind of, well, inspiring. Ugh. It’s ‘that time’ which, no longer being monthly, is all the more discombobulating. 

It is time. I must go within, into the darkness, the depths of my own being, to reclaim that which is lost. With me I bring the blade of truth, my perceptions and all my light and understanding.

I lower myself on ropes and ladders. Spiderwebs are thick in the corners. I continue down, down. A rope ladder dangles into the darkness; it is a long way. Down, and down, and down, and down.

The journey seems endless, but I persevere. I must find myself, bring myself back to me. I must bring me down to the places where I am unoccupied, where I have become stolen territory. I go down to the places where nothing exists–yet I am–or ought to be.

It is warming up. The heat intensifies. I drop my cloak. It flutters into darkness. This frees my movements considerably. Now I can move more quickly. As the temperature rises, a dim light begins to show. The light glows orange, baleful as Hallowe’en. Almost unlight, it reveals little. In the dim, I can discern something in the distance. It looks vaguely pumpkin-like, a dark round orange un-glow.

Mother, Father, Us Who Is, all the faeries and devas which surround, guide and protect me. I call upon you to fill me with loving light and healing power. I call on the truth to guide me on my way, to show me what is real. I am here to save myself. There is no higher quest than this, not for me, not now.

I am breathing deeply, filling my belly with myself, to accompany me on my journey down. As the heat increases, so does the pressure. It becomes more and more difficult to stay present. I fear I might implode. But I persevere.

I seem to sense a presence below me but it is vague, unrealistic. Can it be a figment, a projection of preconceived notions? I release all ideas and images and simply watch what is there. I allow the unfolding of the story to show itself to me, to bring the truth forward.

I have reached the end of the rope ladder. It is still a long way down. I begin to swing. I swing the rope ladder back and forth, far and farther until it whips swiftly back and forth. At the peak of its arc, I leap, hands extended to grab for – what? I don’t know, but I leap anyway.

I land against a hard barrier. I catch myself on what appear to be roots, coils and tendrils on a side wall. Downward I continue, ever down. My purpose burns in me. My sword thumps against my leg in its scabbard. I am strong. I have faith in my own power and ability.

At last I reach bottom, a ground upon which to stand. Now the light has brightened enough so that I can make out the shape of the space I am in. It looms, cathedral like, bare, barren. I call, “Hellooo!”

I seek a piece of myself, she who was lost long ago. I seek the child who was hurt. I seek to remember. I am ready to remember. To re-member, to bind the past to the present, to weave it into the tapestry of my wholeness.

“Helloo! Hello!” I call. I listen. Do I hear an answer? Or is it an echo? I call again, I listen more deeply.

Yes, it is an answer. A small voice, crying, “Help…” A lost voice in the darkness. I increase my speed, running in that direction.

“I am coming! Where are you?”

“I am here! I am here!” she cries—for it is she—I am certain of it. She sobs, frightened. I feel a presence. I slow my steps, suddenly aware of danger. My senses are tuned, tingling. I draw my sword.

“Show yourself!” I call.

“I can’t!” the small voice cries.

“Not you, child, it’s alright. I mean your captor.”

“No! You don’t want to see him! Don’t wake him! No!” She hisses, trying to shriek and whisper simultaneously in her terror.

I continue, feeling sure. My sword’s edge glints orange. The sense of presence grows stronger.

Then I see it. A great dragon coiled around a globe of orange light, within which floats the small figure of a prisoned girl.

The dragon is huge, the size of fifty elephants laid end to end. It sleeps, clasps the ball protectively with its claws curled round it. I cannot approach without wakening it. I breathe deeply.

“Dragon!” I cry. “Awaken! I am here to restore the order which is mine!”

The dragon stirs. The child shrieks in terror.

“No! Don’t disturb it,” she cries. “You don’t know—you have no idea!” But I cannot stop. I must continue my quest. My rage is strong and so is my terror, but it is a hot fear that propels me. I am more frightened of giving up now, of turning back with my quest unfulfilled than I am of anything the dragon might do.

I must succeed. No other option is possible. It is time. I feel it, I know it deeply. I ride the waves of my timing, a feeling of rightness that gives me confidence and, I hope, more power than the dragon right now.

I approach the globe more closely. The dragon still sleeps, which surprises me. I slice into the golden globe with my sword’s edge, making a long opening through which the child can step. I take care not to hurt her. She is small, no more than four or five. She runs to me and throws her arms around my left leg, sobbing.

“Don’t let it get me! Don’t let it take me back!” she wails.

“It’s all right, you’re free now,” I reassure her. “Come with me.”

I leave the dragon there, its great claw clutched around the emptied globe, which slowly dims to black. The child clambers upon my back and clings to me. I begin to climb the wall, but she cries, “Where are you going? We can’t leave!”

I stop and set her down. “My child, I have come to rescue you!” I tell her, astonished. “I have come to take you home!”

“No! I must stay here! This is my home. I want you to live with me here!” Her eyes plead earnestly. “I don’t want the dragon here anymore. I want it to go away. I want everything the way it’s supposed to be!”

I look around. Even though the globe has stopped glowing, the light in the space has brightened. I realize that the glow is emanating from the little girl herself, an orange shimmer that seems, now, more joyful than baleful to my eyes.

“This is my place,” she repeats, speaking slowly and emphatically, as if I am stupid. “This is where I belong. This place has to be healed, not just me. I am the place. Without this place, you’re dead, don’t you know that?”

What she says makes sense, though I am reluctant to accept it, for it makes my task much more difficult than I had at first thought. I wish I had brought help with me. It is not a simple matter of rescuing the child from the dragon. I must somehow make the dragon leave.

Or slay it. I shudder at the thought. I don’t want to kill anything. I am afraid to kill. I am a warrior who is afraid to kill. My rage rises with my gorge, clawing at my throat, calling me coward, fool. The little girl looks at me sternly, with glowing amber eyes. She sees straight into my heart, and she doesn’t like what she finds there.

“Don’t listen to it!” she insists. “That’s the dragon! It’s waking up now! It can talk to your insides and make you hate yourself so it doesn’t have to do anything! It’s a lazy dragon, you know!”

I turn, and there it is, gazing back at me with great golden eyes. I recognize the look in those eyes. It is the same look that the voice in my throat would have if I could see it. Revolted, I retch the voice out. I vomit and it lays in a puddle at my feet. Reeling, I clasp my sword and raise it in the dragon’s direction. The voice speaks to me from the puddle of vomit, but from there, it hasn’t the strength of conviction it had when it was in me.

“Look at yourself,” it sneers. “You are puny and helpless, a coward. How can you face me?” Contempt ripples on the surface of the puddle of puke, like an oil slick. I scuff it into the ground, scattering the oily globules and stomping them flat until the voice falls silent.

I turn to face the dragon. I stalk toward its silenced form with my sword raised. The vast bulk slowly uncoils and looms above me, dim and shadowy but for the huge, hot eyes which see all my dark secrets and hate every one of them. It cannot speak, but it can breathe its fiery breath on me. I have no protection from the breath of dragons.

Then the child steps forward and raises her hands. A glassy orange force field shimmers into the air between us and the dragon. It’s fiery exhalation licks at the shimmering barrier ineffectually. I can feel the heat of the flames, but they cannot touch me. She has protected me.

I am astonished. The victim has become savior. She waves me forward commandingly, says, “Cut off one of its claws. That’s all you have to do. It can’t stand pain or dismemberment. It will try to stop you but if you succeed, it will leave. It will have to.” Her voice sharpens as I hesitate. “Go! Now!”

She shoves me ahead of her. I stumble forward. Between myself and the dragon, I see an orange shimmer that lets me know that I am safe from its flames. I gather my resolve and begin to run. The dragon releases another belching gout of fire, but is thwarted by the force field.

It lifts its right forepaw to swipe at me. Its taloned foot is larger than I am. The great claws pass through the barrier as though it isn’t there. I am ready for it. The child screams, “Now!” I slice at the massive thumb-claw with all my force. My blade is sharp; the razor-taloned digit thumps to the ground before me. Great viscous drops of dark blood hiss and sizzle on the ground.

Screeching horribly, the dragon thrashes. Grasping its severed claw with its left forepaw, it launches ponderously into the air and flaps, batlike, into the distance. A great dark void yawns momentarily, through which it exits my world.

The dragon has gone.

“Never return!” I cry. My voice echoes and reverberates in the cavern as though a thousand voices were shouting. The child’s pure voice cries with mine, fierce and triumphant. At the end, there is only a vast tolling silence.

I turn to the child. “What now?” I ask her, humbly. “What comes next?”

I meet her steady gaze. “Now, we get to work.”

“What shall I do?”

She directs me to where the globe lay split and blackened upon a bed of bright orange grass. “You must help me fix it,” she explains. “I need it.”

I examine it closely. Along the edges of the cut my sword had made, a faint light is pulsing. I draw the sword and lay its blade flat against the rent, and the cut edges begin to seal. Carefully, I use the sword’s magic on the gleaming edges to stitch the sides of the cut. It looks messy, but at last the hole is mended.

The child frowns at the puckered, scarred edges. “That won’t do at all,” she says. She passes her own hands gently along the scarred seam. The puckered edges ripple and smooth. When she has finished, the globe is full, plump and unscarred.

Still, the sphere is dark. Its light is gone, but the child is unconcerned. She enters the closed globe as easily as a mermaid slips under the water’s surface, and the interior begins to glow with her own orange light. She laughs, a high tinkling joyful sound.

The globe wobbles, then slowly stabilizes to rise into the sky. “Come with me!” she cries, her hand reaching toward me outside the shimmering sphere. She tugs hard, pulling me in with her. I startled by her sinewy strength. I gasp reflexively and find that I can breathe quite well, though the air feels oddly thick and sweet, like syrup. I look out. We rise, like a great balloon filled with warm air.

Within the small sphere, there is plenty of room for the two of us. It is surprisingly comfortable. The space is gracious; the floor is soft and padded with plush velvet and silken pillows.

I drop my sword, which falls unimpeded through the bottom of the sphere, turning end over end to land, point first, with a soft thunk on the ground, now far below. The child laughs and swims in the thick air.

I am home.

Once upon a time, a princess was given a magic mirror as a christening present. The mirror was most wondrous, for it enabled her to see herself as others saw her.

No one knew that the one who gave the mirror was a wicked fairy. The fairy had used her own magic mirror to foresee the future and was forewarned that the princess would grow into beauty and magical power to rival her own. Her overweening pride and jealousy could not allow such a future, and so she gave to the little girl a trick magic mirror. The trick was that the young princess would grow up with no image of herself that was not born of how some other person saw her.

Since no two people ever saw her the same, and since the older she grew, the more divergent became others’ images of her, her self-image soon became fragmented and weak. On one day, she might look into the mirror and see a beautiful, poised, proud princess. On another day, she might see a frightened helpless child, a spoiled sulky brat or a sly manipulative seductress.

These conflicting images frightened and confused her, and she began to keep to her rooms as much as possible. Because the mirror encouraged her to believe that she herself changed to cause the differing images she saw, she began to think of herself as an uncontrolled shapeshifter. The magical influence of the mirror combined with her own innate magical abilities caused others to notice her changes as well; she became known for her ever-shifting countenance, so that by the time she was nearly grown she had no face that was truly her own.

One day, while pacing in her rooms, alternately gazing into the mirror and avoiding looking at it, she was startled by a small voice that seemed to have no source but the shadows in the darkest corner of the room.

“You must break the mirror,” the voice whispered.
(more…)

The other day I was browsing through old ‘unfinished’ files, seeking inspiration, and found one that contained a line that had come to me in a dream a couple of years ago. With time to fill and a laptop with a full battery charge, I wrote the following short story / vignette from that line.

I deliberately kept the protagonist’s cause for grief vague. The important thing was the grief, not the story behind it.

The Woman in the Mirror

Using the palm of her hand, she wiped away the tears which had been flowing. Her heart felt blistered and hot, an unrelenting agony she had never believed in before it happened to her. She reached for her breast, pressing hard, but the pain continued unabated. More sobbing escaped her tight throat, though she tried to hold back. How long could a person cry before something snapped, before she wound up locked in a rubber-lined room? In her mind’s eye, a nightmare vision loomed: a huge hypodermic needle zooming in to stab her into oblivion. She blinked it away with a fierce sharp shake of the head.

“No!” she rasped a raw, voiceless whisper. “It’s only grief. This is normal!”

But deep down, she knew nothing was normal, nothing could ever be normal again. She felt certain this loss would break her, that it had already broken her. She expected to see shards of herself lying on the floor, and glancing down, she felt mildly surprised to find her flesh still intact.

After another lengthy bout of weeping, she pulled herself weakly to a sitting position. Her head pounded urgently. She needed something, she needed someone. Who could she call? There was nobody left. It was all gone. She was alone, would be alone forever, oh God, oh Jesus help…

“Stop that!”

She cringed at the shocking loudness of her own voice. “I can’t help it,” she cried, bursting into tears again. “It’s gone, everything is gone! I can’t stand it, I want to be dead!”

Surely she was going mad. She must do something to escape the ever-building pressure of this inescapable grief. She could feel the hole in her heart, a raw, bloody hole full of black death, and all her tears could not wash it from her.

“All right, Samantha,” she muttered, feeling giddy. “Let’s take you out for a nice walk. That’ll do you some good, I think!”

As she dressed, she focused on breathing, inhale following by exhale, feeling the sensations of her muscles moving, her weight shifting around her centre of gravity. Amazing how complicated the simple processes of locomotion and breathing were, she mused, once you really paid attention.

That’s it.

The ‘Be Here Now’ people were right, those new-age loonies her sister used to drag her to. They had the answer to freedom from pain.

Just pay attention to what’s happening in the moment, ignore everything else. Maybe I can do this.

The sudden grating shriek that escaped her lips caught her by surprise, knocked her off her feet into a huddled ball on the floor, half-pulled-up pants at her knees, arms wrapped protectively around the raw wound in her heart.

How do people recover from this kind of heartbreak? Is it even possible?

Maybe it’s time to pull the plug, slice my wrists and bleed real blood into a nice hot bath.

It wasn’t the first time the thought had occurred to her, and she pushed it away with a little less vigour each time.

Why not? Who is there to miss me? Who would even notice?

She stumbled into the bathroom to splash her puffy skin with cold water. As she toweled her face dry, she caught a glimpse of her own face in the mirror. In that fleeting instant, she saw herself as she might see a beloved friend who was suffering terribly. The towel slipped from her hands. “Oh, my poor dear,” she whispered, reaching to stroke the trembling cheek, but touched only the cold hardness of the mirror. Her hand pressed against the glass as she gazed helplessly into the eyes of her despairing reflection.

“I so wish I could help you,” she heard herself saying. “There’s nobody else but me, is there? If I could do anything for you at all, I would do it. You don’t deserve this fate. You should be loved, surrounded by living people, not by this empty death. It’s not fair. You shouldn’t have to suffer this way.”

The woman in the mirror stared at her, eyes widening in shock, face slackening as she heard. Samantha looked her deliberately in the eyes, projecting love, strength, faith and understanding as strongly as she could. Her heart melted, opened, and softly ached with empathy for the woman in the mirror, a pain so different to the hard, wrenching agony of a few moments ago.

“I’m here for you, my precious darling,” she said, meaning every word. “I’m here for you, and I always will be. I will never leave you or abandon you. I am here for the long haul. There’s to be no bathtub full of blood for you, and no medicating into oblivion either. We’ll get through this together, even if it’s just you and me. It’ll take time, but we’ll recover. I know we will.”

She spoke with firm, quiet authority, while the woman in the mirror sobbed gratefully, her hands touching Sam’s where they rested on the mirror. For a moment she imagined their soft palms meeting, flesh pressing.

She would get through. She would survive.

This month’s exercise for my writer’s group:

Word: Journalize
Question: Do you know where your kids are?

I’ve never been one to journalize (I’m more the stream-of-consciousness sort) but this crisis should be documented, and I’m the only one who can do it.

You see, I’m the only one left. Everyone is gone–my friends, my family, my husband, the police, the mayor, and worst of all, a loss I cannot contemplate without tears (they flow from my eyes as I write) my kids.

It began innocently enough, I suppose; at least, I had no suspicions that life as I knew it was about to end. As for why I remain, I have no guesses. It’s a mystery to me, and there is no one to ask.

The day had dawned bright, one of those glorious, burgeoning May days that make you believe in immortality. I was in the kitchen trying to do too many things at once, talking on the phone with my mother, cooking dinner and mediating a life-and-death dispute between Sherry, five, and Teddy, who was three.

“So, what do you think I should do?” I asked Mom. I was telling her about an issue I had with my oldest son’s second-grade teacher, Mr. Eberts. He had been unfairly picking on poor Samuel, who was a sensitive boy. I was really angry but was too shy and intimidated by his air of authority to say anything directly to him. Instead, I bitched to Mom.

“You should make him stop!” Sherry shrieked, slapping at Teddy, who began to cry.

“I wasn’t talking to you, sweetie, I was talking to Grandma,” I said. “And don’t hit your brother! That’s no way to settle a quarrel.”

“I think you should march right up to him and give him a piece of your mind,” Mom stated firmly. Of course I knew she would say that. I didn’t really expect her to solve my problem. It was an old habit of mine, asking for her opinion, then ignoring it. She appreciated being asked, and I felt it was good for our relationship.

“I can’t do that,” I said. “He’s just so tall. And he looks down at me like I’m some kind of a bug.”

“Mommiiee!!” Teddy whined. “She gots my twain. Make her give it me!”

“I had it first, you little baby!” Sherry quickly interjected. “And it’s not yours, it’s ours! Santa gave it to the whole family!” (I had known that was a bad idea, but Glen, aka Santa, had insisted.)

“Mine! Miiine!!” Now he was full-out shrieking. I sighed.

Reaching down, I lifted him to my left hip and rocked him while I propped the phone against my other shoulder. “It’s ok, Teddy. Sherry’s right, the train set is hers too. And she did have it first. But you can help Mommy talk to Grandma, okay?” He sobbed inconsolably, and Mom said, “Heavens, Susan, you do baby that child. You’re going to turn him into a Mama’s boy.”

I chose to ignore that, bringing the conversation back to Mr. Eberts. “Okay, I know I should stand up to him, Mom, but I think he takes unfair advantage of his height and his big deep voice. He treats me like I’m just another child, not a parent. I should lodge a complaint with the administration, I think.”

Talking with Mom helped me to get clear in my own mind what to do. I breathed a sigh of relief. Teddy’s sobs trailed away and he began to fall asleep against my shoulder, and Sherry contentedly took the train back into the playroom to join the rest of the train set so she could continue with her game… a working woman commuting to the office.

That’s my girl, I thought.

Just then I noticed smoke curling around the edge of the oven door.

“Shit! I mean, shoot! I have to go, Mom, something’s burning.”

I opened the oven door to see what was happening in there. Immediately smoke billowed out, making me cough. I reached through the vapors to shut the oven off. Then the smoke alarm came on, hideously loud, waking Teddy, who shrieked.

“Dammit!” I cursed. The wail of the smoke alarm sliced into my brain like a serrated knife. I plopped Teddy onto the floor and looked for a towel to flap at the smoke alarm to dissipate the smoke and make it stop screeching.

That’s when it happened. I’ve gone through this story in detail, hoping I might find some previously unnoticed clue. But I still don’t understand. In the blink of an eye, all the people vanished into thin air. I wasn’t looking…I was busy…but I could feel it happen. My mom went first. I felt her go, like a soap bubble popping in my mind. Then Glen, my husband, went, along with his boss and co-workers, and Mr. Eberts, and all the teachers and grown-ups in the town. They blinked out of existence, whole blocks of them at once.

Last of all, my kids went. I had begun to realize what was going on and was turning toward Teddy to snatch him into my arms, but just before I could face him he vanished too. And then Sherry and Samuel went. One at a time, their bright little flames disappeared from the world.

I knew I would be the one to stay. I could feel it. Whatever it was, it didn’t want me. I was left here all alone in my smoky house, smoke alarm screeching. I started to howl like a madwoman and didn’t stop until my throat was raw. On the streets, suddenly-empty vehicles smashed into buildings, trees, telephone poles and each other. All the world came to a crashing, thudding, screaming halt.

That was a week ago. And I still don’t know where my kids are.

“I don’t care! Goddammit!” The heavy glass mug sailed through the air, crashed against the wall and rolled unbroken across the carpeted floor. “Why are you doing this, Stephen?” she demanded.

“Maggie, please don’t take it that way,” her husband begged. “It’s just…” he paused helplessly. “I didn’t mean to sound like–” he trailed off again.

“To sound like you are leaving me, you mean? What else would you call it?”

“I don’t want to leave you! I love you. But I love her too. I can’t help it!”

His last word was punctuated by the slamming of the door.

——————-
(more…)

When my dead dog came scratching on my door of course I let him in. Stephen King be damned, I love my dog.

When it happened I was busy crying, curled in a ball in my mom’s old chair, the floor around me littered with soggy wads of toilet paper. The chair was perfect for crying in. It was huge with wide soft arms that curled around like a grandma’s lap.

Not that my grandma had a lap like that. My only living grandmother was thin and active and lived in Vancouver. The last time I’d seen her was at my parents’ funeral. She stayed for only two days because she said she had an important charity auction to attend.

But I wasn’t crying about my parents’ deaths or about my grandmother either. I was crying for my dog. My heart, my head and my belly all hurt and my throat hurt too from crying so much but I couldn’t stop. It felt good in a way like finally going to the bathroom when you’ve been constipated for a long time.

I was bawling so hard it was a while before I noticed the familiar and strange noise coming from the kitchen door.

“Scritch-scritch, scritch-scritch.”

It was familiar because it was the same sound my dog always made when he wanted to be let in. And it was strange because the day before, I buried my dog. (more…)

Nadia walked swiftly down the echoing corridor, wincing at the clatter of her heels. Now, where … ah. Fishing in her pocket for the key, she glanced to either side before trying it in the lock. A satisfying click signaled the door’s opening. She slipped inside, closing it behind her, then turned to face the dark room.

From the dim interior, a hard voice spoke. “You took long enough.”

“I got lost,” she replied defensively. “Your directions suck.”

“Did you bring it?”

“It’s right here.”

“Well, give!”

“Why do you keep it so damn dark in here?”

“I said, give!” (more…)

Once upon a time, there was a princess named Celeste. She lived in a castle with her father who loved her dearly, and her wicked stepmother who was cruel to her every chance she got. The stepmother had children of her own and she treated them with loving kindness, but Celeste never got a break from the mean old bag.

Celeste had a miserable childhood. She was blamed for everything that happened, laden with hard work and beaten constantly. The wicked stepmother harangued her husband about “that evil little changeling.” Finally, she told him it was “that brat or her.” So the King, fearing to lose his wife, withdrew his affections from his beloved daughter. But because he couldn’t stand the pain of seeing her so hurt, he withdrew further into his inner world where he wouldn’t have to notice anything around him.

When Celeste was still a child, she ran away from home. She traveled far and wide, seeking a place that would welcome her. But everywhere she went, she met people who reminded her of her wicked stepmother. No matter where she was, nobody liked her and everybody shunned her. She searched a long, long while for love but she never found it.

At last, after long, lonely travels, she found herself at the gates of her childhood home. She had searched everywhere and it was the only place left. She was sick, weary to the bone, bleeding from a dozen wounds, and numb from the sensory overload of terrible pain. She was dying. She didn’t expect to be welcomed but she had no choice. So she went to the gates and knocked.

Her father the King met her at the door. He roared, “You! Wretch! How dare you darken my door!” He could not see her. He no longer knew her or his own heart. He was acting out the role he had agreed to play so long ago. But the Queen, his wife, said nothing. She drew Celeste gently into the castle, led her to a comfortable bed in an quiet room, bathed her and dressed her wounds with her own hands. She sat by Celeste’s bedside night and day, nursing her back to health. When Celeste was finally well enough to see who had cared for her, she sobbed and raged.

“You horrible witch!” she cried, “You made my life hell! Don’t you touch me! I hate you!”

She raged and cried and raged some more, and the stepmother said not a word in her own defense, but tears leaked silently from her eyes. Celeste could not stop her rage, nor did she want to. Now was her chance to punish her tormenter, the witch of her childhood. She laid viciously into the Queen. She raked through every incident from the past, every terrible thing the wicked stepmother had done to her. Through it all, the stepmother remained silent, though often she left the room with tears streaming down her face. Then, Celeste could hear her keening sobs through the thick stone walls of the castle.

There came a day when Celeste’s rage deserted her. She reached for it, because she had come to rely on its bright bitter force to make her feel alive. Without it she was nothing. She had believed that rage was all she was. And for the moment, it was gone. In its place was pellucid calm, a clarity like dawn.

She asked her stepmother, “Why have you been so kind? I’ve been horrible to you. I’ve blamed and raged and attacked you and I always expected you to attack me back. But you never have. You’ve fed me and cared for me. Once I awoke in the night to find you sitting at my bedside with your hand on my forehead. What’s happened to you?”

The Queen lowered her head and sobbed heartbrokenly. When she could speak through the tears in her voice, she said, “O my dear child. I could never defend myself against your rage, because it was right. I have been dreadful to you since you were a helpless infant. I blamed your very existence for everything that was wrong, and your subsequent behavior seemed to prove that I was right to blame you. I suffered myself, and I was locked in a trap in which I saw you as the problem.

Though she was sobbing harder, the Queen resolutely continued whenever she could speak. “It relieved my own pain to hurt you, or so it seemed. I beat you, I punished you when the pressure of my own emotions became intolerable. I could give you no love, though in my deepest heart I longed to.

“Then, you decided I must not be your real mother because, you said, your real mother would love you. That felt like the final straw, that you refused to even acknowledge me as your rightful mother. I hardened my heart to you even more.”

“So what happened, then?” Celeste asked suspiciously. She didn’t trust this newfound vulnerability at all. “What changed your mind about me?” She was not prepared for what came next.

“What changed my mind, dear child,” her mother said softly, brokenly, “is that you left me. And my heart shattered completely. I grieved hard for you, and nothing could console me. I had bound you to me with stiff cords of love that expressed itself as hatred, and I didn’t recognize that it was love until you weren’t there to blame anymore.

“I went mad for awhile,” she admitted, “and could not care for your baby brothers and sisters. I noticed then that they, my innocent angels, were showing me the very qualities I had hated so in you. They were looking more and more like malignant, manipulative monsters, but now, I could see that the thing I hated was really inside me all along.”

She arose in a swirl of skirts and moved to the great arching window overlooking the garden. “Now,” she continued, smiling gently and settling into the window seat cushions, “I have made my peace with that part of me. It was difficult, and it has taken me many tears and much relentless honesty and self-examination. I no longer feel any remnant of hatred for the ways that you looked to me in the past. I understand what happened there now. I was projecting my own miserable beginnings of life onto you. I made you the scapegoat for everything I hated and feared about myself as a child, and that was wrong of me.”

Celeste responded bitterly, “I hear your words, but I still don’t trust you. I don’t know if I will ever trust you. You have stolen my childhood and I can’t see how you can ever give it back. All the love in the world, all the sorries and all the grief, is not going to do anything for the hurt child I was. I hate you for what you have done to the little girl who only wanted you to love her!” She paced the room restlessly.

“And now,” she exclaimed, whirling to face the Queen, “it’s too late! I’ve grown twisted and bitter from the damage that was done then. I can’t imagine how to change the way I am now. I wish I could but it feels like part of me.”

With grave dignity, her mother (the Queen) said,”You needn’t trust me, my dear. I don’t expect you to. But I will receive your rage and I will give you my truth with an open heart. I trust you. I know you will not harm me. You are my child and there is nothing you can do to hurt me.” She smiled wryly. “I expect your rage, and I am fully prepared for your thrashing and bared teeth. I will treat you gently without imposing love that you are unable to accept from me. You shall have all the time you need.”

Celeste began to mend her relationship with her mother. It took a long time, but gradually, working side by side, caring for the little ones and running the castle and the kingdom (for the King was still hopelessly lost in his inner world), Celeste began to believe that her mother truly had changed. She deferred to Celeste sometimes and seemed to respect her opinions. She asked her questions about her travels and seemed to value the information Celeste had to offer about the world outside the kingdom. She gave Celeste the impression that she respected the life she had led and what it had taught her.

Thus mother and daughter were reunited. The younger children were happy, for they had loved Celeste and grieved for her, while secretly hating their mother for how she had treated their big sister. Their ‘goodness’ had merely been their terror of receiving the same treatment if they showed their true faces.

One day, Celeste went to the King in his study. She said sharply, “Father, look at me.” He stirred blearily in his armchair.

“Eh? Who dares disturb me?” he grumped. He did not recognize his daughter. He was difficult to convince. She had to rage at him, and shake him by the shoulders until she wanted to kill him. But she didn’t kill him. Her rage didn’t really want him dead, it just wanted him.

She had to be persistent. It was a long time before he became willing to leave his inner world for long. But when he finally noticed what had changed, and saw his long-lost daughter and his Queen being loving together, his joy and relief were felt throughout the kingdom and a great celebration was held.

And all was well, and they lived happily ever after.

Except Celeste, who never did fully trust and was always watchful, and who sometimes still needed to rage at her parents for the childhood she had lost. But slowly, ever so slowly, she began to remember that she was still a child inside where it counted. She began to let herself have a childhood. And this time, she had a Mother and Father who loved her. They cared for her when she forgot how competent she was, and when she remembered her broken places and was lost to them, they fed, bathed and supported her.

And when she was ready, love came in the form of a man who loved her completely, in all her pain, wounding, experience and strong new child’s heart, and she lived with him forever.

And then, they really all lived happily ever after.

Except when they were angry, or sad, or fearful, or bored.

I remember my grandfather, that fierce old man. He was one of those intimidating men who mellow and gentle with age. When I knew him, his blue eyes held sparkle, yet always he carried with him the shadow of his younger self. He fascinated me, mysterious as some wild creature caught by a momentary lightning-flash, skittering into darkness and gone.

People talked about him. Some with awe, some with humour, some with a contempt that hinted at knowledge I did not have. Yet people loved him, even against their wills. My father once told me that as a young man, he hated his father bitterly, with passionate abandon. By that time, my grandfather was dead, and I had heard some of the stories told in undertones by aunts and uncles shamed by a past they could not relate to the gentle old man they now knew. The stories frightened me, hinting of dark wells and pockets filled with hurt and betrayal and something I did not, then, call evil.

I first came to know my grandfather when I was eight years old. My parents had separated, and for some mysterious reason my mother took her children and fled three hundred miles to the Nithi Valley in northern B.C., where my father’s parents lived. Maybe it was because her own parents lived too close to my father and his new lover, my mother’s former best friend, the cause of the breakup. But that’s an old story, and one that has been told too many times already. So we moved in with my grandparents. That was a strange time, a dark and confusing time for the child I was. Everything was in flux, and mysterious undercurrents threatened to snatch me away and whisk me into a looming darkness. My grandmother was still alive, then. The cancer must have started to grow in her already; it was only a year later she died, an event which rocked that large family tree to its roots. But that came later.

In retrospect, it is easy to see omens, portents and ominous foreshadowings. Doubtless, most of those are projections from the present. One thing I know: as an eight-year-old, I saw my grandmother as a ghost, someone without substance, without an essence I could safely love. It does not matter whether I knew it as impending death or not. What matters is that my grandmother was a wraith, and my mother was in fragments, so I attached my heart and my longing for recognition to my grandfather.

It was he upon whose knee I bounced, giggling; he whose jokes cracked me up, he whom I begged for piggyback rides. And it was he who frightened me with tales of scalpings and torture by the Indians who lived on the reservation two miles away. He had a cruel streak, my grandfather.

“Be good, or I’ll sell you to the Indians,” he would whisper, or shout, or offhandedly repeat until it became a litany, a ritualistic phrase fraught with tension, guaranteed to produce a prickling in my scalp as my body anticipated the bloody moment when, torn from me by painted savages, my long tangled locks would be waved triumphantly aloft. I loved it with that painfully morbid glee which keeps children coming back for more even when tickled to the point of wetting themselves.

Oh yes, my grandfather was a dangerous man. He carried himself with a hunter’s easy grace. He was born in 1889, on an Indian reservation in Montana, though he himself had no native blood, and he married a mostly-white woman from the rez, my grandmother. The circumstances of his birth gave his stories, for me, an added credence which sometimes crossed the line from morbid fascination to actual stomach-wrenching terror, as when I was compelled to ride my bike through the dozen or so rundown shacks on the reservation, that being the only route to town back then.

My grandfather was god to me, in those days. In this he replaced my father whose clay feet had proved him unsuited to the role. At eight, I demanded a god with physical presence, one I could touch and see and hear.

It did not disturb me, then, the offhanded cruelty with which he treated my grandmother. I gave it no thought. She was nothing to me. No; that is not true, for she cooked delicious meals and patiently let me help, and she made me lovely handcrafted doll furniture for my birthday that year. She was something to me, but with a child’s cruel self-interest I was quick to dismiss her from my heart whenever my grandfather dashed her upon the rocks of his abysmal contempt.

The first of the stories about my grandfather’s past was revealed to me in bits and pieces over the years. (more…)