AZAZEL

His arm was asleep. He needed to take a leak. The alarm would go off in less than an hour and still he held her.

She’d awakened screaming just after one and he’d taken her in his arms and sung softly to her until her sobbs subsided and she slipped into a fitful slumber about an hour later. For almost three hours he’d held her trying not to hate the people who had done this to her. Trying to remember they were sick, damaged, twisted people who probably didn’t even realize what they were doing while they were doing it. And he knew if confronted, they’d deny it, find a way to turn the tables and make her the villain. Lie, gaslight, alter the truth until they were her victims, and it was all her fault. Because that was the family law, it was all her fault, it was always all her fault.

Things were getting better. She had a great therapist who was gentle and truthful and understood why she never felt good enough, strong enough, right enough, or had enough self-confidence to do the simple things others took for granted. Had understood, even before she’d talked much about her childhood.

He remembered the day she’d returned from a session and asked him, “what’s a scapegoat?”
 

“You know what a scapegoat is. Everyone knows what a scapegoat is.”


“I know what the word means, someone who gets blamed. Right?”
 

“Uh-huh.”

“But what is it? Where did it come from?”

“Oh. Okay. Well, as far as I know, it’s from the Bible. Leviticus, or Deuteronomy, I think. It’s part of the ritual of Atonement, Yom Kippur. Two goats are taken to the priest and he casts lots and one is sacrificed as an offering and the other has all the sins of the community laid on him and then is led out into the desert and released.”

“Aw, poor goat. All alone in the desert.”

“Yup.”

“Poor little guy, or girl.”

“Guy. A male of a certain age, generally unblemished. Well, for most of the sacrifices.”


“That’s so sad!”

“For the goat, yes. For the sinners, not so much.”

“Huh?”

“Well, the sins are atoned for with the goat that dies, and cast away with the scapegoat. In other words, the sinners are now free from the responsibility of their guilt and shame. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, just something Dr. Shepherd said this afternoon.”

“What?”

“She said I was the family scapegoat.”

He gave her ass a slap. “Cutest goat I ever saw!”

She giggled. A real go-ahead giggle if he’d ever heard one.

Later she asked, “do you think that’s true?”

“What?”

“That I’m the family scapegoat.”

“Yes. I do.”

“Does it make me a bad person?”

“No! Not at all. It doesn’t recommend your family much, though.”


“But they’re all so successful and smart. They’re all winners and I’m the only loser in the family.”

“Loser! You’re not a loser. Look at the fine man you got yourself. Do you think a fantastic man like me would have paid any attention to a loser?”

“Oh you!” She pushed him away with one hand and pulled him close with the other.

“Yeah, me.”

The nightmares had started not long after that conversation.

There had been nightmares before, but not like these ones. She could never tell him what they were about, though once or twice she muttered something about the desert, but they left her soaked in sweat, trembling all over, and unable to get back to sleep without whatever he could do to make her feel safe.

So, he held her long after his body began protesting. And he sang until his voice gave out and his song-list dried up. And then he’d ease himself out from under her, turning the alarm off and making sure she was comfy-cozy, cocooned under all the blankets.

He put the coffee on, and got ready for work.

“You’re up already?”
 

“Yup.”
 

“Did you sleep okay?”
 

“Okay enough. You?”

“Yeah. How did I end up on your side of the bed?”

“How do you ever end up on my side of the bed?

“Oh you!” She giggled that go-ahead giggle.

“Woman, I barely have the energy to blink.”

“Then,” she said, taking his hand, “don’t blink.”

Prompt 0 Introduction

26-09-06

Hi.

I’m a dinosaur.

Well, not exactly. I’m human, but I’m old. I was born in 1955. They say those of us born in ‘55 are crazy. I can live with that. The fact is I love being old. I love that I’ve been allowed all this time and I celebrate every day of my long life.

I also celebrate my wrinkles and my gray hairs. I really celebrate my gray hairs because I LOVE white hair and all my life I’ve longed to have white hair. A friend recently said, “your hair’s still red!”

We’re still friends.

My name actually is Murielle. Pronounced Muri-ELLE. The ELLE is key. And it’s allowed, I learned many, many years ago watching CNBC in the wee hours of the morning when a hand-full of guys hosted a financial show. I only remember two of their names, one was called The Brain, and I think the youngster was called The Kid. There was an older man, that is he was noticably older than the others. I don’t know what his name was but he very knowledgeable. He explained that Murielle is pronounced like my name is if the last (sir) name begins with a soft sibililant sound whereas if it starts with a hard constanant it is pronounced Mur-RAY. It’s a French thing. And I love it.

I studied Theatre in collage. I loved it. I learned some stuff. That was good. I wasn’t able to pursue a career in Theatre because I got very sick shortly after gratuating. That was not good.

I’m a conservative and have been for about two decades.

I’m a Christian. My faith is much more important to me that politics. So are my friends. I cannot imagine myself choosing politics over the people I love. To be honest, I doubt I’d end a friendship over differences in religion either. There are four kind of people I will no longer have in my life: Liars, Bullies, Manipulators, and Narcissists. That’s another thing I really enjoy about being old. I get to decide, at least for the time being. I realized a few years back that life (and in my case, energy) is too short to put up with the four aforementioned types of behaviors.

I must qualify my claim of Christianity. I’m not a very good one. I hope to improve. A lot.

Single, no children. I may explain in another prompt. Or not, depending on how long I last and what prompts we get. Actually, it’s not really that interesting, though with fiction I could create such a fantastical reason. But I won’t. I try to be truthful.

Oh, and I tend to write short pieces for Idol. Five hundred to one thousand words is about my regular speed. Truth is, there’s just not that much going on in my life. And I’m okay with that.

There’s really not that much to say about myself. So, I’ll say goodbye now. ‘Bye!

Prompt 2: If it’s any consolation

25-06-28

(AN: My entry this week is inspired by Roina_Arwen’s question to me regarding one aspect of my entry last week. Thankk you, Roina!

“If you don’t mind me asking—and you don’t have to answer if you’d rather not—but I’m curious how a medication could put you back decades in your recovery?

I’m sorry to hear that you have to deal with this. *gentle hugs*”)

“If it’s any consolation it only lasts two years.” Although, I never had a medical professional say this to me in all my years living with ME/CFS, et al., there were enough lay people who said it to me to make it memorable. At first, it gave me some hope, but as the years wore on, and at best there was no change in my health, I learned to let it go in one ear and out the other. Oh, I’d smile and say thank you, or some such thing to let them know I appreciated their concern and kindness, but from time to time I’d tell them how long I’d been ill. That usually ended the conversation.

To give you a little perspective, I turned seventy in February this year and I’ve been diagnosed since I was thirty-eight. Before I was diagnosed I was ill for about eight or nine years. Though, I strongly suspect I had ME/CFS, et al., since childhood.

A brief history: Myalgic Encephalomyelitis has been on the WHO list of series illness (as serious as heart disease according to them) since the year I was born, 1955. In the sixties along came a psychiatrist in the UK who decided there’s money in “dat there disease” and declared it was a psychosomatic condition and should be treated as such. (I’m a little biased, here.) He and his cohorts successfully co-opted Myalgic Encephalomyelitis and since then those of us who have it have not only had to battle the ignorant masses, but also certain un/illinformed medical professionals. He has since (after his death) been debunked, but sadly too late for many people who suffered horribly because of his assertions. Insurance companies loved him. Probably still do.

In the mid 1980’s the CDC also added Myalgic Encephalomyelitis to their roster, and some bright boy decided to rebrand it, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. Later, when those suffering from the disease demanded he explain himself, he said, “I was only kidding.” Some joke. That moniker is so prejucical. Think of all the chronics in our world: chronic complainers, chronic drinkers, chronic liars, chronic...well, you get the idea. Fatigue? Oh that’s a good one, too. Most people respond with, well, I get tired too, so I must have it. And the coup de grace? Syndrome. Well, isn’t that just loaded with positive conotations?

Okay, back to me.

It took eight or nine years to get a diagnoses. Meantime, my GP, determined that I was just a middle-aged single (read miserable) woman suffering from depression even though I explained repeatedly I wasn’t depressed I just had no energy, put me on Prozac. Except, it made me suicidal. For two years he kept me on that medication all the time pretending he was trying me on something new. He was a huge man, with hands the size of (sorry cliché) dinner plates. He’d go off to his office and come back into the examination room with a huge number of pills, taken out of their packaging, loose in just their foil wrappers. “Try these. They’ll help.” I’d return when they were finished with the same reactions. Weight gain, heightened depression, they’re not working. And we’d go through the charade again. I finally discovered what he’d done when I got hold of my medical transcripts. Two years, listed over and over, Prozac. My first (?) atypical, but not unheard of or undocumented, reaction to a medication, to that medication.

I proably already had Multiple Chemical Sensitivity, but was undiagnosed.

In the mid 1990’s I began seeing a specialist. My second specialist actually, but she knew her stuff because she also had all the conditions. She ran a huge battery of tests and diagnosed me with all three conditions: ME/CFS, Fibromyaltia, and Multiple Chemical Sensitivity. She refered me to two other specialists. (All three are retired now.) And so began several decades of tyring this or that medication to see if it improved any of the symptoms, had any effect at all, or made things worse. Very rarely did I get positive results and when I did I couldn’t afford said treatment.

Over the course of my illness I saw four specialists. At one time or another, each of them told me I was among their sickest patients. As much as I appreciated their concern, I didn’t believe them. I believe that much like Autism, ME/CFS is on a spectrum. There are those who are mildly affected, who don’t have as much energy as they used to, who have to limit their activities until they are able to resent and recuperate. And on the other extreme are those who are confined to lie in a dark room, clad only in diapers, hooked up to IVs for fluids and nutrition, who cannot tolerate noise of any kind, including voices above a whisper, and fragrances, or chemicals.of any kind. I cannot imagine the extent of the pain, grief and loss they and their loved ones suffer. While I have had periods (sometimes fairly long stretches) when I am bed bound, and while I am largely home bound now I am still able to be pretty independent and self-determining. It just takes me longer to get anything done.

Medication is a challenge for all of us with these conditions, but for those of us with MCS, it’s more so. We just never know how we’re going to react to anything, new, or even something we’ve been taking for a while. For instance, for two years I had the worst diarreah. I couldn’t leave my home because I never knew when it was going to hit, for how long, or how much warning I’d get. I tried everything I could think of, asked questions, worried and even wept over it. One day as happens from time to time I ran out of one of my suplements and had no way to get any for serveral days. The diarreah stopped. Just like that. I had developed a sensitivity to magnesium. I didn’t get or take any for a few months and the diareah stayed away. Over time, I was able to reintroduce my body to it, slowly. And while I still don’t take the dosage my doctor had oringinally put me on, I can now take enough to help me, and not harm me.

At one time I was on three different sleep medications at the same time: one to put me to sleep, one to keep me asleep, and one to relax me enough to that the first medication could actually work and put me to sleep. This treatment, while fairly common, didn’t really do much for me. I ended up developing Pica. Not to the point that I was eating dirt, but I was eating in my sleep, which was terrifying.

And while I’ve been on pain maintenance for decades sometimes it’s just so bad I need something stronger. My doctor prescribed straight codeine for me to take as needed, taking it combined with anything else makes me very ill. Knowing how sensitive I am she prsecribed the lowest doze she could, 15 milligrams. It was too much. So, I cut the tiny pills in half. Still too much. I cut the halves in half. The quarter doze, 3.75mgs, only knocks me out for two or three days. So when the pain gets so bad I need to take the “big guns” I have to carefully weigh the cost. Pain over losing up to three whole days of my life? “Sometimes Si, sometimes no.”

There is no way to know to which medication I will react negatively, or will have any affect at all. It’s a crap shoot--more like Russian Roulette.

And so, last Fall, my doctor (whom I adore, she’s great) decided after a couple of years of nagging—wait! Doctors don’t nag, they advise—advising me to take blood pressure medication I agreed to try it. She again, put me on the lowest doze and instructed the Pharmacy to half the pills before sending them out to me. I started taking it, not right away, but when I knew I’d have some buffer time if I didn’t react well.

I honestly didn’t know what had hit me. I went from being able to be up and doing this and that to being completely bedridden. Unable to get up except to go to the bathroom once or twice a day. I don’t remember bathing or eating. I was back to the dark ages before I made any progress at all. And at first I was too ill to figure it out, but then when I could, I started to go through everything asking what had changed in the past weeks. The only thing was the medication. I ate the same things, I wore the same things, I did the same things.

I live a very limited life. Very controlled. Well, to the best of my ability.

It took twenty-five years from my diagnoses to get to the point where I could do a small laundry every week, go grocery shopping, and do some light housework. This may not seem like much, but it was enormous to me. It was tremendous progress and I felt I was finally on the road to recovery. And then I moved.

I moved from my third-floor walk-up apartment that I’d lived in for twenty-eight and a half years down to the first (ground) floor for my health. So I would not have to climb all those stairs every time I went out, even just to take my garbage out.

Bad move.

Do not pass go, return to zero and start over.

Okay. Been there, done that. Now, I was fifty-five. And starting from scratch again. But, at least I knew what to do and what to avoid. So, better, yes.

So, here I am now. My days consist of getting up, making breakfast, having to go back to bed and sleep for two or three hours, get up, try to do some chores, go back to bed sleep for another two or three hours, etc., etc., etc.

Everything gets weighed against the cost. If I do my dishes before I go back to bed, will I be able to do anything else? If I push and do the dishes and dust, when will I be able to vacuum, or write for Idol, or take a phone call from a friend? Pushing really isn’t an option, but sometimes I just have to, like Friday. I spent the day prepping food for Sabbath and the week ahead because I knew I could rest Saturday. That’s my life right now. That’s where I am. I’m trying to rebuild myself again so that I can move forward feel better, do more.

There’s a verse in the Bible about counting the cost, (it’s a bit out of context, but you get the point) boy does my experience with ME/CFS et al., drive that home to me.

Luke 14:28-30:

• Jesus asks, "For which of you, intending to build a tower, does not first sit down and count the cost, whether he has enough to finish it? Lest after he has laid the foundation, and is not able to finish, all who see it begin to mock him, saying, 'This man began to build and was not able to finish'".

Resolution: The Man on the Hill, Conclusion

Dearest Mother,

It is a full month since last I wrote. Ham has not returned. I hope he will not come back. I pray he will not. I will try to explain, forgive me please.

On the day I wrote you I intended to share my meager meal with the man on the hill. The man I felt was somehow protecting the property while my Hamish was away. The man who so terrified me when I first saw him, but whose presence became such a comfort. I was excited, apprehensive. We never so much as hailed one another, yet I regarded him as a friend. My heart hammered as I gained the crest, once reached, I lay down the scythe and retrieved the basket from where it lay further down the hill. I did not speak, or even glance his way and although I could see he still gazed off to the east I knew he was aware of my presence, accepting of it even.

I laid the old picnic quilt on the ground and began to put out the small meal I prepared and then I sat and waited.

There was no sound, not from the beautiful beast he rode, or from the man himself, but he dismounted and came toward me and sat across from me.

I waited, not knowing what would be appropriate for me to do or say, or even if he would understand me, or I him. For now I could see that he was not just a random man on a white horse, wearing native colors, but he himself was of the land, his skin glowing copper in the setting sun. I took the bread, broke off a sizable piece, spread it with some butter and some of the jam I had made from wild berries that grow on our land and offered it to him. He declined.

“I am called Thunderchild. I lived on these lands all my days. Winters came, thawed and spring gave life to the earth and the water. The village lay in the valley beyond. One day a man came. His skin was pale and he spoke with his hands. He traded us things for pelts, cooking pots and blankets. He left.

“The children were first. Their pain was great, they had huge weeping blisters. We bathed their burning bodies, but there was nothing we could do to ease their suffering. Then Death came. The elders and the weak died next, and then there was no one in our village. Now, there is nothing where we lived.”

Mother, he spoke of his loss and his grief and his anger and his pain. He spoke of his sons and his wife and his father, all dead. He spoke of the beauty of his village and the joy and peace of his life, destroyed by infection, contagion, disease.

Hour after hour we sat across the quilt as the full moon rode the sky and the insects and the rodents feasted on what lay there between us. From sunset to sunrise he talked and I understood every word, but his lips never moved. His face was a ruin of scars, pox marks.

As the golden light began to creep over the land again, he turned, his eyes burning into me.

“Now you and your man have come to the land. What do you bring?”

He gripped my arm. His touch was ice. “This is my gift to you.”

He threw back his head and sang, an ululating wail of grief and loss and pain and such rage.

Then he was gone, as if he never was.

I have been able to think of nothing else. Over and over I envision his children dying in his arms. I hear their cries. I hear his wife beg for release and his father’s last words for vengeance.

I am not myself. I am hot, then chilled. I cannot eat and am too weak to fetch water from the well. I have a rash.

Oh, Mother. What have we done?

Mama, mama what can I do?

I will be with you very soon, I think.

Your loving daughter,
Aileen

(AN: I have used the word “native” because it is (I hope) the least offensive of terms used for indigenous people before we learned respect. I hope you’ll forgive me.

This is the third installment of a series I started in 2018 or there abouts. I will add links if I can find them. If not, I’ll post the first two to my DW blog.)

Dear Father,

I pray you and mother are well and that you receive this before year’s end.

Autumn is racing toward winter. I have piled wood every day since spring and hope it will be enough. A few weeks ago when I rode Wager to the little trading post it snowed and while I can’t pack too much on him, at least he doesn’t get stuck in the mud like the cart. Third time this year I’ve ventured there in search of various necessities. Last time was just after harvest and I went with plenty to sell and plenty more to buy from the list I’d been given. Leaving Aileen alone to fend off wild beasts and care for the livestock troubles me greatly, but this time so much worse than before because of the last time.

When I returned after only a few days in the early part of the fall I unhitched Wager, watered and put the feedbag on him then went about unloading the cart. It bothered me some that Aileen didn’t even come out and greet me, but she was none too happy to see me leaving so I thought perhaps she was still sour on that and wondered how long she’d sulk over it. I was chewing on this as I lugged two heavy sacks of staples up to the cabin. I noticed the stench first and dropped the sacks bursting through the door certain I’d find my wife dead. But she was alive. Barely.

She was on fire, raging with fever and she was havering about thunderclouds. I couldn’t make it out.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Forgive me, please.”

“What, what? What are ye saying, lass? I cannot understand ye?”

I gathered her up, covers and all, and raced across the meadow, terrified I’d fall and drop her before I could get her into the stream that cuts through the land. It runs deep down at the edge of the meadow and in warmer weather is teaming with fish. I went in with her still in my arms tearing off blankets and her nightdress as I held her in the icy water. She bellowed. Weak though she was, she let out a wail that flooded my heart with hope. I kept her in the water until she began to shiver.

Father, I didn’t know what I was doing, but I recalled you saying once at the dinner table when I was but a lad, “First you break the fever, then you deal with the cause.” I think that was in my mind. I knew nothing but my Aileen and the unbearable thought of a life without her.

Inside I put her down and let her lie naked on the floor while I built a roaring fire and left her beside it then I tended to the bed. It was in a terrible state, but straw is plentiful and we had more linens in the trunk, even a quilt or two. Soon I had her tucked up though she was still muttering about thunderclouds and forgiveness, but she’d stopped shaking and her face, though pale, wasn’t burning.

Tending animals who fall, or ail, is one thing, tending a grown woman who is fretful and havering endlessly about clouds and regret, for what I couldn’t tell, was beyond me.

The Kovalenkos live about five miles to the east so I saddled Wager and rode him hard until I reached them. Neither Vasyl or Olena speak much English and I do not speak their language at all, but I was able to convey my concern to them. He followed me home, and listened to Aileen prattle on and when he heard her mutter about the thunderclouds he turned abruptly.

“Help.” He pointed to the bed and left.

It was a long night. My mind raced with all that could have gone wrong while I rode to the Kovalenko’s homestead, all the things that could still go wrong. Had I done the right thing by leaving her, by bringing Vasyl? What more could I do? I stoked the fire and waited, and prayed as I hadn’t done since I was a boy.

Before sunrise I heard horses approaching.

Three men dismounted, Vasyl and two natives. One, a youth, took charge of the horses. The other an old man with white hair and a stern expression advanced to me.

“Your woman is haunted.”

“What?”

“She engaged a dead spirit.”

“What?” Father, I felt like a helpless, brainless child.


Inside he regarded Aileen, shook his head sadly and said, “Thunderchild is long spirit and filled with grief and anger.”

When the old man began to sing Vasyl took my arm and pulled me toward the door. I resisted, but not very hard. To be honest I didn’t want to stay. I was completely unnerved.

“He help her.” He stated calmly. “Smoke?”

And so we stood and smoked our pipes, waiting. From time to time we heard chanting and there was smoke and the smell of burning grass.

“Sage,” Vasyl said nodding wisely.

Father, I wanted to say something clever, but all that came out of me was, “ah.”

After about an hour they came out to us.

“Spirit gone. Woman fine.”

“Can I give you something for your trouble?” I asked.

The old man, whose name I leared was Standing Deer, studied me for a long moment. “Tobacco, three chickens.”

And so it was that because an old man cured Aileen of her encounter with a dead man I had to ride to the trading post again to buy more tobacco and a few more chickens and a lot of other stuff Aileen insisted we get for the man who healed her, the Kovalenkos, and most especialy for their children.

Father, I can hear you as clear as the dawn challenging everything I’ve written, and I cannot argue with you other than to say, I don’t know. I just don’t know.

Was there a spirit that troubled my Aileen? Or was it just the imagination of a frightened woman alone, fending for herself not knowing if her man would come back or not? I cannot say. All I know is that she is herself again and that is all that matters to me.

Aileen sends her love to you and mother and young Alistair and says to tell Mary to get her needles out, but as that’s all she’ll say, I’ve no idea what she means.

With love,

Hamish

(Luke 16:27-30 and Luke 10:7)

https://murielle.dreamwidth.org/78152.html

https://murielle.dreamwidth.org/78482.html
 

(AN: Years ago I started a series called Darn Girl. This is a prequell to the first time I introduced you to her. She has never really let go of me. I doubt she ever will.)

Darn Girl: The Beginning

Was it precognition or instinct that caused the mother to place the girl deep in the ditch and cover her with debris? Perhaps she’d dreamed of danger and acted to protect the only thing left to her in the world, her daughter. Three maybe four years old, too cold to shiver, too hungry to cry, too weak to stir. Small enough to be hidden from the eyes of marauders now they’d long-since eaten their dogs and turning to helpless things for sustenance.

How long did she lie there after her mother without making a sound, was dragged away, silence her last gift to her child?

How long until she was discovered by the crone and her boy?

“Breathing.”

The boy shrugged and raised his club.

“No! Mine!”

Snarling, the boy pushed her away.

“Mine!” She insisted.

She had memories of sporadic warmth, water spilled into her mouth and pre-chewed food pushed through her lips. Being roughly tied to the crone’s back by the boy who grumbled constantly in grunts and groans, occasionally attempting unrecognizable words.

“Now, now, Sonny. Be gentle. Do you not remember being a tiny wee thing like that? Gentle, mind.”

Over time, she grew stronger, able to walk, always clinging to the crone, her skirt, her warp, her hand. Terror siezing her if they were separated even for seconds. The old woman was life, her life.

Random words issued forth, lilting melodically. The boy would hum and gurgle along and the girl listened, remembered, learned, sang too.

Following behind, picking up dry sticks for fire. Then venturing off a little ways alone to gather and carry, wood and water, dry leaves for kindling. After a time, she gathered, lit and maintained the fires alone.

The boy brought meat.

She learned to skin and prepare the food and the pelts. Her tiny hands deft and steady. She grew stronger. She walked taller and straighter wandering a little farther afield and returning with herbs and roots to stir into the stews. She followed and watched the boy, too. Learning his skill at trapping and hunting, though she didn’t challenge him. Something inside made her hungry for knowledge. Any and all.

“Bring me my bag. Now, sit with me and watch.” The girl sat close and smiled in anticipation. The bag was filled with bright colors and tiny tools and the old woman was skilled with all of them.

“See this? This is wool. It was knitted into something. Maybe a scarf, a blanket, or a coat. Now it’s just a scrap, but we can use it. Watch.”

Slowly the woman tugged at the ends of the scrap until she found a lose strand, then she pulled it until it began to unravel and as it unraveled she wound the strand into a little ball.

“Now you.” She passed it over to the girl. “Learn.”

And under the steady gaze of the old woman the girl gently tugged at the yarn and wound it around and around the little ball until it was a fair size in her palm and when the scarp of knitted wool was completely unraveled, she placed the ball in the old woman’s hand and looked up at her.

“Good?”

“Yes. Good. Now you do one alone.” She was handed another scrap of wool but it was different, there were holes and curly bits in it. It wasn’t flat like the first piece.

“You noticed! Clever girl. It’s not knitted like the first piece, this is called crochet and it’s fancier, but the same. Find the strand and gently pull like before.”

Finished she handed this ball to the crone. “Different.”

“Yes. One is thicker than the other. One is dark, and one is light. This color is blue and this color is yellow. Remember.”

“Yellow. Blue. Thick. Not thick.”

“Thin.”

“Thin?”

“Yes. Tomorrow you’ll learn sewing. Sleep now.”

So, day after day she was taught and she learned: knitting, sewing, crocheting, darning, mending, weaving on a bent branch. Nothing wasted. Everything saved. Scraps of all sizes and textures, washed and tucked away for use when needed.

Then the boy fell.

They heard him screaming and the girl scrambled down the embankment to find him crumpled at the bottom.

“Help me! Help me down, girl.”

It was hard getting the old woman down to him, and it took a long time and by the time they got down to him he was gone. His eyes, wide, staring, empty. His body shattered.

“Nothing we could have done. Poor boy.” The old woman sighed.

They stripped his body.

“Get water.”

And while the old woman tended to the boy’s body the girl gathered rocks.

Together they piled them on his body.

The woman mumbled words, “Dust and ashes. Ashes and dust.”

Now the girl hunted and fished and cooked and sewed. The old woman stopped singing and telling stories, but when the girl sang or repeated one of the stories the crone would smile and nod and clap with delight.

After a time, when the snow came, the girl pulled out the boy’s heavy coat. It was three sizes too big, but it was warm. The old woman smiled.

Time passed. The girl grew. The woman shrank.

One afternoon, a small group walked up to them and asked about water. The old woman pointed to the west. “River soon.”

There was an old woman with them too and they soon talked together. After a few days, they were one group.

Lots to mend, and sew, and do. Lots of food. They had four men to hunt and fish. And they had carts to push and pull and carry.

The girl enjoyed the children and told them stories and taught them songs as she sewed.

After a time the crone fell asleep.

The girl stayed with the new people for a spell, but when one of the men began to watch her and follow her, she slipped away in the night.

And by then she was called Darn Girl.

(Colossians 3:23)

(Hikikomori Japanese: pulling inward, being confined, also known as total withdrawal from society by seeking extreme degrees of social isolation and confinement.)

UNDERGROUND YOUR DREAMS TAKE ROOT

The basement called to you. It began as a notion then grew into a passion and finally, when you were fourteen, your parents relented and allowed you to move into the basement. There were no actual rooms down there so you staked out your territory by hanging old rugs from the rafters on three sides creating a long rectangle graced by two tiny windows that let just enough light in, after being scoured inside and out, to read by during the day without turning on a light. That had been important to your parents. They didn’t want their electricity bill skyrocketing because their middle child was a mole.

Part of the deal was that you were responsible not just for keeping “your room” clean and tidy but the whole basement and you went over and above to comply, even taking on laundry duty for the entire household. On your part, it was pure strategy, if you did the laundry you controlled when the machines were on and when they were not.

Your sister, Sarah, was happy about the change because now each of you had your own room and although there was some griping about the size of the basement room compared to hers, she was delighted by having her own space. Your parents were relieved when the war between you ended. Brother Bill, who’d always had his own room was largely disinterested.

Your room, soon styled “the hovel” was your pride and joy. Furnished with thrift store finds and hand-me-downs from everyone whom you could wheedle them. You painted and polished and decorated until it was a cozy inviting space and everything you ever wanted.

There beneath the hustle and bustle of your family you dreamed your dreams and read your books and wrote your “little stories.”

Entering Sophomore year you were given your own, albeit well used, personal computer with the understanding that your father would have access to it at any time he chose and that you’d have at least one meal per day upstairs with the family. Everyone agreed that was fair.

For graduation you got a bathroom and walls.

Throughout your college career you lived downstairs happily. Quiet time for studying was achieved with a set of headphones and while your mother worried that you spent “far too much time alone down there” you parents were proud of your accomplishments and the fact that while your siblings couldn’t wait to move out, you, their middle child was content to live quietly, peacefully in the basement.

You opted to do your post-grad studies abroad and were gone for the duration. You were happy in your work, but as your parents aged and had some health challenges you suggested investing with them in building an actual apartment in the basement that you could rent from them and be on site if needed. Everyone was happy with the new arrangement. Especially the siblings who didn’t want the responsibility of caring for elderly parents. And your parents liked the idea of an additional income after their retirement.

If you had a personal life it was so personal no one was aware of it, and while your mother griped from time to time about grandchildren she enjoyed the fact that you were available to her, especially after your father’s heart attack.

A lock-down during a pandemic meant you worked from home and that suited you just fine. You worked online, your shopped online, and your entertainment was online. While the rest of the world seemed to go slightly bonkers, you just quietly moved through your life without any fuss or bother. The truth is you loved your life, your isolation. And when it was time to move back into society you opted to stay where you were, working from your basement apartment, assisting your parents and doing your own thing.

“Failure to launch,” Brother Bill pronounced impressed with his armchair psychology.

“Sweet but strange,” your sister, Sarah, said, but expressed concern about what you’d do when they sold the house.

You worried a bit yourself about the latter. What would you do?

But it didn’t come up. Bill got stocks and bonds and your sister got several valuable collections. And you got the house. You upgraded and remolded and turned the upstairs into an exclusive B&B, renting only to friends and colleagues who valued peace and quiet as much as you, and it thrived.

You thrived.

Your work was published, you traveled for lectures, enjoying the calm steady tides of your life and career. You wanted for nothing, you needed nothing. Everything you wanted you had. Especially peace.

(John 14:27)

His mother’s favorite song was released in 1965 by a band from across the ocean. She loved it. She sang it all the time.

On the morning he was born she sang it all the way through the delivery, bellowing brokenly at the top of her lungs when the contractions tried to rip her insides out and softly when she barely had a breath. By the time he came into the world everyone in the delivery room was singing it too.

She sang it as she nursed him, holding him tenderly, gently brushing his hair from his damp little brow, gazing into his eyes. And when he was teething and everything hurt his little soul she’d place her lips against his fevered cheek and whisper-sing it till his sobs became hiccups and his body molded into hers and he eventually drifted into exhausted sleep.

When the bumps and bruises of a world that could never be as comfortable or safe as her arms no matter how hard she tried to make it so, comfort came through the familiar as he joined in and sang along with baby-lisped words, eyes huge with hurt and trust.

Throughout the trials of growing and trying and failing she’d wrap her arms around him and say, “It’s not your season, yet, Buddy. Keep doing your best and someday it will be your time.” And then she’d sing the song.

Sometimes he’d storm out of the room, “You just don’t get it, Mom!”

Sometimes he’d stay and let her finish before he’d sigh and say, “Yeah, maybe.”

One time he informed her that her favorite song wasn’t original. It had all been written out a few thousand years before by some old king.

“Really? Cool.” And of course, she then sang it all the way through and he laughed.

“Yeah, cool.”

As the years tumbled into decades, and he went from little league to college and career and marriage and fatherhood, the song still featured in his life as his mom sang it to his children and they sang it to him.

On the day he laid her to rest it was the last song those who knew and loved her sang together around her grave, through their smiles and their tears and their fondest memories.

And as the years turned, he sang it to his grandchildren and his great grandchildren, and they in turn sang to their own little ones. Each generation in its turn shared the words and the melody of a song sung by a band from across the ocean and written by some old king.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W4ga_M5Zdn4