Bad Stacks Story Collection Box Set (33 page)

His thoughts were of the world that was on the other side of that window.  He desired the pleasure of basking in the world of light.  He did not want to skulk in the shadows scavenging off of the weak and the unwitting.  His rage turned to the model that glowed on the table.  He snatched up a college award from a shelf and stormed over to it.  He decided he would smash the fucking thing that mocked him.  If he could no longer enjoy the things he made, then they would not exist.  He drew his arm back like a major league pitcher but hesitated and he let his arm drop to his side, the award still clutched in it.

He saw again the beauty in his creation and not the spite that he had thought was there. 
This is beautiful work
, he thought, and how he wished he could touch it right now.  He smiled in admiration of his achievement and his mind was awash with a flood of memories of his past accomplishments.  There was good in his work that came from the gift he possessed.  He would be a fool to destroy the memory of his work.  The spoilt child within him grew up into the adult he was and returned the award to its rightful place.

He sat staring at the shadows cast by a descending sun.  He would not see tonight’s sunset and thought about the times he had watched it from here.  He realized that he had never seen the sun rise from the sea like he had seen it descend.  He had one wish, and that was to see the sun rise from the sea to give birth to a new day.  He decided he would be a genie for a day and grant himself his wish.  He flicked through a portfolio of his work and occasionally gazed at his model that changed in color with the sun while the night dropped from the heavens.

When it was dark, a cab drove him to San Francisco International airport.  He paid the cabby a tip that he would never forget and that Thompson would never remember.  He went from ticket booth to ticket booth of the various airlines.  He wanted an overnight flight to the East Coast.  American Airlines Flight AA476 would get him to Miami an hour before sun up.  He purchased a ticket and checked in.  He was asked if he had any luggage and remarked he had everything he needed and tapped the sunglasses in his lapel pocket.

The flight was uncomfortable.  He could not sleep and hunger gnawed at his belly like it was an animal trying to eat its way out.  He refused the food offered by the stewardess, as he only desired the food that sat in the seats around him.  The flight landed on time and he left his fellow passengers at the baggage claim as he exited the deserted airport.  He hailed a cab.

“Where to?” the Cuban asked.

“The beach,” Thompson said.

“Which one?  There are lots, there’s the-”

“The closest one,” Thompson interrupted.

“Okay.”

The Cuban tried to engage his curious occupant in conversation and wondered what this man would want with the beach at this early hour.  Thompson dismissed the questions; this was not the time for a life story.  The cabby stopped curbside and Thompson gave him the last of his cash.

He had made it just in time—the sun was not far away.  A faint orange glow emanated from the horizon of the Atlantic Ocean.  He walked onto the deserted beach, kicking up sand that crept into his shoes but he ignored the irritation.  The sun had already filled the sky with light beyond the horizon and it would not be long before it did the same on the beach.  He knelt down in the sand.  He put his sunglasses on and hoped they would give him protection against the light as he eagerly waited for the show to begin.

The sun broke the surface of the water.  A brilliant light was cast over the sea and land like a fisherman’s net.  He watched the wondrous sight that blinded him even with the sunglasses.  His smile was as bright as the sun that crept over the sea. 
Beautiful
, he thought.

He had granted himself his wish of the perfect sunrise.  He felt the sun on his skin and it immediately blistered wherever it was exposed.  Tears of joy ran from his eyes even as they formed cataracts and it was not long before he lost sight of his final wish.  His tears bubbled, evaporating into steam on the super-heated flesh of his cheeks.

The sun continued to climb from the depths of the ocean spreading more light.  Paul Thompson’s light-sensitive body burned like a torch on the beach.  His smile disappeared in the flames, as did his undesirable future.

THE END

Learn more about the author at
www.simonwood.net

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###

THOUGH THY LIPS ARE PALE

By Maria Alexander

For youth is youth, and time will have it so,

And though thy lips are pale, and thine eyes wet

Farewell, thou must forget.

—”Good-Bye” by Anonymous, 15
^th
Century France

Painful sunlight, cold air blasting between my raw lips. My head lolls forward wearily, the bells of Prime clanging faintly from the Abbey. Men in ivory belts and mail coats
shing shing shing
from horse to chateau, squires scuttling like brown spiders behind their dirty gold spurs. Gripping the prayer book tucked in my muff, I am wondering which horse’s back holds my dowry. My thousands, our salvation. My life is not where I stand but strapped to a beast in a precious coffer I have never seen....

Three days ago my virginity was but a shadow that would darken another cloister wall. How swiftly this change of fortune visited me. I never dreamed I would be betrothed but assumed I would remain a wilting maid my whole life. My sisters were married but I was told there was nothing left for me. Perhaps I misunderstood. I sift through every handful of spilt words these last months but I remember nothing except the endless procession of ministers, priests, and manor lords come to counsel my father on the spoiled crops, uprisings, and political strife as he remains loyal to Paris. I do not recall hearing of a marriage contract, nor what might have been the visitors who would bring the bride price. Then three nights ago, Mother’s proclamation of betrothal came to me in my bed chambers like the Angel’s annunciation to the Virgin. I am to wed the son of a Duke in the Duchy of Normandy.

I have only thirteen Yuletides.

As Mother and I walk into the weak light of morning, my companions weep piteously from the chateau gate. One secrets a small bottle of rose, cardamom, and cumin in a silk handkerchief as a parting gift. We had whispered excitedly about the marriage: Would I run a big household? Would I have lots of children? Is my betrothed handsome? My friends assured me that with my flaxen hair and azure eyes I was pretty enough to love. And I believed them. For a moment, at least.

Mother sees my distress as I leave my companions and places a hand on my cheek, withering resignation in her touch. “Worry not,” she says. “In your trousseau are great swaths of Italian damask that are blue as robin’s eggs, linen fair as fresh cream, velvet black as a murder’s wings, and fine woolens to fend off the damp chill of Normandy.”

I do not recall seeing these fabrics in my trousseau much less the armoire that holds them. Only the carefully wrapped packs of heavily salted fish and pork, the bulky sacks of
trancheor
loaves, jugs of cider, dried cheese rinds and other rations. Far more than four day’s travel. I suppose one cannot underestimate the appetites of men.

Wrinkled red faces peer from the kitchen. Breezes nuzzle the beech leaves overhead as I am lifted into the gaily colored cart and seated amongst plentiful furs, which I gather around me. I find some toiletries and a few small bundles of rations buried in the furs. It is eerily quiet. No saltarellos, singers, or noisemakers to celebrate my fortune and wish me well.

“Where are the men who serve my betrothed?” I ask Mother. “Why do they not retrieve me as they did my sisters?”

“We must hurry,” she says and withdraws her regard. I fall voiceless.

Leaves crackling beneath their knees, the men in ivory belts brandish their swords, swear oaths to great angels and troth fealty to my mother’s amaranthine beauty. My heart floats like cobwebs on a breeze when I hear such words. I sit motionless, suspended in the rapture of their praise for Mother’s spiritual and physical perfections. Then, they mount their horses with a shout, heraldry held aloft. The horses
clop clop clop
and we move away from the chateau.

I brush away the silt of confusion. I am excited to one day soon have the service of such fine warriors who speak words of admiration, to one day inspire the good deeds and thoughts of a man who fights for both me and mild mother Mary. One day soon, I will be the one protected and honored. (Then again, the wedding might be some years from now. No one can say.) In the meantime, I can write letters to my mother and sisters, and I love my books. Surely I can have more of those, too.

After some distance, I gather my courage and skirts to crawl forward to the curtains. I part them on the far left side to reveal the patchwork
bocage
of Bretagne passing behind us. The black hedges of oak quilt the borders between great squares of dark verdant grasses dotted with the ashy broom bushes and the feathery heads of heather wearing tiny jewels of dew. My tongue curls over my lips as if to taste the succulent vegetation. Then the sour stench of the horses worms into the feast as one cantors up to my cart. The squire runs alongside to catch up. The man riding the horse is layered in chain mail and a bright red poplin tunic swathed at the waist with the ivory belt. I am frightened by the breadth of his meaty jaw, the cruel squint of his eyes and the faded mulberry scar ripping the bridge of his nose. A thin veil of benevolence spreads over his otherwise dark face as he speaks to me. “Hail, little one. It goes well?”

I nod.

“You are sick from the cart, no?”

I shake my head.

He raises his head to speak to the others. “Hitch a cart to this one! She is strong as an ox!”

My stomach turns sickeningly with embarrassment as they laugh. I let the curtain close and fall back into darkness. The warriors wheedle me to come out again, but instead I curl up on the furs and sleep until hunger burns all the way into my mouth. My eyes grow accustomed to the darkness. Small blades of light slash through the swaying curtains from the other end of the cart. I fumble for a small bundle of food and devour my rugged, salty
dejeuner
like a starved beggar. The thick painful lump in my stomach afterwards reminds me that for a few days I will have to endure poor foods.

The cart stops once for a brief rest as the magpies harshly chirp
areprepreprep
in the gray branches with yellowish leaves. An ill omen, but also a warning of armed men nearby. Who is he warning of our presence? After emptying my chamber pot over the open lip, I cautiously slide out of the cart and visit the trail. It seems so broken already, as if we were never a solid road at all. The men in chain mail relieve themselves, murmuring quietly to one another. Their cheeks turn ashen in the mottled light, eyes widening, lips wet with argument. Are they afraid? They cannot possibly be afraid, they who have jousted for Mother. They who have killed infidels, Englishmen, perhaps even brethren. They who have one another. They are never alone. Like me.

“Let us go, little one!” the frightening man calls to me, wincing as his squire helps him into his saddle. A handsome man helps me scramble back into the cart (“
Hup!
”) where I hide like a field mouse in the folds of fur. I have never been out of the chateau for more than a few hours. I grow more nervous by the moment, as if evil spirits are stitching back and forth through my skin, around my bones and fingers.