College of the Crones- cont.

tonic

Chapter One- The Funeral- Part 3

But the prince was overwhelmingly handsome, charming in speech, and strong in will, and none of the women who joined his court could resist him. Mikel had shielded her, his importance as a blacksmith affording him a few privileges. But now she was exposed, husbandless. Their ruler could take her as an act of charity, sparing her destruction.

Some of the wives came forward to offer their condolences and admire her fine mourning clothes. Mikel would have loved this dress. It contrasts perfectly with my pale skin and pink lips. Her neighbor Madelin approached her with hugs and kisses, wishing her good fortune in seeking her next mate. Adel, already a veteran of six marriages, tried to introduce her to a potential suitor, one of her distant relatives. How can they be so cold? My dearest friend and husband is suddenly gone, and they choose this moment, his memorial, to begin the matchmaking.

Mikel was Erin’s first husband. Will I ever bond with another mate only to lose him as well? He carried my heart away with him that night. I have nothing left for another. In a culture where arranged marriages and third and fourth husbands were the norm, it seemed love was a luxury few women enjoyed. But for Erin, life would forever be divided into two parts: life with Mikel and life without him. Her loss was a fortress surrounding her, separating her from the kindness of others. She refused to be comforted, preferring instead to remain captive in sorrow.

After crone singers opened with a solemn song, the mayor began the memorial, saying many fine things about her husband. He praised their blacksmith’s every accomplishment, from the shoeing of the prince’s famous steeds to the construction of the elegant village clock. After he was finished, the prince’s representative delivered a stirring eulogy praising the marvelous weapons Mikel had forged. Erin’s step-father and sister sat dabbing their eyes and sniffing. Her mother’s striking features were dry, her pale green eyes narrowed slightly as her gaze fell on her eldest daughter. Erin sat next to but far apart from them, trying not to get caught up in their grief, having too much of it herself to take on more.

Next was Old Tong, who shared his memories of training Mikel as his apprentice. Old Tong had been a precise craftsman in his day, concerned with every detail, from heating the forge to shaping a nail. This eye for detail stamped into young Mikel as well, as the elder blacksmith spent many hours insisting that they adopt standards of excellence. “Hot forge, cool head, steady hand, stout heart,” he’d always said. Mikel was the finest student he had ever trained.

Erin listened to her husband’s teacher, brimming with pride. But her face and body betrayed no emotion at all. She knew if she allowed any feelings to show she would lose all control. It was hard enough to keep the knives quiet in her heart without allowing tears to seep through. She had not cried since she was a young girl. Crying made her eyes look puffy. She kept her eyes on her lace gloves. They seemed to need constant adjustment.

After all the words were shared, songs sung, tears wept, and family members hugged, the crones took the children home to bed while the rest headed over to the pub. After assuring her sister that she would soon join them, Erin allowed herself to relax in the empty room. As difficult as it was to attend her husband’s memorial, somehow some of the crushing weight was gone.

December 28, 2015 0

College of the Crones-cont.

tonic

Chapter One- The Funeral- Part 2

Even though his body was never found, Mikel was declared dead, in accordance with the law in Beautiful. Because of her husband’s great service to their village, the mayor wanted to make sure the blacksmith had a proper memorial. It would also serve as the public declaration that Erin’s period of mourning was over and the time for courting had begun.

Every morning she checked her face in the mirror for wrinkles. Although she had celebrated only eighteen birthdays, she had reason to worry. The small brown bottle was empty on her dressing table, reminding her that time was running out for her beauty.

The tonic.

Erin remembered the first time she saw the small brown bottle sitting on her mother’s dressing table, right next to a silver hand mirror. She had picked it up and tried to pry out the cork when her mother entered the bedchamber and quickly rescued it from her three–year-old hands.

“No! Bad girl!” she had cried in panic. “Don’t play with Mother’s things!” Her mother was wide-eyed and flushed of cheek, still beautiful but also frightening enough to make Erin cry. She was too young to understand the bottle’s importance. Only years later, when she was sent to finishing school, did she realize the tonic’s value.

Her training told her she needed to remarry so that she could maintain access to the tonic. The alterative, turning into a hunched over, shriveled up crone was unthinkable. The only cure was the prince’s tonic, which he was willing to sell to husbands at a high price. But Erin knew that a new husband and beauty tonic that came with him would never cover the ugly pain in her heart.

Was it the thought of marrying someone else, or was it the prince who frightened her? She remembered his eyes measuring her every time they attended the prince’s festivities. The prince presided over every birthday and ball and when giving his blessing, if he was taken with the presumed bride, it was his right–and one he exercised from time to time–to take the woman for himself. Their husbands could not reclaim them, but instead must choose a replacement wife.

The prince could command the hand of any woman he chose, even one with a family. If he took a woman with children, she wouldn’t see her children again until they were wives themselves, visiting the castle for parties. To be at the whim of the prince was part of the price the citizens paid for the tonic.

Some were more willing than others.

December 27, 2015 0

College of the Crones- revised

tonic

Chapter One- Funeral Part 1

Erin looked over her shoulder, shivering at the icy cloud of death surrounding the somber villagers as they silently filed into the council chamber. She smoothed down her long black dress elegantly trimmed with black crocheted lace and pearl buttons. Her ageless face was hidden behind a veil that cascaded over the brim of a black feather-trimmed hat. She adjusted the hat so that it sat correctly on top of her dark braided hair. Then she pressed her dress smartly down over her knees and crossed her hands in her lap to ensure no one could see them shaking.

I can’t believe I’m here. She closed her eyes with a sigh, and then opened them expecting to see her husband enter the room, rushing over to comfort her. I can’t believe he’s really gone. When Mikel had first disappeared, she clung to the hope that he would be found somewhere in the hills, injured but still alive. She left early that night from the prince’s ball, with some of their friends. Mikel told her he needed to finish up some business at the castle and would return the next day. He had kissed her hastily, neither imagining this would be their last kiss.

But it was their last kiss, as well as their last embrace, last glance, last smile together. Even now she dared not gaze at his face in her memories. The sharp knives of loss waited in ambush. Instead she took a deep breath and smoothed her dress again. She must remain poised and beautiful, despite her grief. After a few moments, her discipline failed, and her mind returned to that day.

Frantically she had appealed to the prince concerning her husband. The prince and his agents swore they sent Mikel home the next morning on one of the royal stable’s finest horses, but the animal returned to the castle riderless that evening. In response to Erin’s plea, their ruler had sent out his best trackers to scour the surrounding countryside.

No trace of her husband was ever found.

Six months later, she realized that her identity had disappeared on that horse as well. After a childhood spent learning how to become “Mikel the blacksmith’s beautiful wife,” she wasn’t sure who she was supposed to be now. Her husband was different from most of the men in Beautiful. He truly loved her for who she was, regardless of her beauty. Memories of him forced their way to the front of her mind: dancing at her sixteenth birthday ball, riding away in their wedding carriage a few months later, cuddling together by the fire, whispering dreams to each other… The searing pain stabbed her without mercy. Without Mikel, she was a delicate crystal goblet after a party. Stunning but empty.

December 27, 2015 1

Silence

lightbeams

“Do you want me to stop at the store on the way home?” her husband asked from the bathroom as he combed his hair. He waited for an answer and sighed. When would he remember?

He walked out to the kitchen and repeated his question as he put on his jacket and grabbed his lunch. His wife, holding her first cup of coffee in her hands, nodded her head, and handed him a list. Her husband read it, and tucked it into his jacket pocket. She followed him to the front door, where he said, “I love you, see you later.” She smiled as he leaned in for a quick kiss.

After locking the door, she settled into her soft blankets on the couch. It was the beginning of another quiet day, the same as the others since she had come home from the doctor’s office. Her Bible and her coffee eased her into the morning.

About 11:30, her phone rang, and she picked it up to see who would call her. Seeing her husband’s face on the screen, she smiled and set down the phone. I wonder how long it will take him to figure it out this time? A few moments later, her phone buzzed, and she read the text message.

“Hi, honey. Sorry I forgot and tried to call you. How is your day going?”

She typed him a message back. “All’s quiet on the home front. Getting ready to work on my book.”

A message came soon after. “Have a great day. Love you.”

She typed back. “Love you.”

She opened up her computer and began to work. Her mind wandered as she stared at her first draft covered with red strike throughs and comments from her editor. She drank from her water bottle. Ever since the operation, her thoughts ran deeper and more complex. No talking meant more thinking. She wondered how people lived without spoken communication.

All of her thoughts, these past two days, had belonged to her. Aside from emails and texts, her world had turned silent. At first she had fought against it, texting her husband at the dinner table to simulate communication. But after the second day, she embraced the peaceful quiet evenings, and listened to her husband instead, encouraging him with a nod and a smile. A hug seemed to demonstrate her support more than her words ever had done.

Turning back to her computer, she started into the tangled mess of words that would become her book. Hours passed as she sorted out sentences, hacked away the excess, and reformed the plot. When she looked up, it was time to start dinner.

Even though her doctor-imposed silence would end after a week, she felt peace like she had never experienced. Maybe those monks had it right with their vows of silence. What had begun as exile from the land of conversation turned into a refreshing retreat.

December 17, 2015 2

A Perfect Day

working

The 5:10 a.m. alarm wasn’t as shrill as most Mondays. Instead of stretching out my back and doing some twists in bed before my feet hit the floor, I jump up and out to the kitchen to turn on the coffee. Aside from the whispering dream of walking all the way into the mountains to visit my grandkids (Where does that come from?), my mind is as clear as a desert sky. It’s going to be a perfect day.

I’m busy constructing my husband’s lunch as he emerges from the bathroom. His ham and cheese sandwich looks more purposeful than usual. I even remembered the mayonnaise today. This morning, I even take time to make peanut butter celery sticks. My husband looks awake and ready for his forty-five minute commute to Murrieta. He watches me curiously as I wrap them in foil.

“Why didn’t you stay in bed? I could have made my lunch this morning,” he says while wrapping me in a hug.

“I needed to get up,” I insist. “It’s going to be a perfect day.”

He nods with the understanding he alone has of the innermost workings of my mind. After pouring his coffee into his travel mug, and thermos for later, he gathers up his lunch and keys, kisses me, and heads out the door.

My day begins with devotion and meditation time. This involves a stack of pillows, a fleece blanket, a steaming bowl sized cup of coffee, and my Bible. Time to mentally and spiritually prepare for the day.

Some time passes, and I don’t look at the antique clock on the mantle once. This is a perfect day, and I don’t care about watching the time. When I’m ready, I unwrap myself from the couch and head into the kitchen. Instead of a quick bowl of instant oatmeal, I make myself an egg on an English muffin. I can nibble it slowly while I check social media on my phone. The sandwich actually has time enough to cool before I finish it, but this doesn’t annoy me because it’s going to be a perfect day.

Clean up can wait, and it’s time to plug in my lap top. I haven’t made a To Do List, but I’m not worried. Today I can post on my blog, do revisions on my book, and anything else I feel like doing. I might even watch a movie. Or maybe even DO NOTHING. The scandal of this thought causes me to shudder, but the moment passes quickly as I open up my computer. It’s going to be a perfect day.

The angle of the sun glaring through my kitchen window onto the breakfast bar where I sit typing measures the progress of my day. I write and drink coffee; I plan out my contribution to the Thanksgiving feast approaching in a few days. I pause to consider my own thankfulness. The whirlwind of my life contains many blessings- a husband-friend-partner, six children between us, six and a half grandchildren, supportive family, a teaching career, and the pursuit of a writing career. All of this is time well spent, but I do enjoy my vacation days, especially at the onset of the holiday season.

Today I won’t use my truck. Don’t expect me to call or text you. I might brush my hair, but I won’t put on makeup. When my husband returns at the end of the day, he won’t be surprised to find me curled up on the couch with my Kindle. After all, it’s a perfect day.

November 23, 2015 0

My first pitch at a writing conference

Last Saturday was the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators Editors Day at Cal State Fullerton. I was excited to hear presentations from the kind of people who would eventually decide the fate of my book. Over the past months I had attended conferences with advice from successful writers that was very practical. But they aren’t publishers.

What do editors and agents really think about writers? I’ve heard horror stories, although my personal experience has been the silence of unanswered queries or generic electronic rejections. Neither of which causes improvement in my writing.

When I received my name tag, my heart stopped when I saw the appointment time for my pitch session with an agent. When did I sign up for a pitch session? I never prepared for a pitch session. All day long, my hands shook as I scribbled notes from the various speakers. Some of the writers won the privilege of sitting with an editor or agent for lunch. However I was not, but later was grateful when my sandwich was spilling over with cream cheese and cranberries. I barely managed to eat it without wearing it for the rest of the day. And I had the opportunity to meet another blooming writer who was just starting down the path.

Much later, in the sleepy hours of the afternoon, it was my turn to walk down the hallway to the small door, and sit down next to the other rustling victims waiting for their turn. A much too cheerful well dressed lady asked my name and checked me off the list.

Then I sat, waiting.

Finally, the group before mine came out, and I noticed that no one was sniffling. I took it as a good omen as I walked in the door.

My interrogator, I mean agent, was a smiling woman with large glasses that made her appear as a young owl. We shook hands, and my story began. What started as an elevator pitch became a complete synopsis, encouraged by her questions. Even though I was a bit rattled, she encouraged me by sincerely seeking to understand my characters and their journey. She made astonishing suggestions that gave me a new perspective on my project. I never felt at any time that she would tell me to stop writing and do something productive with my life.

When I rejoined my newly met companions back in the lecture hall, I couldn’t stop smiling or writing down notes from my interview as fast as I could. It was all I could do to remain in my seat, not jumping up to return home and start making changes to my manuscript immediately. Why had I been so frightened? My new agent friend cared as deeply as I did about stories. Apparently that was the reason she worked in the publishing industry.

Writing needs feedback to grow just as flowers need water to flourish.

October 6, 2015 1

Friends

Your friendship starts small. You dip your toe in and cringe. “Too cold!”

Disappointed, she pulls away, giving you time to adjust. After a while, she creeps up again, this time with lacy froth.

Your feet stay in. “It’s not that bad.”

You follow after your new friend as she leaves again. Roaring with laughter, she hugs you tight, almost knocking you off your feet.

“Too much!” you complain, and this time she wrestles you down to the sand. Gasping for breath, you’ve had enough, and you turn away. Gently she holds you, pulling you toward her as your feet sink in the soft sand. Wave after wave, she tries to convince you to come back and play with her.

But you’re finished. It’s time to get out of the ocean and relax in your beach chair. Time to read about other friends’ lives.

August 18, 2015 0