The Death of Vernon Dursley

“...and I saw multitudes
to every side of me; their howls were loud
while, wheeling weights, they use their chest to push
They struck against each other; at that point,
each turned around and, wheeling back those weights,
cried out: Why do you hoard? Why do you squander?”
-Dante’s Inferno, Canto VII

The Death of Vernon Dursley

Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive woke with a start. His heart was pounding a tattoo in his massive chest as it rose and set with fury. He rolled over slowly, like some kind of landed manatee, swinging his fat feet to the floor with a meaty slap.

“Petunia. Oh, Petunia I had the most terrible dream. You had left and you’d taken our Dudders with you.” He turned to face a cold and empty bed beside him.

Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive leaned his mammoth form forward and buried his small fat face in his meaty hands. And he began to cry. It had been no dream. This had all really happened to him. He was all alone now. All alone in Number Four, Privet Drive.

The shopping cart wheel squeaked laboriously, as if trying to make as much sound as possible as the wheel went round and round on the rusty axel. The fluorescent lights above the grocery store aisles flickered in time to the circular squeaking. He made the shopping cart seem small beside his massive form as he leaned his tweed jacketed arms against it for support.

“Now. Now, then. Let’s see here.” He stammered as he walked and talked to himself. He had no one else to talk to anymore. Not since Petunia and Dudley had left. He tried not to think of that morning when Petunia had stormed out of the house, Dudley in tow. Dudders would be fine. He was a big boy and he’d be sure to find a job in the mines up north. Vernon had. And he had been younger at that time.

“Excuse me, sir. But do you know where the peas are?”

Vernon recoiled from the old, shaking woman who had interrupted his thoughts. Right into the rickety cart. There was a moment of tipping, when the cart was balanced on just two wheels. He saw it as if time had slowed down. He tried to reach out, to grab it, but it was as if he was moving in slow motion with the falling cart. Dancing some strange, treacly dance. It was just a bit too far, a fraction out of his reach.

Then there was the cacophony of broken jars, battered containers, and beans spilling out across the floor and skittling along the tiles. He was breathing hard, his face must have been the color of a ripe tomato, he thought as he seethed towards the old woman. But where the old Vernon would have began yelling, cursing, telling her to watch where she was going, blaming her for sneaking up on him, he suddenly felt the anger turn to something else. Something worse.

His chest tightened, he couldn’t breathe. He felt like the walls were warping and twisting and towering over him, as if the ceiling and the fluorescent lights were slowly descending, coming to crush him. He wheezed and cursed and his eyes watered as he clenched them shut tightly. The panic beat furiously at the darkness behind his eyelids. It filled him, consumed him, coursed like ice through his veins and made his prodigious stomach shudder and convulse. He wanted to throw up.

Instead, he opened his eyes slowly. He saw the old woman standing with her hand covering her quivering mouth. She was saying something. Asking him something. But Vernon could not place meaning on the words “are you alright” or “do you need me to call an ambulance”. And then it passed. The entire episode had lasted no more than a few seconds even though it had felt like an hour of agony.

Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive was shaking as he stood. Damn, this was the reason why Petunia had left and why Dudley had left and why everyone now pretended not to know or remember he existed. He walked down the aisle like he was in a trance ignoring the wraith figure of the old woman hovering at the background of the aisle and the tipped cart and its scattered contents. Maybe he was in a trance. Maybe it had been that Potter boy’s doing.

It was always the same thing, over and over again. First the owls, then the flying Ford Anglia, then the wizards. Every time something had upset his life it always, always, always came back down to that boy! The boy who lived, they called him. Many a night had Vernon prayed, to no particular god or deity, that the boy had died instead. He could still have his life. His sanity. His wife and son. Every good thing had left his life when the Potter boy had shown up. Some of it had just taken longer.

Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive left the store empty handed and went back to his tomblike house on Privet Drive. The rooms were cold and smelled of the stark emptiness that hotel rooms reeked of. The surfaces felt wrong, the walls oily and greasy with dust. The floorboards creaked with menace that their slumber should be disturbed. The house felt wrong without Petunia there baking a cake or Dudley eating it. Now it was just him. He sunk into the couch. Willing his form to merge with it, for it to swallow him. Encase him.  He turned the telie on, but there was only commercials for Sunbright, liquid pine cleaner on. Sunbright, add a dash of sunshine to your home. And no matter which channel he put on, no matter how long he stayed on that channel it was only commercials. Only ever commercials for Sunbright, liquid pine cleaner. Add a dash of sunshine to your home.

Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive couldn’t sleep. He paced the round mat that covered the wooden floor of his bedroom. His bedroom. Not theirs anymore. Round and round the mat he went as he paced and thought and muttered and tried to remember what he had been trying to do. Like some monk in deep meditation while walking the labyrinth on the floor of a cathedral. He’d been trying to sleep. That’s right. That’s right. Sleep. He lowered his hefty frame onto the protesting, squeaking bedframe and willed himself to sleep. Willed himself not to dream. Not again.

Mr Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive woke with a start. His face was covered in sweat and maybe tears. He rolled over slowly, grunting with the effort to face the other side of the bed.

“Petunia. Petunia I had the most terrible dream. You had left and you’d taken our Dudders with you. And I was alone in the house and there was only one commercial on the telie.” He turned to face a cold and empty bed beside him again.

Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive buried his face in the warm, soaked pillow and bit into the fabric as he groaned in agony. And he began to sob big, warm tears. It had been no dream. This had all really happened to him. He was all alone now. All alone in Number Four, Privet Drive.

The wheel on the shopping cart squeaked even more in protest as it attempted to turn on the axle that was bent out of shape. He pushed onward anyway, trying to force his way down the aisle against the agonized wail of the cart’s wheel. He was focused. Determined. He would be indomitable. He pushed through the aisle, secretly glad to see that there was no people. He was not certain what he would have done had there been any. He furtively checked behind him every few second though, just in case.

It was not that he had ever had a problem with people. They all simply had problems with him and that had been their own fault and their own business to deal with. No, this was new and different and unwelcome. Since the first day that redheaded wizard had blown up his fireplace he had been haunted. Haunted by how normal the wizard man had looked. Old men in beards and robes and hags with warts and pointy hats he could stand against. He could resist. But that redheaded wizard man had looked like any one of the gents at the pub. If he hadn’t just materialized out of a fireplace, Vernon would not even have suspected him of being a wizard.

And there was the problem. And Vernon groaned audibly with a slight shudder of terror as he saw another cart begin to nose around the edge of the aisle. The young boy and his mother came into view and Vernon tried to keep moving but found, suddenly, that he couldn’t. He was frozen, like some deer in the headlights of an oncoming lorie, all he could do was stare wide, bulging eyed at them.

Maybe the mother decided she didn’t need to buy any melons today. Or more likely she noticed the strange man glaring at her and her son standing next to the melons. Either way they didn’t turn down the aisle and instead continued past Vernon’s line of sight. As the last trace of other person disappeared, Vernon finally let out a breath and leaned against the cart. That was the problem.

If Vernon couldn’t tell witches and wizards apart from normal people then how could he tell who was who. Anyone could be a witch or a wizard. That woman pushing the cart, or even just the boy. Hadn’t Petunia’s own sister been a freak like that. A perfectly normal family. Nothing strange or out of the ordinary until one day the little freak just started spouting magic and making problems and owls started arriving and things went amok. Anyone could be one of them. Waiting. Just waiting.

Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive glanced over his shoulder nervously again as he stood in line to pay for his groceries. A bag of peanuts. A cherry pie. A container of Sunbright liquid pine cleaner. Add a touch of sunshine to your home. He licked his salty lips nervously as he watched the cashier finish ringing up the people in front of him. His nervous gaze flicked back and forth between the woman and her son walking out, and the cashier behind the register. A blond haired boy with a speckling of acne across his cheeks and chin. He smiled a metallic grin at Vernon that spoke nothing of friendliness and everything of boredom.

“How are you today then, sir? Find everything alright?”

This is the part where I speak. This is the part where I answer, Vernon thought as he felt himself begin to sweat. He felt his tongue like a lead weight in his mouth, forcing his mouth to gape open but not moving to form any words. His throat was constricting, getting smaller and smaller as his lungs began beating at his chest to try and squeeze more air through his constricted windpipe.

“Sir? Is anything the matter?” Metal mouth was looking scared as he stepped towards Mr. Dursley’s shaking form and touched his arm.

“Ghwa!” Vernon stuttered and groaned, “What are you doing to me?!”

“Nothing, sir. I just wanted to make sure you were al––” But the boy couldn’t say anything further.

“Don’t touch me! Don’t you touch me! You filthy, disgusting, wizard! Don’t think I don’t know!” Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive shrieked as he backed away from the cashier, inching towards the door. “You think you’re some big secret, that none of us know! Well, I do! I know! I know! And I’m telling you right now, that no one pulls one over Vernon Dursley, no they do not!”

Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive was panting heavily and out of breath as he slammed the door to Number Four, Privet Drive, cracking the glass set in it, and leaned his bulky frame against it. The inside of the house was dark and cold. It reminded him of his boyhood. When he and his sister had been taken to an old castle on summer holiday. How they had found the cemetery and an old sepulcher belonging to some ancient and long dead family. They had gone in and the air had tasted stale and cold and the deep darkness had not left their souls even after they had left the old tomb. The darkness in Number Four, Privet Drive felt exactly the same–– deep.

“Damn, wizards!” He cursed as he stomped through the house, strangely invigorated and roused by his escape from the cashier in the grocery store. “Thought they’d get me, did they! Well, I know a thing or two about their kind, I do! For one, I know that they exist! So they can’t cheat me or trick me into thinking I’m going mad! Its all just a trick. It’s a trick and the only defense is not to give ‘em any ground, it is! That it is! That it is!”

Number Four, Privet Drive was silent in answer to his roaring at the rafters. He seemed to calm a bit, tucked in his shirt and took of his tweed jacket. The kitchen had always been Petunia’s realm. Vernon had been very kind and generous to give up this as his wife’s territory. But now he was lord of all again. And so he threw his jacket on the counter, and swung open the pantry door.

There was an old wheel of cheese, a round cask of ale, and a single shriveled onion. He opened the fridge but found it bare and empty, reminding him of his grocery store fiascos and why he’d have to return there again the next day. Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive did not need reminding of that, and shut the fridge. He took out the wheel of cheese, the cask of ale, and the onion.

A match was lit in the growing gloom of the blue twilight that seeped through the windows. The candle sputtered to life and glowed faintly. Very faintly, a halo of warmth and comfort. The table was set for one, with the best bone china and sterling silver cutlery. A round goblet, some old family heirloom was filled to the brim with the warm ale. On the plate, round circles of raw onion sat next to cheese riddled with holes.

Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive surveyed his work with pride. He did not need Petunia. He had prepared a fine meal, a damn fine meal, all on his own. He sat and cut into the onion. It bit his tongue and watered his eyes and burned around the edges of his mouth. The cheese was sharp and tangy but offered little as far as flavor went, coating the inside of his mouth with thick, fatty warmth. The ale washed it all down and sat like a smouldering log in his stomach. The silver on the china made a soft clinking sound, like hail on a window pane, in the cavernous silence inside Number Four, Privet Drive.

Perhaps it was the food, since it had been almost two days since he had eaten last. Or perhaps it was the ale, the alcohol slowly numbing his sense and dulling the throbbing migraine at the back of his head. Or perhaps it was the candlelight, like a small spark of hope in the inky darkness of despair that surrounded him. But for some reason, a flush of warmth glowed through Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive and he felt that maybe, just maybe, even with Petunia and Dudley gone, everything was going to be fine.

And then that warmth grew warmer. Like a coal being blown on, it glowed just a bit too much, just bordering on discomfort. He kept eating, throwing the cheese and the onion slices and the ale back as fast as he could, trying to bring the gentle warmth back. But it just got worse. The coal had solidified in his stomach into a burning lance of hot white, pain. He clutched the table, his face turning red, the room growing smaller, the pain getting hotter and hotter. And then everything started spinning.

He pulled the tablecloth with him as he fell to the floor, trying to find something solid, something he could anchor himself to. He opened his mouth to curse but instead the cheese and onion and ale began to come up, waves of vomit and sick all over the floor, down his shirt. He stumbled down the hallway and up the stairs, leaving a trail of cheesy, oniony, ale behind him. He threw open the bathroom door and launched himself against the porcelain bowl. He pressed his face through it and heaved over and over again, feeling his body convulse and shake, his eyes water, his lungs quake for a breath in between the waves of sickness. The round bowl shook under his straining fists that held the sides. Time slipped away from him as he lay there, covered in his vomit and the stale taste of the ale in his mouth.

Mr. Vernon Dursley did not even try to change. His shirt had lost buttons in the mad dash to the bathroom. He simply fell on the bed and closed his eyes. No pacing the mat tonight. No trying to go to sleep. His body quivered with the expectation of rest. He let the obsidian blackness of the room take him.

He woke with a start. The room was dark and smelled faintly of an odor he could not place. Sweet but cloying. He had had the strangest dream. More of a nightmare. But then the horrid thought occurred to him that it hadn’t been a dream. That Petunia and Dudley were actually gone.

“Gone.” He whimpered to the darkness.

“What?” came the groan from next to him.

He turned his bulky frame to face the thin woman in the bed next to him. He felt tears well up in his eyes. It had all been a nightmare. Some terrible twisted dream! He reached for Petunia and she smiled at him groggily. Then Petunia was gone. Just a horrible skeleton in her place, with smoke pouring from her round, eye sockets. The smoke reached out long hands into his mouth and filled his throat. He tried to cough, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t breathe.  

Mr Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive woke with a start. He coughed again as he got a mouth-full of smoke. His room was filled with it. He jumped up yelling as he did.

“Petunia. Wake up! There’s something wrong! Dudders must have set fireworks off in the house again!” She wasn’t there. Again. Just the empty bed beside him. He followed the trail of sick down the stairs to the smoldering tablecloth and the small fire licking at the side of the table. The candle from last night, he thought.

Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive buried his sooty face in his greasy hands. He would take care of the fire in a moment. It wasn’t going anywhere. For a moment. For a moment he had truly thought that maybe it had all been a dream. That maybe Petunia had never left. That maybe his life wasn’t falling apart. Now the grey emptiness took him and he couldn’t even find tears. He just sat there. Maybe he’d let the fire burn him up. Maybe he’d never move from that spot again.

People moved away from Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive as he shuffled down the sidewalk. His bedraggled appearance ––his unbottoned shirt, his messy hair, the trail of caked sick over his front–– was not nearly as unsettling as the dull, watery grey of his red-rimmed eyes that did not seem to blink. He walked down the aisle of the grocery store and he heard the squeaking whine again of a grocery cart wheel. He turned but there was no cart in sight.

He kept walking, another whining wheel joining the first one, and then another and another and another until the cacophony of whining, screeching, squeaking wheels pounded through his head reverberated through his faintly chattering teeth. And then the noise all turned to harmony as he saw the Sunbright cleaner. Of course, of course. That’s why he had seen the commercials over and over again. The universe was trying to tell him. The way that he could have his life back. Add a touch of sunshine to your home! Of course!

His hands were shaking as he grabbed the bottle and started walking towards the door. The acne faced teen from before tried to step in front of him, his metal words forming slowly in Vernon’s mind.

“I’m sorry sir, but you have to pay for that first.”

And then the boy was on the ground. And he was holding his stomach and he was crying. Crying and crying. Vernon realized he was holding his father’s revolver in his hand. But that couldn’t be right. The revolver was back at Number Four, Privet Drive, under his mattress. Petunia had insisted that he keep it there. He couldn’t be holding it.

He puzzled over the mysterious revolver as he stepped over the bleeding boy on the floor and out of the door. He continued down the street with his bottle of Sunbright, add a touch of sunshine to your home, when he heard the distant sirens through the haze of squeaking wheels in his mind. And then he realized.

“Those damn wizards!” He cursed to passerby’s in the street. “They did this! They killed the boy in the store and then put my father’s gun in my hand so they’d think I did it! But they don’t know that I know that they know! I still have it! I still have the element of surprise! And now I have the Sunbright too!”

Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive was home. He slammed the door behind him but it just hung loosely from the hinge. He uncorked the Sunbright liquid pine cleaner–– add a touch of sunshine to your house–– and began splattering it in archs of bright orange across the walls and tables and chairs and carpet and ceiling and lamps and kitchen and everything else. He ran up the stairs, smearing the walls with the orange cleaner as he went, pouring it on the carpet.

And when he reached his small bedroom, he poured the last of the bottle over the bed and spread the soapy-sick mess around and around, building up a sticky white lather on the sheets, going round and round, digging his nails into the bedsheets until they started catching, tearing of one after another. Maybe that was what did it. Maybe that was what snapped him back. The stabs of pain coming from his bloodied fingers.

Realization dawned. The black streaks of sooty smoke against the wallpaper. The trail of crusted vomit in the carpet. The pink soapy-bloody suds on the bed. The cool press of the revolver in the pocket of his tweed jacket.

Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive took of his jacket and took out the revolver. He walked into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror over the crusted and dirty sink. His eyes were red and wide and watery. Thick purple bags hung under them, crusted with dried vomit. His face was showing the prickles of a beard after two days of not shaving, also smeared with sick. He looked into those eyes and knew everything was over. No one would believe him. Those wizards had won. They had out thought him and trapped him and now the police would come and he couldn’t tell them about the wizards because of course no one would believe Vernon. But there was still something he could do.

Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive placed the cold barrel of the revolver in his mouth. He looked at himself in the mirror as his thoughts raced through his head. He would do it. He would rob them of their goal. He would take himself out of the equation. He would make sure no bloody wizard got the better of him in the end.

Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive’s thoughts kept racing. It would be simple. Easy even. Probably painless. Maybe a moment but that would be it. He would do it. Just pull the trigger, Vernon. Come on, man up! Just pull the damn trigger and be done with all this! Put it all behind you! Come on, Vernon, do it! Do it! Don’t be such a coward, you piece of filth! You want those wizards to win! This is what they want! Don’t give it to them! Do it!

For a moment the face in the mirror changed to a dull grey face with deep black eyes. Mr. Vernon Dursley looked into the face of Despair. And he knew. He could feel it twisting at his heart, making his stomach heave dryly, that he couldn’t do it. He could never be brave enough to end it now. He let the revolver slump out of his mouth. He slumped to the floor and folded himself over, his forehead pressed against the bathroom tile.

Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive sobbed into the moldy grate of the grimey tiles. Not sure of what would happen now. Not sure of whether he’d ever see Petunia and Dudley again. Not sure if this was all just some sick form of hell and he was just being tortured by wizards or devils over and over again. Not sure if this was all just a nightmare and if he’d wake up again and again and again. But one thing he was sure of. If this was a nightmare and if he, Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive, did wake up with a start again, he would not turn and call to Petunia. He could not bare it. Could not bare to feel the cold and empty bed next to him again. Again. Again.

Awakening

Awakening

Eyes snap open with a gasping breath
Air filling vacant spaces
Expanding the vacuum
Rushing cooly over the warm of deadly compression
The first breath is painfully taken
Never given back again
And the lonely echo
Of a solitary heart of stone
Once more grinding off the dust
And giving a weak, almost faint, tremble of delight
Before the dust cracks
And time falls off
And the chamber expands once more
The beat, dum dum, the drum
Dum, dum.
The heart beats again
The blood courses through once more
Pounding with expansion
Gurgling through hollow veins
Muscles trembling, flooded with red power
And the gasp comes once more
I am breathing, again...
My heart is beating once more...
My soul gathers together again
Like memories after a deep dream
My will and mind condense again
Trickle together within me
Pools and crystalizes into my soul
I bask here in the still darkness
And hear the sound of my life
The hearbeating
The veingushing
The muscletremble
My lungs expanding, burning
My breathing
Now, my will, once more is strong
No longer to dwell in outer darkness long
Eyes shut tight for oh so long
Caked with sleep and iron strong
Hear me now oh my dear dear eyes
Strength has returned
Open
Lead laced lids begin to stir
Pupils dance behind flesh veils with expectation
Lashes locked for long part at the seam
And tears form diamond-like at the corner of the tears
First, as with all things, there is light
But so I knew that my eyes were finally open

The Goddess Gambit

The Goddess Gambit

Have you ever had a dream, that felt so real, that when you awoke, you felt that the dream world had been reality, and that your reality felt more as a dream? This is the story, my story, from the other reality, that is my dreams:

It was the final night of the last battle. The fires burned throughout our beloved Indara, our home. The hordes of Torin had overtaken the lower level of the city, and by noonday, the middle wall was breached as well. Fires burned throughout our homes, but we still had our lives. We fell back to the inner wall, whose green manicured lawns had not tasted the sour of war for over three-thousand years. There, where the sacred temple stood up against the mighty mountainside, we gathered before those cool marble steps that led to those hallowed bronze doors. The Lord Guard stepped forward, and ascended the stairs. Midway up, the doors began to creak open and we all bowed down, faces turned up in expectation and desperation.

They descended the steps like falling silk in the breeze, the four virgins in white gossamer, decked with bronze ornaments of office, each carrying the scepter of her goddess. Behind them came the incense bearers, holding long lanterns of bronze whose purple smoke rose to the sky. And behind them came the High Priestess, decked in her robes of gold and calendula yellow, her dark curls falling like a mantle around her face which had been painted hues of gold and bronze. She looked out from the doors over the red setting sun sky, the billowing pillars of black smoke rising to the heavens. Then she looked at him. The Lord Guard, his arm bandaged and bloody, his soldiers spent and shaken. He nodded to her. And she closed her eyes and called in her echoing sonorous voice,

“Let the people flee into the mountain caves, and let not all of the children of Indara die to save her.”a pause, “But we will not giver her up!”

And here the vestal virgins four repeated, “We will not give her up.”

“We will appeal to the Goddess to protect us!” She said opening her eyes.

“We will appeal to the Goddess to protect us.”

“We will appeal to her with our bodies!” She called, with arms outstretched to the heavens.

“We will appeal to her with our own bodies!”

“We will appeal… in her sacred flames!” She said turning and bowing towards the shrine.

“We will appeal in her sacred flames. So let it be done!” And they also turned and bowed.

And so I saw the people look with hope upon their last chance of survival, upon the five standing upon the marble stairs. And so the slow trickle began to the mountain cave openings, following the Lord Guard and incense bearers. And as they began trickling away, I returned to my guild and our master, who were readying the ancient scrolls and parchments to be carried away and saved from the on coming plundering. But as I lay my burden upon my back, the Great Recorder, my Master, came to me and drew me aside. And he spoke to me, about the need for one to remain behind, to record the acts of the enemy, and to make a record of the fall of Indara. And I knew he had selected me for this task, so I submitted to the yoke placed before me.

So, as my people went into the mountains, and fled the coming slaughter, I found an enemy tunic and donned the Torian mantel. And I went and hid myself in the shadows of the wall rubble. And there I waited as evening drew near. I waited for the hordes of Torin to come. This is my record of all I saw during the fall and sack of Indara.


* * *

It was near the midnight hour, when from my hiding place I saw movement near the temple doors. And I moved closer and there I could see now, not only the hallowed bronze doors, but beyond them, the great rotunda with its pillars of marble and it large blazing fiery altar in its bronze bowl. And between each column was a statue, two on each side, each of pure ivory. And standing before each statue was one of the four vestal priestesses, dressed in black garments of mourning. The first stepped from her place before the statue, and held forth her scepter, topped with the emblem of grain. And she spoke, loudly before the flame, repeating the chant of before.

“We will not give Indara up.” And then stabbed herself through the stomach with the sharpened, stake-like end of the scepter, and threw herself upon the flames.

I was sickened, horrified at the act, and yet, I could not look away as the next stepped forward and spoke,

“We will appeal to the Goddess to protect us.” And her scepter also flashed in the fire light, and her body also joined her sister’s.

I could not look any longer as I heard the gruesome sacrifice continue.

“We will appeal to her with out bodies.” Wet, sickening stab. Thudding body with crackling flames.

“We will appeal on her sacred flames.” And it was over.

I turned then to look, and beheld beyond the fire, the most holy image of all, that of the Great Goddess, carved from purest gold, eyes ablaze in the fire light, as if invigorated by the blood of her sacrifices. And then I saw the dark shadow between the statue and fire stand up. It was the High Priestess. She stood and spoke hauntingly.

“We will not give Indara up.”

And began walking around the fire.

“We will appeal to the Goddess to protect us. With our bodies we will appeal her.”

And as she reached the other side she looked out, and her eyes met mine, and she spoke,

“We will appeal on her sacred flames. So let it be done!” And pulled the bronze doors back in, their weight swinging back and shut with force. Then the sound of a mighty bolt falling echoed around the temple area. I slid back to my hiding place and awaited the hordes of Torin, noticing the moon fall behind clouds, clothing the night with deepest darkness.

* * *

It was just before sunrise that the horde of Torin breached the last wall and broke like the waves of a dam upon the sacred courtyard and meadow before the temple. They roared like many waters as they poured forth, but stopped just as suddenly. I watched as their war cry died to a haunted silence. All were quite in the tense nervousness of the unexpected emptiness. As the men stood in the eerie silence, a single cry of victory erupted from their ranks, which then cascaded into loud shouts of celebration. They began breaking away in groups, plundering the rich pilgrim shrines and so I was able to slip into the mulling bodies unnoticed, and began making my way to the front where two figures stood out over the rest upon the steps of the temple. As I drew near I hear them speaking.

“An easy victory, drink up Captain, you did well today.” Spoke the older, fat man.

“It was too easy a victory, and may still turn against us. General, perhaps we should not desecrate their shrines so. Perhaps their gods may smite us in their anger.” Said the younger captain.

“Hmph! If theirs gods did not protect them from our army, there is precious little they can do to us. You men! Gather a regiment or two and get those doors open! Come now, Captain of the Hosts, you should enjoy your victory today. Have some celebratory wine!” And the General then proceeded to lap down more of the wine.

As I drew closer to the two men speaking, I saw more than a score of soldiers begin pulling at the doors and ramming them with broken beams. Their work was short and soon the sacred bronze doors fell back under their assault. The morning sun had risen sharp and crisp behind us, and suddenly contrasted much with the dank pool of shade that was the inner sanctum of the temple. I joined the group of apprehensive soldiers at the door, as the Captain and General stepped forth and entered.

The interior of the rotunda was completely dark, save for the shaft of light that came from the doorway and fell across the floor to meet the second shaft of white, eerie light that fell from the oculus upon the black charred sacrificial bowl. The air was cool, and blue smoke hung like water around the empty chamber. A haunting dripping sound echoed within the darkness. In the haziness, the Captain walked forward and examined the contents of the bowl.

“Human. They must have been sacrificed to prevent our victory.” He spoke quietly.

“Hmph! What savagery! You see. This is why we conquered their city. And why we get to enjoy the spoils of war.” The General spoke nearly licking his lips at the sight of the four ivory statues.

“Hmmm.” The Captain said as he began examining the various ivory goddesses. "Wheat sheaves... must have been a grain goddess. And here. Bees and honey combs with this one."

"I don't care what type of goddess they are, they will all make impressive additions to my victory march in Torin." spoke the General as the Captain continued.

"This one has some kind of vineing plant around her arms, with small fruits. And the other has a sundial... purhaps a goddess of time?"

Then our party had reached the other side of dark rotunda. There the dripping sound grew louder. The Captain and General both saw it at the same time.

"Torin preserve us. What is that!?!" spoke the General.

"Wheat. Honey. Time.... and Hops. They worshiped a Great Goddess of Beer." said the Captain as he held a torch up to the gleaming golden idol, its four arms each supporting an amphora, crowned with a wreathe of wilted hops flowers, red ruby eyes blazing with indignation.

"You idiot! Its solid gold! Thats whats more important!!!!" called the General licking his lips with greed. "This will be the center piece of our triumphant return! The crown jewel of our five years of campaigning."

As if hearing them, there was a popping sound and suddenly amber-gold liquid began pouring from the navel of the statue. Everyone fell back, some soldiers bowing, a few running from the chamber. Then like frightened animals, they drew near again and inspected the liquid.

"It smells like..."the Captain began.

"Beer! Hmph! You there. Soldier!" the General said pointing in my direction.

The soldier beside me and I both pointed at ourselves questioningly.

"No, you on the left! Here, drink!" he said, letting a nearby bowl fill and handing it to the one next to me.

He drank, while we all watched him with anticipation, waiting to see if he would suddenly start convulsing or show some other symptom of being poisoned. But nothing happened.

"Its good." he spoke.

"This statue is obvisouly miraculous. It should be taken to our temple complex in Raza." The General called with sudden reverence as he himself also drew a bowl and drank of the golden fluid.

But just as he spoke the words, the flow suddenly stopped. This seemed to surprise all even more then when it had started. The captain threw his bowl down and grabbed the statue shaking it by its shoulders as he yelled, "Whaat happened?!?! Why did you stop!?! You are suppose to be my crown jewel of success!!!!"

"Purhaps the Goddess does not want to go to Raza." spoke the Captain, and the flow started again at his words.

"Hmph! Well then, where does it want to go?" spoke the General venomously.

The flow stopped again as the General began calling out name after name. When he finally said Torin, it started again.

"Torin it is." said the Captain.

They announced the news to the soldiers later, and it was met with cheers of joy. The tired soldiers had not been home for five years. And when they returned they would be the conquering heroes. That night, lots were drawn to see who would remain behind in Indara. Since the vanquished city was now empty, most could not wait to return and claim the rewards of being victors. And so only a small regement were left behind the next moring when we sailed away on the ships with the dark red sails, to the city of Torin.

* * *

Torin begins right at the coast of the bay, and spreads out like blood from there, the red painted houses and towers rising slowly to the highlands of the hills serrounding the city. White flags and flowers drapped the pink sandstone buildings and red tile roofs as the victory celebrations began. I had sneaked aboard the ship of the General and been assigned guard duty at his villa when we reached the city. His villa was located upon a terrace of the upper city wall, and had a high bridge running down from it to the villas of his three Captains.

All day long the feasting, singing, dancing, sacrifices, games, and tournaments continued. The people rejoiced greatly, all the more when the statue of the Goddess was brought forth, dressed in bridal rainment and led to the Temple of their God, where it was left to be ravish by the God of Torin. The General did not even care that the flow had stopped. It was worth it. The ultimate humiliation to the people of Indara, their eternal foes.

When night had come, the strong drinks were brought out as the entertainers began, and the large bonfires were lit in the golden couldrons all across the city. The pinkish hues seemed to fade into tan sand colour all around in the flicker flame lights that cascaded off the gold. And it was during this that all the people grew tired off of the wine and strong drink. So, while some continued making merry, the General retired to his villa, and I went along with his whole household.

It was the last watch of the night. The clouds were gone and a solitary moon hung over Torin like a beacon of ill will, a final last warning with its pale, spectral light. But Torin was too drunk off of its victory to see it. I passed through the house of the General like a wraith, walking quietly as I moved from room to room. Then, I reached the walkway to the General's own room. The walkway was another highbridge, with pillars supporting the roof, the evening air flowing between them lazily. I looked out from there and beheld the whole of Torin before me, and the sea before it.

A mist had gathered upon the waters and moved towards the city. It slithered like a snake over the walls and between the timbers of the door and cracks of the stones. It covered the entire city, and like a lapping wave, moved up towards the wall, where the villa was. I know not why, but I feared to face the mist, and so entered the room of the General. And there, in the stifling darkness, I thought I saw movement by the window. So I moved into a nook behind the door and watched.

The window flew open, the cool night air filling the room, while the curtains billowed out, allowing the haunting moonlight to fall upon the sleeping figure alone on the bed. Then the mist crested the lip of the window and flowed over it like water, covering the floor, while the scent of hops filled the air. And I saw a shadow in the mist rise up, and quaked with fear at what I saw.

It was her. The Goddess. She had come to life. She had only her two arms, and she did not seem quite as tall, but the severity of her gaze was precise. She stood at the foot of the bed and glided through the mist like a skiff on the water, till she was beside the sleeping head. Then she bend down and spoke in her sanorous voice, "Foul and wicked man. Your stench is an offence to humanity. You desicrated my altars. Now you and your entire city shall pay the price of your sacralige!"

And from the folds of her golden robe, she drew a copper blade, which gleamed in the icy cold moon light before burrying itself in his chest. It flashed twice more, while the General only had enough time to twitch once before it was over. Blood soaked into the grey woolen sheets of the bed. Then she rose her head, the mantel of dark curles falling back as her blood splattered face looked up. For a moment I thought she saw me, but then she turned and quickly slid from the room.

I stood in shock, looking at the dead figure on the bed. Then realization struck and I quickly jumped to my feet and followed the figure from afar. It was not hard to find her. I simply followed the path of dead sentries and blood. Soon I saw her walking between the highbride leading to the Captains' villas. I ran to catch up to her. She was moving on to the second villa when I made it to the first, all inside were killed by the copper blade of her vengence.

I took the path around the second villa and crept to the last. There, I waited till she entered and followed behind her in the shadows as she made work of all the sentries again. The stench of blood was horrible and mixed with her smell of hops. Then she went to the last Captains bed. He slept there, with his wife next to him and three small bundles between them, all breathing deeply. His family. Then she drew near and I held my breath in fear of what was to come.

But there was no gleam of the knife. Instead she pulled a bundle from beneath her robe and set it at the foot of the bed, then bent her face beside the Captain's ear and spoke, "Since you alone apposed the sack of my sanctuary, I have decided to spare you and your family. Tonight your city will fall and all the people in it will die. Leave when you awaken and don the Indarian cloaks at the foot of your bed. Leave all of your Torian clothes behind. They will only be a deathmark to you."

Then she left and I followed her, but not before closing the door hard enough for the Captain to awake. As I continued behind her, watching her slay the remaining sentries upon the walls, most of whom were inebriated anyway, I saw the coming sun barely blushing the night sky with the faintest of light blue. Once the sentries were all gone, she made her way to the great doors of Torin, and threw them open. Outside, she gave a whistle. Then the entire fogbank lit with thousands of lights.

The troops of Indara had not perished in the mountain caves but had went through the mountains to the otherside and marched across the plains to Torin. And now, the door was open, the sentries were dead, and there would be blood in Torin before the sunrise.

I withdrew in hiding once more, shed my Torian cloak and retreated to the wall where I began recording all I had seen that night, while the shrieks and cries began. Soon the low wail of the dying filled the air, then all was silent as the red sun burned the skies. In a single night, all of Torin fell to the blade of Indara.

* * *

As the celebrations continued and the people began carrying away their spoils, I went to deliver my completed record to my Master. But as I drew near, climbing over a segment of fallen wall, I saw the Lord-Guard walk towards the courtyard of the Temple of Torin's God. And so I walked to the doorway of the courtyard, and peaked in the chink in the door.

There in the bough covered courtyard of laid stone, the Lord-Guard walked towards the Temple doors, which stood open and ajar, one hanging upon a single hinge. Slain priest littered the ground, and the streaks of blood where bodies had been dragged away to be pilaged criss crossed the courtyard. Then I saw her come out of the darkened Temple.

It was the Goddess, who I now knew as the Priestess. She walked to the Lord-Guard and I heard their words echoing around the enclosed space.

"The plan worked." He spoke.

"Of course my plan worked." She answered in her sanorous voice. "I knew they could not resist such a treasure as the idol. But next time do not fill it up as high. You nearly drowned me in beer, and I had to let some drip out between my fingers as I held the hole in the navel shut, just so I could breathe."

"But it was all worth it. All of Torin has been slain. Our people have won. We will finally know peace. Not a single person from Torin survived to take revenge on our city. Right?" He said.

"Yes. I took care of everything. Well, almost." she said, and once more looked up from between her mantle of dark curles and straight into my eyes peaking through the chink, as if she saw me. "There is just one more loose end to take care of..."

Tonight

Juliet,
Where are you sleeping tonight?
What makes your face so bright?
It can't just be our moonlight.

Juliet,
Where is your bed of dreams?
Between roses and streams?
Where everything really is as it seems.

Juliet,
Sleep on soundly my dear.
I'll always be right here.
So sleep in sweet dreams, have no fear.

Juliet, sleep sweetly tonight.

Dreaming of Another Dawn

I dreamed of you last night
but not as you would wish
I dreamed you walked alone
Alone on that empty road
And as the rains fell down
They passed around your shaking shoulders
And not a single drop of rain
Soothed the ache of your dry skin

Those smiles of yesterday
Have all but passed us by
The words have now been spoken
And now your tears you have to cry
I wish we could go backwards
To the way the world was before
But its all over now
We've gone through the door

I dreamed of you last night
That this wind blew too hard
And the autumn leaves cut through you
Where used to beat your heart
And as the orange umbra about you
From the glow of these street lights
Softly tones your lonely way with sepia
It was all I could do but cry

These tears of your tomorrow
Will also pass you by
And the pain will grow less
With each long and heartfelt sigh
I wish we could go forward
To where my heart was always drawn
To once again laugh fearlessly
Instead of dreaming of another dawn

By the lake again
Wooden house with wide windows
We watch the mist roll
Across the still waters
While birds are silent

Glass hearts
Can hide no secrets
That's why we hid them
Exactly there
While the world looks in

Through these wide windows
Into the empty space
Between the glass panes
Into the quiet air
Between these two panes

The tinkle of crystal
Of glass hearts barely touching
While secretive whispers
Slip through the cracks
The icy sound of silence

Timelessness is so unattainable
We shiver at its very mention
For here in between the window panes
Time cannot breath this quiet air
Here we are safe

But no movement, all is frozen,
To shatter the silent pains
No words can be spoken
Or else we break the spell
And time will invade the sacred

Solid glass remains eternal
And movements remain unmoved
While echoes never spoken
Quiver in this empty air
Between the two glass panes

My Garden

My Garden

Today is a practice in reality. No, not in my normal, provocative rambles on debatable topics of uncertain resolvability. This is merely the fact. And maybe the greater facts that can be distilled and condensed from the facts. But enough of this rhetorical labyrinthine prelude. Let me welcome you to my garden.

The sun burns high in the powder blue sky. It’s not azure. It’s not even cornflower blue. It is powder blue, like the sun drained the usually wet-blue sky of all its precious moisture until it turned into a vacant, dry, blue powder. A blue desert, hot and uncomfortable just to look at. This powder blue sky stretches out thin across the sky until it disintegrates at the edges of the horizon in rippled layers of white that dance in the heat waves.

But most of that rippling horizon is obscured. It is obscured by a wall of deep, forest green leaves. A hedge. It stands thick and tall, circumnavigating this small world with its wide green arms, interwoven branches decked in their evergreen coats. Its top dips and rises like waves on the ocean, like the heads of mighty columns pushing through the green mantle. Inside hide spiders, lady bugs, small birds, and a family of squirrels. They call this place home.

I call this my space. My sanctuary. My garden. I found it, long forgotten and hidden behind its hedged wall. It was wild, with long golden grasses that rose as high as my chest. Birds and squirrels and all sorts of other animals made paths through its rippling waves; small tunnels that crisscrossed this golden world inside the hedge. This is how I found it. Overgrown. Forgotten. Ripe with potential.

It was like our lives, back in the dusty corridors of the past, when we would look over our landscape and see nothing but unmarked potential. Remember the days when you would look over your life and see roads and possibilities spiderwebbing away in all directions. Remember the time, when optimism unmarred by cruel reality blossomed and shot forth the green shoots of ideas in your mind. Remember those long forgotten dreams. What did you want to be when you grew up? Why?

I spent the next year working from early in the morning till sundown. I began by carving a simple path through the garden. It was fall and the long golden grasses were pressed down by the heavy October rains. The smell of the sweet earth and the wet grass and the red leaves of the small maple tree all washed by the rains was intoxicating. The path took several different turns through the decomposing soil, some unexpected. A few unforeseen bumps forced detours. A shallow running streambed caused me to stop until I could build a bridge. But eventually I reached a place where I was happy with the winding paths. We must all carve our paths too until we reach the place were we feel our work is complete.

And yet, my work had only begun. I spent that entire, cold winter, breaking up the hard clay soil which lay beneath. For years, the garden had remained untouched by any human hand, the wild grasses quickly outgrowing all other plants until they were all that was left. Their stalks grew high but their roots were shallow. I tore them up easily. But this meant that the ground had remained unbroken, and had hardened to clay. After pulling them all out, I was left with the daunting task of shoveling the cold, hard clay out, breaking it apart with my shovel, and then mixing it with compost. For days, it was the same repetition over and over. Dig out the hard places, break them apart, mix them with something better so they would not go back the same way. Its amazing what clay garden soil can teach us about the human heart.

While I was digging, I met my enemy. The blackberries. These wild brambles had been encroaching for years, moving slowly forward in their war with the golden grasses. But now that I had cleared the grasses, the blackberry roots that had lain dormant beneath the grass had their opportunity. They began sprouting in pathways, in beddings, in between planks on my bridge. They were everywhere. Once again I grabbed my shovel with my blistered hands and I went to work. Funny how just when you think you’ve beaten something bad, you can always find something worse just around the corner. It may seem like a bleak outlook on gardening (and life) but being aware of that very real potential gives us the power to take initiative action against it.

After I chopped back my first blackberry, I discovered their horrid roots. Buried deep in the hard clay where sunlight had not penetrated for perhaps centuries, they lay like red, shriveled snakes, long and twisting. I decided to act. I dug deeper. Pulled out more clay. I found them and pulled them up and threw them away. But the problem with things like blackberries are that they cannot simply be ignored or hidden away in some secret corner of the garden, otherwise they will find a way and they will break forth and they will spread everywhere. No, the only way to deal with blackberry roots are to pull all of them out from their hiding spots, hang them up in the sun where all can see them until they shrivel up and dry completely, and then burn them. The parallels with sin in our lives is striking. There really is only one effective way of dealing with it.

So I took care of the blackberries in the garden. I chopped back their bushes and pulled up their roots. I broke up the fallow ground and enriched it with compost. But because of the giant evergreen tree that towers over the entire garden, my soil was still too sour. I had done nothing to cause this. I did not plant the tree, but instead the tree had come with the garden and would always be there towering over it. As it stood there it dropped its pine needles all over the soil and sucked the nutrients right out of it. It was a continues process that there was no stopping. The only thing I could do was sprinkle something over my garden. Regularly. And that was something called Bloodmeal.

Now this may sound gross, but when livestock is slaughtered, the blood is collected and dried into a powder. This powder is used by farmers and gardeners to fix a nitrogen deficiency in the soil. Where there is no nitrogen there is no new, green, leafy growth. There is no life without the bloodmeal. And interestingly enough, because the tree continually sprinkles its needles on the garden I must continually cover it with bloodmeal in order for it to grow and prosper. I’ll leave you to connect the dots and analogies there.

So I worked the garden throughout the winter, breaking up clay and snow and ice. I could not allow my garden to become hard or cold during this time or all the beneficial insect and fungi and bacteria in the soil would die and I would have useless dirt. Again, very similar to the human heart, we must also continually work to prevent ourselves from growing too hard hearted or cold, or we loose the very things that give us life, and we become useless to others and to God.

Come spring I was excited. I ordered seeds. I ordered little plants. I got vegetables and fruit and herbs and flowers. I had planned everything perfectly and had placed enough effort into the garden to allow it to grow and prosper. I remember the warm spring day when I went out and with a quiver of excitement made the first hole in the cool, wet, black soil. The seeds were planted with purpose. I didn’t scatter them half-hazard or without intent. Every seed I planted was planted exactly where it was planted for very specific reasons. I planted the pumpkins away from the rest so they their vines would be able to grow where ever they wanted. I planted the lavender along a hillside so that its roots would never be wet or soggy. I planted the corn and the beans together, which thought odd sounding, caused the beans to have something to anchor to as their vines grew, and the corn which feeds heavy on nitrogen, had a plant that actually takes it from the air and places in the soil. The two were an odd couple, but I placed them together for a reason.

Then came the waiting. Few things in life, other than waiting for a bus at a bus stop, can teach you as much patience as those dreadfully slow two weeks. But nothing on earth can describe the amazing joy and hope you feel when you walk out into the garden on that early spring day and you see those bright green shoots barely breaking out of the cracked ground. The rewards that come with patience far outweigh the waiting. It is always worth it in the end.

I watched them grow, the straight grass like shoots of corn. The winding tendrils of the beans. The large, velvety soft leaves of the pumpkin and cucumber. The calendulas came up fast, and within a few short weeks they were blooming in large heads of orange, yellow, red, and bronze. They formed hedges of color around the beds, all the while acting as guards to deter common garden pests. They were only annuals, and so I knew they would die by the end of fall and never come back. But I grew to love them anyway, because no matter how many times I cut of the flower heads, they always kept pushing out more, usually bigger and brighter colored too. They were the epitome of optimism, and their optimism was contagious.

They did die at the end of the summer, and the next spring I was unable to find any more seeds. But that didn’t stop them. Unknown to me, they had sown their own seeds and even to this day, I will find them growing in out of the way corners and unexpected patches. They are like good friends, unexpected gifts you find in unexpected places. And just like good friends, many of whom we do part ways with throughout our lives, the season we have them for is a time to be enjoyed while they’re there, and a memory to be cherished when they’re gone.

Then came my harvest. It was amazing. To think that those small seeds could contain this much abundant life was incredible. Some of them had literally been so small that they were no bigger than the period at the end of this sentence, and yet they had grown into large bushes that still stand to this very day, covered in small, blue, cucumber flavored flowers. Some things did not have the results I expected. The corn was barely as big as my pinkie and was not nearly pollinated enough. But it was beautiful anyway, especially after it was dried and used that thanksgiving as decoration in the house. The pumpkin didn’t make anything but flowers, yet we found out that there are quite a few recipes for stuffed pumpkin blossom (surprisingly good!). In all things, I had done my part and I had harvested, even when the harvest hadn’t been what I expected. But as long as I had kept my mind open, there were a few happy surprises to be found.

That next winter I took care of the garden again, but life got busy and in the spring I did not have time to take care of my garden. I knew I should have gone and weeded it, but I procrastinated. Several months later, the sowing season was past and I finally made time to go to my garden. The beds were covered in weeds. The paths were overgrown with golden grass. The blackberries were back and had taken over the whole streambed. And I could no longer sow, and therefore would not have any harvest that year. Timing is so critical in all areas of life. If we aren’t conscious about our actions as well as their timing, we will miss the windows of opportunity.

So I went back to work, pulling the things out that didn’t belong there. I became obsessive about it. I stayed at a spot for hours pulling out every last weed, making sure not a root was missed. And while that was great, once more my timing was off. I had cleared the garden of all the weeds by winter, but then, the rains came and there was nothing at all left to anchor the nutrients in the ground. It all washed away. Make no mistake, the weeds did not belong there. But while pulling them out root and all was good, I should have cut the roots off and thrown the leaves and stalks back in the soil. Sometimes we want to purge life of all our mistakes. But mistakes serve a great purpose too. They help us retain the good things in life. They help us overcome destructive habits by tasting the consequences. The worst thing we can do is not make a mistake, but make a mistake and not learn anything from it. I learned from my mistake that winter, when I had to build retaining walls around my beds in order to keep the soil from washing away. What is the greatest mistake you have ever made? What do you blame yourself for, the most out of everything in your past? What did you learn from it? What are you still learning from it?

Throughout the years I have worked on and off on the garden. I have come to realize that it will never be finished. There will always be something to do, something to work on, something to plant or something to pluck up. And I’m okay with that. I have also come to realize that the garden can’t be built up in a single season or a single growth year. It is taking years of slowly working the soil, slowly beating down the paths, slowly pulling the weeds. This process is the fun of the garden. It is what makes it alive. I wouldn’t want it any other way. And as I continue on it, my original vision is changing. Where once a lonely bench would have sat, there is now a hedge of lavender, soon to be joined with a carpet of red, creeping thyme to sit on. The vision, like the garden, is ever changing, ever growing, ever expanding, never ending.

Today, I walked back into the garden. The sky is the powder blue I referred to before. The hedges chirp with cicadas and the giant evergreen tree ruffles with playing squirrels. This year I let the garden lie fallow, so that it could have time for the soil to recover. The beds are covered in red clover, bees buzzing lazily as they gather the sweet nectar. The golden grass has sprung up all around, laying low already under the burning sun. Queen Anne’s Lace, a weed that looks like a carrot plant with a long stalk and a white, lace-like head of tiny flowers is mixed in between the golden grass, wasp, white butterflies, and onyx black beetles flying from head to head. Large dandelion heads of feathery seeds are also seen throughout the field like setting, their delicate heads breaking in the wind, carrying the feather seeds on the breeze. Blackberries that have spilled over the streambed banks like a green river hold up sun warmed fruit, just ready to be picked by a bluejay, a squirrel, or me. I stand out here, and I simply breathe.

Did you know each one of those animals are breathing too? Did you know each one of those leaves on each on of those plants are breathing too? Did you know that the fungi in the soil that allows that giant evergreen tree to grow as high as it does by merging with its roots, breathes? Did you know that the ground itself is continually breathes? All of creation breathes in unison and in that way we are all very much alike. We all rely on the Ultimate Breath to sustain us. We are His garden, and He delights to see us bring forth good fruit. Why would we ever deny Him that?

Some people wonder what heaven will be like. I know that for me, heaven will be an untouched spot of ground, no ethereal city or celestial cloud bed. A place where I can dig deep without worry of stone or thistle or thorn or serpent. A place where I can sow blank white seeds and dream new flowers and fragrances and patterns and plants from them. A place where I can build the garden of my heart’s desire, and then take my Heavenly Father by the hand and guide Him through it and show Him every single detail, ever secret corner, that I made for Him. For me, heaven would be a garden.