The Piper's Gift

Flame in the wind
Entwined by night,
The hills beyond shadowy panes,
A flickering gaze
The failing light
Beholds a gathering rain.

Yet, in the dark,
Enchantments green
A forest embraces the trees.
And faintly descends
The salty seed
of misty, thundering seas.

Listen. Be still.
A distant voice
With curious harmonies weaves
Like memories weep
From broken sleep
The piper laughs while he grieves.

Remember: Hannah Seright

We cling to the enduring strength of stone to fight the fear of being forgotten.

So please take a moment to remember:
Hannah Seright, who died in 1861. An extraordinary achievement-to reach the age of 102. And a curse. She spent 44 of them without her husband William.

The deeper, more bold inscription for Hannah seems almost a relief, and the brevity of words impersonal, as if she knew the loneliness of one who outlives the last of her mourners.

Inscription:
In Memory of
William Seright
who departed this Life
April the 20th A.D. 1817
Aged 65 Years
Let me die the Death of the righteous
and let my last end be like his
ALSO
of his wife
HANNAH SERIGHT
died Oct. 1861
in the 102nd year of her age.

(Forks of the Brandywine Presbyterian Church, West Brandywine Township, Chester County, Pennsylvania)

Footsteps, Part 7-Final (Fiction)

(Just joining us? Go back to Part 1)

       Melissa tumbled in the midst of chaos. The thunder of feet shattered her ears and trampled the screams which tore from her throat.
       A giant mallet flattened her body. Her vision went transparent. She saw the ceiling, and all other sensations were erased.
       Then, like an avalanche, the roar returned.
       Another blow crunched her body. Again, silence floated across the ceiling. Again, the hellish onslaught returned.

       "Negative on a rhythm."
       "God damn it! Recharge!"
       "No pulse."
       "Negative on a rhythm."

       Blurs shimmered in all corners of Melissa's vision. Legs, she thought. Whirling and whirling. Like a monstrous tide, the weight of sound piled until her bones cracked. Her unending scream drained the last wisp of her breath, yet her body still squeezed as if trying expel the very blood the air would feed.
       Then, the slow pound of a stride shook the foundations of the hospital. Coming deep from where the hallways led, a colossal force was coming. Melissa's perception polarized on the approach. Each impact popped her bed from the floor. The curtains swayed.
       Coming. Coming.
       The universe buckled under the last blow outside the door.

       "Charge is up!"
       "Clear!"
       The debrillator clicked, and Melissa jumped in the bed. Strange how the machine could command her muscles when her brain could not.

       A supernova of white detonated. In the sudden hush, footsteps swept into the room no longer terrifying, but small and comforting. Still bathed in the brilliance, Melissa met them and merged. She felt the crunch of the tiles beneath her toes. The fear had fled. The footsteps had always been hers.
       Dancing, spinning, she exalted in the feel of living legs so quickly forgotten. The thrill sizzled over her awakened skin, and she ran just to feel the air divide.

       Mrs. Carr sank to the floor when the frenzy in the room paused, then soured to defeat. Her body shook with the knowledge her daughter was gone.
       But then, a sound.
       A quick flutter of feet.
       She looked overhead, then gasped through the sobs. Footprints on the ceiling. She felt the fragrant breeze, reminiscent of her daughter's perfume. It swirled around her, then washed back into the room. Mrs. Carr peered around the jamb. Melissa passed over the bowed heads and leapt over the curtain rod into the fierce morning light.
       As the gentle swish of the curtains settled, Mrs. Carr's wonder tipped into a pained, but unstoppable smile. She remembered how the rich fields bellowed pollen when Melissa ran.
       She heard a last echo of laughter as Melissa soared.
       And the eternal sunrise sparkled through the depths of her tears.

Back to Part 6

Footsteps, Part 6 (Fiction)

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       Melissa flung her eyes toward the doorway. Nothing. A light at the nurses' station gleamed in the polished floor.
       She whimpered. She knew it was coming. Like a rip in the fog, the clarity was fleeting. She dripped back into the haze. Echoes whispered in the hall. Growing. When her tether to consciousness snapped for the last time, it boomed in her ears.
       The footsteps erupted.
       Rattling the window.
       Skipping under the bed.
       Clattering in the sink.
       Punching into the bed linens and tossing her body like a boiling sea.
       Melissa's eyes bulged. The respirator choked and rattled. Mrs. Carr snapped awake. She leapt to the head of the bed. Desolation emptied her daughter's face. Screaming, she ran for help.

       The fire of dawn burned in the stillness. A bird hopped to a nearby branch and rattled the leaves. It cocked its head as if embarrassed by the noise.
       Far off, a horn blared. Then, a car engine surged. The bird dipped away from the parking lot when tires screeched in. The neurologist on call smoked into a reserved spot and jumped from the car with his cell phone. The panicked resident in Melissa's room still rattled in his ear.
       Melissa's vitals tipped over the edge and started to disintegrate.
       "That's it, call the code!"
       Someone ripped the phone off the wall. Voices were overlapping. Mrs. Carr cradled herself outside the doorway.
       The hospital intercom crackled. A woman's voice. Maddeningly calm. "Code blue, Intensive Care. Code blue. All available personnel to Intensive Care."
       The neurologist vaulted two floors of stairs rather than wait for the elevator. He panted down the hallway and nearly tripped over Mrs. Carr. The crash cart clattered in a few moments later. Its wheels thumped over Mrs. Carr's toes. She took no notice.
       "Agonal rhythm. We've lost the pulse!"
       "Defibrillator, now!"
       The charge built. The indicator flashed ready. The staff took positions.

On to Part 7
Back to Part 5

(Note to readers: in the comments for Part 5 I said this would be the last segment. Turns out I need one more. Sorry!)

Cemetery Symbolism: The Dove

Victorian cemetery art incorporated elaborate symbolism to convey the hopes and sorrows of those left behind.

The Dove: Symbolizing peace, purity, and the Holy Spirit in Christian and Jewish tradition. The graceful ascent of the soul to Heaven.

Inscription:
R. Ralston Neely
(Son?) of
Robert and Christiana Neely
Born Jan. 9th, 1816
Died Jan. 1st, 1865
None knew thee but to love thee
None named thee but to praise thee

Note: The epitaph is an adaptation of a verse from On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake, composed by Fitz-Green Halleck, American poet (1790-1867), to honor his friend and fellow writer.

(Forks of the Brandywine Presbyterian Church, West Brandywine Township, Chester County, Pennsylvania)

Footsteps, Part 5 (Fiction)

(Just joining us? Go back to Part 1)

       A spark of Melissa's consciousness reawakened in the deep. The awareness bloomed like a birth, a first glimpse of the world before life unfolds. Then, the spark rose, crossing the depths and seeking air, seeking light. Things swam with her. Slimy. Cold. She hid from their fearful faces.
       Melissa ripped upward. The momentum flung her high. She slowed at the peak of the arc, then plummeted. She slammed the ground, sank, then snapped back into the mist. A mist enveloped by night.
       Her heart pounded, and she listened. The mist was breathing.
       Shhhhhhhhh!
       Melissa spun. Someone ran away into the milky dark. The pattering faded as distance swallowed the sound.
       Someone ran again, from her left. The footsteps veered, then circled off in the same direction. She twisted to look, but saw only emptiness.
       In the growing confusion, a third set of footsteps charged directly toward her. Hammering the ground. Melissa gasped. She stumbled backward. Squeezing her eyes closed, she raised up her hands.
       The echo washed over her, through her. Then, their distinctness dwindled.
       Melissa dared to open her eyes. The lights of her IV pump sparkled like rainbow stars. Nighttime blanketed her hospital room.
       Melissa moved to sit up. Dull pain pulsed in her forehead. Nothing in her body responded. Then, like countless other times upon waking, she remembered. Yet again, she relived the moment of horrible realization. The accident. Her condition. The permanence.
       A gentle snore startled her. Melissa looked down. Her mother was draped on the chair at the foot of the bed. Her mouth hung wide.
       Strange. Melissa couldn't recall the day. She certainly couldn't recall why her mother wasn't at home.
       Melissa stopped straining and returned to her usual retreat. The ceiling.
       She screamed.
       The sound gurgled out only for a moment before the respirator plowed it back into her lungs. She turned to run, like in her dreams, but her head was nailed in place. New footsteps were pressed into the spongy tiles. Deep and forceful. The tracks came from the doorway, bore down on her, and ended.
       Something had come. And it had stood directly over her sleeping face.

On to Part 6
Back to Part 4

Where They Sleep

I thought you might appreciate a context for the recent cemetery series:



Occupying a beautiful vista over rolling farmland, the Forks of the Brandywine Presbyterian Church in West Brandywine Township, Chester County, Pennsylvania was founded September 26, 1735 on the colonial frontier forty miles west of Philadelphia. Mills, farming, and a nearby iron furnace served as the local industries. The cornerstone of the current sanctuary was laid on August 7, 1875.



As I visit other graveyards (maybe even some venerable ones in Philadelphia itself), I'll be sure to give you a little tour of those too.

Footsteps, Part 4 (Fiction)

(Just joining us? Go back to Part 1)

       In the jaws of delirium, Melissa fought the restraints. Her neck muscles thrashed, pulling against the pins bored into her skull. The bed vibrated. Her mouth twisted into a sneer.
       "Look at her!"
       Melissa's mother was perched at the bed rail. Hands like talons gripped the metal. "Look at what she's doing to herself!"
       "Mrs. Carr, perhaps you should wait outside," the nurse said as she tightened the blood pressure cuff.
       "Melissa!" Mrs. Carr shouted, bending close, "Melissa!" But the girl didn't respond.
       On the opposite side of the bed, Anne, a hospital volunteer, clutched one of the girl's burning hands. She marveled at the dry skin. Not a bead of sweat. Melissa's furnaces blazed. Without interruption.
       "We're going to give her sedative," one of the resident internists said.
       Behind him, the attending physician was already preparing the dose.
       "A relaxant. And something stronger for the fever. It should calm her."
       Anne's eyes were fixed on the syringe as Mrs. Carr draped a cold cloth on Melissa's forehead. The attending shot the drugs into the IV, and almost instantly, a wave of stillness washed over Melissa. The anxious, hitched breaths slowed and evened. The tension drained.
       Anne slumped in relief. Mom wiped at her stubborn tears.
       And inside, very alone, Melissa saw the mist become sand, the sand become stillness, and all the universe sprinkle out of existence.

On to Part 5
Back to Part 3

Cemetery Symbolism: The Urn

Victorian cemetery art incorporated elaborate symbolism to convey the hopes and sorrows of those left behind.

The Urn: For the ancient Greeks, a repository for the body's ashes, and for the ancient Egyptians, vessels for organs vital to the afterlife. Use of the urn in funereal art evokes these traditions, symbolizing the triumph of immortality over death.


(Forks of the Brandywine Presbyterian Church, West Brandywine Township, Chester County, Pennsylvania)

Footsteps, Part 3 (Fiction)

(Just joining us? Go back to Part 1)

       Pure morning sun blazed on Melissa's blankets and warmed them. At least, she believed it warmed them. She remembered the pleasure of sunlight. So many delicious sensations. Lost. Her face could still experience them, but a face was different. Too fine. Too protected. Melissa hated when things touched her face.
       She basked in the sun for an eternity that morning. She forgot about the curious footprints. The block of brilliant light crept across the cloth patterns while she watched. Perhaps, she even dozed.
       And in the midst of a dream, something changed. A fog came. And confusion. She stirred and lifted a heavy lid from her eye. No sun. Misty light hung in the room.
       Odd. The window was closed.
       Melissa blinked, but the blur smeared worse.
       Chill air and moisture sprinkled down. Her jaw quivered with cold. Without the respirator filling her mouth, the teeth would've been clicking. Melissa's gaze wandered the room, but her brain lagged. She saw but didn't comprehend. Fear stirred, and disorientation, but the soup smothered them.
       Voices broke through. Her mother. Crying. Screaming. At the nurse.
       Melissa saw the nurse's eyes. Disembodied. The face bled away in the mist, but the eyes hovered overhead like horrible, glistening suns. They beamed judgment over her white, frigid world.
       More yelling. Someone holding her hand.
       Her hand?
       Melissa gazed down. A shape. Not a person. Like a person. She swam through recollections, which threatened to freeze.
       An infusion pump. Yes. Doctors scurrying with no eyes. Only coats and the tips of pens. They were working with the pump. Attacking the infection. More medicines. Coursing down the clear line to her hand. Such a nice hand. A lovely hand.
       More crying. More barking voices.
       And all while the grotesque suns were blazing.

On to Part 4
Back to Part 2

Simpler Life

Frigid cold splinters the world
Darkness thick as blindness holds
Blankets can't drive steam from breath
Yet, Sleep
Warmth grow rich with the orange glow

Cemetery Symbolism: The Rose

Victorian cemetery art incorporated elaborate symbolism to convey the hopes and sorrows of those left behind.

The Rose: Symbolizing youth and beauty and the particular longing evoked by death in the midst of life's greatest promise.

Inscription
LAURA
Daughter of
James & Aseneth P.
McFarlan
Born Jan. 11, 1863
Died July 20, 1869
She is now enjoying the
bliss of a Heavenly home

(Forks of the Brandywine Presbyterian Church, West Brandywine Township, Chester County, Pennsylvania)

Footsteps, Part 2 (Fiction)

(Just joining us? Go back to Part 1)

       Melissa listened. Strange--the loneliness of a hospital at night.
       She knew that others tortured by their disease lay awake, perhaps just beyond the wall, perhaps listening too. Yet, the hush and the darkness drove her away from them. Hopelessly distant. Inconsolable. And bitterly angry.
       But there was something more that particular night. There was cold, terrible cold prickling at Melissa's neck. Then, a few moments later, heat. Oily, wet heat. Her senses teetered, rolling between sweat and shivers, sweat and shivers. And her eyes itched, and itched. Terribly.
       Melissa blinked, fast, and squeezed her eyes shut, but she couldn't scratch. She flipped her eyes right and left, trying to trick the craving, but it burrowed too deep. Melissa remembered when she climbed an apple tree covered with the hairy vines of poison ivy. She never forgot how to identify the despicable plant after that. The same moist, unholy itching which had covered her legs and arms returned, but this time in her eyes. And her lashes were crusted. She felt the crystals jab her cheeks.
       Melissa signaled the nurse with the blow pipe mounted on the rail. The nurse had to be told. The fever felt worse. And now the eyes. The infection might not be responding. Still, Melissa had faith. More powerful antibiotics were waiting. They could knock the bug out, even if it showed some spunk, some resistance.
       Melissa gazed up, waiting for the nurse to appear, but instead of unconsciously beginning to recount the tiles, she froze. The flash of sweat on her skin evaporated, and chills buried her in an avalanche. Something stirred in her dreams as she saw the shadows, like dust or smudges on the tiles. In her memory, an impression mixed with the shapes which mixed with a sound. But nothing in the fragments strewn in her brain, nothing plausible in Melissa's experience could explain the footprints. From the corner, then looping over her bed, then heading towards the door, there were footprints, ending as abruptly as they began. Footprints marking a casual stroll, or a momentary diversion. Footprints like countless others she had seen, except these marked twelve curious strides.
       Strides across the dimly-lit ceiling.

On to Part 3

short story
fiction

Remember: John and Lydia Wiand

We cling to the enduring strength of stone to fight the fear of being forgotten.

So please take a moment to remember:
John Wiand 1822-1904, Lydia Wiand 1830-1868, and their child, age 3 years 3 months and 5 days (mostly unreadable).

A quiet spot
For a family of three
They joined their child
In the shade of a tree.

(Forks of the Brandywine Presbyterian Church, West Brandywine Township, Chester County, Pennsylvania)

**This post is the first in the Remembrance Series, where I will offer a moment of reflection to those whom time may have erased. The Cemetery Symbolism series will also be continuing.**

Footsteps, Part 1 (Fiction)

       Melissa detested the ceiling.
       The tiles--trimmed, orderly, rough like volcanic rock swallowing sound. When she wasn't paying attention, when she forgot to stop herself, she counted them. She began at the lower left where her eyes stretched to reach.
       First course: thirteen tiles complete, one cut to a sliver.
       Second course: thirteen tiles complete, one cut to a sliver.
       Third course. Fourth course.
       Eleven tiles complete, two cut around the cabinets. And on. And on, on, on, on.
       Melissa slept, yet the square patterns skimmed in her brain. She wanted them to stop. She wriggled as they crashed into her skull like frozen rain and shattered. The shards tinkled on the floor, then melted away.
       A nurse slipped in during the hush of the graveyard shift. Sterile wrap crinkled as she prepared. First, a tiny bottle clinked on the counter top, then a needle glittered in the green light. It sank into Melissa's arm. She didn't flinch. She didn't wake. The respirator pumped and bubbled. Melissa's chest rose and sank.
       The nurse patted Melissa's hand. The fingers were stiffening, beginning to curl. The nurse frowned. She worked the arm a bit. Rotating. Flexing. Relaxing. Flexing. Dissatisfied, the nurse shook her head. Only delaying the inevitable. Such a sin. Melissa was only nineteen years old.
       The nurse released the wrist, and the arm sank back into place. She moved on to the next room.

       When Melissa snapped awake to the hiss of the respirator, she expected to see her hands flailing, like in the dream, but there was only the ceiling. And the squares. And the pattern. Melissa felt herself encased in lead. But then, she remembered. The metal framework hovering at the top of her vision clamped her spine in place, and every fiber of her body below the neck, below the scar where medicine failed, slept on.

On to Part 2

short story
fiction

A Quirky Meme

Thanks to Livewire at In the Blink of an Eye, who tagged me for this meme, I am about to divulge quirky things about myself. The rules are simple. Reflect for a while on your quirks, then list 'em. Here goes:

1. I'm very science and logic minded, so I don't believe in things which can't be observed and repeated. Yet, I wholeheartedly WANT fanciful things to be true (like hauntings, magic, etc.).

2. I'm at my best when put on the spot and barraged with questions and problems. If you sit me down with a long project on my own, I'll descend into abject boredom.

3. I work for short periods of time on things I don't want to do, then reward myself (like checking blogs!). If I didn't hold off the rewards, I might never do the work.

4. I view children as inherently evil. (Okay, not literally evil). As I parent, I see my job as reshaping a raw, selfish force into a positive member of a community. A good deal of "me me me" mentality must yield for that to happen.

5. I can't stand being around nervous, unfocused people. I've put great deal of effort into remaining calm and dependable in a pinch. Nervous, unfocused people are life-force vacuums to me.

6. On the train, I've conducted statistical analyses of how many people pick at their dandruff while they read. And which fingers they use. Drives me crazy.

7. I randomly throw dry humor into conversations to see whether the people I'm talking to are quick enough to get it. I then tend to gravitate to the people who do.

8. I worry about approaching public speaking engagements, but enjoy them once I start talking.

9. I will play music (bagpipes, piano), might sing (especially if alcohol is involved), but will never, ever dance. (Lame, slow dance swaying is acceptable if forced).

So there you have it! I suppose the purpose of the meme is to give a better picture of a person through their oddities. Did it work?

Any of the Clarity of Night Owls should feel free to tag themselves. However, I especially encourage the newer bloggers:

Allen at A Novel Idea
Jeff at The Write Thing
Kara at Mountaintop Architecture

and newer Night Owl:

Mermaid Oceanus at Mermaid

To give it a go!

On the Hillside

Often unseen
Weaving ancient paths
A cautious crunch as he passes
Seeing the autumn for the first time
He steps tiny teardrops into the places he's been.


(Starlight, Wayne County, Pennsylvania. On the doorstep of the Catskills.)