Illusion and choice - two poems

                   Welcome!

fig leaves unfurling

The garden is growing out of control as spring takes hold (actually, I’ve never really managed to order it). It’s exciting to see some plants that were new in autumn now flowering and sprouting young growth. Deciduous trees coming into leaf, fruit trees forming tiny green fruits, grass needing mowing every week, weeds scattering their seed freely. Delightful chaos of growth and life.

Two poems for you this week, one humorous  and one a free verse revision of Robert Frost’s famous poem ‘The Road Less Traveled’. Enjoy!

Illusion

I was in the eye of my mother

who should have looked elsewhere

For from that moment’s seeing have I

been her heart’s despair.

A kit so sweet to look on,

A pair of eyes to make men pause

And gaze in raptures of delight –

My ragged fur enhanced the sight.

I purred and made my point – with teeth and claws.

The Chosen Way

Golden woods

Two trails through undergrowth

Of varied depth and beauty

Each delighting my eye, calling my feet,

My heart, tearing

My will, my yearning

To explore all ways.

But I must choose.

If this, not that

but where and then

what if?

One lures with promises of glory and song;

Could I return to follow its bright thread

Another day? The one

I feel a stronger pull toward

Is subtle, silent; a lonely road.

I go. And looking far ahead

To years when everything that now lies

Unknown, yet to be done,

Has been done,

Is known,

I'll think back to the choice I made

To seek the hidden way –

A way few try and fewer still endure –

The way which made me.

Until next week…

Claire Belberg

Grandy's House

                   Welcome!

heritage cottage

For a few days there last week we experienced the delightful side of spring – sun, light breeze, mild temperatures. By Monday it began to look like we’d skipped spring and launched into summer. Until Tuesday. And that’s why it’s called spring, I guess; the weather leaps about wildly, unable to determine which way is forward. Typical Adelaide to have Tuesday’s maximum temperature half that of Monday’s! Ah, weather – what would we complain about if we didn’t have it?

Here is a story set in the Coorong area of south-eastern South Australia, an area of rich natural and cultural history and few settlements. The Coorong is a body of salt water with high sand dunes on the coastal side and flat farmland and salt pans on the other. It flows from the Lower Lakes area near the mouth of the River Murray. Recent years of drought and overuse of the river all along its 2560km (1591 miles) length have seen the devastation of the Lower Lakes, and some restoration work is now being attempted. Such a beautiful, wild area, too precious to ignore.

Grandy’s House

Disappointment slammed into her like a personal tsunami. This was the house she had inherited, this the setting for her grandfather's stories? The hard, bare ground around the walls was littered with pieces of the white stone that looked exactly like lumps of stale bread. She wondered what kind of rats could chew out solid stone walls. Rhianna felt like vomiting.

            It had been difficult saying goodbye to her beloved Grandy. His death was still a raw wound, an aching emptiness. She longed for the hollowness to be filled, but she never wanted to forget him. He was the one who had given Rhianna, his only grandchild, a sense of family identity. She had thrived on the repetition of his stories. She could picture his parents, his siblings, his daughter – Rhianna's mother – as a child as if she'd been among them. But Grandy was the only one she ever knew; only a few ragged photographs existed of the rest, including the mother Rhianna had lost when only a baby. Grandy was her family.

            There was a photograph of the house Grandy's father had built south of the Coorong, with massive sand dunes behind. Grandy had spent his childhood there until the family had fallen on hard times – drought and debt had forced them to sell the old house for a fraction of its worth.

            She could barely see the likeness of this shell to that early photograph. Then the house had looked gracious with its wide stone steps leading up to a double wooden front door, the wide verandah all around. The steps were gone now, and the entrance looked secretive. There was no floor for the verandah, just rocky dirt and weeds. Windows were filthy and several were cracked. The house was on raised ground, facing east and overlooking a small salt lake. She had driven on a causeway to cross the salt, the only road access to the property. Stretching her imagination, she could picture it as an imposing but open refuge in the lonely wilderness. As it stood, she was more inclined to escape from what it had become.

            Shadows lengthened as Rhianna plodded around the house, trying to find the courage to enter it. Night time would only make it worse, she thought, so she unlocked the back door and stepped cautiously in. Feeling automatically for a light switch, she remembered that there was no power or water to the house any more. She backtracked and went to the car for a torch. No time for this messing around, she told herself sternly. I don't want to pitch a tent in the dark.

            There was no way she was sleeping in this creepy hulk. She couldn't get rid of the image of enormous stone-chewing rats, but even the ordinary kind gave her the horrors.

            A quick look through the house confirmed her fears – the place was entirely dilapidated. She couldn't imagine where she would begin to restore it, or whether she would even try. Think about it in the morning, girl.

            In the welcoming light of dawn, Rhianna woke to the sound of snuffling. Whatever it was sounded large, but the memory of giant rats seemed ludicrous in the new day. She rolled over in her sleeping bag to unzip the tent. A wombat! She'd never seen them in the wild before.

            Waiting until the animal had shuffled away, Rhianna dressed and went to the car for food. It promised to be a warm day; the morning was already heating up. She looked around at the open space, the low shrubby trees beyond the salt lake, and felt the presence of the dunes behind the house. Once she had satisfied her hunger, she took another look inside the house, this time noting the dark timber of the floorboards and the plaster patterns on the ceiling of what must have been a parlour or drawing room. The kitchen had an old wood stove – how often that had featured in Grandy's tales! She liked the idea of learning to use it.

            She'd known it would be a bigger job than she could handle when Grandy had told her about his desire for her to take it on. He had been ecstatic when the house had come back to him through a strange string of circumstances. He had fondly believed she was capable of anything, including the restoration of the family property. She was more realistic. Or perhaps he had not understood how run down it had become. Nothing of value was free, she reminded herself; even a gift costs the giver. This was a gift – how valuable it was to her she hadn't yet decided – but it was going to cost her plenty if she accepted it.

            The call of the Southern Ocean on the other side of the dunes worked its way into Rhianna's awareness. She grabbed her bathers, towel and hat, and headed up the gentle slope behind the house. Huge burrows pocked the ground, and prickly plants of various types caught at her socks. It was good she had not changed for swimming yet – this was not your suburban beach walk. She wondered about the holes until she remembered the wombat.

            The walk grew steeper and sandier, winding through stiff shrubs which blocked her view. She simply worked her way uphill and seaward, hoping it was that easy. And it was, although it took a good twenty minutes and a breath-challenging climb. The views from the top of the dunes reinvigorated her.

            At the first high point, Rhianna looked back at the old house to see how it fitted into its context. It was nestled at the bottom of a low, vegetated dune at its north-western corner – that would be where the kitchen is, she thought – and watched over cleared land to the north and south, as well as the stretch of pink, patchy salt to the east. It was not arable land; she had read that somewhere, and Grandy's stories had made it clear enough. Maybe she could keep a few sheep, and build up a vegetable patch to supply her own needs. She grimaced at her dreams, pulling back to remind herself that she had not decided to do it yet. She could just sell it and leave it in the memory of Grandy's stories.

            Rhianna turned and walked over the cool white sand to the next peak. There were clumps of reedy grasses growing in a few spots, and a groundcover clinging to other patches. She marvelled that life could take root with so little to nourish it. The sand was gently patterned with wind-sculpted ridges. Rhianna felt guilty for smashing the design, making clumsy footprints as if it were any old beach. And then she saw the ocean.

            There was something primeval about the feeling of standing alone in the breeze on top of a mountain of sand, and facing the ocean which came all the way from Antarctica. She felt as if she had been lifted out of historical time onto a plane of the eternal moment. The wind floated her hair around her face, twitching at the sand, inviting her to fly. A seagull dipped and wheeled on an air current not far beyond her. Rhianna spread out her arms and launched herself down the face of the dune, her feet running and spilling the cool sand until her shoes filled, wadded with accumulated sand. She skidded down the rest of the way, yanking off her shoes as she slowed. Dumping her gear, she ran, swirling and dancing along the long, flat, empty beach as the southern rollers roared in and out to meet her.

            That's done it, she thought, catching her breath. She dabbled in the icy water while her eyes feasted on the length and the smoothness of the beach, first in one direction and then the other. Sure she could see some litter here and there on the loose sand at the back of the beach. Other people came here, then. But it felt like hers. And it had invited her. She would stay.

Until next week…

Claire Belberg

Night on the water

                         Welcome!

violets in spring

It's here! Spring has arrived, and for once it seems the weather and the calendar are in agreement. Today is sunny and warmer. Tomorrow will be another story...but that's spring for you. I feel hopefulness in the air, new things growing and blooming, things of the earth and of the heart. Everything good and joyful seems possible! 

That reminds me of sailing on inland lakes in my youth. Here is a poem about those days (and nights).

Night on the Water

Evening settles in stillness, amber sun like caramel poured

On barely rippled water, satin stretching to sunset skyline.

Our island bunkhouse noses into waterfowl feeding forest

Of reeds, with whispering rustle in absence of breeze, unexplored.

We and the squawkers and splashers nestle, wrapped in darkness benign.

Tonight we sleep to the soft slap and splish, sharing nature's nest.

Until next week…

Claire Belberg

The Lady's Quest Part 2

                  Welcome!

spring blossom

In the driest state of the driest inhabited continent on earth, we can never take rain for granted. Only two years ago we were in drought that meant we weren't allowed to water our gardens beyond a short session of drips once a week. Once the rains returned, many large trees died, some of which had been planted by a previous generation.

That said, and in spite of gratitude for the abundant rain we are having this month, I am really looking forward to spring and some warmer, drier weather. There is hope - the almonds and cherry plums, mostly growing wild, are in bloom.

Now for the second and final part of the story I posted last week…

The Lady's Quest Part 2

Bells! In a matter of minutes the party was searching out a route on the western side of the mountain, away from capture by whoever had alerted the valley to their presence. Anvik silently rebuked himself for failing to recognise the latent danger. In the glory of the morning, their goal revived, he had failed to recognise that a valley as green and lush as this was likely to be in the grip of sorcery. All around, the landscape was barren and unable to sustain more than the most primitive life forms; it took a powerful magic to make plants grow in these parts. He would have to learn caution if they were to survive this quest. He hoped he would get the chance.

            They scrambled and slid all the way down the side of the mountain, listening beyond the sound of their haste for the approach of hostile forest men.

Deep in a canyon, some hours later, the group stopped for a brief rest and consultation.

            'So where are we now?' demanded Fiangor. 'Things are indeed grim when we cannot see our way forward nor go back to where we last had our bearings,' he said, glaring at the others.

            Hesna glared at him. ‘Would you rather go back to the cave where we were within a breath of losing our very souls? At least we are alive, we know what we have to do, and it appears we have lost the sorcerers of the forest. That is enough for one day.’ She turned away and stared down the canyon towards the north.

            'Shall we sleep here today until we see the stars?' suggested Olwin Orfus, who was ever ready for a nap. In the months of hardship his rotundity had dwindled to less than half its former fortunes, but his humour and his love of leisure had returned overnight.      

            Hollow-eyed from sleeplessness, Hesna commented over her shoulder, 'We haven't seen stars for weeks.' She spoke with authority, for if her chronic insomnia was a heavy price for sleeping rough, it nevertheless made her the ideal nightwatcher.

            Anvik took no part in the conversation. He was listening for other words, which seeped into his mind seemingly from nowhere. 'Halls beneath the fells.' It was a phrase of his grandfather's, another senile muttering the family would say. Yet beneath the inane and apparently meaningless phrases he had repeated nauseatingly often, Anvik had lately discovered a few useful tips. He was beginning to wonder whether the old man had really been a mere cloth merchant after all. The phrase that had come to mind now joined with another memory, the rumour of an underground corridor that was somewhere in these parts. It was said to be made visible by moonlight. If in fact such a corridor existed, it might be well to use it and avoid travelling on the surface of the Wild Fells, a region renowned in all history for the strange and terrifying beasts that inhabited it. A region beyond the mountains to the north, the way they must go if they were to follow the dream.

            'For once, Olwin Orfus, we will follow your advice,' Anvik declared to the weary scorn of his companions after spelling out his idea.

            'Ancient lore notwithstanding, if the cloud comes over tonight as it has every other night, there won't be any moonlight,' Hesna muttered. 'Neither king nor commoner can command the clouds.'

            'And we're supposed to recognise this doorway to the deep,' complained Fiangor. 'Elvish folk might be able to find this mythical opening to the underground halls, but I have my doubts that we will, even if the moon obliges.'

            'Lord and Lady may guide us, I'm thinking,' Sitran said, stroking his thin grey beard. 'There is many a tale of their doings in aid of those who seek the good of the land.'

            There had been many times Anvik had wondered that his call should have come in the person of the Lady, albeit in a dream. There was a chance, given her earlier favour, that she might come to their aid this night, but he had to admit it was a slim hope. However, even the faint prospect of seeing the Fair One again lifted his heart. Anvik settled himself for the wait.

            Golden afternoon light touched the rocks high on the canyon walls, but never reached the ground where they sat whiling away the remaining daylight hours with desultory talk and long-forgotten children's games. They took turns at keeping watch further down the canyon. Otherwise, it was the sort of day when there seemed nothing better to do than eat (and sleep, in the case of Olwin Orfus), but this was clearly not possible, for no matter how they had tried to hoard it, the food was running out.

            'Lizards make a good feed,' Meniar declared, pointing to some which sought the sun-warmth on this unusually warm winter's day. Shaped and coloured to blend with the golden rock of the gully, these lizards were not easy to spy let alone to snare.

            'I can catch more than you,' she challenged, hands on her narrow hips in a manner so like her childhood self that her grandfather, Sitran, burst out laughing.

            Scowling, the young woman pointed at Hesna, Fiangor and Anvik. 'You said we need food, and here it is, waiting for us. Surely you won't let the youngest member of the party take the glory?' She sprang towards the nearest sunbathing lizard and caught a leg before anyone, including the reptile, could blink.

            'Disrespectful brat,' muttered Fiangor as he roused himself to the chase, and all but Olwin Orfus, who was, of course, fast asleep on the rough floor of the rocky gorge, joined in Meniar's game.

            But Meniar alone persevered, signalling her victory with a silent hand signal so as not to disturb her prey. At the end of the day she proudly presented a capful of them to the listless party. Wrought into a strange stew by Fiangor, who was not known for his culinary skills, the lizard meat did not add much pleasure to their meal, but Meniar's hunt had given the day a pretence of purpose.

            And then night fell.

            Light from the fire danced on the canyon walls as the party heard the calls of the creatures of the dark. They felt the soberness of the moment, perhaps only realising now how dependent they were on a sign for which they had little faith. Caught between the enclosing walls of the canyon and the pitch black sky above, they felt as if they were already underground. To let the fire die out seemed to invite an unnamed trouble, yet they knew that they must or the moonlight, if it came, would not work its magic.

            'Hide an ember under this rock,' Sitran suggested, pointing to a niche behind a boulder. In minutes a large glowing ember was hidden and the fire smothered. Gems emerged on the velvet of the night sky – stars to whisper the hope of the coming moon. On this promise their expectation grew and they marvelled at the beauty of the heavenly panorama as they waited for moonrise.

            'Hilt of sword there,' Hesna said, pointing it out to Olwin Orfus, 'and tip of sheath there.'

            'I never knew such wonders,' murmured Olwin Orfus, mesmerised.

            Fiangor snorted. 'It's a wonder you know anything, the way you sleep all the time.'

            Hesna smoothed Olwin Orfus' momentary hurt with more observations of the constellations.

            On through the night they kept the watch together, until the constellations had moved through the Sword and Shield to the tail of the Dragon. Silver light began to pour like a stream into the canyon as the moon rose above them. Necklaces of light seemed to shimmer on the rocks around them, stars, it seemed, in the canyon itself. They turned their heads to gaze in every direction, awestruck, feeling themselves to be dreaming, yet dreaming together.

            And then, strung like a necklace of pearls in a perfect arch just a stone's throw from their camp, the lights shaped a doorway in the sheer rock face. The pearls shimmered, and there stood the Lord Lothiel on one side of the door and the Lady Landira on the other, both smiling a welcome and a command that the party enter.

            They moved as in a trance, bowing and curtseying to the beings of Light though none had taught them, and walked through the rockface feeling no barrier. Anvik found himself at the head of the line, and wondered for a moment if he should wait for guidance. He saw a glimmer in the rock floor just ahead of him, and knew that it was his to follow, leading the group.

            Always as Anvik walked towards the glimmer, which stayed three footlengths ahead, his feet would fall on firm, flat ground. And yet he had the distinct sense that their path was taking them first low and then higher through the earth. At first he held his hands out to feel for walls, ready to guard his head should the roof lower. His arms tired, and letting them drop to his sides, he realised that he had no sense of cave-like closeness, of being shut in. The darkness, relieved only by the floor's glimmer, felt like a vast space, as if the heavens had been trapped beneath the earth's crust. Anvik was tempted to stretch out his arms, to try to find something solid, for the feeling of traversing a limitless space reminded him of the time he had almost drowned in the river. But the knowledge that the Lady was leading them held his arms down. This was a journey of faith, and to test it might bring her displeasure. They were wholly at her mercy now.

            Though they did not utter a word, Anvik found the sounds of his companions following a comfort. He was not alone. There were grunts and sighs, a yawn, even the occasional squeak of pleasure, all in the warm, human breath of his friends, along with their steady footfalls. The very ordinariness of these sounds contrasted with Anvik's awe of the Lady and the unearthiness of this path in the midst of the earth itself. It made his mind spin but his heart warm. He was, perhaps for the first time, conscious of being proud of his dwarvishness, who had longed vehemently for his elvish inheritance. Strange, he mused, that it was by coming close to the source of his longing that he should discover the wealth he'd always had.

            The time for deep thoughts ended abruptly as light, almost blinding after their hours in darkness, showed as a widening slit a long way ahead.

            'Our journey with you ends shortly,' Lord Lothiel intoned. 'It has been our pleasure to aid those who seek the healing of the land, who have not forgotten their ancestors of Light. May you continue in true fellowship, holding to your hope, so that your journey's end may prove successful.'

            The dwarves murmured their acceptance of the blessing.

            The Lady spoke. 'You have been blessed with a gift of Light, but take care, for even such a gift may be turned to dark purposes. Though the horizon appears not to change, take heart, for if you keep your eyes on it, you will reach your journey's end and your heart's desire.'

            As her final words faded, the party walked out into an overcast morning, which nevertheless made them squint and shade their eyes with their hands. All around them were knolls with steep sides covered with spike-leaved plants and low woody shrubs. Visibility was only as far as the next hillock.

            Having walked for hours without counting the time, they suddenly found they were bone-weary, and sought the cover of some low-lying shrubs to rest. Even Hesna slept.

Anvik stood gazing in the direction only his inner vision could now see. Far away beyond the horizon, he knew, was the end of his journey. All his hope was fixed on that thin line between the heavens and the earth. It might take weeks or years, but there was no room to doubt any more that they were, indeed, on a quest called forth by the Lady herself, and nothing short of death would stop Anvik now.

Until next week…
Claire Belberg

The Lady's Quest

                       Welcome!

Today we had sun, rain, hail and wind - that's Adelaide weather for you! I wish I was someone who enjoyed being out in it all, but I'm more cat-like than that - I like warmth and stillness. Sometimes, though, there are little beauties that make it worth venturing out, like these beautiful bog iris.

Enjoy this week's fantasy story - and come back next week to read the second half.

The Lady’s Quest

Pale sunshine broke through the grey of dawn, and it seemed to Anvik that it was the Lady herself encouraging him to persevere on what had seemed only yesterday a 'fool's errand'. Enchanted by the first hint of warmth in weeks, Anvik felt the stirring of renewed hope. To continue day after day was all he could do, yet sunshine would make the journey more pleasant, if still futile.

Anvik and his companions had left the city of Estenada some months earlier, on a bright day in late summer. In the spring before that, he had seen the Lady in a dream he knew to be as real as daylight, and he had been gripped by her command.

'Seek the way of glory, find the stolen treasures of Estenada, win again the honour of old for your people,' she had whispered to him.

He had begun to seek out what little remained of the lore. Most of the elderly he spoke with jeered at him; others, who had already lost sight of reality, mumbled words which made no sense. Anvik pressed on against all ridicule, strengthened by the sense of destiny which remained when the dream was but a memory. The prophecies told at his birth had seemed to confirm this journey, and in spite of the mockery of his brothers and the grief of his widowed mother, Anvik had followed his calling. From spring to summer he made his preparations, and to his joy, five others chose to accompany him.

 'To the ends of the earth!' they had proclaimed as they marched along the mute streets of the city, northwards. The journey had been pleasant, the thrill of the glory that awaited drawing them like a golden thread, and the weather was warm and, for the most part, dry.

But misty days began to create a haze in their hearts, and the memory of the dream was shot through with doubt. Mountains which had taken weeks to climb, backtracking and seeking alternative paths, seemed to symbolise the growing mass of unanswered questions which plagued Anvik in the night.

Winter set in, and the darkness without and within deepened. Cold to the bone, Anvik could not recall the sense of destiny which had warmed the start of this pilgrimage, when the days were lengthening and the sun shone in a sky blue with unending promise. Before long, despair had become their habitat. On they trudged, for no better reason than the shame of returning home defeated. But the day came when even that was not enough.

‘We’ll die in these caves,’ declared Fiangor the Grim. He was dark of visage and mood; he was also Anvik's most valiant fighter. ‘We have failed, and right fools were we to think we could undo the curse of our once-fair city.’

‘He’s right. I can’t go on,’ wailed Olwin Orfus, stumbling among the stones on the floor of the exaggerated overhang they had taken shelter in three days earlier. Fiangor had attempted to leave at first light that morning but the storm’s vigour had renewed, threatening worse if they chose to leave their little protection. One by one the companions announced the bitterness of their broken dreams and their vivid fears. At last even Anvik surrendered to it.

As if branded by an unexpected iron, Sitran, the oldest among them and the last to join the expedition, leapt to his feet. ‘We must fight,’ he shouted, and Anvik thought, He has lost his mind. No doubt he would have seen the same thought written on the others’ faces if there had been light enough to see clearly. Sitran’s madness was the confirmation of the end of the dream.

Waving a firetorch, the old man walked between and around them, trying to get each to stand. ‘Don’t give up,’ he urged. ‘That is the battle – we must fight the gloom for it is the spirit of the mountain rock itself which seeks to keep us here, to make us one with itself.’

He brandished the torch wildly. 'Away with ye, foul demons of darkness! Anvik, hold on to the vision of glory and honour which led us to venture on this quest in the manner of our forebears. No matter how impossible it seems, hold on,' he urged.

Anvik felt a spark within, and against the weight of a great unwillingness, he forced himself to remember as he had not done for days: the beauty of the Lady, the fragrance of summer hope, the call through centuries of forgotten ancestors, the sorrow of his mother and the sacrifice he had forced on her. He clenched his teeth and his fists and he remembered until it burst from him in a rage of mingled despair and longing, a wordless battle shout.

He stood with Sitran, who was beginning to flag; one by one the others stood, dazed and shaking.

‘We should never have forgotten,’ Sitran said with a tremor in his voice. ‘Even after all these years, we know the saying of old: Break the spirit of the man and the journey will end before it has begun. Plain words, but we forgot.’

They stood for some time, calling to mind fair times and places, saying them aloud into the gloom of the cave, and all the while the sound of thunderous rain and howling wind scorned them. But they had won. The soul-devouring darkness had been banished, and hope began to well up within them.

That was yesterday. Now as Anvik gazed at the dawn-lit horizon, the other members of the quest stirred. The contrast with the previous days created a sense of wonder among them, and even Fiangor dispensed with his customary grumbling. All were delighted to see the wintery sun.

Dwarves are not generally known for their love of the light, but those of the ancient city of Estenada had never been typical of their kind. Though they were made of stern stuff, like their cousins of the caverns, something of the ethereal had also been bequeathed them by their elvish ancestors. Every child of Estenada was told from birth that their forebears were both Hammer-hands and Light-Spinners, 'made of the wedding of Light and Might'. Anvik had not been the only child who dreamed that he or she would be the one to restore the former glory of the City of Light and Might – Estenada, the jewel of the Dwarvish Kingdom – a glory overcome centuries before.

The only work of the Light-Spinners now was the spinning of dirges, the only might of the Hammer-Hands the thuggery of self-appointed overseers. While the sayings of old were repeated mindlessly, the present day reality of Estenada made a mockery of their proud past. Hammers simply shattered stones, looms produced nothing but inferior cloth. Fell raiders picked out the finest young men and women to trade in the stinking cities of the Anakim; children in Estenada were discouraged from doing anything well so that the raiders would not take them. Like all places where hope is seen only with backwards glances, it required a miracle to give it a future.

            The company set out, down the mountainside towards a wide green valley. Anvik hoped to cross directly and reach the ranges on the other side by nightfall. They were making good progress, the sun managing to dry the rock so that it became less slippery by the hour, when suddenly the peal of bells sounded below, the echo drifting up to them like feathers caught in an upward draught.

To be continued next week…

Claire Belberg

Destiny

                                                            Welcome!

Winter sky

I grew up in these hills. I left home as a young adult imagining that if my hills were so beautiful, the rest of the world must also be. It wasn't the case, although there are many other glorious landscapes. But it's in the hills I feel most fully alive, where tree and river and sky meet on 

                                             varying planes and with changing moods.

This week I have a humorous poem for you, a poke at one of my foibles.

Destiny

I was born for the silver spoon

(And the maid to polish the silver).

Not for me grinding labours of earning,

The sordid accounting of gain and expenditure,

Early-to-rising and sleep as necessity.

No!

I was born to gaze at the moon ─

It's my pensive, poetical nature.

I won't sacrifice talent to theories of learning,

I'll do it my own way, I won't be confined to

The mill-run of  rules for the ordin'ry.

No!

I was born to be loved and admired.

Wit, elegance, beauty and manners

Unite in me nat'rally, freely revealing

The best of my ancestors'

Qualities brought to their pinnacle, valued implicitly.

So. . .

Who can tell me what evil conspired

To keep my identity hidden?

I must work for a living, pay bills, cook the meals

Clean my house, keep a garden ─ a slave!

Is there ever a chance to be true to my destiny?

No!

Until next week...

Claire Belberg

Launching into the Unknown

                                                                                   Welcome!

It's winter here in the beautiful Adelaide Hills, cold and often wet by our standards but nothing like a northern hemisphere winter. The Hills are green in winter but dry and brown in summer, so even though a lot of that colour is weeds invading the gardens and fields, it's a delight to the eyes.

This week I've given you a scene from the new novel I'm working on (working title: Zhome). It will probably be cut from the final draft, but I like it so you get to see it anyway :) Don't hold your breath for the publication of the novel - it's barely at first draft stage and that's taken me forever! But I am hoping for some news on my first novel. I'll keep you posted!

Launching into the Unknown

It was with an odd mixture of fear and freedom that Meg walked to the rendezvous. It wasn't too difficult to look like she was anticipating something exciting, but the butterflies in her gut were a trifle too frenzied to put her into a holiday mood.

For a start, embarking on the unknown without her Zhome wrist-unit would be, under normal circumstances, an instant ticket to destitution and arousal of suspicion. Meg had no concept of how one could survive without credits or communications. Twenty years earlier there had still been students who had managed without, but they had relied heavily – exploitatively, she thought wryly – on people like Meg who freely shared their limited credits. Since then the government had tightened its systems to 'be inclusive of all Encaedion citizens', according to the propaganda. Meg had met some of the disenfranchised citizens who had not been included, by unfortunate circumstance or defiant choice. But she hadn't wanted to know how they got by. And it wasn't in their interests to tell a media loudmouth such as herself the workings of Encaedion's underworld.

She hoped her contact, Tamar, knew what she was doing.

They made discreet contact, and Meg followed Tamar at distance until they managed to catch the same PTV. Tamar had chosen well. This vehicle was full and they had to stand for some time, fastened into safety harnesses. Meg kept glancing around to see that her guide was still there, but otherwise gazed randomly out of windows and tried to look like she wasn't missing her Zhome. It was so natural to check it for news and messages, to flip through photos or make notes for new stories, or just to do a puzzle or play a game to while away time. Meg felt like her eyes were attached by invisible strings to her wrist, and mentally severed them with a variety of imagined instruments. All around her passengers were engaged with their own Zhomes, and only one or two looked elsewhere. As if with new eyes, Meg saw those invisible ties as a net around each unsuspecting traveller. She breathed deeply, trying to celebrate her liberty.

After many stops there were seats available and the women managed to sit together as if by accident.

Tamar, looking out of the window, away from Meg, spoke first. 'We can talk, but we need to keep it very casual, as if we had just met or were only barely acquainted.'

Meg kept her eyes in her lap. 'I presume you paid for me when we got on.'

'Yes. Just assume that will happen with each of your guides.' Meg could hear the smile in Tamar's voice.

'Do you know where I'm going?' Meg glanced sideways and let her eyes keep going out to the passing city.

'Only my leg.' She pointed out of the window. 'I'm pretending to show you things; just play along. It gets easier if you practice, this acting one thing while saying another.'

Meg nodded, looking back where Tamar had pointed.

They talked sporadically for the rest of the journey. The PTV appeared to be taking them north, but Meg hadn't bothered to check its destination readout.

Eventually Tamar said, 'I'll get off at the next stop, but you stay on. The stop after that, a dark-skinned man with an extension rod will get on. He will appear to be confused about where to sit. Get up and touch him on his left shoulder and invite him to sit next to you. He's your next guide.'

Meg rehearsed that mentally. 'Isn't it a bit risky, pretending to be blind? I'd have thought that would draw more attention than necessary.'

Tamar turned towards her with a big grin. 'That's what I thought at first. But he really is blind.'

'Oh.'

'See you. Good luck.' Tamar undid her harness and stood as the PTV slowed. Meg felt a moment of loss, wanting to clutch at Tamar's sleeve like a lost child. Instead she moved into the window seat, and then back again, realising that someone else might well try to sit there before her guide could. She put her backpack on the seat Tamar had vacated, and tried to pretend she wasn't embarrassed to use two seats.

The plan worked smoothly, and once Meg was in her window seat with her guide beside her, she ventured to ask his name.

'Leon. I know yours but I won't use it. You never know who might lip-read.' His voice held a laugh as if he were the one starting a holiday. He must have read her thoughts as he added, 'You're on an adventure, aren't you? It positively lifts my spirits to think of the joys ahead of you.'

Meg wondered if he was laughing at her. She said nothing as she watched the endless high rise buildscape slip by, looking much as it had where her journey had started.

'Don't mind me,' Leon murmured. 'My endless optimism annoys most people. But truly, you're going to look back on this experience and be glad you had the chance to try something most people in this city wouldn't have the courage to attempt. It won't be easy but it will be good in a myriad of ways. You'll be fine.'

Meg tried to laugh and choked on an unexpected sob, which she quickly disguised as a cough.

Leon passed her a lozenge and made sympathetic clucking noises which Meg found oddly comforting. She played with the lozenge in her mouth, eventually noticing it was blackcurrent flavoured. It reminded her of her mother. At least she wasn’t leaving her mother behind; Mum had died six years earlier. But Meg still missed her.

They sat in companionable silence and Meg began to doze, jerking her head up every so often so that she didn't lean against Leon or bang her head on the window.

'Not much further. Do you know where you are?' Leon asked.

Meg focused on the view. 'Yes, it's Sengalo, isn't it?' That made her glad. 'But...don't you have to change transports to get here? They have those old omnibuses.'

'Right. But there is this service twice a week, and I hear they're planning to increase it as the population expands out into these old areas.'

'Oh. Does that mean that Sengalo will become just like any other part of Encaedion, then? What a shame.'

Leon nodded. 'But maybe they won't be able to erase all of this old treasure's memories so easily. Still, the PTV makes the journey easier for us today. When we get off, I'll leave you at the terminus. The cleaner in the Ladies restroom will have a package for you and will give you the next instruction. All the best, and enjoy the ride.'

So her journey continued, to the old town and beyond, across the wasteland which was testament to humanity’s greed, and into the mountains where, three days later, Meg saw her destiny take on the shape of freedom.

*  *  *

Is ‘freedom’ ever what we expect? Meg’s story has only begun. I’ll keep working on the draft and maybe put some more excerpts on the blog as I go.


See you next week!
Claire Belberg