“There is no such thing as chance; and
what seem to us merest
accident springs from the deepest source of destiny.”
Friedrich Schiller
Roger had been beckoned, first into their cellar to confront the presence of death from within; then, later that evening, forced to confront it again on his own front lawn. Once those three first responders had scrubbed the blood from their skin, dousing saturated clothes and quilts with peroxide to salvage what they could, they gathered together in the parlor. Before sending Andrea off to bed, her parents decided to discuss the accident and its aftermath, so to give her an opportunity to express any distress. It was unnecessary. Their eldest child, calm and collected in the wake of the disaster, knew they had done what was asked of them. She followed every direction her mother and father issued throughout the ordeal and they did everything in their power to rescue three boys from themselves. Childhood trauma it was not. Hers was a sense of gratification, a satisfaction that comes from a job well done. Roger and Carolyn were proud of Andrea, expecting nothing less of their daughter than a level-headed approach to an insane situation. Goodnight. Sleep tight.
While Carolyn returned to her book, too wired to sleep, Roger stoked the fire which had, in their absence, burned down to ashes and embers. He stood in silence on a hearthstone stirring cinders, gazing at his wife while she read, wondering how she could appear so unaffected. Truth be told, she had faced many a crisis in his absence and was getting rather used to it. Roger spoke honestly, if quietly, expressing his own heartfelt grief on numerous fronts.
“I am sorry we ever bought this place.” A sincerely emotional sentiment shared, he awaited her response. As none was forthcoming, he turned his back on her and went to bed.
***
The horn would sound once more during that tumultuous decade in which they inhabited the farmhouse, totaling three separate incidents of its kind. In each episode Roger was home, at her beckon call, there to receive a message. Was it as Mrs. Warren said, mocking the Trinity or was it a mocking of mere mortals? Maybe there is something to it, about everything happening in sets of threes. Yet, with what purpose and reason? Three victims, three saviors, three knocks at a door, three blows of a horn. What could it all possibly mean, if anything? Considering coincidence, what if there really is no such thing?
“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls;
the most massive characters are seared with scars.”
Kahlil Gibran
black hole
“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are
powerful beyond measure. It is our light not
our darkness that most frightens us.”
Marianne Williamson
A Technicolor Life: Earth is ablaze with vivid texture and hue, as brilliant displays of creativity, forever in flux, re-creating itself in perpetuity. Tapping into elemental sources reveals a staggering array of possibilities. Discoveries at every twist and turn of the labyrinth, a journey through life on this planet is quite enough to occupy the most facile minds. Why bother looking up and out when Earth itself is so intriguing? Why such a fascination with the black backdrop, why an affinity with the infinite? Humanity is drawn to the Light. Gazing up and out, captivated by those mysterious arrangements of specks in the sky, mortals know instinctively to appreciate the darkness, providing the necessary contrast to define so many points of Light. Staring into deep space, we chart the stars, examining the cosmos, scrutinizing it more closely all the time, constantly reinventing new techniques for looking deeper still, into the blackest of holes. If not obsession, this craving to understand the Universe, (the place where some perceive God to be), will ultimately result in a greater understanding of ourselves. This coupling of Darkness and Light functions in tandem reflecting our own image back as we gaze upward into the infinite, where we communicate freely, like writing a love letter home with our eyes.
***
It felt like a black hole in the cosmos. A once vital marriage was disintegrating, being sucked through a pin hole, blown away, out into oblivion, to infinity and beyond. The vacancy in Carolyn, the void-of-course created, was akin to a vacuum, draining her of enthusiasm, diffusing then depleting the natural resource: hopefulness. There came a rancid realization, a time when the heartsick woman could no longer abide her husband and could no longer envision a future with him, and yet, she persevered. There were still five children to be considered, factored into every equation. The eldest would soon be heading off for college, not exactly an opportune moment to declare her intentions. Was there ever a good time? Divorce meant upheaval. She swallowed back her discontentment, choking it down the hatch with another cup of coffee… a bitter pill.
Revolving around the house like the Moon in permanent eclipse, Carolyn was perceived as a phantom, there but not really there: elsewhere. Remaining in perpetual motion, her cold and wounded heart was mostly dead. She had no proof to confirm her suspicions, no empirical evidence to back an internal assertion made… just a feeling, a sensation she had felt in the past. But it had always passed. This time it lingered, gnawing at the woman from inside out. This distress showed on her face. What had he done? Perhaps nothing at all. Intuition is both a blessing and a curse, unless trusted. Had she been willing to listen to her instincts? Trust was becoming an issue overall. Do the eyes of the beholder suffer optical illusions? She would rather remain silent and risk appearing foolish than make a harsh accusation and be wrong about it. Not his alone, her personal integrity was on the line, as well. Would the third eye lie? Does disillusionment qualify as second sight? Simmering, smoldering in a cauldron of discontentment, the man she once loved and married seemed to be wandering away, but that is what she wanted, wasn’t it? To be left alone.
Carolyn began writing again: a taproot manuscript of her fears, grief and contemplation. Whether the thoughts were scrawled in the pages of her tablet or securely tucked away within the recesses of memory, recorded later when time permitted, she began to express herself with words again, though few of them were uttered in the direction of her children. She appeared sad, troubled by something serious. Increasingly distracted, a remote mother seemed rather disinterested in her own life, likely because she was preoccupied by the lives (and deaths) of others. During this period she did not ignore them but was never really present with her girls, either. She’d begun slipping away in a variety of ways, disappearing into the forest for hours. Vacant in spirit, even when she was present in body, as the girls observed this transition, their assessment was accurate. Mom was missing in action in heart and mind, soul and spirit. Carolyn knew it too, capturing self-reflections on notebook paper.
At the kitchen window
I work the sudsy water
watch a finch searching for grubs
along a cherry branch
thinking of my small, insignificant life.
All the while
the Universe explodes
out and out to limitless spaces
blowing God farther and farther away
each second of the day.
How will the Great Spirit ever hear my pleas
and whispers from such a distance?
Knowing she could leave wasn’t enough. Carolyn could do as she pleased but nothing pleased her at a point in her life when prospects appeared bleak, a grim reminder of the future she once pictured. It was but a distant dream of a past life, a fairy tale, one filled with the light of promise rather than darkest regret. The embattled woman was fiercely fighting in a war on two fronts: a relationship with a mortal soul in question, there was no question at all about the presence of an immortal mistress of the house. Each was adversarial by nature, the mutual contempt between human beings expressed with words as weapons, taking careful aim and fire! The double-barrel attack, on target: powerful ammunition. The onslaught caused her to feel inadequately armed, but Carolyn knew she was powerful. Problem was, she had kept that a sec
ret from herself and was forced to stare into the black hole in her soul, there to rediscover the essential elements of self, the source of her inherent strength and resiliency. Hardly an easy path of passive resistance, the contemplative effort made was revealing. Her emotions spilled onto white lined paper as poignant words, scribbled and scrawled across the vast Universe within. Her salvation was pointing the way home. Her survival was at stake. Battle on!
***
Human beings have built an amazing machine that flies through the skies and photographs the cosmos. Scientists focused it on dark space between the stars with fervor and fascination. All Hail Hubble! This telescope stares with wide-eyed wonder at gaping holes, drawn evermore deeply into the darkness. On behalf of its inventor, it discerns from such an inconceivable distance, it is difficult to fully wrap one’s mind around, then it beams these remarkable images back to planet Earth in a sequence of snapshots which reveal infinity at a glance. Someone as bright as the Universe itself thought enough to focus an elaborate camera on a fixed point in space, gathering thousands of images which were then layered and interpreted by those who know how to look at these pictures, those who know precisely what they are looking for. Lo and behold, at first glance, it appeared to be nothing at all… entirely vacant space. As these repeated exposures were scrutinized more closely, as the eye of this beholder penetrated the depths of space, out of the darkness came the light. Billions of points of Light. A mighty mechanism, an intrepid explorer gazing mindlessly into the Universe, what it un-Earthed has come as a shock to the system for some; others believe it has over-exposed the essence of humanity: stardust. Stunning to some, a given for others, assumptions were made from alternate perspectives, positions assumed based upon a belief that what could not be seen did not exist. A faulty supposition. Hubble has captured light in the depths of the darkness of Infinity. Attitude is everything. Let it shine.
***
We look up and out. Searching outside ourselves, we seek a holy Creator. While human beings focus out we should likewise focus inward, deliberately peering into the black hole we sense inside ourselves in times of crisis, there to reflect on light disguised as darkness. Since we capitalize God as a sign of respect and reverence, should we not do the same for the astral bodies from which our corporeal bodies have evolved? And what of these orbs revolving around an infinite cosmos, containing all the elements of which we are made in its likeness? Shouldn’t we honor, revere the Earth and the Moon, the Sun and the Stars, including the Black Holes of the Universe? Worshipping God requires looking up and out, yet we neglect to regard existence from within. Considering consciousness as manifestation of God, thinking becomes a holy spiritual endeavor, an elemental reflection of self. We are stardust. Golden. Carolyn knew precisely how to rescue herself. She got herself back to the garden.
“I believe a leaf of grass is no less than
the journey—work of the stars.”
Walt Whitman
dead in the water
“The question is not ‘Can they reason?’ nor,
‘Can they talk?’ but rather ‘Can they suffer?’”
Jeremy Bentham
It was a nice time for a walk in the woods, a bright and brisk autumn day. Roger asked the ladies who wanted to come along. All of them accompanied him on the excursion. Nobody knew where they were going, or if he had a fixed destination in mind. This was another chance to go play in the forest, to frolic as wood nymphs among the stoic pines. They could already see the old cellar hole and hear the pond calling. Carolyn was enticed to come along.
Over the river then through the woods they went, the ice-encrusted crunch of dead leaves became almost deafening beneath so many feet… a cacophony to beat the band. First stop: the river. The shadows were high, aloof, dancing overhead among bare limbs adorning the surface of the water, reflecting their images in spite of the furious pace of its flow. So much more to see, the brief time spent lingering on the bridge only served to draw them further in, to call them more deeply into the forest. No stone left unturned, they were prepared to explore, to see what the woods had to offer on such an exceptional day.
The old cellar hole was more fun with dad around. He’d allow the girls to scale its walls and climb those trees growing inside it, as long as they were careful and he was there to rescue them from mishaps. An open-minded man to the fact that he had five tomboys for daughters, they all knew the sense of freedom the forest provided, indulging in its pleasures, the splendor of it all. While they climbed and laughed and screamed with delight, Roger foraged the forest floor. A bell stone beckoned. He’d heard the call of the wild side.
Sliding the enormous granite bell off the well, he wanted to reexamine the walls more closely then determine how deeply it had been dug. Fascinated by it from the start, from the first time Mr. Kenyon pointed it out during one of their private excursions, Carolyn accompanied him, equally curious about its antiquity. It required all their strength to shove it aside, only to discover a gruesome and heartbreaking sight. There floating on the surface of its watery grave was a rabbit, eyes wide open, terror frozen on its face. They gasped at the sight, causing girls to come running, wanting to know what they found. Carolyn told them to back away, keep their distance, though several of them peeked before Roger could reposition the stone. Tears welled up in the eyes of those who had seen too much. Disregarding the direct order, insubordinate heathens got what they deserved, and more. A wonder to behold. One had to wonder how such a thing could’ve happened, a consequence in its own right. Telling sisters what they had seen, a shroud of sadness fell upon the family. A moment of silence, a pause for reflection observed as they considered the cause of this unnatural disaster. In hushed tones, the girls quietly asked their parents difficult questions to answer. How could this death have occurred? If the rabbit was wild, could it have burrowed through an earthen wall of a well in search of water and why would it do so with an abundance of resources at its disposal? Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink? There was no way of extricating the pitiful creature from the well. It went too deeply down the hatch, too far gone to be reached with any tool; afforded a proper burial.
The pathetic animal was gone, but not forgotten. More childhood trauma to add to their collection of imagery they’d all sooner forget. It was not to be. Troubled, deeply disturbed by the find, this put a damper on high spirits and the kids told their parents they wanted to go home. It hardly seemed suitable to frolic so festively when poor Peter Cottontail had met such a bitter end. The girls were disheartened. Carolyn considered the gruesome sighting as an omen, a harbinger of things to come: doom and gloom. Was it an evil omen? Was this an evil act, perpetrated against an innocent creature? It appeared so. Emerson wrote: “People only see what they are prepared to see.” None of the family was prepared for this. It took their collective breath away, impaled in mortal memories already over-burdened, infiltrated with vivid imagery.
“Mom?” Andrea hesitated to ask, but finally mustered the courage to say the painful words. “Did someone throw the rabbit down the well?” She made sure no one else was within earshot as she asked that provocative question.
“I don’t know.” Carolyn’s mind was on the same matter. She could not dismiss what she’d seen and her brain immediately started trying to solve a perplexing puzzle. It was a dilemma for both, presenting itself in the most obscene sense. Carolyn relied upon her senses but also her finer sensibilities. Something told her this was no accident, no unhappy happenstance. Her true sense of it was darker and deeper still than a rabbit floating in a watery tomb. How to reconcile such a bizarre discovery? “I honestly don’t know.”
“Daddy? Do you think he suffered?” Nancy had some difficult questions of her own. As compassionate as any mortal soul, the sweet softhearted child was struggling with a frightful sight which refused to vacate her mind.
“I don’t know.” Roger’s mind was equally preoccupied. Suspecting the animal was sacrificed, his attention turned to an angrier notion: som
eone had been on his land. Though he didn’t share his speculation at the time, the very pragmatic man knew the creature had not burrowed through the well wall. It met its death another way, under nefarious circumstances. Some sonofabitch surreptitiously sacrificed the little lamb disguised as a rabbit. Despicable.
Demonic in Nature: it was no accident. Roger was certain and so was his wife. They tried to protect their curious kids but they all had minds of their own, running in overdrive. Each was trying to sort it out, make sense of a senseless death. Walking together in pairs, Cindy joined her mother who was actively attempting to concoct a plausible explanation, something reasonable to pass on to her young, to ease their pain. She knew it in her gut, from the instant she observed the floating carcass; something wicked this way comes. It was a huge, well-fed, domesticated rabbit and it did not find the hole in the ground on its own. Had a sick someone stood there, gazing down from above watching the show of force? The overwhelming, elemental power of water at work? It was all too much to absorb, resulting in some inexplicable lethargy. Someone had been doing the devil’s footwork… again. Imagine that.
The pace slowed with the prospects considered, meandering up the hill to the house. Like a funeral procession, what appeared to be a ritualistic killing labored on their minds and legs alike. Solemnly, they proceeded, as if lining the valley with sorrow in every step taken. It was a tragedy. It was a murder. A specter of death upon them, a dirge continued until they reached their final destination. Everyone needed a nap. The life force had been sucked from an entire family, into the vortex of a black hole, catapulting the energy outward, dispersing it across the Universe. No stone left unturned. Woe be unto them.
The bell stone was almost impossible to move. It could be shoved with a concerted effort, though it would require a small army to pick it up and move it. Roger hid behind his newspaper, contemplating other ramifications of the discovery made that morning. He considered the water source and its proximity to the house then could not help but wonder who else knew it was there. If some scoundrels from the expansive neighborhood were haunting property not their own, he wanted to know about it. Likewise, if they were capable of such a heinous act, how safe were his girls? Mother of God! Wasn’t this why they had moved to the country in the first place, to escape s criminal element in their own back yard? The irony did not escape the man. His rage began to fester like a boil on his brain. There was no conceivable way to adequately monitor the land. Anybody could come and go without ever being detected. Easy access: from a multitude of angles for entry. He’d felt as violated as that rabbit, trapped, panicked by the potential hazards posed by a grotesque find; a revelation. Taking longer than anticipated, he wrestled with the lurid image for hours fixated on a single page of the newspaper… he hadn’t read a word.
House of Darkness House of Light Page 23