She asked, “Are there other reasons why you have chosen to write obscure works, besides the need to set down your wonder?”
“There are always other reasons. I have been called the worst of names and the best of names. Some have called me a devil and others have believed me an angel, but somewhere between the two, perhaps; or maybe depending on the creature standing before me, which I would be. I have just been proud to be alive. I struggled for a very long time, but during all of it I never lost my wonder or hope. And then came the day when I lost everything, even my beautiful illusions—my hope and my wonder—and that was the day I realized was the time to gain everything back. I learned one doesn’t need hope to keep on, but only to keep doing the thing that could grow hope back, and it would. . . maybe. . . eventually. And that is also when I realized there should be no end to our illusions. We live best by our illusion that hope will save us. Hope springs eternal in the human breast, said Pope. Our lives are like a Hollywood movie and a Loblolly pine; they just take longer than the movie to draw out and not so long as the Loblolly. We are all tragedies waiting to happen, but we have a choice to be an epic or comic tragedy. My writing of obscure works just comes back to my being proud to be alive and coupled with that the knowledge that life is so short so I-who-am-soon-to-be-dead just hopes to leave something of worth behind in payment for the life once given.”
He stopped and the image of starlight danced in his eyes as he said, “Perhaps I have been too ambitious . . .”
He finished his beer and said,
“I am Job revisited; and it is not so uncommon a thing; there are many that are. I have known the struggle of centuries, but inside me is the shadow that does not turn; that invariable place where I am—unmoved and unmovable. I prayed a lot when I was young. I don't pray anymore, not directly; I have found it too dangerous. I don't even know if I believe in that; nor do I disbelieve. I am as ignorant of the matter as all others are and ever were; no matter what they say with frothed mouth and forked tongue. But I think I know where he lives and what he likes to eat and drink. I think God is just the ideal in humanity of humanity itself, and to not believe in God is to not believe in humanity; and to be honest about the matter I can understand both sides. All prayers of mine for all honest, beautiful and selfless things were never answered, unless gaining the opposite of things hoped for was the answer. And that is no kind of answer. Perhaps the trick is to pray for the opposite of what one wishes for but that would take more of a gambling spirit than I possess, but life is nothing if not a gamble, so maybe it’s not so bad an idea.
“So I do not pray anymore, because I know the answer already. Well, I do not pray directly. I pray with my actions now. But at least I have learned much. There is always that; if we choose to learn. Biggest thing I have learned is the life in me is nothing I own; I am just leasing it awhile. And I understand that is true for everything else that touches me. Even so, it's difficult not to be possessive of the brightest, most beautiful things. But that is what we have to do—be not possessive.”
The night turns cold quick on the top of a mountain. He told her they'd better hurry and get back down. When they made it back to the porch he asked if she needed a jacket. She lied and replied she was fine. He said,
“Well I am getting chilled. I’ll be right back.”
He soon returned, rolling a portable fire-place and holding two blankets. He set one on her and pushed in the corners and edges around her and plugged the fire in. Soon they were comfy and warm.
He took off his boots and buried his feet in the cover then he raised his arms to encompass the mountain hid in darkness: “I say that a man cannot love properly except on a mountain. It beats any other place for bringing out what is good, beautiful and natural.
“We can choose who we love but after we choose them we can no longer un-choose them; at least that is what this man believes about it. I am well aware that many others do not feel that way.”
She said, “Well, we are all bound to be somebody's fool at least once or twice in life. I think that's how it works.”
“You are right about that one. And even more right would be to say we are all bound to be fools to ourselves. Such a fool I have been and will be. It's the only thing I am a very good at, in fact. Being a fool is just part of living. It's just going to happen if you try or believe in anything much at all. People get offended to be called a fool and it reminds me of the kettle being offended that the skillet calls it black. It helps to be a fool, if one wishes also to become a wise man; and it is just basic to living. No man can prevent his folly, except by not living at all.”
He stood and stretched. Then he walked to the edge of the porch and looked up, motioning for her to come over. He pointed to the heavens; the Milky Way was like a dim nightlight for the mountain.
“Look at that. Every single star the naked human eye can see is to be seen on a high mountain, far from the city lights. Every good and perfect gift comes from above, from the father of lights, in whom there are no variables or shadow of turning. For me, to view the heavens is prayer enough to any god there may or may not be. There are three things we should never run from: the rain; the too-rare food-fight; and the truth. I have found that the stars help me find whatever is true for me better than any other thing. Catholics pray with rosary beads. I pray with the stars. To me they are bright things on strings, and soon to be hooked to the line on my rod and reel. I have caught many of them, but none of them equal the biggest, brightest one I have always tried to catch. I wouldn't be able to throw that one back; I would have to keep it for myself. So I throw them all back after catching them. They are much too beautiful and rare to keep. I fish among the stars for the rare wonder that swims among them. I fish for the cosmic miracles. The heavens are my center.”
He reached and pulled her close and said,
“I have a question to ask you. It is a simple yes or no question.”
She looked off into the great star pond and felt a sea-tide swell in her. In the dark she smiled, but she said nothing. He was looking at the same pond when he took a deep breath and asked,
“I'd like to hitch the wagon of my soul to your beautiful, starry soul. I'd like to cast my line out farther than I ever have and catch the most beautiful star I ever will. Will you marry me?”
Inside she melted and her soul said yes, but she held her tongue. When she spoke, she replied,
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“If you and Stardust can beat me and Twelve Bolides in a race at a certain place.”
“What place?”
“Wait and see.”
They watched the stars turn. The night was part of a mystery solved. At least in each of them, part of the secret of life was known.
Believe in the Invisible
October 30, 1963
They met a month later at his ivy-covered bungalow off a curving street in the city on the thirtieth day of October. It was their second month and second year to meet in. She had traveled by plane and car to see him. She stopped the car a hundred yards short of his house and got out. She wanted to walk the rest of the way. She found a special meaning in walking the last part to him, like getting off your horse and walking the last part of a great mountain to get to the peak.
It was drizzling rain; just enough to dampen her skin, hair and clothing and make the Indian summer's heat rise off the streets in wispy vapors. The storm clouds were dark and the heavens were furrowing their brow, but this was the kind of weather they both liked best for meetings between hearts.
He watched her walk to him. He had been waiting to see this since the last time he watched her walk his way. He watched her hips, the Indian summertime in her eyes, he watched the rain falling around her and upon her and he knew, this was a living portrait he would never forget as long as he lived. He went out in the rain to meet her halfway. When they were abreast of each other they stopped and said nothing, then he put his lips against her cheek and held them there. She tasted of
Indian summer rain and it nourished him. He smelled of Indian summer rain and it nourished her.
He stood back from her and said,
“Nice to see you made it safe.”
He took her hand and led her in, where he gave her a towel from the pantry to dry herself. After this he took her to the study, where they were met by his black Labrador, who woke at their entrance and stretched. He looked at the lady with a smile.
“Abraham, this is the woman I told you about. Say hello to the lady.”
Abraham stood and licked her hand. She knelt down and wrapped her arms around his neck and Abraham's tail wagged with pride. He was 87 years old in dog years, but had not forgot the best things in life. There were two windows, one facing east and one southwest, with two large trees outside each window. The world's most obscure author pointed out the southwesterly window at the tree there and said,
“Allow me to introduce you to another of my friends, Mr. Silver. The plant scientist call his particular floral aggregation a silver leaf maple.”
He pointed out the east window,
“And this is his wife, Mrs. Silver. She is, like her husband, eighteen in our years but in their years they are aged about seventy-two. For their species that is a young middle-aged. They both were planted the same day of spring and in the same year. These particular maples are not supposed to be able to accomplish it but somehow they mated and made little silver leaf seeds a few springs ago. All but one of the seedlings died from neglect. I learned from that not to give the seeds of my rare silver leafs to those who would not appreciate them.”
He looked on the tree like it was a living person. He said, “I assumed too much with them. I thought they would mate again, but it has not yet happened. I wish I would have saved all the seeds I could have picked up. I planted and grew about twenty of them but there were hundreds of them I let alone. It's an elegant thing, a silver leaf seedling. It has wings it uses to fly from its parents to the earth with; they open and it will twirl in the air like a tree fairy. It's a little moment of magic to see the silver leaf seed fall from its progenitor in the spring.”
They watched the rain for a minute then he said,
“The year is dying quick nowadays. When the Silver's start dropping their yellow leaves is when fall really begins; it's not by the calendar but by the first leaf drop. One by one the Silver's will drop back to the earth the leaves they, sunlight and spring had made. And look at those drops; a fall's rain of silver pearls that spill on the brown earth and make their splash and then seep back into the deep. Maybe that one drop will sink into the spring below and there it will stay another ten-thousand or ten million years. Or maybe today the sun will shine again and pull that silver pearl back out the very day it went in. Either way, the silver pearls are to one day fly back out of the earth and to fly again around the world and fall in many places and be silver pearls for many eyes as they have been for countless eons now.”
He was doleful. She noticed it when they met in the rain. A strong, soundless face, full of pensive thought. She knew him well enough now to not be worried about direct questions. She asked if he was upset. He replied:
“These yellow'd silver leafs and these vagabond silver pearls, they remind me of the faint memory of a dream. That is a powerful sad thing; the memory of a dream. Takes a long time and a lot of struggle to get to the place where a dream becomes a faint memory. What would you say a dream is?”
“I would say a dream is a perfectly-rendered and carefully-kept hope, I think.”
“A perfectly-rendered and carefully-kept hope. . . . Yes. That is a perfectly-rendered description. I like it. And hope springs eternal, doesn't it?”
“That's what the poet said. And I hope it does. For you.”
“Thank you. I am beginning to think wishes come true only when angels intervene and one must pray for angels to intervene, I think. The idealistic poet in me believes in angels and would have you pray for me, if that is your belief. I believe prayers on behalf are probably better than prayers direct. I wonder if there are dreamers with too high a bar and dream of wonderful things—who believe in impossible things—and then there is all else. It sometimes seems that everybody talks of wonderful things and dreams but do not really believe in them, even though they are given these beautiful things and have them directly as evidence to prove beautiful things by. Perhaps the dreamer suffers for their ignorance just as the outright fool does; maybe ignorance and beautiful dreams are the same, somewhat? I wonder if there is any practical difference between a dreamer and a fool?”
“Dreamers believe in some ideal beyond themselves. Dreamers are beautiful beasts of idealistic burdens. I don't believe true fools believe in anything like an ideal.”
“Well I am glad I am no dreamer, then. Sounds impossible.”
She said, “Oh, you're a dreamer alright. That is sure. Tell me something, have you ever witched for water?”
“What do you mean? Like, with sticks? That is not true, is it; one of those persisting myths from the old days, right?”
She motioned for him to follow her back outside, where they walked to her car and she pulled from her suit case a pair of bent, thin pieces of metal. She said,
“Well I don’t know. You tell me. Seeing is, after all, believing.”
She led the way to the yard and held the thin pieces of metal parallel to the earth and began walking forward. At a dozen steps the rods began to swing in toward her. Then they bounced back out slightly and then turned back in sharper than before, until they were completely turned inward toward her chest. She then stopped and began hitting the ground with her boot, counting as she stomped. He wondered if she had lost her sense until the rods began to turn back outward to their original position. Even though his eye was watching it happen directly he found it unbelievable. At the twenty-fourth count the rods stopped moving and were back at their original positions. She held them a moment to make sure they were done moving and then said,
“Twenty-four feet below us there is a water vein. Guaranteed.”
“No. The heck there is. What did you just do? What form of wickedness is this?”
“No wickedness. Just good, old fashioned water-witchery. I tell you a vein of water runs under our feet, and it runs north-south. It's a vein—a river running north-south through porous rock and sand. And it is twenty-four feet below us.”
“And how do you know that?”
“I could tell the way the rods moved. They pointed me along the line of the vein. It runs north-south. And that is what the stomping of the boot and counting was for. It is twenty-four feet below us.”
She handed him the rods and said, “It is a mysterious world and life, sir. Discover the mystery for yourself.”
He did as he was instructed and walked off and soon the rods began to move on their own and soon thereafter he had found his own underground water vein, eighteen feet below. He had become the discoverer of an uncharted river and was made like a child again, learning something that was pure magic to him he had never thought to learn and always had believed was myth. He was delighted and filled with wonder. She said,
“We shall henceforth call this underground river Dream River. From this day to the end of time it shall be called that and for all time to come after the end of time it shall be called that. Congratulations, you have just discovered a river that has never been seen before in the history of man on this earth. But just because it has never been seen, does not mean it is not there. . . . Much like dreams, I think.”
He had never discovered a river before and he beamed with pride and the bewitching lady smiled and led him back inside.
Solve for X
Artistic Arithmetic
They walked back into the study. He gave her his desk chair and brought in another chair from the living room for himself. Books of biography, history, philosophy and poetry filled his shelves. A small placard read: The best way to get something done is to begin. A 1929 first edition of The Hardy Boys The Mystery of Cabin Island c
aught her eye. She asked if he read them as a child.
“I loved reading those books. I thought it important to know how to be a good investigator, but I never cared to be one. What did you want to grow up to be when you were a girl?”
“I don't remember wanting to be anything, specifically. I think I was too full of absolute wonder to be able to narrow it down. All of eternity was opened up to me then, so how could I decide such a thing at such an age?”
He said, “And now you are a writer of famous works of wonder. Makes sense.” He cocked his head in thought, “I wonder how old Frank and Joe must be by now? They were sixteen and seventeen in the books. The books first came out in '29, so Frank is now 51 and Joe is 50.”
She laughed and said, “They should change the name to The Hardy Men. They are too old now to be called boys.”
She noticed the room was a veritable collection of lares and penates; among other things was a globe, a wreath made of gold and silver bells, a wooden stand of pine trees, a crystal ball, things the writer needs to wonder by, she thought. A humidor held a few dozen cigars. He offered her one and she took it. A six pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon beers sat next to the desk. He took out two and handed her one and they toasted. He said about the Pabst:
“I like Pabst for two reasons: because the name is so hard to spell, which is odd, because it really isn't, if you look at it: P-A-B-S-T. But I always forget how to spell it, until I think about it, so it keeps me sharp. And because it is a blue ribbon beer. Says so right on the can. Of all beers going today, this is the only one that has a blue ribbon. It was 1893 when it was voted America's best beer and nothing has changed about that in the last seventy years. Every time I drink one I feel like a winner.”
The Star Fisher Page 8