The Sword of Ruth: The Story of Jesus' Little Sister

by V. M. Franck

Raven

  Dawn glazed the Santa Barbara coastline. Sun, rising over ends of the mountains, kissed the gentle waters of summer.

  Still sleepy, alone on the beach in front of the motel, I gazed at the waves. In the distance out over the water remnants of the golden man from my dream shimmered on the cusp of reality. The image of him had startled me awake not twenty minutes earlier. His star-blue eyes, his below-the-shoulders golden hair, his radiance imparted the essence of eternity--a concept I had struggled with my entire life.

  Something adrift on an incoming wave distracted me. It washed closer and closer, then closer again. Whether it was a product of the sea, whether it was litter, I could not be certain. The next wave brought it near enough to make out.

  The water withdrew leaving a white blossom at my feet. I picked it up, backed to a patch of dry sand and sat down. The sand was surprisingly cold through my jeans.

  "A rose," I whispered, my skin prickling with bumps.

  The flower was exquisitely formed, it's fragrance sweetly aromatic. I half expected music from a heavenly choir. Instead, one of the thorns pricked me.

  "Ouch."

  Many times throughout my life events had unfurled in ways I could not explain. Their apparent uniqueness reinforced my isolation.

  In front of me wave after wave lapped the beach, each covering a little more sand, only to be drawn away. The pattern repeated. Patterns--life seemed to be about patterns. Maybe that was what I needed to learn. Grandma White Bear had said all of life, everything that happened, good and bad, could teach me what I needed to know if I paid attention. It was a Zen concept, Demmy had told me.

  Demmy, what's happening? I asked a brother I could no longer see. I longed to talk to him, tell him about it, have him help me figure out what to do. My life waxed more and more difficult without him.

  I hugged my knees, huddled into my jacket and listened to a man calling his dog.

  "Raven?"

  Surprised, I looked behind me. A woman in a gray hooded sweat suit scooted down the sandy slope.

  "Sue?"

  The workshop leader smiled and eased onto the granular earth beside me.

  "What a lovely rose. White ones are my favorite," she said. "I was hoping I'd find you here. I stayed up two nights reading your manuscript. That's why I've looked so dopy in class. I dropped it off at Zippy McClintock's in sections. He read it, too. He called me a couple of hours ago. We just finished breakfast."

  "Is he one of the workshop leaders?" I said, anxious to know what she thought of it.

  "No, but he's giving a lecture in the main auditorium tomorrow night. He was my writing instructor in college. He teaches here at UCSB. Anyway," she paused and cleared her throat, "your story shook us, both of us."

  "It did?" I was afraid to think, afraid to speculate.

  "I just think, Raven, your story...."

  "What? My story what?" Dear God, don't let it be bad.

  "Has to be told."

  Stifled tears grazed my emotions.

  "It's what we all need. Especially now with the world in such a mess like it is. I was wondering, uhm, are you planning to attend Zippy's lecture?" She wore a pensive look, one of knowing things she was not ready to reveal, the way Jessie did.

  "I am, actually. It sounds interesting."

  "Good, how about meeting me outside the auditorium at 7:45?"

  "Okay, sure."

  "Excellent, I'll see you then. And in class?" She rose to go.

  "Yes." Please tell me more.

  A breeze followed Sue up the path away from me.

  Fidgety, I wondered about Jessie, the other person who had dropped unexpectedly into my life. I hadn't seen him in two days. Rising slowly, my knees creaked. I grimaced at the pain shooting from kneecap to ankle, compliments of a bicycle injury when I was ten. Demmy was the one who had carefully cleaned and bandaged my scraped knee.

  Demmy, oh, Demmy.

  Considering skipping class and exploring Santa Barbara to my mellow myself, I decided against it. I had told Sue I'd be there. Besides, I might be able to pry more out of her about her professor and what they both thought.

  Carefully twiddling the stem of the rose between my thumb and forefinger, I climbed the hill next to the tennis court. I was thinking about whether or not to have breakfast when I spotted Jessie's cat.

  "Are you lost, Lumpkin?"

  "Meow." Tail raised, head high, the cat trotted away.

  "Lumpkin, come back here. I can't have you getting lost. Here, kitty, kitty, kitty."

  The cat ignored me.

  Deciding I needed to catch her, find out which room was Jessie's and return his cat, I hurried after the animal. She ran just fast enough so I could not grab her. I followed her passed the Railroad Diner, across the sloping parking lot and up to a C-shaped section of the complex next to the main building. She darted through a passageway, along the walkway in front of the units and stopped before room A-13.

  "Meow," she said.

  The door opened as I caught up with her.

  "Good girl," Jessie said. "You're right. I don't need a dog. Good morning, Tulugaukuk. I see my cat fetched you."

  "You sent her for me?"

  "Yep. I have a proposal. Come on in, if you would. I need to put on my shoes."

  I followed the cat inside. On the table in front of the window was a bouquet of white roses in a pearlized vase.

  "You can add yours to it if you like. Thirteen is a good number, don't you think?" He slipped on his shoes and stepped into the bathroom.

  I counted his roses. There were twelve. I slipped mine in, making sure the end of the stem was well down into the water. It seemed to belong there, though it had more petals and a sweeter fragrance. They were nearly identical to the ones Demmy had sent to me the day after his death. Now that I thought of it, he had given me thirteen. Thirteen white ones.

  When Jessie returned, I said, "That's not what superstition says."

  "That's because of medieval mythology. There are thirteen witches in a coven, so it's supposed to be bad luck. Boy, were those nasty times. Anyway, I've always found the opposite to be true."

  "So you believe in luck?" I said, as we left his room.

  "It's more like, luck is were opportunity meets preparation," he said.

  "Let's hope that's why I found the rose. It floated right up to me. Where we going?"

  "To breakfast, if that's okay."

  "I am hungry."

  We circled the pool, climbed the concrete steps outside the restaurant, stepped around a windbreak and entered a well-lit room with huge plate glass windows along an entire wall. The dining area was nearly full. A hostess seated us next to a window overlooking the pool. A chubby woman with dimply thighs padded to the end of the diving board, arched into the water and glided underwater to the far end.

  "Do you swim?" Jessie said, once he examined the menu.

  "Poorly."

  "I'm not much of a swimmer either. I never found much time for it as I was growing up, though we did have a pool. Breakfast is on me."

  "No, that's fine."

  "I insist. Money's never been a problem for me this time around. My dad was a paper baron, of sorts. Choose your parents carefully, they say. I did. So did you."

  "How would you know that?" I said. "And how is it you know so much about me? Why such keen interest?"

  Demmy had touted the value of the direct approach. He said it was better to know what someone was thinking than to waste your time and be surprised by the truth later.

  "Mysteries, my dear, mysteries, that's what my father always said. And my mother, gees, she'd look at me with this glow in her eyes taunting me to figure things out. It was a stimulating childhood."

  "Please, don't avoid the question. I want to know how you know what you know, and why, especially why."

  Jessie reached across the table and took my hand. He was about to speak when a waitress arrived.
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br />   "I'd like hash browns, eggs, over medium, bacon and coffee, black," I said.

  "A Spanish omelet and milk for me." When the waitress was gone, he said, "Somehow, I thought you'd be vegetarian."

  "So, you don't know everything."

  "Only what's pertinent. Look, Raven, what I'm about to say is going to sound bizarre, but there's no other way. I'm your replacement."

  "What?" Chills raced up my body. I pulled my hand away and leaned back in my chair. "What's going to happen to me?"

  "No, not like that, pretty black bird." He reclaimed my hand, kissed it and held it firmly in his own. "There's much to do, much to know, and it's so important. Two people came into your life to help you. Both chose other paths. This time it won't fail, I promise."

  "What two people? What won't fail?"

  "The plan--for eternity unbounded."

  I shuddered. "What are you talking about?"

  "You already know, Tulugaukuk."

  "No, I don't."

  "Ah, but you do. I was wondering if I could talk you into attending another right brain workshop this afternoon."

  I twisted my face into a grimace. "I don't know. What came to me last time was confusing and frustrating."

  "Tell you what, we'll go to whatever workshop you like this morning. Then this afternoon we'll go to Melissa's."

  "Well...."

  "Please, one more try. She's taking a different approach this time. It's being held in this building, across from admissions."

  "What's she planning?"

  "To use art as a medium."

  "Oh, well, I can do that. I should be able to come up with something, even if it is just my imagination."

  "You'll come, then?"

  "Sure." He'd done it again, convinced me to do something that had warnings pasted all over it.

  Following breakfast we headed for Sue's class. Afterward we lunched together, returned to the main building and entered one of the conference rooms. It had been converted into an art studio. A couple dozen students stood in front of easels. We took our places at the two remaining. They were back to back.

  "Thank you for taking a chance," Melissa, the workshop leader, said. "I know it's intimidating to do this in front of strangers, especially those of you who don't think you have any talent. So please, whatever you do, don't compare skills. We are likely to be at all levels. It's not skill that counts. Art can unlock pictures stored in your cosmic memory.

  "To get started I'll guide you into a meditative state. I'd like you to sit on the floor, yogi-style, and close your eyes."

  We did so. She led us into relaxation.

  "Now," Melissa said, "let your mind flow to another time. Allow your thoughts to drift on an energy wave, an ocean wave, whatever is easiest. Let them be. See what comes. The next voice you hear, if you hear a voice, some only see pictures, will be the voice of memory. It will guide the images. Once you have a concrete image, fasten it in your mind and stand by your easel. When all have risen, paint what's in your mind."

  Pictures slipped in easily with full color and many details. I memorized what I had seen and stood, waiting. Jessie peered around his easel and grinned at me. His eyes sparkled with the freshness of dewdrops. They sent tingles into my heart.

  As soon as everyone was standing, Melissa said, "I want you to paint like you did in grade school. I know these brushes and watercolors are basic. But you should be able to record what you see in a way that will cement it. If what you see comes in the form of a moving scene, paint what seems most significant."

  Underpainting my picture with a purplish hue, I blocked in distant trees and a body of still water. Over that I dabbed in an old tree with a branch extending over the water. Next I concentrated on the people. The woman was in her early twenties. She had free flowing black hair and wore an off-white ankle-length tunic. The man was probably thirty with similar clothing. She stood next to him as he squatted beside the water. He took mud from the riverbank and mixed it with ground herbs. Another man reclined in the grass back from the water. He looked ill. The woman applied the mixture as a poultice to his chest.

  We created for some time with Melissa moving between us. When she came to Jessie and me, she looked at his painting, then mine and returned to his.

  Finally, she said, "Time is about up, so put in your last touches. I'll be coming around with a jar of water for your brushes."

  When everyone was finished, she said, "Study your painting. See what it says to you. Your assignment for tomorrow is to put it into words. We'll meet back in my suite. Be sure to bring your paintings."

  Curious, I popped around to see Jessie's, and he mine. He had painted the same scene with the details exactly the same as mine.

  "I am right about you," he said, "about all of it."

  He grabbed me, twirled me around and kissed me.

  Chapter 6