Its true beauty comes with the setting winter moon.
There exists but one such flower
Made of flesh and blood and hope.
Oh, this flower is so pretty
That no man around it can be witty,
When he lays his eyes upon her
For all his heart and mind and soul
Decide to go on an ecstatic stroll.
Born of winter, blooms in spring,
This one flower makes, me, a mortal man feel like a god-king.
Below the poem, written in her mother’s handwriting sat a little smiley face and the words, “You’re so corny.” Clementine’s eyes moistened. She gently bit her lip; reread her mom’s words and tears gently rolled down her cheeks. After a moment of self-pity and a deep breath, she folded up the paper and slid it back in the notebook.
To compose herself, Clementine read the section that the poem marked in the notebook: “Türul, the rainbow bird, is the master of old Mundialis, now known as the Gray Lands. Along with his siblings, the Türul was born of the egg that hatched the first rainbow, which occurred in the nearby land of Vivéret. During times of darkness, ancient Norsemen of the Farge Sect worshipped it so that it may bring forth light and color. Often referenced to have kept the Other at bay.”
“The Other,” Clementine repeated, looking at the drawing of darkness with eyes. A cold shiver ran down her spine and she closed her father’s journal. Grabbing Meditations, she stood up and headed for the door, until a sound of movement stirred behind her. She turned to see the massive gray linen sheet that long ago she was scolded for touching. Free to do as she wished, she went up to and pulled it down. Before the sheet fell, a colorful toy clown tumbled from somewhere above and striking the floor near her, made Clementine jump with a shriek. Instinctively, she clasped her mouth and stared at the door, expecting Dahlia to barge in. Moments passed and nothing happened. Clementine uncovered her mouth, sighed with relief, and scowled at the toy clown.
“Stupid thing,” she said, picking it up. Its face was colorful and detailed. Pinned to its striped torso was an index card. “Übel,” Clementine read. “Evil is always three: malice, power and trickery.”
Clementine set the clown on a nearby table, and to reassure herself quoted Meditations aloud, “Dye your mind with good thoughts and your soul will always be garbed in a beautiful robe of courage.” She paused for a calming breath, relinquished her fear, and turned to see a massive, black marble fireplace in the shape of a wolf’s maw. Carvings of frightening eyeless faces made up the wolf’s face while small stone gargoyles decorated the tops of its ears. Awe struck, Clementine stared at the fireplace, and the wolf’s glimmering eyes stared back. A beat of wings echoed from inside its firebox. Stepping up to it, she saw a decorated stone door beyond the hearth and jumped back in fear when someone—or something—pushed at it from the inside, opening it slightly.
“Oh, no. No way,” Clementine said. “I know how this ends; I read The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.”
She turned away from the fireplace and marched toward the door but just as she was about to put her hand on the doorknob, she stopped. “…be garbed in a beautiful robe of courage,” she repeated to herself, turned around and quickly pushed opened the door in the fireplace. A dozen moths flew out. Four ugly mink coats and a plethora of empty coat hangers greeted her. “What is this?” she thought. Dangling in the darkness from up above, she saw a long piece of string. She pulled at it and a light emanated from somewhere deep inside.
Examining the hidden wardrobe, Clementine gasped at what hid behind the mink coats. Painted onto the back wall was a black mass, much like the one in the images of the Other. Within it, sat a large scarlet eye that looked down upon a barren valley littered with animal carcasses. The longer Clementine stared at the image, the more real it became until the mass itself seemed to come alive and crawl along the wall.
An all-encompassing urge to touch the blackness overcame Clementine. As her fingers connected with the image, the painting slid down revealing a small hidden chamber behind it. She stepped through the threshold to find herself before a large oval mirror. Looking into it, she saw the white canary. It fluttered about as if stuck between two sheets of glass. Clementine touched the mirror and it slid aside to reveal a polished white door decorated with vertical red lines.
“This feels oddly wrong. Who had all this time to hide a door behind a door behind a door inside a fireplace? Young Frankenstein, that’s who,” she said referencing the last film she saw.
“Clementine,” a whisper called to her from beyond the door.
“Mom?” Clementine said and without hesitation, she opened the door to reveal yet another wolf’s maw fireplace, this time with a distant glow emanating from deep inside of it. A shadow of the canary flashed by, startling her. There was a sudden, yet quick burst of men yelling and horses naying. She took a few steps back and stood outside the larger fireplace. Her eyes narrowed as she tried to make out the distance to the glow inside the smaller maw.
A hare’s shadow flashed in the light.
“What if…” she said, her voice waning. “It’s crazy but this has got to be it. It just has to.”
Clementine tucked Meditations inside her jacket pocket and crawled into the smaller maw. As soon as she disappeared into the light, the door into the study opened. Dahlia walked in, an unusual grin spread across her pale face.
“Good girl,” she said staring at the distant glow. Her head twitched, her eyes grew black and she quickly closed the door inside the large fireplace. After tossing the gray sheet linen over the marble maw, she turned off the banker’s lamp and walking across the moonlit room, spoke to herself, “Ita fit aluid.” With a twisted smile, she left the study. After closing the door and walking down the hall, her head began twitching uncontrollably.
Chapter Four
Colors from a Clown
Somewhere along the way, the marble floor became dirt, grime, and roots. It was then that the distant embers of light faded and Clementine crawled in the dark. She paused twice to untangle her hair from fledgling subterranean vines and eventually began crawling upwards to burst out of a hidden hole underneath the gnarled root of a dead tree. Taking in a breath of fresh air, she stumbled out, fell, and lay on the mossy ground.
Her gaze climbed along the trunk of the dead tree and into the canopy, to pause on a pair of purple hyssop flowers growing from one of the tree’s highest branches. After taking in their unnatural beauty, she sat up to find herself in the middle of the woods: evergreens, oaks, ashes and tilias sat as silent neighbors among an amphitheater of low growing grasses. The blue sky accentuated the surrounding treetops. Clementine found herself in the center of a small clearing.
“Why is a pretty girl like you crawling through the dirt?” a voice sounded from behind her. She turned to see a pale androgynous figure dressed in a multicolored tailcoat and a flamboyant puffy shirt akin to that of a clown. From beneath its black streaked red hair, she could see two pointy ears pierced by shamrock colored jewels: a diamond in its left and a pearl strand in its right. While a tear-shaped emerald stud decorated its left eyebrow, a pair of blue sunray-shaped tattoos sat underneath its eyes. Its thin fingers played around with the strings of a warped turquoise harp that had a protruding long curved blade which ran along the length of its body.
“Why are you dressed in such silly clothes?” Clementine asked without thinking.
“If you notice what clothes a man is wearing you’re not really looking at the man, are you?” the figure said, smiling.
“I’m sorry,” Clementine said, blushing. After a moment of silence, she continued, “My name is Clementine from Vulpes Hill, and you are?”
“Hello Clementine from Vulpes Hill. I am Rickerty from Mossy Hill,” he proclaimed, patting the ground.
“Nice to meet you, Mister Rickerty,” she retorted.
“Are you always this accommodating and polite to strangers?” Rickerty asked.
“Well…
um.”
“Regardless, don’t address me as Mister, please. Wandering wizards such as I do not go by titles. Rickerty will do just fine,” he said, smiling. “If you don’t mind, Clementine from Vulpes Hill, would you be so kind as to tell me where this Vulpes Hill lies? Is it near? Is it far? Is it high or is it low? Can I fly there? Or must I swim? Between valleys, mountains, hills? Perhaps it’s on a beach, near a river or a pond? Near a lake, an ocean, sea? Tell me, tell me, my dear girl. Where is it, exactly?”
“Well Mister…”
“Not Mister!”
“I’m sorry, Rickerty,” she corrected herself. “I don’t know if Vulpes Hill is far or near from here, because I don’t know where here is.”
“Then you must be from a far off place, dear child,” the wizard said. “An exotic place, full of wonder and otherworldly delights.”
“It’s not that exotic, it’s a small place in a small town,” she began and the more she spoke, the bigger Rickerty’s eyes grew, “Dusty Ripple—the town—has a postman, a park, a library, a town hall, a church, some shops and restaurants, and some roads run through it that lead to other small towns. It’s just a normal place, where normal people watch TV, go to work, cut their grass, paint their sheds, eat out and live quiet, normal lives. Well at least most of them. Since my parents vanished, and my aunt moved in…”
“Intriguing place you came from,” the wizard interrupted as Clementine’s voice veered off. “Much different than I imagined.”
“As I said, it’s a normal place.”
“All natives paint their surroundings as normal, only strangers find beauty in a native’s normality,” Rickerty said and strummed his harp.
“Yes, well… um.”
“How long has it been since your parents vanished?” the wizard asked.
“A while ago,” Clementine said. “I think…I…”
“A while, yes. That is a long time,” the wizard said, a wider smile spreading across his face. “And this Vulpes Hill that you came from, does it have color?”
“That’s a strange question. What place doesn’t have color?” she asked.
“Oh, there are plenty such places, like the depths of the sea or the center of a blinding light. Blink and there, for a moment, no color exists. You see, my dear, you have come to a place where color means everything. It is quite unfortunate that in Dusty Ripple, you’ve taken its presence for granted. Take for example, that yellow shirt you have on, the green reptile and its misspelled name.”
“What about it?”
“Have you ever stared at it, maybe in a mirror, and smiled, simply because it is so yellow?”
“No,” she said.
“Why not?” the wizard asked, taken aback.
“Because it’s just yellow,” she answered.
“Just yellow!” Rickerty’s voice rose. “My dear, you are spoiled by this abundance of color. Would you enjoy the sunshine if not for its yellow rays? And how would mustard taste? What of daffodil and dandelion fields: how bleak would they be if yellow was but just a dream? And lemons, would they too taste bitter still, if color from them was taken ill? And gold, the color we all like, where would thou be without its cousin’s glow? No amber, no autumn leaves, no sundresses, egg yolks, blond hair or corn! What would you call a rainbow if yellow vanished from its arching beams? And think of all the colors in between, from blue to purple to his cousin green, to which yellow adds a stunning shine making them all look so fine. That shirt, you wear, would lose all its charm, and that reptile friend of yours would not be so green if yellow and blue did not intervene. Now look at the color of that shirt just once. Look, I said!”
Clementine obeyed.
“What do you see?”
“Yellow,” she said.
“Is that all?”
Clementine stared at the yellow with intensity, focusing on its radiance. At first, she felt balminess then gentle delight, followed by an outpour of brilliant memories. She saw her parents at the beach, the sand and sun radiant with a golden luminosity, both above and below. She saw laughter. Pleasant warmth and a profound elation surged through her, beyond her. Sailing upon jets of wind, like kites in a warm autumn breeze, she saw a rubber ducky from her infancy, a cartoon of a canary colored cat and a squash in a field of butterweeds. A banana shaped hat of a man she once met danced with the dijon plaque on Jimmy Biller’s teeth. She recalled playing hide-and-seek with her dad, running through sunflower fields. Hopes of seeing places near and far twirled about in a helix of grins and smiles. She remembered hugs, compliments and dancing among fireflies, fireworks and sparklers.
The yellow felt like a silken shirt during a warm breezy day. It simultaneously kept her cool and warm. Her body quivered as a feeling of numbness jolted through her body. She saw a sand grain wash up on a beach and become a lemon which became a sunflower, a goldfinch and finally, the Sun. Then she blinked and it was all gone.
“It’s not just yellow,” Rickerty said. “It’s a whole world, vibrant and real, a world built on a memory and presence of that warm hue. Without it, life would be but a little more gray, a little more dull and little more melancholy.”
She nodded. He smiled coyly.
“Where would all your memories be,” he began, “if yellow was but a fantasy? We know how to use the word green, blue, red or yellow but don’t know how to describe the experience of greenness, blueness, redness or yellowness.”
“I never thought of it that way,” she said.
“Of course not,” Rickerty said. “What we take for granted are the things we are often unable to live without, yet rarely acknowledge. But such is life, many do not know of sacrifice, but bask in gifts, praise and pleasure. So too it is with color.”
Clementine pondered the wizard’s words momentarily before replying, “What if we are the sacrifice? What if these pleasures are found in another person’s smile, or simply, in their presence? What if being praised means being helpful to others? What if family and friends are gifts? Not things. What if colors are reminders of those people? Memories of them perhaps.”
Rickerty smiled and pointed, “You see those hyssop flowers atop that rotting tree. They symbolize sacrifice, which is unfortunate for the tree. It had to die, its innards rot, so the flowers could feed and bloom. And for what? So that two strangers could enjoy the beauty of those lavender petals? So that purple can be set free from within the dying tree?”
Clementine observed as the flowers swayed gently in the breeze.
“That will be enough of my rambling,” the wizard said. “It’s all rather dull and tiring, but, I guess, that is a quality of an old soul, feeling stretched thin and quartered, losing itself in the torrents of other’s expectations.”
“In Meditations, Marcus Aurelius writes that, if you see yourself falling away and losing control, retire in good heart to some corner, where you will regain composure,” Clementine said.
“Impressive,” Rickerty said wide eyed. “Not ever did I stumble upon a youth who recites ancient philosopher kings. Clementine, Clementine, you are a curious sort of clever. Your mind is that of an old man.”
“Thank you for the compliment, but I’m not clever. There is no need to exaggerate.”
“Modesty should be labeled a crime,” the wizard said.
Clementine smiled.
“Where is it that you’re traveling to?” Rickerty asked. “It can’t be far, seeing as you’re in slippers.” Clementine looked down at her feet.
“Well, I hope it’s not far,” she said. “I’m looking for a white canary.”
“What a curious adventure you’ve stumbled upon,” Rickerty said. “Well, best of luck in finding this colorless avian, but, please, be wary. Tales have reached my ears of a maliciousness scouring through these woods. It is said that evil is not one but always three: power, malice and trickery.”
Before Clementine could say anything else, Rickerty stood up and strung his harp. Magically, the music took physical shape in the form of flying notes that floated towar
d Clementine, and spiraling before her, transformed into a gray satchel, which fell gently onto the mossy ground.
“Take this as a gift of my good will,” said the wizard with a bow. “Good day to you, Clementine of Vulpes Hill.” And just like that, Rickerty walked off, disappearing beyond the hillside. With wonder, Clementine picked up the satchel, checked its contents (empty)—and after slinging it over her shoulder—said, “Thank you.”
After examining her surroundings, she walked past the dead tree and entered the deep woods.
Chapter Five
Knowing not to Know
Thin ashes and thick evergreens—their great gowns sweeping the forest floor—permeated the eerily silent woods. Bands of luminescence shot through the canopy and fell upon the underwood as Clementine meandered among the ferns. Nostalgic warmth of a family trip though Germany’s Black Forest sprouted in her mind as she passed a crescent shaped formation of small ponds. Out of curiosity, she walked along their banks and taking in the serenity of their still water, she became pleasantly surprised to see small glimmering fish glide just below the surface.
“I should have worn shoes,” she told herself, as her slippers became wet from the dew.
Walking upright became especially difficult as she ascended a steep hill. Instead of climbing it outright, she decided to walk sideways, spiraling upwards while steadying herself with the help of the nearby tree trunks. After several minutes of careful climbing, the slope leveled off and Clementine found herself on the summit, overlooking a great expanse of forest. Off in the far distance a black cloud dominated the horizon. The blue from the otherwise cloudless sky, resembled an impressionist painting. Its color—like a paint drop in a glass of water, diluted and swirling—seemed to be dragged into the black cloud. Clementine did not think much of it however, and began her descent.
The hill’s other side was overgrown with bushes and twisting vines, making the trek down particularly trying. Clementine’s slippers added to the frustration. Wet, they acted as slides rather than footwear, and were the cause of several slips and falls.
The Auburn Prince Page 5