Between Darkness and Dawn

by Margaret Duarte

  God, how I missed him.

  A sudden thought entered my head.

  “That’s it, Anne. Antonia hasn’t learned to let go and die.”

  “Some people aren’t open to the light when it comes for them,” Anne said. “They don’t say yes to it and therefore stay in the dark until they’re ready to be brought out of it. Something must have been left undone.”

  “Yes, but what?”

  Anne’s gaze bored into mine. “Watch Adam. He may have some answers.”

  A man with AD. Was that possible?

  ~~~

  Adam was working on a mud sculpture when Anne and I arrived, his hands wobbly as he manipulated the wet clay. The intertwined trees, scrubs, and brambles, the gushing waterfall, and the sunrays oversaw all as if the greatest Creator of all were watching.

  “He looks so peaceful,” I said.

  “He’s happier now than when he was in good health and had the world by the tail,” Anne said. “He once told me that some of his acquaintances, who were strapped for cash, laughed more often and expressed more joy than he ever did. He had tons of money, but no time to live.”

  No time to live. That sounded like the path I’d been on. Until Antonia came calling and rocked my world. I’d been obsessed with the same goals that drove the Silicon Valley company I worked for: speed, productivity, and the constant need to upgrade.

  “Adam’s peace shows up in his sculptures,” I said, “which aren’t being preserved.”

  “That’s the beauty of it, don’t you see,” Anne said. “No ego is involved, no prestige, no pressure. For once in his life, Adam’s doing something that’s not about money and fame. It’s amazing, really, how, in spite of AD, the messages get through from his mind to his fingers when he works with clay.”

  “Kind of like those sand mandalas Tibetan monks create,” I said. “Only to destroy them on completion to demonstrate the impermanence of existence. Or the beach sculptures people create out of sand and water. Hours of work and then, poof, they wash away with the tides.” Although I got it in my head, the concept didn’t translate to understanding with my heart. Something told me it was important to preserve some of Adam’s work, that it had a purpose and was meant to be used.

  He was sculpting with such intensity that, at first, he seemed oblivious to our presence.

  “Answers arrive in many forms,” he said when we reached his side. He studied his mud creation with a faint smile.

  “He’s found his sanctuary,” Anne said softly, so only I could hear. “He’s receiving thoughts and impressions from outside of himself.”

  As I had in Anne’s studio. “Maybe Dr. Mendez’s suggestion is true, that the world’s like an ocean and we’re all connected like a spiritual community of some kind.”

  Anne slapped her thigh and raised her hands, bracelets jingling. “Hallelujah. I believe we may be on the same page after all.”

  I grinned at her enthusiasm. “That would make our belief in the separation of our consciousness an illusion.”

  Adam stopped working on his sculpture and looked at me. Something appeared in his eyes, a new intelligence, just before he said, “You can’t please your mother.”

  “What?” Maybe I’d misunderstood him.

  “Prepare your mind,” he said. “She’ll contact you when she’s ready.”

  My vision blurred.

  Another nudge to my side from Anne. “Remember what you said about the separateness of consciousness being an illusion? This isn’t coming from Adam. He can no longer reason to such an extent. The spirit world is active around him. He offers no resistance.”

  I stared at the grizzled old man, feeling as though I’d entered a dream, where the impossible happens and makes perfect sense. He’d not only read my mind but also that of my dead mother.

  Adam turned away, as if nothing of importance had transpired between us, and resumed work on his sculpture.

  “Adam?” I said.

  He turned and tilted his head.

  “Do you know my mother?”

  He blinked several times and scratched his head.

  “Does she want to tell me something?”

  He looked at me, yet through me.

  Anne placed her hand on my shoulder to steady me. “Adam, tell us about the sculpture you created of Marjorie.”

  Adam followed the direction of her gaze to the clay piece I’d found so disturbing. Why hadn’t he given it eyes? He looked startled for a moment. “Antonia?” He cocked his head and turned to look into my eyes. “She said you were coming.” A hesitation, and then his face cleared. “Sunwalker.”

  A fog-like dizziness overtook me, creating the sensation of my brain floating free of its physical boundaries. I caught Anne’s arm for support. There was no way Adam could’ve known Antonia’s name, let alone the name she’d given me before she died.

  Unless she’d told him.

  Was Antonia attempting to contact me through Adam?

  If so, I was one step closer to discovering the meaning of her message from beyond the grave.

  Chapter Eleven

  WHEN ANNE OPENED THE DOOR of the kiln, I got a sense of the separation and wonder a mother must feel on seeing her newborn for the first time. By what miracle has this child been created—in me, through me? Anne, too, had a look of heightened anticipation about her, given the flush of her cheeks and the slight tremor of her hands. “Even after years of working with ceramics,” she said as she birthed my sculpture from the belly of the kiln, “I still get excited when I see a fired piece for the first time. Firing is the most critical part of the ceramics process. It converts weak clay into a strong, durable, form.”

  Weak into strong. “It shrank.”

  Anne chuckled and held it to the light. “Clay shrinks over ten percent from its raw to its fired state.” She rotated it in her hands. “Good. No cracks or warping.”

  No mold. Blemish free. “The color is different, too. It looks whiter. Smoother.”

  “That’s part of the thrill, Marjorie. You never know what your piece will look like after a fiery 1,940 degrees in the kiln. When you submit something to heat, it becomes something else.”

  At my silence, Anne broke off her inspection of my handiwork and scrutinized me instead. “Well?”

  “I feel alienated from it, as though my work and someone else’s got switched in the kiln.”

  “I call that the ‘Are you sure that’s my baby?’ syndrome,” Anne said, “which often happens at the bisque stage. You’ve been separated from the piece for a while and the energy of inspiration has worn off. It has also changed in color, size, and texture.”

  “Maybe if I feel the peaks and hollows, I could recognize it tactilely, you know, experience a rebirth rather than a birth.”

  Anne nodded and handed over the bisque piece.

  I closed my eyes and explored the fired clay with my fingers, trying to remember. Pull, stretch, pinch, squash. What had inspired me? What invisible guide had directed my hands? Familiar warmth flowed through me, along with the desire to connect with the lost part of me that had somehow manifested itself within the clay and survived the fiery kiln, only to come out stronger. No warps, no cracks. But the answers didn’t come.

  I opened my eyes and handed the piece back to Anne. “It’s painful to look at, yet it invigorates me and makes room for hope. Does it do the same for you?”

  “For me, it’s like hearing a disturbingly beautiful symphony.”

  Anne set the piece on a turntable and spun it slowly, studying it from all angles. “You could brush on some colored stains or experiment with different glazes. Maybe blue. It looks fluid like water and sky...”

  A picture of my sister came to mind, with her passion for red—red leather jacket, red boots—my strong, courageous, passionate sister. Then I thought of my red-skinned ancestors, warm, simple, trusting. “No. It has to be red.”

  “Are you sure? Red is an odd color, hard to control. It d
oes strange things in the kiln, sometimes even turns black.”

  “The more shades of red the better,” I said. “Do you have an air brush?”

  “And what do you know about air brushing?”

  “Absolutely nothing. But I’d like to try spraying the color on.”

  “Wow, aren’t you brave all of a sudden.”

  “You said art was something we can give ourselves for no benefit that we can see.”

  “Spraying on the color with an airbrush is good for gradual color transition,” Anne admitted. “It gives a soft, light-and-shadow effect, where the colors blend and seem to melt away at the edges. It’s a technique I use when a work is unusual in shape and size, such as this one.” She gave the sculpture a final slow spin. “Tell you what. I’ll demonstrate how to use the spray gun and compressor and let you practice on newspapers. Then I’ll show you where I store the glazes and you can experiment with different shades on some of my bisque rejects.”

  No one trained me for this. What if I mess up? “Maybe you better teach me how to paint the glaze on too, just in case the air brush doesn’t work out?”

  ~~~

  It was well past noon by the time Anne had finished with her instructions. “You’ll find some energy bars and bottled water in the fridge,” she said, then waved goodbye and left me to it.

  The idea of air brushing the piece appealed to me. It seemed so freeing, so easy. In actuality, it was neither. Every time I aimed the gun at the newspaper, envisioning a soft, sheer dusting of color settling on its surface, I ended up with blotches and splats that reminded me of the damage done by those paint guns used as toy weapons. The airbrush would clog, or the compressor would kick in, and the new surge of power would blast the paint—and its musty, sulfuric fumes—out of control.

  About to call it quits, I heard a voice.

  Put the gun away.

  Whoever it was, I had to agree. It was time to put the gun away. Too violent. Too unruly. I turned on the radio, not bothering to change the current rock-and-roll station to one more suited to my taste. I didn’t have a clue as to what I was doing, and I definitely wasn’t transmitting any insights from the depths.

  Time to regroup.

  Nodding to the Rolling Stones, I rotated the turntable. The fluorescent light played off the bisque surface of the sculpture, shadow and light, shadow and light. Then a small window opened in my mind.

  Darkness and Dawn. I’ll call it Between Darkness and Dawn.

  Drums pounded, guitars strummed, and voices wailed as I continued to rotate the sculpture. How soft and malleable the clay had once been in my hands and how hard it was now due to the inferno in the kiln, temperatures of unimaginable heat, hot enough to melt glass.

  The Rolling Stones sang about the color black, and as their loud, piercing music vibrated around and through me, I picked up a paintbrush and dipped it into a jar of crimson glaze. “Red. It has to be red.”

  I dabbed the glaze onto one section of my sculpture. Assertive ruby swipes of color brightened the surface before fading into dull patches as they dried. Red is good, the voice said. Now a dab of green. There. Yes. And there. Now brown.

  While switching glazes from Holiday Green to Walnut Brown, I lost control. And as the Rolling Stones continued to sing about painting things black, I wondered if maybe I should’ve left the piece alone.

  ~~~

  On her return to the studio, Anne turned off the radio. “You, listening to rock and roll. Why does that strike me as odd?” She eyed my handiwork and her mouth tensed. “So, you decided not to use the air brush after all.”

  “It wouldn’t cooperate,” I said, unmoved by what sounded like disappointment in her voice. “Let’s say, I faced a bit of resistance.”

  Her eyebrows nearly disappeared into her curly gray hair.

  “I knew from the beginning this work wasn’t mine,” I said. “If it’s ruined, it’s ruined. No big deal.”

  “But—” She blinked and cleared her throat— “I had it scheduled for a showing at the gallery on Saturday.”

  I broke into a sweat, as if the room had turned into a kiln set to bisque firing. “Don’t you think you jumped the gun a bit?”

  “I didn’t think your muse would allow you to screw up this badly.”

  Maybe I should have listened to the Rolling Stones and painted it black. “Actually, I wouldn’t have wanted it displayed in public anyway. So, no big loss.”

  Anne gave the turntable a spin and watched as the reddish, greenish, brownish conglomeration twirled like a ballerina doing a not-so-perfect pirouette. “You were willing to display Adam’s.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Hypocrite.”

  Though I hated to admit it, she was right. I’d been anxious to share Adam’s work, but was averse to sharing my own. “Too late now.”

  Anne squinted as if in pain. “I should’ve warned you that certain glazes don’t mix well on the same piece. And red is so... finicky.”

  At that moment, I came close to understanding how Adam must feel. As soon as you start concentrating on the outcome instead of the process, the joy is gone. “If it’s any consolation, I had a ball ruining this piece, Anne. I really did.”

  One more glance at the work of art turned aberration and we walked away, no longer worried that it might fall and break or be stolen. It was just a glob of altered earth, manipulated by human hands, inspired by mind and spirit.

  Chapter Twelve

  HOLLY, CHRISTOPHER, AND NATHAN were up early the next morning. No surprise. Not much for three kids to do in a shared tent half the size of the one I had all to myself. But they were quieter than usual. No running wild, no shouting and squealing. What was going on? Nestled in my synthetic cocoon, I listened for clues. The words “fireworks” and “parade” drifted my way, reminding me of what day it was: The Fourth of July.

  Firework shows always start just before dark and last into the forbidden hours of night. Magical patterns launch into the sky. Cylinders of yellow, orange, red, and green travel outward, explode, and then shower down like willow branches, or burst into chrysanthemum-like flowers and spheres of colored stars. Memories of the popping, the whistling, and the rumbling, along with the quiet energy of the kids’ excitement in the chilly morning air, caused the child in me to rejoice and the adult in me to mourn a deep loss. When was the last time I’d felt the emotional, almost magical, intensity of joy and excitement in a world otherwise focused on competition, achievement, and the drive to acquire?

  I threw back the cover of my sleeping bag. Cold air latched on to me and wouldn’t let go. I pulled on my insulated clothing and prepared a pot of coffee on my camp stove, then tossed a handful of trail mix into my mouth, the burst of fruit and nut flavors lifting my mood.

  “Marjorie,” Holly called out. “We’re going to a parade!”

  I waved at her, but didn’t call back. The last thing I needed was to upset her parents.

  “Holly, shut your trap, or the trip is off,” yelled a disgruntled male from inside his tent.

  Holly giggled and waved at me. What a trooper.

  I had made no plans for today, but with Anne around something was sure to come up.

  As though conjured up by my thoughts, she walked up and said, “Hey sport.”

  “How do you do that?” I asked. “I didn’t even hear you coming.”

  Her earrings caught a ray of sunlight and sparkled like mini firecrackers. “I walked on tip-toes so I wouldn’t attract the kids’ attention.”

  “You don’t like those cute little munchkins?”

  Anne grimaced. “It’s their parents I prefer to avoid.”

  “Yeah, they’re hard to warm up to.” I poured two mugs of coffee, never tiring of the joy I felt on smelling a fresh brew.

  “Brock’s watching Adam,” Anne said, “which frees me up to show you something at the studio.”

  I pictured the sculpture—abandoned on the turntable—and felt
a knot in my chest.

  “As long as we avoid Alvarado Street because of the upcoming parade, Monterey should still be relatively quiet.”

  “The kids sure are excited,” I said, handing Anne her coffee. “Doesn’t that just bring it all back?”

  “Don’t know about you,” Anne said after taking a long sip, “but I plan on being right there in the thick of things when the fireworks get started. Want to come along?”

  “I don’t do crowds well.” I craved space. Heck, I needed solitary confinement.

  “That’s part of the fun, silly. It wouldn’t be the same if we were the only ones there. Just think, it’s 2001, two hundred and twenty-five years since the adoption of the Declaration of Independence, a time to renew dedication to our principles, our liberty, and our God-given unalienable rights.”

  “Okay, so it takes the collective energy and appreciation of a crowd to make the Fourth of July celebration what it is, but—”

  “If you’re afraid you’ll get lost, I can tie a rope around your waist like Chango the wharf monkey and keep a tight grip on the other end.”

  “Ha, ha.” I’d already been down that route with my ex-fiancé, which had led to the complete opposite of what our forefathers meant by liberty and independence.

  ~~~

  The streets of Monterey were livelier than usual, but we made it to Anne’s studio in less than an hour. Anticipation of the upcoming festivities filled the air, and I couldn’t block its positive effect on my mood. I entered the workshop with a smile, no longer dreading what I might see.

  Anne headed straight for the kiln, opened the door, and reached inside. “I decided to fire your piece anyway, just to see how bad it could be.”

  When she withdrew my sculpture, I gasped. “What did you do to it?”

  “Just fired it, sweetie.” She placed my handiwork on the turntable and gave it a spin. “It speaks, girl. I don’t know quite how, but I feel included in something, just short of bliss.”

  My body heated up as if Anne had raised the room’s thermostat to ninety. The piece looked even more magnificent than had the original. There was no way I could’ve accomplished this on my own. Mud. Glaze. Heat. What made it so special?