Ōlim Umbra
She sat across the marble
table from me, her back to the open doors of the café. She was tall, and had
kept her dark-brown hair loose and long all her life, save for a leather
barette such as she wore now, which held only her long bangs behind her head to
flow down her back. She wore gold hoops dangling from her small earlobes, and
her soft white summer clothes had a gypsy flare to them, perhaps because of the
red scarf tied around the waist of her full cotton skirt.
"Margaret, why do you ask of me to do this thing?" I pronounced her name simply, in the American style, which I had developed amazingly quickly, though years ago when we'd first met, she had spelled it Marguerite and pronounced it with the slight touch of her old French.
"Who else can I
ask ?" she answered pointedly. "Who else can do such a thing ?" There was the rough sound
from the kitchen door, the creak of neglected hinges. A string-figure of a
waiter in an apron appeared at our side, his feet scratching against the dusty
flagstones of the floor.
"Rum," she
said. "St James. Bring a bottle of it." He murmured something which
even with her vampiric hearing I doubted
had bothered to catch. Overhead fans churned lazily, and the floor had
not been cleaned in a hundred years. And away he shuffled, leaving us alone
again in the dimly lit room, with all of its long doors thrown open to the long
avenue in the heart of New Orleans. The twlight was softly fading, the air
filled with the fragrances of the city and
the sweetness of spring. What a sort of mircle it was that she had
chosen such a place, and that it was so strangly deserted on such a fine
evening as this.
In the still café I
watched Margret take another deep drink from her rum. I treasured the
interval in which she let her eyes pass around the dusty room.
"Your motives
are not the same as mine. What you ask of me would…she and I,
among others are interconnected like vines, sometimes thorny, forever circling
and recircling the same tree. Your life, Margaret might have nothing to do with
that bitter struggle, but don't try and get those who are any more tangled
among the throns than they already are." She sipped thr rum, rolling it
around a bit before swallowing it. But she didn't fool me. She'd soon start
drinking it fast again. She set the glass aside and let her fingers spread wide
apart on the soiled marble. Rings. Those were were her Great Grandmother's many
rings, beautiful gold with various wonderous stones. She's worn them even in
the jungles, when I'd thought it unwise. She's never been prone to fear of any
sort.
"Don't back away
from me old friend." She said, trying to seduce me into some sort of a
bargin. I watched her drink her rum more slowly, I saw her eyes become glazed
over with the pleasure of it, and her face soften wonderfully as the rum worked
itself through her veins. Her complexion looked perfect.
"I'm going
home." She announced, aware that I wasn't going to bargin anytime soon.
"No, you're not.
You've drank even more rum than I predicted. Look, you drunk over half the
bottle. And I know you'll drink the rest of the bottle as soon as you get in
the car."
"Still the
gentleman, I see. Alright, than escort me back to my house."
"That neighborhood, even at this hour ? You're a vampire and
you're drunk. Here, we'll just cap this bottle And we'll put it in this canvas
bag of yours and I'll walk with you to a hotel. Take my arm." For a small
second she looked playful and defiant, but than gave me a shrug, smiling
faintly, and gave up her purse to my insistence and wrapped her arm around mine.
The harpsichord music was
somewhat of a comfort, as Mozart always is, with his merriment, no matter what
the composition, but nevertheless, I felt restless and unsafe in these warm
rooms where I was accustomed to spend many hours in comfort alone or with
various people.
For two days
afterward my meeting with Margaret, while gulping down ridiculous amounts of
the delcious full-bodied Macallan Scotch, I tried to piece her mysterious
request together. Yet, no matter how hard I tried I couldn't seem to figure out
what she would get out of me doing this request of hers.
My mind kept shifting
back and forth, all my thoughts circling each other, as a vulture its pray, all
circling back to her. I remembered everything about her, as one
tends to recall the flavor of a twenty-five year old sinlge-malt Highland
Scotch.
*I loved the warmth, the sound of the soft
rain, the wonderful tone of the Spainish and Native American voices and
the sight of so many of them in their beautiful white cloths with their gentle
faces made me feel wonderfully drenched in the cultural riches of a foreign and
still unspoiled place.
The
jungle was breathtaking. Banana and citrus trees all but blocked our way on
both sides of the winding uphill drive here and there were giant mahogany
trees soaring to a hundred and fifty feet and out of the high canopy
above came the frightening but unmistakble roar of howler monkeys and the cry
of countless species of exotic bird.
Our
little world was drenched in green but again and again we found ourselves on a
high cliff from which we could view the canopy of the junlge as it spread out
on the volcanic slopes below.
Very soon it
became apparent that we had entered a cloud forest, and again and again we
experienced that marvelous sensation when the clouds truely enveloped us and
the sweet dampness penetrated the coverless windows of the jeep and settled on
our skin.
At last we reached Santa Cruz de Flora, a
jungle village, so small and so out of the way that the recent political fueds
in the country had not touched it at all.
She announced that it was very much as she remembered it—a
small grouping of brightly painted thatched-roof buildings, and a small but
remarkably old stone Spainish church.There were pigs, chickens, and turkeys
roaming everywhere. And I spied some cornfields cut from the jungle, but not
very much. The town plaza was beaten dirt.
When
our jeep pulled in, the gentle local inhabitants came out to greet us rather
sympathetically, proving my opinon that the native Maya Indians are some of the
most enchanting people in the world. I saw faces about me, which immediatly
reminded me of the ancient cermics of Central America preserved in Maya and
possibly Inca art.
Though
I was hot, I was extremly happy. The village was fringed with coconut palms and
there were even some pine trees due to the elevation, and for the first time in
my life, as I walked about the bordering jungles there were many moments when I
was so purely happy that I could have cried.*
I
folded up the pages of the letter I had been reading, put them back in the
envelope, and sat quietly for a long time, my elbows on my desk, my head bowed.
And
then, the memories came back in a sudden flash.
*The
smoke from the candles grew dense before the statues. It seemed their faces
were full of movement, their eyes sweeping the scene before them. Even their
drapery appeared alive. The incense burnt bright in the center of the
flagstones, fanned by the breeze that steadily increased.
The
chanting started, their voices flowing through the air with the strong scent of
the insense.
"Bide the
Wiccan Laws we must
In Perfect Love and Perfect Trust.
Live and let live,
Fairly take and fairly give.
Cast the Circle thrice about
To keep the evil spirits out.
To bind the spell every time
Let the spell be spake in rhyme.
Soft of eye and light of touch,
Speak little, listen much.
Deosil go by the waxing moon,
Chanting out the Witches' Rune.
Widdershins go by the waning moon,
Chanting out the baneful rune.
When the Lady's moon is new,
Kiss the hand to her, times two.
When the moon rides at her peak,
Then your heart's desire seek.
Heed the North wind's mighty gale,
Lock the door and drop the sail.
When the wind comes from the South,
Love will kiss thee on the mouth.
When the wind blows from the West,
Departed souls will have no rest.
When the wind blows from the East,
Expect the new and set the feast.
Nine woods in the cauldron go,
Burn them fast and burn them slow.
Elder be the Lady's tree,
Burn it not or cursed you'll be.
When the Wheel begins to turn,
Let the Beltane fires burn.
When the Wheel has turned to Yule,
Light the log and the Horned One
rules.
Heed ye Flower, Bush and Tree,
By the Lady, blessed be.
Where the rippling waters go,
Cast a stone and truth you'll know.
When ye have a true need,
Hearken not to others' greed.
With a fool no season spend,
Lest ye be counted as his friend.
Merry meet and merry part,
Bright the cheeks and warm the
heart.
Mind the Threefold Law you should,
Three times bad and three times
good.
When misfortune is now,
Wear the blue star on thy brow.
True in Love ever be,
Lest thy lover's false to thee.
Eight words the Wiccan Rede
fulfill:
An ye harm none, do what ye will."*
I knew this sonata was by Mozart, it was lovely, it was the first one
that the boy genius had ever written, and how excellent it was.
And
there it was again, more memories, but this time they were about her.
*The
lovely raised cottage, painted a fresh shade of tropical pink with white trim,
appeared rather wonderful behing the high iron picket fence. The new brick
walls were thick and high as they embraced the property on either side. A bank
of densely flowering oleander behind the iron pickets shielded the house
somewhat from the rest of street, giving the house a refined, secretive air.*
It
had been the last place I had seen her. I closed my eyes trying
to ignore the new wave of remembrance that had washed over me, trying to forget
all those memories that I had run away from.
