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Lest We Forget the Night...
A setting sun under a cloudless, pristine blue sky, the temperature quite warm, lights the falling night, this twilight, yet. Unique is the sky, rendering everything in a hue of another world, bright, eerie, mysterious, vaguely foreboding. Such events tend to be momentary in nature, but not tonight. A man, not peculiar, but familiar walks nonchalantly up to a woman at a roadside still. The crickets’ pause in anticipation of the bright moon, which will spotlight the night’s events.
“Dragonfly Wine? Sweet distiller, my name is Jaromil and it’s been ages since I’ve smelled such delight. Do you squeeze the dragonflies before distilling or do you mash them?"
She replies hesitantly; the times such as they are, or being what they are—war is impending, and many will cry, yet she faintly replies, “They’re lightly roasted first, then ground to a fine powder, good Jaromil.”
“Intoxicating!”
“Definitely. A lovely roasted flavor and aroma they have.”
“Very heady but subtle. Genius I tell you, genius! A tumbler full I’ll take my dear. You wouldn’t happen to have a slice of Pear Bread to accompany our spirits?”
“The times do only allow me to carry Spice Cake.”
“That is unfortunate, but it is nothing a little paprika can’t fix!” He conjures up a shaker full of seasoning. “My lady, produce the Spice Cake and let us partake. And for entertainment, I shall provide minstrels and little people!”
Two sharp claps produce a carnival of revelers. They materialize from the woods in skips and jaunts. She is overwhelmed by the suddenness of the event. The gypsies and joy-seekers set a makeshift folding table. In the distant vistas, a neighing ass offers the promise of a wild perturbed by the minstrels striking up the relevant sounds of happiness.
She accepts her role of host graciously, laying welcoming smiles on her newfound friends. She is as efficient as she is ebullient. The party takes to form in time with the descent of night. A display of great color contrasts fills the sky with hues of red and burned earth against the darkening blue of the mountainous sky. The twilight is short and purposeful, as are the preparations. A great party will play tonight, yet one feels her impending hesitation among the cricket night songs.
“Voila!” The party is set to commence, yet there is a problem. Her face betrays. “I have no plates! Will rhubarb leaves do?”
“Only if those rhubarb leaves were dried in the Mediterranean sun with a light olive baste,” he jests.
“But I’m not sure of their processing. I bought them from a man in a fruit stand in an alley most dark.”
“The very same man, who sold me my fine timepiece, I’d wager! Leaves and timepieces, a funny combination if you ask me.”
“Perhaps.”
“A funny man, with a peculiar smirk, but such deals I have never seen. I’ve heard they call him Jonesy the Mart!”
“I’ve heard he steals babies.”
“That scoundrel, but then again every man needs a supplemental income. Let us not forget, how a man applies himself to his work is a more accurate a measure of his character than his trade.”
The revelers all clap at this as they fill their plates with Spice Cake and their pallets with the wine of many a deceased pond-flyer. A stiff wind blows through the dying twilight as she leans in to whisper to the strange man.
“But sometimes he applies himself PHYSICALLY... that explains the stain on the cake...”
“Enough about him, such reminiscing we have to do! You were knee-high to a grasshopper last time I saw you!”
She snorts and smiles at the comment. They are sitting cross-legged along the lengths of tree-stump chairs and a folding table covered by a long sheet of cloth. Across the fabric the rhubarb leaves stretch, filled with the moistened Spice Cake. The revelers eat and drink and make merry among the pleasant tones of sailors” tales and widows’ wartime laments. Each character about is an individual, both short, and tall, and ugly, and original. In all, they form a setting the likes of which she’s never seen.
”
“Curious stranger, perhaps you’ve changed your name and such is why I do not recall you. I have no idea who you are. You bear an ironic resemblance to a memory.”
“Perhaps…perhaps. But, why concern yourself with such things, when there is such revelry around? There is not the time for memories.” And having said this, he produces two dolls from his pocket. She looks on curiously as he arranges them on the table so. The music drones, and the revelers fall silent. Their eyes light like glistening on the water; the gasp of silence surrounds them. The strange man closes his eye in a moment of concentration and breathes on the dolls. They open their souls and smile.
“Aha!” They scream. The crowd erupts in glee. Stitched and stuffed the dolls jump up and rejoice in the magic around the table. The summer season blows freely throughout the joy. Dancing commences with the rhythm of pounding hands. The two dolls sway freely together, awakening with life. They jostle about, sidestepping sipping cups and spice-filled crumbs in their celebratory dance. Tonight they are alive and so they trip the summer chords.
“Tonight a moon in the sky and a star in my eye, what pleasantries there are!” The man announces. And with that the party erupts. “Now, I believe I was about to down a tumbler full of your masterful wine,” he reaches for her spirits and drinks.
“Delightful, delightful I say my dear!”
The revelers surround the man and the keeper of the roadside stand. Upon their heads are placed banana-leaf hats as they are pulled from their forest stools. The air is of curry, alive with such heat as to burn a soul if they were not careful. They move about the table without shyness. A procession is formed of wails and cries, how wonderfully alive they are.
Her dancing is chained—dire thoughts abound. “Who is this man? What is this night? What future awaits?” She sways with hesitance and moves with doubt.
“But Jaromil, tomorrow announces the coming of wars and the sorrow of wives. What rights have we to ignore such weight in the coming calendar days?”
“But my dear, this you simply must see what is about to happen!”
In homage to the spirit of the day, he takes her hand, and guides her to the table. Around they gather, all gazing on the leftover Spice Cake. Silence. The minstrels stare, the wine in their blood luminous, the excitement overwhelms. A moment of exertion as a hand appears through the crust of the remaining cake. Then another, then another, and the appearance of a head and then another, and a voice exclaims, “How excellent the Spice Cake is!” The doll pronounces from the cake in a giddy grin. Magic seeps through the very air.
The revelers laugh freely at the proclamation. The surface of the narrow valley erupts in foot stomps and fiddles. The lush greenery spews oxygen around, their breath mixes with the wine and the song and the night. Rapid water flows through time, they breathe, and she questions, and they breathe and she questions. THe vines produce garlanding as the revelers get drunk. They feel in their breathlessness, and their excitement abounds. And she questions, and the night grows old.
“But, Jaromil, who are you, and what gives you such powers, such life? Where do you come from and why do you sing? Why do you live and why do you breathe? So many the questions, so few the answers. That man at the fruit stand, he kills so much parenthood, he sells so many fruits. Yet, you purchase a counter of time from him? You possess souls in your pocket and minions in your wake. You are unaware of war, and unconcerned with wives. You give life when it suits you and dance through my doubt. Why do you elude my questions? Why do you elude the world?”
For a long, while there was silence as he drank his wine. The moon hid behind horizons, descending as it relents to the morning sun. And then, they were gone; one by one the revelers walked down the road until only he was left. “My lady, my sweet, sweet girl, maker of wine, killer of dragonflies, maker of spirits, the night is over, and so we must go. Already, the day threatens with your wish of the sunrise. Shames of memory, a shame of delight, a shame of the present, a shame of the night, for it is over and you were not here.”
He pauses and kisses her hand, worn from the years at the still, worn from its selling, worn from the killing on pond-lapping edges, worn from the dying-of-dragonfly cries.
“My lady, I am but a dream, and they, the revelers the seam, and around us a world most costly and despairing. We care not for their musings. We care not for their words. For tonight, and only tonight, we were alive. You made the wine, you made the cake, but the final step, you would not take.” And with that, the man walked staggering down the road, pausing for just a moment to shout back.
“Good mourning my dear, and all that it brings, for it is a day I shall never see.” And with that there was dawn…
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Le Kaidan
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