hangedkay

(Prompt 7 - “Going Home")

Home

“You can’t return to a place you never left.”

--

As she approached the curve in the path that led to the rough stone stairs that served as the entrance to the valley, Kijeia reflected back on the last time she had been here. In her mind, she saw her own tracks on the ground, small barefoot feet appearing as little more than toes. She had traversed the area like a scared meerkat, constantly looking for potential signs of trouble. Beside her tiny tracks were the calmer and heavier imprints of a single set of wolf paws - her companion who had kept her safe all those years, but who did not live to see this place again.

She paused and knelt on the ground, running the tips of her fingers just above where the tracks lay in her mind. She bowed her head, letting her pendant come all the way down, the sharp point of the wolf claw etching a barely visible line in the sand beneath her. There she sat, until her emotions overcame her years of learned hardness, and tears began to flow. As they reached the tip of her nose and chin, some fell away and created small dots, like rain. The rest slowly travelled down her neck to her chest, joining with the heartache that threatened to suffocate her.

“I asked you back then, Fala, if you missed your son. I already knew your story, and I knew that you did. Now, I sit here in this same place, with no one who knows our story to ask me about you. But I am missing you all the same.” Visions of their shared past came like a flood, and she shut her eyes, not to stop the memories, but to let them flow freely. She needed to remember. If she did not, then what had it all been for?

And flow they did, mixing images of glass cliffs, rolling sands, boiling rivers, windswept fields, and frozen marshes. Fleeing through a burning forest. Finding comfort curled together in an abandoned bear cave. Unorganized and timeless, the memories threatened to bury her.

Finally, she turned her hands palms upward, cupping the large claw in her hand. Then she closed her hands around it and brought it to her chest, then up to her lips for a slow kiss, her eyes still closed. After another couple moments, she raised her head, and returned the pendant to inside her shirt, feeling its smoothness on her skin. It curled into the impression left in her skin from constant wear, and gave her the sense that her longtime companion was still with her. It also gave her the strength to stand up and to continue on.

“Maman?” A small voice, strong, but concerned, called out from the toddler behind her.

“Yes, child, I am okay. Come, let us walk together and go home.”

“Home? We live here?”

“Yes, child, we do. This has always been our home.”

“Not me.”

Kijeia smiled and turned to look at her daughter, then lifted her up so their faces met. Her daughter reached out tentatively and touched a drying tear on her mother’s cheek.

“You may not have seen this place before, but you have been here all your life, Merla.” She raised her daughter up further and nuzzled her wet nose into her chest, taking the opportunity to quickly wipe away her remaining tears on Merla’s blouse. “You carry your true country with you in your heart. That cannot be broken by distance or by time.” She lowered her daughter to eye level once again.

“This is who we are. This is where we remain.”

Merla’s face showed only confusion, and the look on it made Kijeia laugh, a small sound that brought a smile to both of their faces. Kijeia swung her daughter high up in the air and then set her down standing in front of her. She knelt down to look once again into her daughter’s eyes, shedding one final tear.

“Here.” Reaching into her shirt, she pulled the wolf claw pendant out and slowly removed the string from her neck. Merla’s eyes widened and then bowed her head slightly as her mother transferred her most prized possession to the most important person in her life. The string was too long for the young girl’s frame, but it was frayed and in need of replacement anyway. And there would be time and material to take care of that soon enough.

Merla held the claw in her hands and stared, her eyes wide and her thoughts overwhelmed. She had never known her mother to have taken the pendant off, as in fact, she never had. A combination of fear and awe filled her face as she looked back and forth from the claw to her mother’s face.

“For me?”

“For you.”

Merla wrapped her arms around her mother’s head, smothering her briefly and blocking out all other sights and sounds. Then she let go, tucked the pendant in her blouse, and slapped her stomach where the outline of the claw could be seen through the fabric.

“Home. Safe.”

Kijeia laughed once more, louder this time, then stood up and turned them both back towards the path to the stairs.

“Yes. Safe. Come now. Let’s go home.”

(Prompt 5 - "Thanks for Giving")

No Small Thanks

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what? All I said was thank you.”

“Don’t say those words.”

I stare at my sister in confusion. What she is saying goes against everything I have been taught. Be kind. Be respectful. Show thanks when someone does something for you. And what could be more worthy of a ‘thank you’ than giving money to someone in need?

“They don’t deserve your thanks. Save it for someone who has done something significant for you.”

I look down at the coins in my cup. To me, each one of them feels significant. Together, they mean the possibility of food, drink, and maybe if I’m lucky, a new pair of socks. I unconsciously wiggle my big toe in its stringy hole as this thought comes to me. It has been weeks since my left sock caught on my toenail and started to slowly shred apart. At least it’s still only October. Winters here are rough.

I look back at Caryn, and she must be able to read the confusion on my face. She growls a little, then turns to face me straight on. Her eyes are cold and are, if not mean, at least callous.

“That man just walked by with a seven-dollar tiny cup of coffee, and dropped what couldn’t be more than twenty cents in your cup. He just spent what could pay for two days’ worth of food on some burnt sugar water and gave you too little coin to even by some mints. He doesn’t deserve your thanks. He doesn’t even deserve your recognition. He’s just trying to make himself feel better about having enough money to throw it away. He doesn’t care if he is actually helping you. It’s a purely self-centered act.”

She faces to the side and spits on the ground, then stands up and turns her back on me, leaving me staring at the ragged jacket wrapped around her waist. When Caryn stands up, she is nearly six feet tall, and towers over me. We aren’t actually related, but she is the closest thing I have to family in the world. We met almost a year ago, right here in the city, when she saved me from a police crackdown (and my own stupidity). She took me under her wing like I was her own flesh-and-blood brother, Lord knows why. I owe her everything (or so she would say). But I can’t understand the pure hatred she holds for the Homers.

Those of us who are homeless have lots of slang terms for those who are not like us: Frogs (they have ‘pads’), Diggers (they have ‘digs’), Babies (they have a ‘crib’). You get the idea. Caryn always calls them ‘Homers’ and I guess she transferred that one to me. It’s really just a weak attempt to put down people who are better off than us, a sort of inverse snobbery. If we were honest with each other, most of us would love to be Homers.

Instead, we spend most of our time out here in front of cafes and coffee shops, on benches and doorways, hoping to catch enough spare change to survive, and hiding from the cops and the gangs and the thieves. The first two both are trying to remove is in very different ways. The latter, well, actually, I’ve made friends with a lot of the thieves, so they don’t bother me too much. But they have a history with Caryn, so when they find us together it can get awkward. It isn’t as if we have much for them to take, but what we do have is oh so precious to us. And they know it. I learned fast how to store my goods and to carry just enough to make them think they had stripped me clean.

“5-0 on your six.” By the time I react and start to look up to respond, Caryn has already taken several long strides across the street. Too late for me to run, I quickly snap a lid with a straw through it onto my collection cup and pull a local map out of my pocket. As I squint at the multitude of street names, I resemble a dozen other tourists wandering nearby. Just another lost out-of-towner sipping on a pricy drink. The cops pass by without even looking my way.

Not far enough away, Caryn isn’t so lucky. As she approaches the far side of the street, a taxi swerves around a slow pickup truck and nearly runs her over. The blast of a horn, the squealing of brakes, and the ensuing screams of obscenities attract the cops’ attention. A few minutes later, Caryn is in the back of a squad car on her way to what I hope will be a short but likely painful adventure through the penal system. She is well known and wanted, and not just by the cops.

I am frozen in place, unsure what to do, my hand tapping nervously on my map. It isn’t as though this hasn’t happened before. I spent most of April completely alone as she worked her way through a drunk and disorderly. But my initial lack of direction has me rooted in place.

“You look lost, son. Can I help you?” A local businessman, but thankfully not one I recognize. Of course, none of them ever recognize me. I fiddle with my map a little more and chew on my straw. On my own now, time to make a choice.

“Uh, the subway. I’m trying to find the nearest subway.”

“You’re close, I just came from there. It’s just around the corner there and up a block. Can’t miss it.” He turns to point the way over the heads of the crowd around us. It’s a nice gesture, but one I really don’t need. I’ve lived here long enough to find my way to the subway with my eyes closed. It ends up extra helpful though, as I use the opportunity to lift his wallet from his back pocket. Another trick I learned from my thief friends.

“Thank you, sir. I am much obliged. This place had me all turned around.”

“No worries.” We exchange smiles and nods and head our separate ways. Around the corner, I peek into the wallet and pull out what must be at least $20 in small bills. Not a huge score, but a safe one. I leave the larger bills in the wallet and drop it down the leg of my pants. It tumbles to the sidewalk beside a trashcan as I pass by, for the next good Samaritan to return it, if the man is so lucky.

I have what I need. More really. Maybe I’ll go get two sets of socks.

“Thank you very much, Homer,” I say under my breath. “Thanks for giving.”

(Prompt 3 - "Intaglio")

Fragment

“When you sculpt marble, the goal is to remove everything that doesn’t belong there. Then you are left with what belongs. With intaglio printing, the goal is to remove everything that is taking the place of what belongs there. Then you fill that space with what does belong.”

Toivo grew up learning to be a sculptor. He learned to find objects within a slab of marble. He learned to measure and prepare, to pare down and chip away. He learned to live with imperfections he could not fix and to make one-of-a-kind creations. He treated his life the same way. He would see good in everything and everyone, and then try to chip away all the bad things until only the good remained. And every day was a chance to find something new.

Dyllis grew up learning to be an intaglio printer. She learned to carve out designs from base materials. She learned to be meticulous and exact, to etch and to engrave. She learned to cover up imperfections with flourishes and to create multiple perfect replications. She treated her life the same way. She would see what stood in the way of what she wanted and remove it, then fill the newly formed void with her desires and leave the rest alone. And every day was a chance to do things perfectly.

Skyler grew up learning to be a scribe. He learned to create quill and ink and parchment. He learned combine them to tell stories old and new. He learned to build upon the past and create futures. He lived his life the same way. He would see what was good in the past and retain it, what was needed in the future and add it. And every day was a chance to create change for a better future.

---

April 18

I have found a small stash of seemingly ancient items in a wooden chest in a collapsed cave just east of the dig site. Among the items is a brilliantly carved cylindrical marble container, about 3 inches in diameter, inside of which I found a perfectly circular disc of copper covered with a clear fused quartz top. The entire disc is wrapped in a thin strong metal alloy holding it all together, with a hook on the outside. If it was a medallion as it looks like it might be, the chain is missing. The copper under the quartz is exquisitely engraved with incredibly precise tiny lines that fill the entire circle in a filigree style. The etchings are filled with what appears to be a sandy ochre colored ink. While the other items in the cave seem to date back to the 5th century B.C., this level of precision appears as an anachronism, and likely means the rest of the items were gathered and stored here with the container at a much later date.

If only I knew the story behind how this was made. And why.

---

April 23

Testing shows the ochre ink in what I now calling the copper medallion is made up of a combination of motherwort and juniper berries. A very uncommon combination, historically noted to protect against magic and theft. Additionally, online comparative studies of the etchings show it appears to be an intricate combination of three creatures: the Aqrabuamelu (scorpion man from Mesopotamia), the Pixiu (winged lion from China), and the Akabeko (Aizu cow from Japan). All are mythological protectors of humans.

With all this protection, how did this end up here, lost for such a long time?

---

April 27

The copper medallion is gone along with its marble container. It was locked in the safe, which requires both a combination and a key. The safe is still locked. The key is still in its drawer under my notebook.

No one will admit to having taken the items.