Work Text:
Disclaimers: I just borrowed the characters, for no profit and
nothing but
fun.
Notes: This started out as a PWP, but somewhere along the line
developed
vestiges of a plot. This story is set from Jim's senior year
in high
school through current time. It is purely a fantasy, and I
apologize in
advance in case any of it squicks you. My thanks to K for reading
and
commenting, and to Carla for reading, commenting and posting for
me.
Summary: Jim Ellison, this is your life.
Warnings: Kinky football rituals. Explicit m/m sex, including
M/b. Angst.
The Tears of Hlin
by
Cerise
(c) 1998
"As the spell
of the tree fell away, he remembered his errand and stepped
closer still. Heart pounding, he lifted squint eyes and whispered,
'When
shall I see her again?'
"After
a pause filled only with the restless news of the wind,
the eldest raven spoke a single word.
"'Never.'"
"'Never,'"
echoed a second.
"'Never,'"
tolled a third and a fourth.
"For
a moment the mole stood motionless, waiting as his heart
cracked, waiting for the fifth raven to contradict the rest. But
the fifth,
without even glancing his way, repeated the verdict.
"The
last, mournful Never fell upon him, bowing his head. He
stood gazing at the ground and suddenly felt as old as the tree itself."
(Charles Duffie, _The Mole and the Owl_)
It's a championship team. An undefeated team, a team that
is the pride of
the city. The state championship is won by an unprecedented
score. 47 to
14. A massacre.
No one knows the rituals of the team. It is a tightly-knit
group of
athletes, with a charismatic coach. No one questions them.
Not with a
record of such demonstrable success. The community doesn't
care how they
do it, and they do not tell. They are a superstitious lot.
One fullback
is afraid to wash his right hand, because he is certain he will not
be able
to hold the ball if he does. Another team member plays the
last four games
of the season in shoes that have holes in both toes. He doesn't
care that
he re-breaks one toe during every game. It's worth it, to win.
You know the secret, but you will not tell, either. It is
cloaked in
deepest secrecy, and you are at the heart of that conspiracy of silence.
You are not quite the source, but you are certainly vital.
Without you,
the conspiracy might not exist at all.
No one would believe you, anyway. Sometimes you don't believe
it yourself.
And you're living it, every week of this incredible season of football.
People know and respect the team meeting before every game.
It is sacred,
and there are no reporters, or parents, or faculty. It is the
team and the
coach, and it never varies. An hour before the game, in the
locker room.
Most people believe this is the time for pep talks. Win one
for the Gipper
speeches. Perhaps a prayer; Oak Creek is a very Christian suburb,
here in
Cascade.
But the hour before the game is the beginning of the ritual.
It is the
first part. The second part is the game itself. And the
third takes place
after the game. You would no more suggest changing it than
any other
member of the team. You're proud of the team's success, and
you are
privately proud of your own role in that success, although you realize
that
it has nothing to do with your own athletic prowess.
One hour before kickoff, the team gathers in the locker room and
locks the
doors. There is very little conversation. Expressions
are grave, emotions
high. The team is usually already suited up. Except for
you, of course.
You have spent the last hour getting ready for this, this ritual
that must
be observed in precisely the same way every Friday evening.
You are naked. You sit in the middle of the team, surrounded
by boys who
have been your friends for years. Your teammates, your classmates.
One of
these boys is your best friend, although on Friday evenings he says
nothing
to you, as silent as the rest of the team. They make room for
you to sit
on the bench. You are freshly shaved, showered, clean and smelling
of Dial
soap and antiperspirant.
The coach says a few words. He is always peculiarly reverent.
There is no
question that he honors this ritual at least as highly as your teammates.
It is sacred to him, too.
When the coach finishes speaking, you stand up. Two of your
teammates take
your elbows and guide you over to the table. You are no longer
nervous
about this, although you remember your terror the first time it happened.
You didn't understand then. But you do now. You believe
it is meaningful.
Your teammates help you up on the table, and push you down on your
back.
The same two boys lift your legs and hold them apart while a third
boy
stands between your thighs and touches you. It is a respectful
touch, and
no longer feels like a violation. Simply part of the ritual.
His fingers
probe inside your hairless, spotless opening, spreading slickness
inside
you. It feels pleasant now. You have gotten to the point
where you look
forward to this. It seems to center you. Familiar.
You are used to being
vulnerable with these boys; you know that they will not harm you.
They
seem almost to love you, for what you provide the team.
By this point the remainder of the team stands in a silent circle
around
the table. Speaking is not forbidden, but it rarely happens.
There is no
need. The ritual is proceeding exactly as it always does.
The boy
standing between your legs retreats, and the coach approaches you.
His
smile is almost tearful, his look filled with what can only be love
as he
strokes your wide-spread thighs reverently. You are fast approaching
the
beginning of your role in tonight's game. The thought fills
you with
nothing but anticipation.
There is no longer any pain when the coach enters you. He
has done this
many times before, and you are completely relaxed. Secure in
the knowledge
of your teammate's good feeling, of the coach's caution. You
make a sound
of pleasure when the coach's hips meet your thighs. The boys
holding your
ankles stroke your legs, and you look at them with a slow, easy smile.
The coach moves at first slowly, and then more urgently.
Your own pleasure
is mounting, but it doesn't really matter. More than once this
season you
have spurted your own essence at nearly the same moment you feel
the coach
sending warm liquid into your body, but other than causing a few
grins
among your fellows -- warm, never anything but glad -- your physical
pleasure is beside the point. It is the coach's seed that matters.
Spent
inside you.
The coach never hurries, and as his thrusts slowly increase in
pace you
hear yourself making more sounds of pleasure. His penis feels
hot and
delicious inside you. You never hated this act, but you truly
enjoy it
now. You love this ultimate giving over of control. Outside
the team you
would be shocked. But here it feels not only natural but vital,
essential
to the team spirit. You would not dream of protesting.
You are deeply
honored to hold the coach's cock inside you.
With a throttled cry the coach finally spurts his seed into you.
He is
smiling dazedly as he withdraws very carefully, and with practiced
alacrity
the two boys at your sides raise your legs higher in the air.
The third
boy comes back, and touches your opening before sliding the plug
inside
you. It's a different plug than at the beginning of the season,
when a
very small one did the trick. Now it's larger, fat and heavy.
But it
keeps the coach's seed from leaving you. Instead it bottles
you up, and
for the next few hours you play the game with the faint burn of its
presence, a reminder of the precious essence you have inside you.
Your teammates help you dress for the game. Your genitals
are not covered
until the last possible moment, and it always feels a little strange
to
finally cover yourself up. The coach kisses you on the mouth,
a fatherly,
unsexual kiss, before applying himself to the business of the game
at hand.
There is no fear now. The ritual has been observed. They will win tonight.
And the team does win. It's a good game; the opposing team
is strong,
canny, and most definitely worthy opponents. But the outcome
is foregone.
There is the usual jubilation after the game. Parents, friends,
happy
faculty, flashbulbs and news stories. As quarterback you are
often
interviewed by the press. Brief sound bites, showing your radiant,
terribly handsome face.
When the press finally leaves, and the locker room is quiet again,
it is
time for the final part of the ritual. This is the most joyful
part,
because the game is won. This is the celebration that takes
place in
private, the true celebration.
Everyone showers, and it is loud with happy voices, jokes, rehashings
of
particular plays, touchdowns. You shower with your teammates,
simply a
part of the group. But when everyone is clean again, no one
dresses. They
return to the locker room and wait for the coach.
When he arrives, you get back on the table. You are flushed
with the same
joy you see on the coach's face, and you spread your legs gladly.
The plug
pops out and the coach dips a finger in the liquid that trickles
from your
ass, raising his hand in the air for all to see. He licks his
own semen
from his finger and then bends to kiss your wet opening reverently.
The rest of your teammates enjoy you without hurrying. Over
time you have
come to know their ways; you think of them as your friends, as your
brothers, and you recognize the feel of each of them as they push
inside
you. There is one boy, tall and dark-skinned and soft-spoken,
who is your
secret favorite. His name is Randall, and the feeling in your
heart,
always warm when it concerns your teammates, is different for him.
It is
enough to open your legs for the other boys, but when it is Randall
whose
hands push your legs in the air you always wish for more. For
his full
mouth on your own, his broad, muscled chest against yours.
You want things
you can't articulate, much less understand. You only know that
when he is
finished you are always disappointed that he does not take you in
his arms,
kiss you, fondle you and whisper mysterious words in your ear.
When the season is finally over, Oak Creek High School is the
state
football champion team. The members of this undefeated, remarkable
football club are highly recruited by colleges. You yourself
have twelve
different football scholarship offers before the season is even over.
But
you have already decided where you are going to college, and your
scholarship is not athletic but academic.
Without football you feel lost. You miss everything about
it. The
atmosphere of jubilation, the victories, the camaraderie. The
coach seems
lessened, when you see him in the halls. He is quiet now, and
oddly sad,
and you know he's grieving that it's over, too. There is a
party, the week
after the championship game. It is a private party, at the
coach's house.
For the last time you open yourself for these boys, this one man.
It is
the first and only time they take turns having you in a real bed.
Each boy
is allowed privacy with you, and a few of them kiss you shyly on
the cheek,
whisper that they will miss you. But Randall is the last to
enter the
guest bedroom, where you lie exhausted and sore from the loving of
so many
others before him.
At his touch all your previous encounters are shoved aside.
He is the only
one whose hips you wrap your legs around. He is the only one
of his
teammates who kisses your mouth long and hard, whose tongue meets
your own
and whose body covers you until you feel as if you've melded with
him,
becoming one being and not two. He is the only one who, when
he tells you
he loves you, hears you say that you love him too.
You make love with Randall three times that night. No one
disturbs you.
Perhaps they understand, or perhaps they simply don't know.
You are sore,
and so tired, but when he slides inside you the third time you rejoice,
because you were made to hold him like this. Every thrust of
his penis
inside you is confirmation. Impaled on his flesh, you become
a part of
him, and him of you. You adore him. And he loves you.
Pounding into you
he screams your name when he comes, and the sound is pure love.
The next morning you awaken in the coach's guest bedroom, with
Randall
holding you in his arms. You turn and he kisses you and smiles,
and you
realize you are in love with him.
The coach has made all this possible, and you love him, too.
You are
completely, madly in love with the world, because you have found
Randall,
and without the coach you would still be wandering. The other
boys have
long since gone home, and you eat breakfast with the coach and Randall.
You are so sore you can hardly move, but it is a sweet, delicious
pain that
you don't mind at all. When breakfast is finished you slide
down on your
knees in front of Randall and make love to his cock. It's the
first time
you've held him in your mouth. It takes you a moment to adjust,
but then
you are blissfully content. His seed tastes rich and earthy,
coating your
tongue and throat with his flavor.
In the coach's wide bed you lie pillowed on Randall's strong chest,
his
oddly nimble fingers playing with your nipples while the coach takes
you
once more. It hurts quite a lot this time, but you know it's
the last time
he will do this, and so you endure the pain, bracing yourself inside
Randall's arms and letting your legs be raised until they drape over
the
coach's shoulders. You see tears in the coach's eyes just before
he shouts
his pleasure.
You endure two weeks without the team, before you realize that
it is
Randall you can't live without. Somehow he has realized it,
too. One day
after school you see him standing by the bike racks, and the lost
expression on his face is the same one you feel inside your heart.
Without
speaking you get into his battered Delta 88, and drive out to the
lookout
point. It's broad daylight, and there is danger, but neither
of you care.
You make love in the back of his car. The first time is fast,
frantic,
fourteen days of confusion answered by sweating flesh and painful
hard
kisses and your own voice screaming his name over and over again.
As the
sun begins the march down past the horizon, you love again, more
slowly.
You sit astride his muscled hips and lower yourself onto him, smiling
with
disbelieving pleasure as his cock spreads you wide, driving so far
inside
you you believe he will never stop. He works your cock with
his hands,
dragging your orgasm out of you and licking your semen off his fingers
before grasping your hips and working you up and down on his prodigious
length. After he comes you lie panting on his chest.
His cock stays
inside you for an hour, until you feel it hardening again and he
thrusts
restlessly again.
There is almost no day when you do not make love with Randall,
that spring.
Often it is in his car, on a back seat soon stained with your mingled
essences. Other times it is at his house, or yours, and two
different
times there are cheap motel rooms, bought for the evening with money
one or
the other of you has earned at minimum wage jobs. Spring break
is a
delirious haze. Your father works, and Randall's family works.
Your
brother is out with his friends. You spend your days with Randall.
This
sudden freedom is intoxicating. He arrives at your house by
nine o'clock,
and that Monday he takes you in the foyer, your pants ripped off
and cast
aside, kneeling behind you and cursing as he pounds mercilessly into
your
ass. You come helplessly on the floor, and later you wipe it
up carefully,
while he watches you.
You use your father's rattling home movie camera to record your
lovemaking
one afternoon. You watch the film later, lying naked in Randall's
arms
with his fingers sliding lazily in and out of your body. The
spectacle of
your bodies together, dark and light, a hopeless tangle of arms and
legs
and mouths that seem fused in a permanent kiss, is more beautiful
than
anything you have ever hoped to see. You crawl onto your knees,
facing the
projection screen, and you watch the images of your lovemaking while
he
grasps your upraised hips and thrusts joyously inside you.
Friday afternoon your brother comes home unexpectedly. You
expect Randall
to stop, but he only pauses, putting his hand over your mouth.
Your
brother rattles around downstairs, tunelessly crooning a song popular
on
the radio, and in a moment Randall grins down at you and shoves deep
inside
you again. His hand keeps your cries from escaping. He
fucks you
luxuriantly while your oblivious brother talks on the phone downstairs.
The little cries as you come can't carry that far. Later you
watch through
the window as your brother bounces back out of the house. Randall
licks
the slow trickle of semen from your body, and you can finally say
his
beloved name aloud, bent over and panting while his tongue sends
hot
trickles of electric pleasure down your spine.
You celebrate graduation with your friends. Drunk on cheap
champagne and
trashcan punch, you go parking with Randall in the forest and strip
naked
outside the car. The night air is cool and damp on your hot
skin. Randall
laughs and pushes you down on the hood of the car, and you chant
his name
to the rhythm of his motion inside your body.
Faintly you can hear the ticking of an invisible, huge clock.
Time running
out. In two months you'll go to South Carolina, to college.
Randall will
be leaving as well, but for California. At first you ignore
your impending
separation, and you never discuss it with him. As the summer
wears on you
slowly notice an increasing urgency to your time with your lover.
One hot,
muggy night you make love violently. He fucks you hard, desperately,
and
you keep your eyes on his contorted face and relish the bruises he's
leaving on your skin, the pain as he pounds relentlessly into you.
Afterward you burst into startling tears, but he cries with you,
silently,
holding you so tightly it hurts.
The night before you leave for South Carolina, you slip out of
the house
late and meet him. He's waiting in his car, and you slide across
the bench
seat and sit fearlessly in the circle of his arm while he drives
to a
motel. In the antiseptic motel room the two of you make love
slowly. You
don't speak. Neither of you has ever been much of a talker.
You prefer to
let your bodies speak for you.
An hour before dawn you creep out and Randall drives you back
to your
house. In the car you kiss desperately. You are memorizing
his taste,
treasuring the damp feel of his essence still inside you, the last
relic of
your lovemaking only an hour ago. In contrast to your frantic
weeping a
few days ago, your eyes are dry and hot now. Leaving the car
feels like
beginning the walk to the death chamber.
College is busy, confusing and obsessive. You feel purified
by grief,
washed clean by the clarity of your longing for your absent lover.
You
make perfect grades. Your brain is heightened, rarified until
classes are
child's play, easy and compulsive. You don't make friends.
Your dorm
roommate is essentially a vaguely pleasant stranger, who doesn't
care to
know you any more than you, him.
You are not able to go home for Thanksgiving, but Christmas looms
like a
breathless promise of joy. The transcontinental flight is a
blur of
mind-erasing excitement. Soon. Soon you will be together
again, and
complete as you have not been since you left Randall's side.
You've written letters, so you know that he is coming home the
next day.
He calls, mid-afternoon, and you arrange to meet him at the park.
He looks
so beautiful that your heart feels as if it has simply stopped beating
in
your chest. In the secluded shade by a park bench you weep
in his arms,
from sheer disbelieving joy.
The three weeks you have together pass too quickly. There
isn't as much
time alone as you would like, but when you can you see him, and remember
what it's like to love him, to feel him loving you. You watch
him
obsessively, cataloging his every expression, his smell, his taste.
But there is a very small something present that was not here
last summer.
After New Year's you cannot deny that this dark something is here.
It sits
between you, a small but growing sense of distance. He holds
you close,
but there is something between you, something you feel in spite of
skin
against skin. His dark eyes look at you, but they do not completely
see
you. With a desperation you don't comprehend you close your
own eyes and
try not to notice.
The spring semester is not as easy as fall. You're preoccupied.
Your A's
drop to B's. You can't seem to concentrate enough to study
as well as you
did before. You work out obsessively at the campus gym, until
you are in
better shape even than at the height of football season last year.
At the
end of the semester you agree to do a monthlong stint on a junior
ROTC
event which will garner you extra points upon graduation. You
go home
late, in mid-June. You know that Randall has been home weeks
now.
You call him the day after you reach Cascade. He sounds
different on the
phone, but he comes over. While he sits at the table drinking
a soda Sally
bustles over and congratulates him on his engagement. You listen
and smile
with your numb lips. He's engaged. He's getting married.
It's as if the
fact has been spoken in Swahili. You don't understand.
It doesn't make
any sense to you.
Later, when you're alone, Randall tells you about Julie.
His face is
sheepish, pained when he meets your eyes. But he cannot hide
the glow of
his happiness. You hug him, and hear your voice saying that
it's okay,
that you understand. You don't. You are paralyzed with
shock. He doesn't
love you any longer. He loves someone else, a woman, a woman
he is going
to marry. He mumbles something about you being in the wedding
party, but
doesn't pursue it.
After he leaves you go up to your room and lie down on your neatly-made
bed. When Sally comes up to ask you if you want dinner you
tell her no.
Calmly you say that you're a little tired, and you're calling it
an early
night. Your father is out at a function, and your brother is
absent, as
always. When Sally leaves for the evening the house is almost
eerily
silent. Nothing but the rustle of leaves on the oak tree outside
your window.
Your mind is curiously blank when you get up. You don't
remember deciding
to get up, but there you are, walking into the bathroom. You
run a bath,
the hottest water you can stand. You survey your naked body
in the mirror
as if seeing it for the first time. Young, strong, a very beautiful
body.
You sit in the tub until the water is cold, and then dry off mechanically.
In your bedroom you choose neatly pressed chinos, a crisp button-down
shirt. Your favorite old loafers, which you shine with a chamois
before
you put them on.
In your father's study it smells like sweet pipe tobacco.
You can remember
when you were very, very small, coming in here and showing your father
your
first report card. The time when your father told you and your
brother
that your mother would not be coming home. The day you told
your father
the team was going to the state championships. You've never
been in this
room without the excuse of a momentous occasion. Now is no
different, for
all that your father will not be home for hours yet.
In the top left drawer of the desk your father keeps his gun.
You aren't
supposed to know about it, but you overheard him arguing with your
mother
one night, years ago, and you learned where he kept it. It
feels
startlingly heavy in your hand.
You sit in the study for four hours, until your father's car comes
to the
driveway. Without any sense of alarm you take the gun with
you up to your
room. You can't quite remember what you did for the past four
hours, but
the weight of the revolver in your hand reassures you.
Later you don't really know whether or not you intended to shoot
yourself.
It doesn't really seem all that important. But you keep the
revolver in
your room the rest of the summer. Your father doesn't miss
it. He
probably hasn't thought about his gun in years. At first you
think that it
will be fine under your pillow, but that seems a little too dangerous,
so
you put it between the mattress and box springs of your bed.
The grip is
angled so that you can reach it easily.
You only see Randall two more times that summer. Both are
social events,
and neither time do you speak candidly with him. You smile
and say the
things you are supposed to say. And each time you think of
the gun under
your mattress, and you know that if things get worse, you have an
option.
When you return to South Carolina in August, it is with a profound
sense of
relief.
You have no social life, but you don't want one. You don't
date anyone,
because you can't seem to find interest in anyone. You do volunteer
work
when your classes are no longer challenging enough. People
begin to
recognize you as a dependable person: quiet, sincere, dedicated.
You tutor
students in history, your favorite subject. You become what
you've always
thought you could be. A very good person in every way.
People trust you,
people depend on you. In their need for you you find a kind
of
identification. The jagged hole inside you seems to begin to
be filled by
duties, responsibilities, goals and achievements.
The invitation to Randall's wedding is on heavy cream paper, embossed
and
formal. The wedding will be in June. You will not be
there.
You spend the summer after your sophomore year teaching at a summer
camp,
working evenings at a tiny resort grocery store. And the summer
after that
you attend an intensive eight-week course preparatory to joining
the
military. You're busy, and you believe you are happy.
There isn't time to
be unhappy. There is too much work to be done.
The men in your Army unit call you Brother Jim, because of your
monastic
ways. You smile when they say it, because they don't really
mean it in a
jeering way. They simply don't quite understand you.
But they do respect
you, and that's enough.
You have shed many of the habits of your youth. You no longer
drink very
much, and your brief flirtation with smoking fell by the wayside
long ago.
But you keep your sidearm under the mattress. You can no longer
remember
when you began doing this. It's simply habit.
You meet a man named Ronald White, during Zero Week. He
looks so much like
Randall that you can't stop staring at him, finding reasons to be
around
him. He becomes your friend, enduring the two months of arduous
Ranger
training at your side for the most part. When training is complete
you
have two weeks before you have to report for duty. He invites
you to stay
with his family in Florida, and you meet his smiling wife, his three
jubilant children. You sit on his patio and drink iced tea
from a sweaty
glass, and wonder if this is what Randall is doing right now.
Barbecuing
burgers on the grill, keeping an eye on his son as he swigs dark
brown beer
from a bottle.
Ron is kind, and you like him very much. You say goodbye
with genuine
regret. You doubt you will see him again.
One morning you report for duty to be told by the colonel that
you have
been promoted to captain. The news takes you completely by
surprise. Some
men from your unit insist on taking you out for a beer to celebrate,
and
you arrive home slightly drunk and astonishingly happy. On
the answering
machine you hear your father's voice. Randall and his wife
and young son
have been killed in a car accident. Your father thought you
should know.
Considering what good friends you two were.
You get a dispensation to go home for the funeral. Randall
is not a family
member, but you have leave time before your new posting; it isn't
hard to
get permission to go a few days early.
The day of the funeral is gloomy, with slow, sad rain that trickles
under
the collar of your dress uniform, making you shiver. You stand
apart from
the crowd of mourners, staring at the caskets. It seems so
impersonal.
You don't even know anyone anymore. Why are you here?
At home your father tiptoes around you. He doesn't know
what to make of
this silent, brooding man who is his son. You don't see your
brother. It
doesn't bother you.
The next morning, after your father has gone to the office, you
sort
through the things in your closet. Your father has said something
about
taking what you want, but there's only one thing. You have
to hunt for
some time before you find the home movie you made, years ago.
It's hidden
inside a box that once held the pieces of a model airplane.
One of
Steven's.
For an extra fee, the shop can put the movie onto videotape before
you have
to leave. You wonder if they watch the videos. You don't
particularly
care one way or the other. It is ancient history.
In your spartan new quarters in Virginia one night you take out
the tape
and play it. You watch two boys making joyful love in a boy's
room filled
with trophies and models and posters of popular athletes. You
masturbate
grimly, and come whispering Randall's name into the chill air-conditioned
air. You turn off the machine and crawl into your bed, and
finally you are
able to cry, although it is so hard it hurts everywhere. You
cry for what
you had, what you lost. You cry because you will not ever have
that again,
because he is gone. You weep for the aching place inside your
chest that
has never gone away but which you always dreamed, somewhere deep
inside
you, would be filled again. The place that will never fill
up again.
You take the gun from where it lies securely angled under your
mattress,
and you hold it to your head. You can't think of any reasons
not to pull
the trigger, and so many to go ahead. You're crying so hard
you feel as if
you're going to vomit, and then you finally do vomit, and for whatever
reason the bullet that is supposed to go into your brain never quite
does.
Instead you fire it during target practice a week later, unthinking.
When morning comes you shave carefully, and report for duty.
For ten years nothing touches you. Nothing enters the shroud
of isolation
you have erected about yourself. There is a woman who is interested
in
you. She courts you, an odd role-reversal so surprising to
you that you
can't think of a reason to object. Your marriage, you think,
will fill the
void. But you look at her while she sleeps one night, and you
know that
you're only pretending to feel something. The feeling you are
supposed to
have died on a rainy Washington highway in a resounding crunch of
plastic
and metal and glass, and no amount of pretending will bring it back
to life.
You have grown tired, and bitter. You can't see the point
in continuing.
At night you take your sidearm out and clean it obsessively.
Fairly soon
now, yes. You aren't quite sure when, but soon. After
all, you've only
been delaying it, haven't you? Years and years now.
The noises and smells and strange flares of vision come suddenly.
They
terrify you, but you learned long ago that anger is a better feeling
than
fear, so you mask your terror with harsh words. You are so
tired. This is
too much. No one can understand it, least of all you.
Not your captain,
not your ex-wife. No one.
You look up in the hospital MRI lab and you see a doctor come
in. Maybe he
has the answer, but he looks so terribly young. How could this
guy
possibly be a doctor already? You're ready with a cutting comment,
prepared with your physical presence, your looming bulk.
You look into his staggeringly blue eyes and something inside
you stirs.
Something old, and weak, and as frail as brittle antique glass.
You take
the card he offers and you stand stock-still after he leaves, frozen
in
place for an unbreathing moment.
When you find out who he really is all your fears come to the
fore. You've
been fooled, you've been had, and you don't really know why you suddenly
remember that dreadful afternoon in your father's kitchen, listening
to
Sally congratulate your lover on his engagement. You just know
that you
were wrong.
But his quiet, energetic voice won't let you go. It holds
you, not the
words but the tone, and somehow you start to believe him. You
try not to,
and try to escape what can only be a trap, a lie, a trick that you're
too
canny to fall for again. He knocks the breath out of you and
the truck
passes over you both. He is as stunned to have saved your life
as you are
to be saved.
He is a whirlwind that changes everything. Your defenses
don't work. He
infuriates you, and you long for the sound of his voice. He
moves into
your home, and changes your environment until you almost don't recognize
it
yourself. Everything is changing, you are changing, and you
can't decide
whether to be ecstatic or horrified.
One night you lie listening to the steady beat of his heart downstairs.
You take out your gun and study it in the blue moonlight. You
smile,
because you no longer need it.
The next evening you listen to him talk, and your silence finally
makes him
pause. He looks at you cautiously, all enormous eyes and pure
concentration. You reach out without thinking, tracing the
line of his jaw
with one trembling finger. You can't hide the feeling inside
you. It has
filled you up, brimming over the terrible chasm that once was your
heart,
overflowing and trickling through you until there is no part of you
untouched. You can't think of anything to say, but you watch
his eyes
widen, darken, and you know that he already knows.
Later, much later, you lie on your broad bed in the darkness,
your legs
entwined with his, his breath soft and slow on your chest.
He looks up at
you and smiles. What are you thinking about, he asks quietly.
You pause, and then smile reflectively.
Oak Creek won the state football championship my senior year.
Did I ever
tell you about that?
No, he says. You never told me.
I want to tell you.
I want to hear.
---
"There is no nurse like beauty, he mused to himself, tears
flowing. Save
perhaps love. And between the two, the soul can never be sick."
(Charles Duffie, _The
Mole and the Owl_)
END
some sources say she protected men favored by Frigg, while others
say she
and Frigg were one and the same. Hlin "kisses away the
tears of mourners."
The novel _The Mole and the Owl_ was originally posted to the
website of
the Realist Wonder Society in 1995, after years of looking unsuccessfully
for a publisher. Thankfully, this past fall Hampton Roads Publishing
Company decided to publish the book, with new illustrations.
You can find
the first five chapters of this transcendent, magically beautiful
love
story at http://www.wondersociety.com/. And the book should
now be
available at your local stores. Quotes used without permission.