The BLTS Archive- The Silver Apples of the Moon by Trexphile (trxphile@cox.net) --- DISCLAIMER: Paramount/Viacom owns everything, even the stars. Among their vast holdings, they won't notice this little constellation of mine. AUTHOR'S NOTE: This was in response to a challenge issued in my email list -- to write a prose piece based on a poem. January 1998 --- He woke before the dawn from troubled dreams, as usual. Slowly, painfully, he stood and dressed. The air was chilled, the sky still dark and spattered with stars. He didn't look up -- he had no desire to see the memories there. He walked slowly down the path and into the vineyard, making his way automatically, the path all too familiar. Trailing his fingers along the ripening fruit, he slowed just enough to pull off a small handful of grapes and pocket them. He didn't stop when he came to the end of the row but continued on, into the surrounding woods. It was even darker there and the way was slower as he willed his uncooperative old body through the foliage. A haunting cry snapped his head up and his eyes darted around the gloom. A quick flapping of wings overhead -- he turned, following the owl's short flight, seeing only a fluttering shadow as it disappeared behind him. He walked on, closing his eyes briefly in sorrow when the predator found its prey, the victim's squeal lasting only a fraction of a second. He hoped it hadn't suffered. He came to the clearing. The dawn was approaching very quickly, the sky above the trees a bit lighter, the stars beginning to dull. An urgency began pounding through him as he stood and gazed around him, searching, waiting. A movement caught his eye and he turned. A squirrel sat poised at the edge of the woods, observing the intruder solemnly. Even in the dim light, he could see the reddish hue of its pelt and the large wondering eyes. Slowly he moved his hand to his pocket and brought out a grape. He stooped, his bones protesting, and gently tossed his offering toward the animal. The squirrel didn't move. It watched him warily, ready to escape into the trees. He straightened up again, his breathing already labored by the exertion. The animal stood perfectly still for a long moment, then took a few cautious steps forward. Gaining boldness, it was halfway to the proffered fruit when it sat up suddenly and looked past him. He turned and his heart quickened. She was there, sitting on the grass, smiling at him. He approached her slowly, unable to breathe, struggling to keep himself upright. Her gaze never left his as he dropped down beside her. "Beverly," he whispered as he regained control of his body. She continued smiling, not speaking. She seemed to be glowing, glimmering in the gray light. Every feature of her face, every curve of her body was clear and bright, further dulling the woods around her. Her hair shimmered brightly, falling around her face like auburn silk, the way he'd always loved it. Her eyes sparkled with her smile, their crystal blue and the soft red of her lips bringing all the memories rushing back. "Beverly," he repeated and reached a trembling hand out to her. She turned her face away and he stopped his hand. Letting it drop, he kept his eyes locked on her profile. "I'm so sorry," he began, struggling with the words, his once powerful voice now tremulous with age and sorrow. "I wish ... if I could only go back, do things differently." She didn't look at him and his desperation began to grow. "It was all my fault. I misjudged the situation ... didn't realize it would escalate into violence the way it did." He dropped his head then, regret overwhelming him. "If I had only thought things through, researched more, perhaps ..." He managed to look up again, her shimmering form blurred by his bitter tears. "I miss you, Beverly, so much. I have nothing left ..." His voice dropped to a pained whisper and his head fell again. "Nothing ..." She lifted her face to the sky and the brightening blue was reflected in her eyes. "Jean-Luc." At her words, he lifted his head. She leaned in, smiling, her hand reaching for him, almost touching him. He closed his eyes, aching to feel her touch just once more. The touch never came. He waited a long time before opening his eyes again. She was gone. He knew she would be. He finally managed to stand and shivered at the warming air, hands in his coat pockets, drawing himself in tighter, feeling the cold that only he could feel. He pulled a hand from a pocket and looked at the grapes in his hand, then let them fall onto the spot where she had sat. He retreated into the dark woods, away from the light, to wait for the night again within the unending night he had created for himself. --- The End --- THE SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS by William Butler Yeats I went out to the hazel wood Because a fire was in my head, And cut and peeled a hazel wand And hooked a berry to a thread; And when white moths were on the wing And moth-like stars were flickering out, I dropped the berry in a stream And caught a little silver trout. When I had laid it on the floor, I went to blow the fire aflame, But something rustled on the floor and someone called me by my name. It had become a glimmering girl With apple blossoms in her hair Who called me by my name and ran And faded through the brightening air. Through I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone And kiss her lips and take her hands, And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done, The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.