Nescio (21)

NESCIO (21)

The priestess was pleased with her last intervention. The sister was now centre of attention from a man who considered her more than kindly; a man who knew better than to love her blindly.

His intention was only to love her for who she was. (It was a difficult task and a lot to ask.)

He succeeded in it.

The priestess revelled in it.

The sister really wasn't that bad. It was probably due to the life that she'd had. With the right kind of guidance, the girl would be fine.

The priestess reached for another bottle of wine.

The Sub-Editor - Bong-Tree

BONG-TREE

She said:

'So, we sailed away for a year and a day to the land where the Bong-tree grows. . .'

She said: 

'Yes, we went to sea, just you and me, to a place that no one else knows.'  

She rolled onto her tummy and turned her head towards mine.  She whispered in my ear:

'A magical land inhabited by trees that stood like fat old gentlemen, their wide girths bulging and their fingers gnarled and curled.  And ancient rocks with pebbles and pockets that we climbed up and sat on to eat. And herds of deer that moved like shadows.  And a castle with turrets and fairy-tale towers. And a river that shone in the sun like silver.

'At night, we laid down next to each other, cocooned in our sleeping bags but still together.  

'And we smoked as we stared at the stars.'

She said:

'I was never happier than in that place. I had all that I wanted and needed.' 

The Sub-Editor - Tears

TEARS

I knew we should be together from the moment that we met. It sounds fantastic, stupid, romantic, but I couldn't get the thought - get her - out of my head.

As we lay together with the TV on mute we let the tips of our fingers touch, and our toes as well. No clinging or grasping, no suffocating. Her skin was soft and her stomach flat. Her hair was long and messy. In the night it looked black.

She exuded love, but seemed not to assume or expect to get it back.

She told me a story; 'let me tell you a tale', she said with a smile.  Her camera lay under the pillow.

'There was this small child, a girl, who every time she said want she wanted, something catastrophic happened. Or, perhaps, if she ventured to say how she felt, then someone always felt it more dramatically than her.

'So, she decided never to say what she wanted. She learned to keep her feelings to herself. As she grew older she became even more superstitious and refused to acknowledge, even in her thoughts, her fears and ambivalence. Instead, she became the mistress of bad faith.

'But, then, one day she met someone she wanted. She met him the day he was going away. She wanted to say "don't go, please stay" but the words got stuck in her throat.'

I asked her why she carried a camera. She laughed and said it was so she could remember. She said she used it to describe how she felt; in the moment, before she re-wrote it into something else, something that didn't hurt.

'If I took a picture now' she said,  'it would be seen through tears.'