Call me Ishmael!
Lights dim, the music stops, I nearly collapse.
“Fine,” I shout. “I’m not Ishmael.” Melville already used that opening line. I suppose he thought it was true. Now that I think about it for a moment, I would have to agree. It was true. Ishmael was Ishmael, well, when he wasn’t Herman. (Her man? Maybe.) Or Hagar’s Ishmael, the desert child. The lights power up; the music resumes; I quickly regain my balance. So…
Call me Louis, then! Everything continues: lights, music, myself. Actually, my machine, my iPad, offers me “mystery,” not “myself.” But it’s myself that’s under consideration here, not the mystery, yet, so, Louis it is, at least for the moment.
I know I’m in a story, we all are, but I’m not certain what kind of story it is. A parable, perhaps? A parable is short and wouldn’t take too much out of me. Maybe an allegory? I like allegories, especially Spenser’s Faerie Queene. Sometimes allegories make me feel clever, when I understand the details. When I don’t, not so much. At least I knew who the Red Cross Knight was, more or less, and Pilgrim in Pilgrim’s Progress. I got that one right away too, more or less. I like the idea of being in an allegory, and going somewhere interesting.
It could, however, be a short story, a Flannery O’Connor short story, perhaps. Like Parker’s Back, sort of? Or Revelation? Scary! I like short stories, though I hardly ever really understand them; it could be a novella, like Daisy Miller, or even a novel. I hope it isn’t a novel. Novels are way too long. In any case, here I am, Louis, in a story the genre of which seems uncertain.
For the moment, though, in this story, I appear to be stuck in a very dry desert that is also a very lush garden. Go figure. That situation appears to be the given. It’s what I’ve been “given” to work with. I would roll my eyes if there were someone else here. Fine!
I decided I had better move before I dehydrated in the middle of this dry desert or got lost in the midst of the lush garden. Up ahead I saw what looked like an arch, a garden arch with green plants and gorgeous flowers growing up the sides of the arch and over the top. I was in a garden then; how lovely; perhaps there would be something to eat somewhere since I was both hungry and thirsty. I followed the gritty, gravelly, gnarly path to the arch, and passed through. Just beyond the arch was a fountain with clear, bubbling water shooting several feet into the air. At last, a thirst quencher! However, the closer I got to the fountain, the farther away it seemed. But I was desperate for a drink, so I struggled forward, without luck.
Okay. I was in a strange place where the ordinary laws of physics didn’t seem to apply. Thus, I stopped struggling and looked past the fountain into what I took to be the heart of the garden. That’s when I saw the beautiful young woman just off to the right of the path to the fountain. Goodness, she was gorgeous with long black hair cascading over her shoulders; her eyes were a sparkling bright green. She was wearing some kind of light green silky dress that matched her eyes and flowed down her body, accentuating her feminine curves. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, and she was looking right at me.
”Welcome to the Angelic heart of the garden,” she said. “I have been expecting you.”
I was stunned and rendered speechless. The Angelic heart of the garden? What did that even mean? I wondered if she had a name.
She must have read my mind, for she spoke again.
”I have many names,” she said. “I was Lilith, the first wife of Adam in a very old tale; I was Eve, flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone, whose fresh beauty betrayed him; I was Sarah, whose heart was filled with joy and laughter; I was Rachel, waiting for Jacob, lovely and sly. I am the truth within every woman, the beauty known clearly only to God and the Angels, sometimes glimpsed by the lover and poet (Dante, for instance), the saint and the scholar (Augustine, Aquinas, surely), and often the pilgrim seeking his shrine. Never forget, though, that I was also Hagar and Leah, sad women both, but lovely, each in her own way.”
When she stopped, I asked, uncertain, perplexed. “What then do you have to do with me?”
”Were you not listening, do you not see?” she replied. “Women in Springtime, leaves in the Fall; gardens are lovely, deserts are dry, stars may fall, and planets call, though she whom you seek can only be guide, and finally, most surely, must finally be denied. Neither is this Thou, after all.”
When she finished chastising me, like the Cheshire cat, she simply disappeared with the most haunting smile I had ever seen. She whom I sought was right there, I think. Truth be told! Just before me!
Then I woke up and saw that the sun was shining through the green leaves of the large maple trees outside my front window, and Alexa was playing the music of Pedro Infante.
Two maples, one variegated dogwood on the left, one magnolia with flower on the right, outside my window; note the unicorn on the wall.
Beautiful. The beginning and the end, with a small bug for good measure.
I have forgotten her almost completely, alas! But with good reason, I now know, I kept her image available.