Today I woke wonderfully refreshed. The sun was well up. I washed up and dressed in one of the gowns I made for this trip. Then I wandered in the garden outside my room. The garden was surrounded on all sides with other verandahs, barely discernible through the trees, fountains and flower beds. The path wove through the garden revealing its treasures a bit at a time, roses and lavender, flowers of every color and scent, fruit trees in blossom and frutation at the same time, delightful fountains, comfortable benches inviting repose.
Lucia found me in the garden. Taking my hand she led me back through my room out the door into the grand hallway, down the stairs to the same room where we ate the evening before. Sybilla was already breaking her fast and greeted us warmly.
“My dear daughters, good morning. How well you look!”
We sat down as Sybilla filled our bowls with muesli and fresh milk. There were goblets of golden apricot nectar, and hot, fresh, saffron buns studded with almonds, crusted with sugar.
“How do you like your room?” Sybilla asked.
“It is perfect. Everything is so rich, so luxurious.”
“I am glad you are comfortable. The room will evolve during your stay. Right now everything is white, everything is plain. It is a blank canvas, a mirror that will reflect you as you grow into yourself during your stay. In a few days we will go to town for market day. Until then, please roam around the estate, make yourself at home.
“We do not serve meat here, in my Casa. I prefer not to take life to live. But neither are we strict vegetarians. We do eat unfertilized eggs and drink milk. There are vendors in the market who sell meat. You will offend no one if you choose to try the wonderful foods they sell.”
“I also prefer meatless meals. I will need to have money exchanged, or I will not be able to sample the delicacies of the market. Is there a bank or exchange office near by?”
Sybilla shook her head. “You will have no need of money here. We barter for all our needs.”
I felt panicked. “I do not have anything to barter!”
Sybilla smiled gently, and patted my cheek. “Oh, indeed you do have something to barter, you have skill. In the center of the market is a chair of gold bones. If you sit in the chair and tell a tale of 1001 words, no more no less, every one who stopped to listen will be in your debt. Everyone always listens, here stories are more valued than gold.”
Sybilla’s words did not reassure me. “What will i say? how will I know when I have spoken 1001 words exactly? I don’t think I can do this.”
“You will do splendidly. Ramble around the estate, listen to the murmurs of wind and water, when you take the chair, the tale will tell itself.”
Sybilla rose gracefully, kissed both Lucia and I on our foreheads. “I will see you at dinner. Enjoy your day, my daughters.” She left Lucia and I to finish our meal.
After we had eaten, I asked to see Jenny. I felt guilty to not be caring for her myself. Lucia’s warm smile communicated understanding. She led me through gardens mazing through elegant white buildings until we came to an arched way in the sheltering wall adjacent to the stables. Outside the wall was a pasture, no fence that I could see, but many horses and donkeys placidly grazed. My Jenny detached herself from the herd and trotted to me. She nuzzled my hands and face, happy to see me.
The gentleman who had taken her from me the evening before joined us. “She is sweet, this little jenny,” he said to me, stroking her back with a gnarled hand.
“I met her only yesterday, but I feel like I have always known her.”
“She feels the same, Signora.”
“May I help in her care?”
“Of course, Signora.”
The gentleman introduced himself as Emil. He showed me where the fresh hay was kept, and the pitchfork. I knotted up my skirt and shoveled the dirty straw into a wheelbarrow, wheeling it to the compost heap near a large garden. I filled the stall and manger with sweet, fresh hay, and her stone trough with fresh water I drew from a well – drew by lowering a jug down into the deep with a rope and pulling it up again. It was seven jugs to fill the trough. There were curry combs and brushes an a shelf in her stall. I took them and brushed Jenny until she was soft as velvet. She bit my shoulders delicately, it felt like a caress, before she trotted back to graze.
Lucia took my hand and we walked across the pasture, picking up a trail on the far side. The path wound through the trees downhill to the river. We followed the water downstream to a waterfall and pool. We spent the morning climbing over the stones and wading. We watched trout in the deep pool, they were hiding behind rocks and under trailing branches, gleaming in their jewel like colors. We sat on the sun warm rocks in companionable silence, our bare feet dangling in the chill water. When we began to feel hungry we walked back to the pasture and into the Casa. Although Lucia did not speak, she communicated very well with a look, a nod, a gesturing hand. I felt as if we were having a conversation, even when we sat without looking at each other at all.
Lucia led me to the kitchens, where we were given fresh bread, cheese, fresh fruit and a jug of milk. We took our bounty into the garden near my room, where Lucia had found me in the morning, sat on the benches by a fountain, and ate. Colorful little birds chirruped about us, and we responded by sharing our bread and fruit. Boldly they perched on our fingers to eat crumbs from our palms. Their little feet and beaks tickled, making us giggle, setting the little birds to flight.
After we finished eating, Lucia walked me to the verandah. She stopped at doors kitty corner to my own, and bowed slightly to invite me in. These were her rooms, very similar to mine. Her rooms were abloom with color. In addition to a sitting room, overflowing with books, she had another room with a spinning wheel, loom, raw wool to be carded and dyed wool to be made into cloth. Her eyes beamed with pride as I fingered the fine wool, and exclaimed over the beautiful pattern of the woven cloth. She laughed delightedly as she displayed to me lengths of colorful cloth, each more brilliantly lovely than the last.
She led me to her stacks of books, nudging me to look through them. She placed several in my arms, and led me back to my own doors. She bowed slightly, inclining her head on her hands as a gesture to rest. I watched her return to her rooms, moving across the garden with the grace of a dancer.
Entering my room I saw its metamorphosis had begun. The white drapes about my bed had been replaced with shimmering midnight blue ones. The alcove containing my bed was painted the colors of twilight, rosy afterglow blending into the violet blues deepening night, the silver moon and glittering constellations properly placed. The white bedding and pillows had been replaced with new ones in the twilight colors of the wall.
Across from it the sheer white drapes enclosing the window seat were replaced by filmy rose ones, the white pillows replaced by those with colors of sunrise. Between bed and window lay a Persian carpet, blending the cycle of day and night in rich splendor. Kicking off my sandals I buried my feet in its luxurious softness.
I wanted to dance and curl up to sleep at the same time. I danced across the room into my sitting room, which was still the same soothing white. I curled up on the sofa, delighted to find a tray with a pot of hot tea and chocolate confections within comfortable reach. Cocooning myself in a throw soft as cloud, I began to page through the books Lucia had given me – my idea of bliss.
One book was a book of poetry, more like a casket of finely polished gems. Each poem seemed like a smooth stone in my palm. The second was an encyclopedia of goddess mythology, the third an anthology of multicultural short stories and poems. I read bits from each, sipping tea, nibbling chocolate, hunkering deeper into the softness of my sofa corner, gradually drifting into sleep.
Which may explain my odd disjointed dream. It was like a slide show of memories, I recognized everything – the unfinished room where the lathes showing through the plaster; the dormer window, painted shut a fly buzzing madly against the grungy glass; doors locked to keep me in, keep me safe, but what was on the other side could unlock the door; the leaning tree which was so easy to climb; the burned forest behind the house oozing smoke like pus from a wound; the dim, pungent interior of the privy house; six ducklings shivering in a corner of the horse trough, peeping desperately; cattails rising as walls along each side of a gravel road; a black snake, thicker than my arm, twice my height, undulating at my feet; the dizzy height of the corn crib; wood ticks; planting a penny packet of seeds that I would never see grow…
I jerked awake, panting, my heart pounding furiously in my chest, a film of sweat across my forehead. The memory was from kindergarten days. More images flashed across memory’s screen – the cool halls of the church where I went to school; the rug I used for nap time; the little bathroom; crackers and milk at snack; marking a strip of paper with X’s to be an Indian headband, coloring a pillow case cut to be an Indian dress; coffee can drums; rebelliously hitting my drum one time after being warned not to; having to put away my Indian clothes in my coffee can as consequence; of other children pushing me around the room on a papier mache horse; of going home with a little girl to her yellow house, so beautiful with wrought iron, sunken living room, tuna sandwiches and the bright whiteness of her room; a kennel of black dogs barking and jumping as I came to them through a mist; a trailer, being introduced to my new daddy; watching him take apart jewelry and glue it on his guitar, giving me a brooch of pansies frozen in lucite, ball chains and plastic charms from his bag of treasure; building play houses with broken concrete blocks; gleaning cans and such from the garbage for dishes; scaling snow mountains pushed up by plows; my new daddy crashing his milk truck, crushing his face, nearly dying; the house behind the green dinosaur filling station where Mary Alice took care of me; her twin daughters, three sons, Kevin just my size, we both liked tomato soup; the wall hanging of the Virgin Mary her dress a basin for holy water, climbing a pine tree; trapped between mother and the wall while she napped; standing on a chair to wash dishes; locked in my room with socks over my hands feverish with chicken pox….
I shook my head to stop the parade of details. I reached for the tea, hot and fresh, replenished as I slept. Breathing slowly I sipped it, savoring the jasmine scent. Thankful for the call of nature, I left my memories on the sofa as I retreated to the W.C.. I did not want to think of childhood. Splashing water on my face washed away the gound from my eyes. I walked barefoot into the sunshine of the garden.
Lucia was carding wool where we had enjoyed our lunch. She gave me a pair and we spent the remaining afternoon teaching me to card. My arms became sore from the unfamiliar labor. My mind was bleary from memories. I was grateful to go to dinner.
Dinner was served in a large dining room. Sybilla sat at the head table, gracefully reclined on her divan. Lucia and I took a divan halfway down the left side. The tables formed a U, leaving a wide aisle in the center. Musicians sat on floor pillows playing guitar and flute. Servants were placing platters of food on the tables from the center as well. I thought they were servants, until I saw them exchange places at the table with others who had finished eating.
I recognized Emil from the stable, he raised his goblet in salute to me, as well as others Lucia and I had met as we traversed the Casa. Everyone was engaged in conversation, laughing, arguing. The sound burbled over me as water over stone. I did not feel like talking, and did not feel conspicuous for not. Lucia and I shared our meal in the same companionable silence we shared all day. She dished foods onto my plate, they were all delicious. Pastas in creamy sauces, broiled eggplant, salads piquant with citrus dressings, and always the fresh bread, the sweet wine.
After dinner we wandered into the dining room courtyard. torches blazed, illuminating the snowy stone as gold. More musicians played lively dance tunes – Musicians and dancers joining and leaving the gathering easily. Lucia and I watched the dancers. All my life my body has longed to dance, restrained by religion and lack of opportunity. In high school I learned a little disco, a few line dances, and the slow swaying dance of prom. I have not danced since then. I did not know the steps which were thoughtlessly familiar to the joyous people before me. After awhile Lucia and I wandered back to our garden, the music floating after us.
In our garden, Lucia showed me the steps to the dance. We walked through them slowly, picking up speed, until I was whirling about the garden paths as confidently as any, laughing in the freedom of flying, until we danced and laughed ourselves into a tired heap among roses.
Impulsively I embraced Lucia. She hugged me back, flooding me with the peace which comes from the true affection of kindred spirits. We bowed goodnight to each other.
The only change in my room was the presence of a dainty black and white cat. If I was not absolutely certain my own black and white cat was at home many thousand miles away, I would have sworn she was my Tuxedo. The kitty rubbed herself sinuously about my ankles, before hopping into my bed kneading herself a spot in my comforter.
I have caught up in this journal, and jotted off a postcard to home, before I go to sleep. Except for the dreams, it has been a perfect day.
