Red Room Where the Writers Are

Issue/Publication: Published for the Winter Ed. of The Wheel

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Masterpiece

Mabon, 1985

            After spending weeks in Austin and the surrounding area poking through quarries and landscape shops Jim and Amy Thorpe found the perfect stone.  It was four feet wide and five feet high and composed of the same rose tinted granite that gave the Texas State capitol its pale pink tinge.  Jim, who had Michelangelo’s eye for stone, fell in love with it as soon as he saw it.  Now, after two weeks of anxious waiting, the large red flatbed truck with the name Smith & Grommet Landscaping embossed on the side door panel arrived.   Jim virtually jumped up and down on the porch with glee.  “I haven’t been this excited about a project since art school.” He confessed.

Jim smiled as he inspected his work.  He engraved a large pentacle into the top of the stone.  Afterwards, he added symbols representing the elements at the four corners. Roses of various sizes and shapes spilled down the front and sides of the stone.  In the center front, the Green Man grinned at him through a flourish of delicately carved leaves. As an afterthought, or perhaps inspiration, he fixed the word ‘Beloved’ onto the altar face in Theban script. 

“Done,” He said to the stone.  “All done, and in time to bless you for Mabon.”

At sunset he led the coven down to the ritual area and uncovered the monument.  There was a deep silence. Jim smiled nervously, feeling his heart turn cold.  Did everyone hate it? Was it ugly?  He braced himself.  They hate it, Jim told himself, feeling crestfallen.  They think it’s awful.  Then someone whispered, “It’s beautiful.”

Everyone cheered. A spontaneous dance erupted around the stone.  Elated, Jim swept Amy up in his arms and they spun around the stone, laughing, until he was so dizzy he and Amy tumbled to the ground.

            “Look,” Amy said as she sat in front of the stone.  “Everybody look!”

The moon rose, orange and robust, the trees shedding her beams down onto the stone.  The roses gleamed white against the darker pink on the surface. 

Everyone in the circle gasped.  “Oh my!” someone whispered. 

“There’s no need for me to bless Beloved,” Amy said, laughing as she stood and pointed at long filaments of light filtering through the leaves.  “See? The Goddess is doing it Herself!”

            The coven assembled around the stone and Amy began the ceremony.  Jim stood on the periphery with his family and friends, gazing at the splendor of the stone.  Jim’s heart ached.  I have never seen Amy more beautiful, he thought as she called the quarters.  Moonlight spilled down on her hair and shoulders.  A soft breeze sent autumn leaves swirling around her feet.  Oh, Goddess, Jim’s heart ached.  I love her.  I love her.

            No one knew who called the police that night.  Perhaps it was a neighbor who saw the lights behind the house and decided to investigate, or a passerby walking in the woods who stumbled upon the ritual in progress.  It didn’t really matter.  After tonight, nothing would ever matter again.

           Two uniformed deputies arrived and interrupted the Sabbat.  Without thinking, Amy used her athame to cut open the circle so she could step outside and speak to the officers.  The rookie cop panicked and fired his weapon.

            .  There was a short sharp shriek from one of the coveners.  Amy looked startled and somewhat confused as the bullet passed through her body.  She fell backwards against the stone, hitting the back of her head on the corner.  Blood soaked the roses, turning them black in the moonlight.

Imbolc, 1986

            The shooting was ruled an accident.  Dazed by the news, Jim stumbled out of the courthouse.  Shortly afterwards, the coven broke up.  His friends drifted away.  Jim was left alone in the big house. 

             Jim visited Beloved every day.  He knelt before the stone, his hands digging into the leaf rich earth.  “Please,” He whispered to the Goddess. “Please take me too.” Tears spilled down his face and fell to the ground.  He placed his hands on the on the blood stained roses.  He rested his cheek against the cold stone, hoping to catch Amy’s essence.

            As the days shortened, Jim visited the stone less and less.  After a dark and lonely Yuletide, Jim stopped going to the stone altogether.  The house grew as dark and as pensive as the grove of trees that lay beyond.  Jim kept one final vigil on Imbolc eve.  He sat in front of the stone until dawn streaked the sky in gentle shades of orange and teal.  He touched Beloved, caressed the stained roses, sighed, then walked down to the highway where he hitched a ride and never returned.

Beltane, 1990

Jim and Amy’s house sagged, peeking like a forlorn child between the high hedgerows and overgrown crepe myrtle and azaleas. A house without occupants grieves. Left alone for too long, an abandoned house dies, usually through vandalism.

Vandals kicked in the front door and smashed the walls.  They threw rocks through the windows. They broke all the fixtures, and yanked out the wiring.  The stove was destroyed and the refrigerator was beaten apart with a tire iron.  The hot water tank was ripped out of its nook and gutted with an axe.

Afterwards, nature began the process of reclaiming.  Birds built their nests in the eaves and bats made their home inside the chimney, chirping cheerfully as they feasted upon field mice that scurried between the what remained of the kitchen stove and the refrigerator.  A family of possums moved into the attic, competing with the big boar raccoon that developed a habit of chewing on the wiring.

In the grove beyond, moonlight fell on Beloved until unkempt trees obscured the moon from view.  Mildew and thick scales grew slick and black across the altar top.  Fungi found its way in the carefully grooved gaps between the roses.  Rotting leaves and trash accumulated around the base.  Kudzu, wild privet, blackberry canes and honeysuckle scrambled up the sides, and then over the top.  By summer’s end, the stone was nothing more than a green lump cowering in an overgrown grotto.

Yule, 2000

             On Christmas Day, a Siberian cold front blasted through the Red River Valley, dumping snow in silver dollar sized flakes upon the rolling pasture and forested landscape. Horses and cattle took refuge inside barns and sheds. Barbed wire fences drooped.  By mid afternoon, the encroaching ice storm blackened the afternoon sky, glazing everything in its path in a dense sheet of ice.

 In the eerie silence that followed, electrical wires fell in thick black loops onto the ground.  Trees literally groaned underneath the strain, their branches snapping off  as the trunks twisted and exploded.  Animals scurried for cover.  Deer fled into the open fields.  Birds huddled in clumps under eaves and broken tree limbs. 

Just before dawn, the house groaned as the roof collapsed.  Animals residing inside the house escaped as thick plumes of ice and snow cascaded down into the house.  The demolition was complete.  All that remained was an empty husk with exposed rafters and trusses gleaming like whalebone in the wan moonlight.

Within the grove, a pair of oaks died in each other’s limbs. The branches, heavy with ice, eased slowly down onto the altar stone.  Sealed inside her verdant crypt, Beloved dreamed of the dancing Goddess.

A trio of deer ventured into the grotto shortly after dawn.  A doe licked the frozen encasement off the foliage and her companions nibbled upon the vines.  Blackbirds rose into the air, jabbering amongst themselves as they took flight.  Rabbits scurried around the wreckage of the old house, while a skunk crawled out from underneath the back porch.  By noon, the sounds of nature had returned to the forest.  Beloved as always, kept watch. 

Ostara, 2023

A deep mechanical drumming shook the forest floor.  Laughter soon followed, along with excited talk about Pagans and retreats.

“Come here,” Someone shouted.  “Come here and feel the energy!  It’s marvelous!”

Beloved awakened. Voices quivered in the air; footsteps and machinery shook the ground.  It had been a long time.  Or maybe it was just a few minutes ago?  It was hard to tell. What is time to a stone, other than the slow measurement of wind, rain and erosion?

After decades of dormancy, the verdant shroud was swept away.  A stunned silence followed.  Someone whispered, “It’s beautiful.”

Mabon, 2024

Later that summer, stubby cabins gleamed in the slanting sunlight like peaceful watchmen.  Just beyond,  Beloved sat in her carefully landscaped grotto.  The trees arched over the stone, creating a beautifully maintained bower that vaulted over Beloved.   Vibrant autumn leaves spilled down upon the freshly polished stone. 

Beloved was scrubbed and polished with the utmost care and love.  The bloodstain, however, never came off, which led to a great deal of speculation, especially after dinner dishes were put away and the drumming circle ended. 

“It’s obvious,” someone commented, “that a Pagan created this masterpiece, but by whom, and when?”

No one knew, and the town had long since forgot Jim and Amy. The courthouse was destroyed in the great ice storm of 2000 along with all its records.  But Beloved knew, and remembered, and was content.

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