LJIdol Week 5: Fear is the Heart of Love
The old woman critically surveyed her handiwork lying supine on the table. Her eyes were clear like quartz, and sharp like obsidian. The eerie sensation of feeling both hot and cold washed over her skin in tiny pin pricks. The old woman kneaded a calf, molded an elbow, defined a clavicle, and her long fingers dark with the color of clay, smoothed the skin. She felt an avalanche of scalding ice pricks slide down her back. Frowning in concentration the old woman used her pointed nail to etch a few details: a furrow in the brow, a laugh line, a dimple. She carefully placed the rich green paste on the tongue. Her mouth twitched. She tasted salt and metal. She licked her lips and swallowed hard past the lump in her throat. She did not take a breath.
The old woman reached into the cavity up to her wrists. She nodded at her realization and moved toward the fire. She took a seat in the threadbare chair. Her wide knuckles clicked as she deftly wove the supple branches together into a fist sized cage. A cat left the dark corner of the room to lay contentedly by the woman’s feet. It purred as the old woman murmured intently at her work. The cat looked on, interested each time she took a sprig of herb, or a string of gut. The old woman finished her methodical weaving, her jaw tight with the effort. She returned to the table to make a reverent offering to the chasm, again murmuring intently. Her wide palms smoothed over the sternum.
She turned her head painstakingly slow. Her eyes wide with the effort. There. She could see the edge of a shadow pulsing. Someone who was not as still as her. Thump. Thump. Thump. She couldn’t tell if the pounding was in her head or coming from the old woman.
“Do not fear, child,” the old woman said comfortingly. “Settle your heart, for it is my heart, as I have given it to you. Now swallow,” she instructed, holding a small saucer filled with an amber liquid to her lips. Everything became lighter, and she eagerly inhaled the sweet citrus scented air. Another inhale, and another. “Breathe slower, child, lest you get dizzy, you have time enough.” Her eyes stung as she moved them wildly over the suddenly clear visage next to her. The old woman moved forward and dabbed at her cheeks, “Now, now. There. Are you still afraid?” She’s beautiful. Her long thick braid is impossibly white. She raised her hand dark with the color of clay to stroke the old woman’s cheek.
“No, Mother. I feel love.”
If you liked this story and would like to read the other entries and vote, you can go here:
http://therealljidol.livejournal.com/969972.html
The old woman reached into the cavity up to her wrists. She nodded at her realization and moved toward the fire. She took a seat in the threadbare chair. Her wide knuckles clicked as she deftly wove the supple branches together into a fist sized cage. A cat left the dark corner of the room to lay contentedly by the woman’s feet. It purred as the old woman murmured intently at her work. The cat looked on, interested each time she took a sprig of herb, or a string of gut. The old woman finished her methodical weaving, her jaw tight with the effort. She returned to the table to make a reverent offering to the chasm, again murmuring intently. Her wide palms smoothed over the sternum.
She turned her head painstakingly slow. Her eyes wide with the effort. There. She could see the edge of a shadow pulsing. Someone who was not as still as her. Thump. Thump. Thump. She couldn’t tell if the pounding was in her head or coming from the old woman.
“Do not fear, child,” the old woman said comfortingly. “Settle your heart, for it is my heart, as I have given it to you. Now swallow,” she instructed, holding a small saucer filled with an amber liquid to her lips. Everything became lighter, and she eagerly inhaled the sweet citrus scented air. Another inhale, and another. “Breathe slower, child, lest you get dizzy, you have time enough.” Her eyes stung as she moved them wildly over the suddenly clear visage next to her. The old woman moved forward and dabbed at her cheeks, “Now, now. There. Are you still afraid?” She’s beautiful. Her long thick braid is impossibly white. She raised her hand dark with the color of clay to stroke the old woman’s cheek.
“No, Mother. I feel love.”
If you liked this story and would like to read the other entries and vote, you can go here:
http://therealljidol.livejournal.com/969972.html