PEACE FROM THE GROUND UP (RE-POST)

(Rocky beach, Cape Cod Bay - All Rights Reserved)

We who celebrate holidays this time of year, often wish each other peace: like wrapping paper enfolding us in hope, future's possibilities. On the other hand, that cellophane's bright colors barely hide what's underneath.We wish each other "Peace," then resume our lives once the celebrations finish. Many return to their daily routine: family, friends, work and after-work activities. Within these structured lives, people lose sight. Wishes don't mean action.

Oscar Hammerstein wrote the iconic lyrics to: "You've Got to Be Carefully Taught." The acclaimed lyricist had prejudice in mind for this song in the musical South Pacific. However, I'd argue that besides prejudice, children are often carefully taught from a young age to fight, to react without thinking. Parents encourage a boy or girl respond to threats with overt aggression. Excluding self-defense, children learn from their parents or parent to hit another child with brute force when emotionally hurt or to impose superiority. Still, hope remains.

As postulated many times, "change comes from within." In contrast, we can't force another person to modulate their ingrained behavior. We can only set an example, as Malala Yousafzai has for others, and hope they'll follow. Where did Malala get this strength, maturity? Her family. When did this belief begin? I'd speculate from early childhood. That's where parents must start.

Not forgetting violence without regard to morality can be internal, not external. As noted in an earlier blog that mental health, including sociopathic and psychotic behavior, left untreated will continue to foster violence and will remain a stigma in any society if left untreated. However, there are other solutions that also must be pursued. For example, among the majority of youth, as long as war inflicts pain upon their families, so will the scars left behind be passed on to these children. Teaching through education, is the only vehicle to stop conflict.

If adults would not only encourage peace amidst chaos, by--spending time speaking at the dinner table or before children go to sleep and sharing anecdotes, prayers, stories that inspire peace, not conflict--our future's promise, what we wish for every year, would be fulfilled.

I don't have children, but have been among them as a teacher. I felt immense joy and sometimes sorrow when with my students. When they'd discuss how they couldn't wait to get back to their video war games or how they looked forward to pummeling their opponents in an athletic competition, I'd listen to their comments then bring in a lesson the next day about humanity. For teenagers, it's often too late to instill the old adage: "Make peace, not war." And yet, great humanitarians, like Martin Luther King, Jr. and Malala Yousafzai, did and do staunchly believe in this tenet. Why? They learned their lessons early.

For me, sitting on the ground in a public place as strangers would walk by me, I'd recall that feeling of being a young child. I'd perceive certain massive, tall passersby as being intimidating, even threatening. Then, my inner voice would spring into action, reminding me not to judge without understanding. In contrast as an adult, street-smarts that I learned, living in big cities, would emerge: it's wise to be afraid of the unknown. Practical in today's violent world, yes; nevertheless, recurring fear can lead to mistrust.

This mistrust, as with recent incidents in our country between police and the community, may then breed violent responses. Moreover, in nations where war dominates every day life, the enemy could be anyone. How can any child resist becoming desensitized, inured to violent acts they see around them?

Though the path may be strewn with land mines, it's up to adults to lead the way. Let's build a bridge between the child who wonders and the adults who learn to fear what they don't understand. Only then will adults learn. Only then will their children embrace peace--from the ground up.

(Google Images)

LOVE CALL

LOVE CALL

The search ended,

And life suspended;

Disease-ridden body failing;

Anxiety flaying;

Where to turn to right the wrong?

Deep inside, where life is strong.

Fought the gnawing anger within;

Fortified my thinning skin;

Focused on the scene ahead;

My soul awakened on the sea bed.

Words on paper released despair;

I rose above the self-impaired;

As my doubts were then released,

My heart opened to a feast.

You knew me like we’d met before,

Parallel worlds which crossed the door,

Two spirits fated to bloom and blend,

We heard the call of love at summer’s end.

HOLIDAY WISH

SLEIGH RIDE IN VT

With the holidays, celebrate the joy that friendship brings,

The whistling wind as nature sings,

Jubilant bells when winter rings,

Crystal lights like fairies' wings,

And peace beyond all imaginings.

Copyright 2014 Wendy Shreve

THE HOLIDAYS: WHAT THEY MEAN TO ME

1992

I won't wallow in self-pity. Two weeks ago I had other plans: to skip celebrating--no decorations, music, parties--and buy myself a cooked lobster for Christmas Eve dinner. Hey, it's my right as a New Englander and seafood vendors need the business.

Then, I started a part-time job, met with never-ceasing kindness when least I expected it, repaired some broken fences, and found new life for my latest book.

First, work: I help three mornings a week assisting a furniture restorer with administrative tasks at a center for people with challenges. Such a short time, but the joy that fills the air every time I enter the building invigorates me, makes me smile and takes me out of myself. Some at the center already remember my name. What a blessing.

Second, I've had my own challenges and one agency, mainly run by volunteers, has extended its heart and hands, given me an opportunity to rebuild my life. I've remembered that feeling, which I'd recently taken for granted until last week.

Moreover, life experiences have culminated in, at last, my learning about love. In a carefully constructed bubble, I've avoided the responsibility, the hard work which romantic relationships require. I won't psychoanalyze why I've kept my distance. Nor will I place blame. No one or no thing has the answer to what makes love work: books, television, movies; parents, friends, pundits; head, heart or instincts. As the Humanists asserted during the Renaissance, it's not the answers, it's the questions. I ask myself: what would life be without my man? Why throw away happiness to meet societal expectations pounded in my innocent brain since childhood? Aren't we, my boyfriend and I, fortunate to have a love that many will never know or have a chance to experience?

And then, through the encouragement of others, unselfish writers on Cape Cod, I've found renewed faith in my talent, the courage to show the world my stories. For Shadowwater, Dark Sea, Shadowwater II, and the sequel to follow have bestseller potential, yet that's not what I have to prove. No, I will show the publishing world and myself that I'm an author. I will also help others in doing so.

You see, I've begun to understand, with all the heartache around us, why we must continue to celebrate--even if for one day. In 1992, I believed going out to dinner with friends tens of thousands of miles from home on a tropical island and being "merry," could make the holidays more fulfilling. Ten years later celebrating with family meant more. I didn't know, then, that in seven years I'd, unexpectedly lose my father, and three years later, my mother. I continue to cherish those times but not because of what my parents gave me. I value these days not because of what others have shared with me--co-workers, volunteers, my beloved Myles or my writing colleagues. No, I've learned what's made me happiest has been the chance to bring joy to others: the spirit of giving.

31 Years Later

AFTER NOR'EASTER

Amidst the churning storm, one can find inner peace.

DARK SEA, SHADOWWATER: www.shadowwater.net

PORTRAIT OF A WOMAN CURSED?

I've made a pact with nefarious spirits, and now I'm paying for it. In my living "room," a space in my apartment, hangs a portrait of me. Pastel-drawn around 2004, the reflective, serious image resembles a darker side, a time when I had become lost. The artist captured me better than the family friend who'd paid me to pose for her art class. Objectivity often captures reality and the sadness, seriousness that my mother had thought didn't show the real "me," did--at the time.

(As seen on the cover, the actual title of Oscar Wilde's book was The Picture of Dorian Gray, the film's producers changed the title to The Portrait of Dorian Gray for the 1945 movie.)

Ten years later, I've begun to believe the picture, like Dorian Gray's has been cursed. For my hazel green eyes have maintained their youthful luster; smooth skin as pale and clear as what lay beneath the make-up then; honey-blond, (with a little help from Loreal) shoulder-length hair remains straight and soft,and an aquiline nose has kept its shape, but my heart has hardened. Not self-deluded as Dorian. No, what I believed ten years ago and what I know now represents a lifetime of experience.

The only connection my portrait has to the exotic is a cotton pull-over Bali-made blouse covered with flowers, given to me in Singapore which I chose on a whim to wear for the sitting. At first the assembled artists balked; however, one did not. She accepted the challenge without hesitation. The artist used her oil pastels to clearly depict the top half, the face, neck and shoulders. Then, the artist chose to have colors fade. As the viewer scans down the picture, the design, hues become barely perceptible, the pastel finishes, cut off at the bust. Sometimes, at night when the light is dimmer, my mind plays tricks: have the colors, flowers' shapes faded even further?

I'll save my family's story that the artist caught in my eyes; my roller-coaster love life and career, and debilitating medical issues that I've begun to manage--for a memoir farther down the road when its age-appropriate. I will reveal the the price that I've paid for being an author is isolation. To be a writer, one has to accept hours of self-imposed alone-time. Wilde had an underlying sympathy for his anti-hero, Dorian Gray, who as he ages grows mad from eternal loneliness. Like watching a blooming cactus, your eyes first see the lovely blossoms only to then absorb the prickly plant's true nature.

I haven't lost touch with reality. I inherited, learned survival skills from my late mother. Sure friends stay in touch via e-mail, others have dropped me, while others do call. And yet I realize how self-pity will jeopardize a writer's inertia. In fact, I've produced my best writing during this expanse. I'd bet Stephen King would sympathize, at least in his early days. Funny as I've grown older I've come to appreciate King's stories more and how he's maintained a semblance of sanity.

For with the strange dichotomy--a cherubic, fluid face versus a sharper, sometimes unchecked nature--comes a knowingness that without struggle, conflict and strife I could not have become who I am at present: a writer, no, an author.

***

The above is semi-autobiographical and is intended to be dramatized for publication. I attribute surface preservation to genetics and listening to my mother. Very fortunate. Oh, and I've gained pounds.

Curses? I have a writer's imagination and skeptical enthusiasm. Oh, and yes, the portrait does exist. Hmmmm..."Truth is stranger than fiction." (Mark Twain).

Blurred lines between the earth-bound and the spirit world? Read my first book, SHADOWWATER. Paranormal transformation? Read the sequel, DARK SEA, SHADOWWATER II. Both available on Amazon/Kindle and to order at bookstores. Please go to my website for more information and a direct link for ordering. www.shadowwater.net

ROMANTIC ALLUSION: Lily of the Valley

Lily of the Valley, Convallaria majalis. The delicate, bell-like blossoms combined on a stem brush our nostrils with their intoxicating scent. Unless you grow the flowers or are lucky enough to have them scattered freely in your garden, you may be unaware that they only bloom for a few weeks in the Spring. More than that, within their sweetness lies deadly poison.

And yet, Kate Middleton chose to carry a bouquet for her marriage to Prince William. What a lovely symbol, though we know Princess Katherine was not "white as snow." Nor are the flowers on the Lily of the Valley always white. For with the pink bloom that covers younger and older women's cheeks as they hear their lovers' names, so can the pink blossoms be seen in the rare variety.

The naming of the plant has underlying Romanticism. English folklore tells us lilies grew where a nobleman's blood was spilled in a great battle with a dragon. Other stories include the blossoms serving as charms used by witches, or as cups for fairies. In Greek mythology, Lily of the Valley represents Maia, the daughter of Atlas, whereas the Romans saw Maia as a nurturer, and named a month of the calendar that became, May (ehow.com; Wikipedia).

The plant's name has been borrowed for seemingly innocent literary titles, such as Balzac's Lily of the Valley or Pasternak's 1908 poem, Lilies of the Valley. It's also found in religious script such as a passage in the Bible, the Song of Solomon, 2:1, "I am a rose of Sharon, a lily of the valleys." A profane turnabout comes in a  dystopian usage of this biblical reference in Margaret Atwood's book, The Handmaid's Tale (1985).

Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451 (1953) refers to another line from the New Testament: "Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin... " to offset the rampant commercialism bombarding the hero. A more benign allusion surfaces in the film Lilies of the Field (1963) with Sidney Poitier. Other spiritual citations of Lily of the Valley can also be seen in the Torah and the Qur'an, indicating that the flowering plant dates back to Old World Asia.

The fragrant blossoms' duality is never more appropriate than in Edith Warton's 1908 book, The Age of Innocence, where May carries Lily of the Valley, as she represents "innocence," attracting and repelling Archer. When he chooses May, Archer's sacrifices his true love. The choice eventually eats away at his soul, a subtle poison if there ever was one. 

Writers across media have used the innocent-looking Lily of the Valley for lethal concoctions, e.g. Anne Perry or Maria Lang (Swedish name Dagmar Lange). Moreover, I'll admit I didn't watch the acclaimed, AMC cable television series, Breaking Bad (2008-2013), but when I learned the anti-hero, Walter White--chemist turned drug dealer--used Lily of the Valley berries as a weapon, I thought how apt. From dedicated schoolteacher to deadly scientist, few flowering plants could symbolize better that complex character.

When I return to what inspired me to write this blog, I remember the innocence: my mother's favorite fragrance; the Lily of the Valley which grows here on Cape Cod each Spring, only to disappear before I can pick them for my table. Then, I remember the loss.

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Romantic heroine, Lili, fights her duality in my latest book in the SHADOWWATER series:

Categorizing to Define - An Artist's & Author's Bane

Take a minute and look at this picture. Ask yourself is it a painting?
Now that you know: what does the artist depict? Specifically?
Who painted it? Is it typical of their work? How would you describe the artist's style?
When was it painted? Early or later in the artist's life?

These questions predominate art history, but not art appreciation. For to appreciate the work, the viewer needs to bring his/her own experience into mind; use her/his own perspective or eyes. An art historian can answer the questions above. However, enthusiasts can use their senses to "define" what the work means to them.

No one will debate that great masters such as Gustav Klimt who painted the above, "Birch Trees," in 1902, had true technique. From those who can't paint to those who dabble to those who successfully show/sell their work, few would argue Klimt's talent. Professional and amateur critics will have to decide whether the above work represents Klimt's best opus.

Personally, I love most of Klimt's paintings. Thus, I love the artist. He's unique though in his early paintings closer to Japanese/Impressionist painters. When he found his "style," described by the experts as Symbolism, no one could match his gift at the time.

Today, pseudo-pundits without any experience with art history, painting, or appreciating visual art make judgments solely based on their own, often, cursory glance. If this painting above were to be shown in a local gallery, with an other artist's name, would people still flock to see it?

Take away all that came before in this essay, and I would still love Klimt's "Birch Trees" on their own merit. First, I adore Birch trees. Second, the trees look real enough to touch. Third, I see the light and shadow as a walker would toward the end of the day. Finally, the surprise: how the ground bursts with autumn color, only to find as you get closer dots of blue, including one birch displaying a patch of sky blue. All these element ignite my desire to wonder at Klimt's decisions, influences and the like. However, these observations, impressions are mine. They may not be yours or how others see the work (the Nazis saw Klimt's paintings as a threat and destroyed three of his earlier pieces).

Here, on Cape Cod, we are fortunate to have many skilled artisans in all media, especially painting. Unfortunately, the competition for recognition, for sales remains fierce. And if patrons should by a painting, they base their decisions on cursory glances, impulsive gift-buying or size-requirements. (To see a brilliant example of this behavior watch Woody Allen's Hannah and Her Sisters).

Summer gallery visitors on the Cape who walk into galleries often see one painting on a wall and decide, "No, I don't like her or his 'style'," and leave the premises, without spending time to see the artist's other pieces. My initial instinct is to shout: "Don't be so dismissive." No, artist wants to be defined by one work.

You'll also find a plethora of writers, here. And yet, many new authors--on and off Cape--who try to publish today have their work categorized, defined; classified by publishers, promoters, and the like, without regard to whether the author sees the story as fitting said category. For example, I'm often asked to post what genre/sub-genre classifies my books. Sometimes, I have a plethora of choices, but most of the time, the choices are: Paranormal. Paranormal Romance. Paranormal Mystery. Mystery. Romance, etc. I'd pick a paranormal/preternatural romantic mystery. Not a choice. The publisher and promoters don't offer that choice.

If forced to choose one category, I'd choose, Mystery. Paranormal elements run throughout my stories but share equal weight with romance and mystery. When you have a chance to read a review of my sequel Dark Sea, Shadowwater II ( written by freelance critic, editor, Kevin Peter of Moterwriter) on the "Press/Reviews" page of my website: www.shadowwater.net , Mr. Peter centers his discussion around the "mysterious."

Furthermore, I'd hope potential readers will read, Shadowwater, the original story in the series, and then go on to the sequel. And as you read the novel, I hope you will avoid pigeon-holing like many critics do, or define my writing based on a few chapters. What I'm asking is that readers, please keep an open mind. I don't pretend to be the Klimt of storytelling. Nevertheless, as with Klimt and so many of his predecessors and future artists contented with, judging an artist or author's ability, creativity or imagination based on one example does not a a painter or a writer make.

A growing number of writers across the country are asking to be judged by their body of work: not whether their books have been published or self-published; not by their personalities or lack thereof, or by their jacket photo--men continue to get away with disheveled slovenliness whereas women must look like cover girls (Excuse me, but who has the money to pay for studio photographers these days?). Distinctiveness, not formula, will sell more books.

I'd like to believe I have a distinct voice and rattle the bones of conventional formulas. However, my writing is grounded in the naturalness that is Cape Cod: the people, their passions, the seascape/landscape, and the "magic."

I recognize esteemed writers have preceded me; I don't aspire toward gaining international recognition, winning prizes or having a billion-dollar empire. What I would like is for those who love to read to give me a chance. Clear your busy minds and let your senses, your belief in the power of love, nature; community take you on a new adventure. Should you choose to read the second book, Dark Sea, Shdowwater II before the original novel, the action begins to rebuild after the rush of the first book's, Shadowwater, ending.

Here's another approach. Picture yourself at the ocean. During low tide the sea softly laps the beach, increasing its rhythms as the high tide builds momentum, until sweeping waves push forward, disrupting the calm. Then, the cycle begins again.

Hear those words, see these words, feel these words and you will join the natural rhythms that are Cape Cod, these cycles underscore my stories.

Shadowwater and Dark Sea, Shadowwater II are available on Amazon/Kindle, Barnes & Noble, and your local bookstore. For more information, please go to my website (above).

Black and White and Gray

The anarchist, Hugo Kalmar, in Eugene O'Neill's THE ICEMAN COMETH replies to other drinkers' gibes with "The days grow hot, O Babylon! 'Tis cool beneath thy villow trees!"His favorite quip makes the other men in the bar snicker, still Hugo knows there's truth in his words.

For each contentious issue humanity faces today there are three viewpoints. What one believes, what the other believes, and that foggy area in between. Americans have been brainwashed by pundits--talk radio, television commentators, movie heroes and politicians--to believe courage means never straying from their convictions. Shunning not only the other side but also refusing to explore what's not clearly stated, like a stubborn child. 

From the days of the old westerns where the man in white stood for justice and the man in black represented villainy, some Americans have this unflinching idea that bi-partisanship shows weakness, though during the Ford Administration, for example, hands reached across the aisle. Today, many bemoan Congress' inability to find the middle. Voters, however, elect those that allegedly represent their stance on issues when in fact these voters elect extremists, politicians who refuse to see between the lines.

During political campaigns, television ads only disgrace personal attributes of the contender and cite statistics that can be manipulated easily. Does anyone really listen? Read? See? The apathy that exists in the U.S. has never been worse. Voters go into the polls with their own short-sighted, short-term agendas and have little regard for long term consequences--much like the candidates they elect, and that's if they vote!

Most who follow current events, politics would say "Tea Party" Congressmen are Far Right. I couldn't agree more. Conversely, in response there are some Democrats who have returned to the Far Left. Both sides present contestable opinions that prompt further examination. While our Congress continues to take sides, preparing for the ultimate confrontation, the 2016 presidential election, Senators and House Representatives have forgotten to prioritize the issues. What matters most? 

Employment numbers have risen exponentially during the Obama Administration, yet the unemployed argue "I don't have a job." It took years of corporate greed, loopholes, and untethered policies to get to the Great Recession. Thus, the recovery has taken a long time to reach every household. Jobs aren't rabbits that can be pulled from a magic hat;  terrorist threats won't go away just because we want them to; immigration won't be tossed if we ignore it. And, climate change is here to stay--far more alarming than Ebola, border control and greedy politicians. 

To return to my activist platform for a moment, no matter how many times people resist the facts that support the immediate effects of climate change, most Americans refuse to read the data, have become too cynical to believe what scientists from around the world have now agreed upon. "If it doesn't affect me, why should I worry?" My response: look at the gray area. Even though you may not agree with the figures or warnings, don't look at this critical, environmental occurrence as right or wrong. 

Focus on what's going on. Use your eyes. A map appeared on Twitter recently showing all the hot spots as mapped by a scientist following warming trends. California isn't the only place on earth suffering from extreme drought. Brazil, Australia and so on all have similar, devastating hot spots (see map below). 

Food prices have increased dramatically because farmers have been unable to save their crops IMMEDIATELY hurt by the warming trend. You see, you don't have to go very far--just down the block to the supermarket--to see how you, your family and future generations will suffer because you have chosen to either not vote, ignore the elections, and/or vote for the loudest not necessarily the most effective candidate. A politician may give voters what they want to hear. But will he/she do what's best for the majority? 

We could argue that lobbyists, wealthy donors and the like buy our elections. That isn't enough. Without voters being willing to see beneath the surface, make informed choices not based on t.v. ads or loud-mouth radio hosts, to learn about their own community and the consequences of avoiding issues, our country will be left broken. You see O'Neill's "Hugo," had a point, out of context maybe, still an insightful statement. You duck from the heat, find shelter, but you will still get scorched.

I HEAR THE EARTH CALLING

Last weekend's nor'easter shook me. The angry wind; rain hitting the windows as incessant fingers tapping, and flickering lights warning of intermittent power outages that would follow all day. We're used to these storms on Cape Cod, but later in the season and not with such vehemence.

Like the scratches on my window panes, this gale left scars. My mind tossed and turned, trying to find a way to avoid the pain. What will happen? Should I end or continue with what had become a shadow, remnant? I then knew he wouldn't fight to save us or work to move us forward. He couldn't and I wouldn't blame him for that. No, I decided. The pushing and shoving in my head ceased.

More so, the storm had served its purpose in reminding me how connected I am to what's going on outside as much as inside. What happens outside my body, my door, my town, my state, my country impacts me. We are intertwined, the earth and I. No, I'm not a pagan or neo-Druid, though I respect their choice, I have chosen to hear what's beneath the surface.

Nature keeps knocking, few want discover what she's telling us. Locked in personal battles to survive, many Americans justify ignoring environmental plight with: "I'll let the scientists worry about it." or "I don't have the time to care." On Twitter, the message is sent again and again that we're out of time, yet who is listening? Based on this week's mid-term elections, I'd conclude not many. No matter the candidate, if voters chose one who puts limitations on funding to protect the helpless, i.e. people and wildlife, then they elected to choose disintegration.

Desensitized men and women, especially those with power, refuse to see the consequences of their actions. Our economic infrastructure will regress, as the working and middle classes lose their stake in this country's future. And what will precipitate the negative impact will be the decline of our country's natural resources.

The dangerous suggestions already milling around Congress include selling off parcels of land in our national parks, drilling for fossil fuels off the East Coast (already in consideration before the elections, now more of a fait accompli) and ignoring warnings about climate change and mass species extinctions around the world, e.g. newts and salamanders are dying off by the millions in Europe due to a fungal, yes, another one, infection spread by an invasive relative from China.

I may have more time than the average American to contemplate these disastrous consequences; however, though I don't have the ability to engage in the world around me, physically, as I once did, I do have the wherewithal to keep connected. That connection includes listening. The signs are all around us, as close as our window panes. The future is in all of our hands. Subsequent generations will suffer if we don't act. Mother Earth is calling you. Do you hear her?

Passionate about the sea, nature, love, suspense? Read my sequel, DARK SEA, Shadowwater II. Go to www.shadowwater.net for details.

New Book and Nor'easter!

Copyright 2014 Wendy Shreve

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

DARK SEA now available on Kindle. Paperback out this week on Amazon.

Nov. 3, 2014: Cape Cod weather: 50 mile/hour sustained winds; gusting 60 miles/hour. Rain w/flickering lights. Electricity potentially going out any minute. . .

Go to my website, www.shadowwater.net for jacket synopsis or Kindle/Amazon for preview excerpt. Thanks for your support!

Signing off. . .

Wendy

THE CAT - A Night in the Tropics

Everyone wanted to go into town that night. I didn't. So, the teacher driving let me out of the van at the fork. Like me: always the one to walk a different path. Although this night, I strode along a dirt, two-lane road back to my cabana. The crescent moon, close enough to catch but not bright enough to light my way, and a narrow-beamed flashlight didn't provide much assurance. Still I persevered, though that familiar tingling sensation--as a character in a horror film feels when she or he knows danger lurks but pushes on, danced on the nape of my neck. Soft beads trickled underneath my ponytail. The tropical heat hadn't abated at nighttime. Dampness filled the air so much that when I thrust my arms forward I felt I was pushing through a moistened sheet. I ignored the stickiness. Bits of dirt sprayed my legs. Yet, I continued. My heartbeat raced faster than my stride. For I knew on my left among the tall grasses abutting the jungle could be: THE CAT.

I've always revered, admired and studied the jaguar. Somehow, with all the large cats around the world, the muscular feline is my favorite. Yes, I also love the class car of the same name with its hood ornament now sadly extinct, and I have a preference for forest green chassis with tan interior. Which came first? I don't recall. As I walked along this simple, singular road between Placencia, the town (farther down the peninsula of the same name) and our accommodations, I reminded myself I'd always loved that cat and the eponymous car.

The green grass, jungle forest, beige dirt road all mixed to inspire the car, in my mind at least; anything to maintain courage. For having read about the jaguar, I knew it wouldn't hesitate to leap on me, take me down by the neck, strangling, cutting my aorta with its powerful teeth and then. . .No! You won't hurt me. My spirit is strong! Okay, that didn't work very well. Until, I recalled the one attribute about the beautiful cat with its pronounced head, proportionate to that long body, and muscled-tail: the jaguar is elusive. It avoids people, not because we aren't delectable prey, but it has a natural distrust. An instinct that has spared the jaguar from complete eradication, though not from being endangered, for the cat is an opportunist.

When it sees cattle, like many fellow human carnivores, the jaguar knows dinner awaits. Rangers, on the other hand, will shoot a jaguar without hesitation, as they would any predator trying to get their fill. Fortunately, there are animal activists, including an American businessman turned cowboy who bought a ranch in South America, who are providing alternatives to killing the magnificent feline.

That information I learned much later. However, if I'd known the above fourteen years ago, as I moved closer, walked faster toward my destination, knowing the jaguar had its human enemies wouldn't have helped. As much as I rationalized the cat's existence, the thought that the natural predator might be out there lying low in that familiar posture entered my mind more often than not. And of course a fellow teacher telling me the manager of our cabanas had heard a jaguar had been spotted in the area awakened my overactive imagination.

I could feel myself breathing harder, not because of the walk, no more than a mile, but the trees had begun to rustle. I was down wind. Then, I saw the lights of a restaurant on the roadside, connected to another resort only an eighth of a mile from our hotel. At least if I were attacked, someone would hear my screams. You're being irrational, Wendy. Maybe that last reassurance kicked out any more thoughts of danger from my mind, for the rest of the way I walked purposefully. I'd made it. No worries and what had I'd been thinking? Silly me.

When I arrived at our temporary dwelling, to call the place where we stayed a "hotel," or a "resort," would be to lessen the beauty, simplicity of the place, I sighed: happy and relieved.

I slept soundly that night. I'd overcome fear and outsmarted that marauder.
Until. . .

KNOCK! KNOCK! "Ms. Shreve, there's a scorpion in our room." I reasoned the boys, all seniors, had the physical strength and smarts to kill the bug (and I wasn't an official chaperone), but I threw on a robe, opened the door, and suggested they get the manager.

KNOCK! KNOCK! "Ms. Shreve, he won't do anything." "I have faith you'll take care of it," I hollered through the closed door.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! "Ms. Shreve, we killed it." "Great! Go back to sleep!" This time I yelled from my bed to the once again, closed door. I laughed with relief. I was and still am terrified of scorpions. I couldn't sleep the rest of the night worried that the creepy crawlies would scamper across my chest.

Copyright 2014 Wendy Shreve

DARK SEA, SEQUEL TO BOOK SHADOWWATER OUT NEXT WEEK. GO TO WEBSITE, www.shadowwater.net , FOR MORE INFORMATION.

EBOLA HAS ACCOMPLISHED WHAT TERRORISTS COULDN'T

Hate is the consequence of fear; we fear something before we hate it; a child who fears noises becomes a man who hates noise. 

Cyril Connolly

Rod Serling, the creator of the television series, THE TWILIGHT ZONE, wrote a classic episode that foretold what could come, arguably has come, to pass: "The Monsters Are Due on Maple Street (1960)." The essence of the story (SPOILER ALERT) is that after a power outage and strange phenomena, adults begin to believe a child's story about aliens causing these disturbing events and that the invaders disguise themselves as humans. Distrust sets in and neighbor begins to distrust neighbor, all the while real aliens are watching and waiting for humans to destroy one another, making it easier for the aliens to invade.

This frightening episode, like the quote above, provoked fear in me, but not what you might expect. I never worried about alien invasions. I actually thought the idea of extraterrestrial life landing on earth intriguing. No, what frightened me as a child and now angers me as an adult is human beings quickness to react, judge and then hate without rationale thought. It's as if homo sapiens return to their basest animal, predatory instincts to attack before thinking.

Since 9/11, we've seen examples of blatant discrimination and even deadly acts against Muslim-Americans in the U.S. I have to admit that when I sat on a PATH train to go to Hoboken, one year after 9/11, I saw a woman clothed in the traditional black hijab, and robes, carrying a briefcase as she waited for another train. For a moment, my anxiety kicked in until I studied her face and saw the weariness of a long day's work. Then, I felt ashamed for being apprehensive.

As analysts have discussed, instilling paranoia and uncontrolled fear into American psyche would have been the ultimate victory of terrorists, but overall, the attackers didn't succeed. Yes, security has stepped up considerably and individual rights have been curbed, especially during the Bush era. However, anxiety has rarely led to the panic I observed in the old TWILIGHT ZONE episode.

That is until Ebola arrived on our shores. Incidents of people, in Texas e.g., avoiding any African-American dressed in traditional African dress, have been reported. Students whose home country is Nigeria, for example, who have lived in Ebola-free countries for an extended period have supposedly been rejected by a Texas college. Cruise lines are banning anyone from affected countries in West Africa from boarding their ships. This last decision may be practical, but I wonder how much further the isolation of not only immigrants but citizens of color will become the norm: ostracized because of irrational fear.

According to multiple doctors in the U.S., the flu will kill more Americans this year than any communicable disease, the least being Ebola, which can only be caught by direct contact with the infected person's body fluids. In contrast, the entero virus has killed dozens of children across the country, yet there's little palpable anxiety among parents and more so the media about the quick-spreading illness. Many of us have already heard via social media the rash statements made by news media analysts, correspondents and pundits about Ebola.

Yes, there have been mistakes, the worst being not controlling the disease in West Africa when it first began to explode. Who's to blame? That's not my point. And, focusing on pointing fingers won't help control the hysteria and stop the disease. What will is individuals throughout our country being watchful but not reactionary. For if a national panic begins to spread like an uncontrollable wildfire, our "enemies" who are watching will be more than happy to take advantage.

Fear leads to hate. Panic causes untethered, reactive behavior. Among those who carry guns into restaurants and department stores in at least one state, some may shoot first. After all, fear and hate already go hand-in-hand when some law enforcement officers and neighborhood vigilantes see people of color.

And as seen in Rod Serling's brilliant commentary on society, "The Monsters Are Due on Maple Street," the monsters are not the aliens. They are the humans.

FINISHING REVISIONS FOR SEQUEL. . .

. . .so, this week I'll share aboriginal wisdom and a picture to keep my readers engaged. The stewards of our land have known for centuries what people today are only realizing:

The Great Spirit is in all things, he is in the air we breathe. The Great Spirit is our Father, but the Earth is our Mother. She nourishes us, that which we put into the ground she returns to us...

— Big Thunder (Bedagi), Wabanaki Algonquian

(Used as chapter heading for my sequel, Shadowwater: Dark Sea)

Photo: Copyright 2012 Wendy Shreve

BENEATH THE SPOTLIGHT

I knew an actress, once. Not comely, at least not at her age, except for bright, blue eyes. Intense charisma was her gift. She played the matriarch on a soap opera where I worked as an intern. My adventure began when in college I arranged a for-credit opportunity during a tour of CBS studios, on 57th Street in those days. The internship would be the usual gopher job, lucky to get as two other students from other colleges had been given June & July. The show had been that popular. 

My stint began August 1. Good timing as the assistant producer assigned me the welcome task of calling the RSVP list for the show’s 30^th anniversary party. Surprisingly, I rarely got an agent, a few assistants here and there. Some actors who had gone on to the big screen, greeted a shy, young woman with kindness. The producers also invited me to attend the anniversary celebration on The Peking (since decommissioned as an entertainment vessel) at South Street Seaport. I had special respect for the Executive Producer, Mary-Ellis Bunim who went on to produce the groundbreaking MTV reality series, The Real World. Ms. Bunim had a glass-ceiling assertiveness necessary to later succeed, and yet, she never raised her voice. I learned from her about resilience. Sadly, she died too young from breast cancer. What a future she had.

With all the glitz and glamor I encountered, and a couple of heartthrobs whose careers nosedived (or more tragically stopped in their tracks due to AIDS) I tried to do my job without showing my starstruck butterflies. Some more well-known actors, then, were Robert Goulet’s daughter, Nicolette, Cindy (now Cynthia) Gibb, and an actor, Christopher Atkins who starred with Brooke Shields in The Blue Lagoon,  Strange, how I remember almost every day, each person, including the staff.

But Mary Stuart—I never knew if that had been her stage or real name, so dramatic I thought at the time—had been the anchor of Search for Tomorrow from its inception. One of the producers introduced me to the cast during a weekly meeting, but Ms. Stuart didn’t attend. Being in college, I had become aware of just how popular daytime serials were as I’d never seen a show until I’d come back from class and our house television would be turned on to the latest, more popular sagas. When the opportunity arrived to learn the ins and outs of television, I jumped at the chance. Of course, I had to do my homework. After binge watching the show, we did have VCRs then, I felt prepared. Nerves aside, the only actress whom I had felt daunted to meet was Ms. Stuart. I don’t know why. Her age? No, other long-timers performed on the soap. What the actress had more than most: supreme confidence. No neuroses, at least that I heard of or saw. No bad habits or manners. Strangers who’d meet her sometimes seemed taken aback by her presence. Ms. Stuart demonstrated professional courtesy without sanguine stroking or ego-driven dismissiveness. Being true to herself kept Mary Stuart grounded.

One day, I went down to the CBS cafeteria for lunch. I couldn’t find a seat, saw Ms. Stuart sitting against the wall with a chair in front of her, and as I struggled to overcome my insecurities and said, “Hello, Ms. Stuart.” I heard a deep, strong voice reply: “Would you like to join me, Wendy?” Wow, she even knew my name. I couldn’t remember how many times I had to say my name to other actors, producers and crew during my tenure. Here sat the accepted queen of daytime soap operas (at the time) inviting me to sit with her. I sat down thanking her and smiled. Then, she returned the gesture. Those blue eyes sparkled with warmth; her coiffed hair looked softer in this light, and her perfect posture rounded at the shoulders. Mary Stuart welcomed me into her world. I dared not ask personal questions. Instead, we discussed the show and what I’d learned since I’d been there for two weeks. She kept the conversation going by asking me questions, whereas I’d stammer a few reverential comments: “Such an honor to work with you,” for example. Of course, the actress had had these talks with others, who could guess how many times; however, for twenty minutes or more, I believed what I had to say had worth.

In 2002, I read in the newspaper that she had died. I learned that she had worked for Warner-Bros. under contract for three years before television. She been in movies with Errol Flynn and Clark Gable! In fact, I just discovered her studio photo on the Internet, I hardly recognize her: beautiful, nonetheless, hauntingly sad—a caged starlet whose wings had been clipped. 

When I saw the obit in the NY Times, I recalled seeing the last episode of Mary Stuart’s show, for that’s what many called, Search for Tomorrow. A great flood swept Henderson and along with it most of the town. As Ms. Stuart huddled behind a sheltered barricade, I thought I saw tears, not raindrops, in her eyes. The daytime serial that had been her life was ending. She retired but returned to television, 1996, in another soap opera, working until her death. She also hadn’t sacrificed love for her career. Ms. Stuart found love, a second marriage, around the same time Search for Tomorrow ended.

So, why write about her at this point? Simple. For one moment, a woman of substance gave a young woman a nudge in the right direction. Nostalgia unexpected, as I hadn’t thought about the actress for a long time. She popped into my mind without a trigger. Funny how writing about the past clarifies the present. I have had many older women friends since I graduated the following year from college. Maybe that’s the gift the matriarch bequeathed me, reverence for a life well-lived. Thank you, Mary Stuart.

EXCERPT: Chapter One - SHADOWWATER (Re-formatted for this blog: ALL RIGHTS RESERVED)

Taking a break from usual blog this week. Instead, I'm reprinting CHAPTER ONE of my first book in the SHADOWWATER Series. The sequel will follow later this Fall. For updates, please go to www.shadowwater.net

SHADOWWATER - CHAPTER ONE

Everything she touches turns to dust

The smells struck first. She paused to take in the crisp greenness of spring foliage; windswept earth tickling her nose with a faint, salty odor; damp pines with the familiar aroma of her grandfather’s pipe tobacco. Then, as she drew closer to the clearing she spotted a ring of oaks where, as a little girl with razor-straight black hair she would run among these giants, singing with the birds, laughing with the breeze and playing tag with her little brother. A child’s oasis, but it was the woman who got to work.

Picking up her surveying equipment, her custom-made boots crunching the ground as the woman walked along the needle-strewn forest floor, she followed an inner compass that drove her until she came to a clearing where she positioned her tripod. Pausing seconds to take a deep breath she forged on with her work.

If she had allowed herself, the woman would have heard the high-pitched and haunting screech of a Red Tailed Hawk as it swooped down to investigate the stranger. Disappointed, the raptor extended his talons, squawked mercilessly, and flew away.

Though the bone-chilling dampness of early spring penetrated her faux suede jacket and clung to her skin, the young woman flicked away a slight shiver like a pesky fly. The relentless focus of the surveyor’s ebony eyes explained her chosen profession. She peered into the scope to take her first measurement. What she saw startled her. She regrouped quickly and attempted another read.

“You are betraying our people,” boomed a deep, hollow voice of an unknown origin.

The surveyor whipped around, her dark eyes scanning the forest for an answer, fear creeping along her skin.

“Stop!” She gasped and rubbed her arms. What am I doing? I’m safe here.

With one more fateful try the young woman cleaned the scope and tried to relax as she observed the marker. Her nostrils flared as she caught a pungent, canine scent getting closer. Before she could step away, a chorus of growls signaled the attack. With a thump the victim hit the ground.

The woman scratched and screamed as an animal stripped the flesh from her leg bone. The woman struggled weakly as she made a final attempt to fend off her attackers, rushing blood spilling from her body and exciting the animals. She began to lose consciousness.

A last thought ebbed through her mind, that of a frightened little girl sitting on an old man’s knee saying, “I see, Grandfather.”

* * *

Rusty Keenan didn’t fit anyone’s description of what a contemporary reporter should be. He was photogenic, streamlined machine, the type media bosses love. The only apt adjective would be “driven.” He never gave up on a story, but wouldn’t jump from an airplane. He wore penny loafers, khakis a size too large, and Brooks Brothers shirts, but no one dared tease him about it. He’d hang with the gang at the local bar, but would drink just one beer and go home, and yet that constant drive had been stalled in traffic. Internet traffic.

The Internet had begun to replace newspapers and magazines. Rusty, a hunt-and-pecker, could write his stories for the paper on the computer, but didn’t have the techno-savvy to do more. The media revolution brought too many changes. The publishers wanted fresh blood. Writers were expected to know Quark and Facebook and how to tweet. Rusty had resigned himself to falling into obscurity until Marv Newman kicked his butt.

Like his reporter, the editor became a casualty of newspaper layoffs. When he got the job at the startup e-Zine, the protégé remembered his onetime mentor, Rusty Keenan. Both were paid less money now, got less respect, and faced the learning of new skills, but at least they were working, unlike so many of their former colleagues.

Lately, however, Rusty had been in a rut. For weeks he had scanned the Associated Press and Reuters’ websites for moment-to-moment stories. He only needed one, a headline that he could chase and make his own. This was one advantage of becoming a blogger.

“You’re going to drive yourself crazy, friend,” said Marv. “Just stick with the paprazzi stories and do your usual spiel. Rusty, you aren’t here to win a Pulitzer.”

“Humor me, Marv. I’ve posted my blog today. You have better things to do than…”

The transition was harder for Rusty. In his mind he had given into the capitalist cause and taken a job he knew would seal his trip to purgatory. He and Marv tried to dress it up and say it was an online version of Time magazine, but they knew People better described it. Rusty could hear his father and grandfather cursing Rusty from heaven.

“Wait a minute, Marv,” Rusty said. “I think I’ve got something.”

Massachusetts surveyor allegedly mauled by wild animals on Cape Cod. Rachel “Little Fire” Green, 27, was discovered this morning by a jogger in a nearby forest. The victim was pronounced dead at the scene and her body flown to Boston Medical for an autopsy. Details to follow.

“Native American surveyor killed by wild animals. Our readers will sink their teeth into that one,” Rusty said, immediately regretting his turn-of-phrase.

Marv usually overlooked Rusty’s occasional tactlessness, but this time his editor rolled his eyes. “Hey. This is on your time if the story is a bust.”

Grabbing his rain jacket from the back of his chair, Rusty told his editor he was off and trotted through the double doors. The editor always smiled when he heard that comment, believing the phrase “I’m off” suited the newspaperman. They had known each other long enough. Marv wouldn’t discourage his reporter. He’d let Rusty go, for now.

* * *

Her job was the closest she had to being independent and not stuck in an office for endless hours. She knew her way around from the Upper Cape to the Outer, much like a lifetime Cape Codder. An opportunity to take in local scenery was another advantage. Often she’d stop to watch a glider being towed into the air at a local airstrip, or workers in the smaller cranberry bogs harvesting the delectably tart fruit when in season. How she loved rolling down her windows to breathe in the salt water along the marshes, or taking a side trip down a side trip near a lavender farm where she would idle the car and inhale the rich scent of the purple blossoms.

Lili Ribault had another run. She was returning from delivering plans to an architect in Hyannis. Crawling patiently in the usual pre-summer traffic on Route 28, Lili felt her shoulders tense and her adrenaline rise. A putterer drove ahead of her car, revealing its tourist status with its out-of-state plates.

Although it had been cold and rainy just five miles behind her, a warming sun welcomed her as she approached the Nausequoit Meeting House. She wondered if Cal had talked to his grandfather about Cal’s future. Lili understood that either of the decisions facing Cal would change his life forever, and even Lili didn’t know what Cal had decided.

An old pickup truck stopped suddenly and Lili returned to the present moment, as she pressed hard on the brake in her own vehicle. Ahead of her a parade of state and local emergency vehicles with lights flashing moved slowly as they passed through the entrance that paralleled the graveyard. Without a second thought Lili followed the vehicles before the last police car had a chance to stop her.

She pulled into the public parking lot and noticed two paramedics opening the ambulance door. The collapsible gurney was being pushed into the back, but Lili wasn’t able to catch a glimpse of its cargo. She didn’t want to speculate who it could be. Instead she watched the man and woman turn to talk with a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair, who gestured with his weathered hands to let the paramedics know there was no need to rush.

Dead? Lili asked herself. No! He can’t be! Her hands were white as they grabbed the steering wheel as he mind tried to focus on what was unfolding.

The police chief, not much younger than the old man but considerably shorter, approached the tribal leader and the other elders. The official and secular authorities spoke briefly until the tribal chief began scraping the ground with his foot. Lili could hear their voices growing louder as the officer threw up his hands. The standoff piqued Lili’s curiosity until she spotted a young man with penetrating black eyes walking toward the older men. Cal.

Lili exhaled and her heart steadied. Thank you, she thought. After all this time Lili still couldn’t believe he was in her life. He stood rooted to the earth with his long, muscled limbs and cascade of dark hair. Like many Nausequoit his lineage showed hints of other ethnicities, but today she only saw in him the young man, his eyes wide with wonder and his lips tightening with tension, and the adult walking proudly, ready to fight for his loved ones if necessary.

Lili wondered where she fit into that continuum. Shaking her head at her reverie she tried to deduce who was hurt and noticed Cal changing direction. He was now walking over to a car in the lot, his ebony eyes deep in thought. His hand brushed the hood of a bright red Mercedes convertible, the only car in the lot. Where had Lili seen it before? Her mood swung with the shifting wind. No one Lili or Cal knew could afford such a car except… Her throat closed. Rachel.

* * *

Cal had been called to the scene by his neighbor who had found Rachel and recognized her torn jacket. The man had been kind. He came to Cal’s door, no cell phone, but had already called 9-1-1. He waited for a response but Cal couldn’t move. Cal finally offered a quick, “Thank you,” and added, “I have to find my grandfather.” 

The neighbor gone, Cal met Achak at the parking lot.“We have to go to her,” he said.

“Unfortunately, we can’t, my son,” replied Achak. That was how the tribe’s leader and one of Cal’s few remaining relatives saw the young man. “So like your father,” Achak had told Cal. 

“Since Mr. Flaherty chose to call ahead, we have to let the authorities handle everything.”

Cal knew that wasn’t what Achak or the tribe would have wanted, but times had changed.

“What are you going to do?” He asked. He forced himself not to think about what would come, about her lifeless body and lost soul.

Achak put his hand on his grandson’s shoulder. "Your sister will not be desecrated,” the elder said. “I’ll see to that. Did Flaherty tell you any details?”

“He stammered something about wild animals,” answered Cal. “How could that be?”

By this time the emergency vehicles had arrived. Cal waited, standing next to Achak, both men as rigid as stone. When the medics returned with Rachel, Achak lifted the plastic sheet and nodded. Cal turned away.

“I can’t, grandfather,” he said.

“You must. You know you must.”

The younger brother stared at the older sister, a stranger. Her face had been scratched and was drained white. Her neck was half gone. Her eyes hadn’t yet been closed and stared hard as a totem. Cal imagined he saw a startled look, especially with her mouth open as if caught in the middle of a scream.

No. His mind had become caught in the emotion of the moment. He rubbed his face with his left hand as Achak closed Rachel’s spiritless eyes. The amateur biologist was fascinated with the bloody corpse; the brother horrified. Her coldness became his.

* * *

Because of the condition of the body and the public panic that could threaten the tourism industry, local and state officials made it clear this autopsy was a priority. Later in the day the Boston hospital’s chief medical examiner, who’d been on call for a week and had been enjoying a well-deserved nap when the call came, answered the page. He grumbled, stretched his weary muscles and reminded himself he could retire any time, and grew even more irritated.

An hour later he shuffled into the cold dungeon, dressed in scrubs, ready to go. Though he knew what to expect – he had been sure he’d seen it all and had been briefed by the police that afternoon – his rumbling gut was working overtime.

He stopped to observe the raw remains. Even with his years of experience, his shock and disbelief at why lay before him lingered. Looking at the corpse’s extremities, the doctor saw the clear, once elastic epidermis, the perfect bone structure, the sculpted body. He tried to ignore the once great beauty.

Another life gone. Sadly, so many were. The question was how she died. The suspicion was that wild animals had mauled her. Her legs had been stripped to the muscle with the skin still hanging.

Before starting his work he allowed his humanity to see the real picture. The attack had rekindled memories of mythological children’s stories his Indian-born father enjoyed reading aloud that terrified the boy. Kacha & Devayani was one tale, in which the hero, Kacha, is killed by demons that fed his flesh to the dogs, which gave him nightmares for weeks.

The son, Kumar, became the father, then grandfather, his hair receding, beard prickly and gray. His wisdom had matured, however. Training in medicine had worked against what others called superstition and myth, and yet truth comes in many forms. 

Kumar the storyteller collected himself and looked at his intern, a neophyte only recently matriculated from medical school that had just joined him. The kid looked showered, energetic and eager, making Kumar even grumpier.

“What is unusual about this corpse?” He gave the assistant a moment to read the remains. 

The young man, swallowing repeatedly, saw the renowned medical examiner stood waiting to be impressed. The apprentice knew he couldn't answer and decided to be honest. "I don't understand the question."

“Badir!” Kumar shouted. “Idiot! Take a shot!”

The younger doctor kicked the table and stepped away, lifting his chin only when his mentor refocused.

“When a wild carnivore attacks its prey, particularly a pack of… Canus latrans, coyotes, I’d say, they become frenzied, lusting for meaty flesh, insatiable. You see how the skin has been torn from the left soleus? Something isn’t right.”

This time Kumar waited patiently for the assistant to respond. “There aren’t any missing body parts, not even her fingers or toes, and the carotid artery; very precise.” The assistant’s eyes began to widen.

“Very good…” said Kumar.

“They, the coyotes, could have been scared off,” the assistant replied.

“Considering the period between time of death to when the body was discovered, and the amount of blood lost…”

“Something would have been eaten,” continued the assistant.

“Which means,” the coroner paused to clear his throat. “It’ll be harder to pinpoint the individual animals if their stomachs are empty. Let’s examine the wounds.”

The medical examiner’s assistant reached for a sponge when he suddenly heard a whimpering sound ringing in his ears that was followed by a rancid smell, that of burning skin that made his nostrils flare and his eyes water.

Dr. Kumar, who had been retrieving an instrument, noticed the assistant across the table shaking and stammering. When the doctor returned his gaze to the corpse, it became engulfed in an intense cobalt flame that burned toward the center, the tissue, muscles, and sinews disappearing until only bones remained.

“Quick! Get the fire extinguisher!” Kumar shouted. “This isn’t possible!”

The paralyzed assistant simply stared as Dr. Kumar grabbed the extinguisher before letting the tank drop to the floor, just missing his foot. Not that he would have felt anything. Now it was his turn to stand thunderstruck.The doctor was standing before a contained pyre, the blue flame leaping toward the ceiling, only to retreat and disappear, leaving behind only a well-formed mound of ash.

“Hell!” Kumar braced for the inevitable blare of the smoke alarm, but none came. He continued to curse under his breath. “We’ll clean this up… I’ll think of something… There’s got to be an explanation! You’re the Harvard grad. Say something!”

The terrified intern gestured toward the exam room’s double doors where a tall, long-haired elderly gentleman walked toward them holding a simply decorated olla with maroon swirls encircling the pot. The doctor knew it possessed value.

“I’m Rachel Little Fire’s grandfather,” he said. “I mean Rachel Green’s. I have a court order to bring Rachel’s body to our burial grounds.” He handed Kumar the order. Matter-of-factly the proud man quietly walked to the table and gently scooped the ashes into the pot, thanking the doctors as he departed.

“Dr. Kumar? What are we going to say?”

“Curt, we’ll never speak about what happened here,” Kumar said. “We’ll say the tribal elders retrieved the body.” He looked at the paperwork and saw that the release form had been signed. 

“I’ll call Dr. Bryant, the hospital administrator, and confirm this. You can wait here or come with me.”

“Where to?”

“I’m getting a drink,” Kumar said.

“Doctor…”

“Don’t throw that cliché crap at me about the middle of the day,” Kumar said. “We can’t get any work done anyway. Are you coming?”

“I’m not really a drinker,” Curt answered.

“Never mind then,” Kumar said.

Kumar made a quick call, threw off his lab coat and went to his locker to get his wallet. When he reached the threshold the intern was standing there holding open the double door and gesturing for his mentor to walk ahead.

“I’ll buy,” Curt said.

Copyright 2013 Wendy Shreve