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A Bad Dream
Draco awoke with a start, his heart racing, grasping tightly to the slippery sheets. But the tighter he grasped them, the harder it was to hold on. Like sand. Like his memories. Releasing his grip on his bedcovers, he willed himself to relax. They were gone, he reminded himself. She was gone. He closed his eyes, trying to remember the good times, the peaceful times, but all that came to him was the sound of the wind howling in the eaves. Even the wind did not help; it had an unfriendly sound. The phantom taste of chocolate lingered on his lips as he drifted into sleep once more, and as the sound of the wind slipped away, he vaguely wondered why he had never asked her favourite.
A Simple Moment in the Sun
Have you ever been outdoors and found a perfect patch of sunlight, and stood with eyes closed while the beams brighten your face? My mother used to do it all the time, and she made me, too, when I was little. Even though I didn’t understand it, the air of contentment that surrounded her made me think that there must be something to it. I stood there, eyes closed, face upturned, palms outward, and felt nothing.
I didn’t understand what was so great about it. But that’s one of the best parts of childhood – life isn’t complicated yet, so you can’t really appreciate the simple moments. You always want to be doing something, going somewhere. I was lucky that my mother felt the same, even though she was all grown up.
With age, I’ve learned that’s something I should have appreciated in my mother. Even standing still in the sun, there was a sense of motion about her that was more than just her bright skirts blowing in the breeze. She was the child, understood the child, and transcended the child. She understood the hidden rhythms of the world; they were a part of her I identified as much as her kindness, and laughter, and bright colours.
When I was eight or nine, I asked her about my father. Her smile flickered for a second, but she grabbed my hand, leaning in close, smelling of cloves and crisp leaves.
“I want to tell you something that’s very important,” she spoke, her rich brown eyes actually solemn. She turned to a display of dark chocolate truffles, handing one to me. I popped it into my mouth, the bitterness tart and sharp. “Xocoatl is an ancient name of the cocoa bean. It was called that by the Mexica, though it had many names before.”
“What’s that got to do with my father?” I burst out with sticky lips.
She turned away from me. “Everything,” she murmured. In a stronger voice, she continued, “It’s the essence of magic, knowing the names of things. We use names so carelessly these days. We don’t cherish them, respect them. They lose their meaning, and we have to invent new ones.”
I remember I was angry at her that day, so angry. She didn’t want me to know about my father. It was my right, and she was taking it from me.
Now I see that that day she indeed was teaching me the essence of magic. The pseudo-Latin and nonsense words for spells and curses aren’t important in and of themselves; it’s the focus of intention, power, and will that produces the results.
I also think she was afraid for me; knowing the old names for things can tell you a lot about their origins and the intentions of those in the past. I think she feared that my true name – and that of my father – would define me in a way she could not predict.
I’m glad she didn’t tell me. As I stayed with her all those days as she gradually faded and paled, I knew that I was hers and she was mine, and that it would always be so. I’m glad that I had no name, no concept, no way to identify her missing lover, because without a way for that anger to focus and grow, I could let it slip away with her.
After she was gone, blown away with the wind, I looked through her papers and found the thing that I had wanted since I was small. And, as many overused names nowadays, it meant nothing to me.
I stood there in the sun, eyes closed, palms outward, and smiled as the sun’s light warmed my face. The whisper of the breeze soothed me, because it was like her voice.
I won’t tell you my name, but I will tell you that I am glad it no longer has the power to define me. It is bittersweet, but it is true.
Following the Wind
He travelled quite frequently now. It had taken him a while to realize that there was nothing left tying him down. At every new city, every little village, he would always ask around and find the best chocolate there was to offer, for he knew that if she was there, that was where she would be.
Today he was in a little village in France, this time not on business. A bell on the door jangled as he entered, the strong, sweet smell of the confectionary washing over him. Memories stirred within him.
After looking over the selections for a few moments, a bright-eyed girl asked for his order.
“I don’t know,” he spoke. “Perhaps you could find me my favourite?”
She laughed. “What is it, then?”
“I don’t know,” he responded, though he knew it was a lie. But the shop girl obliged him, filling a small box with various chocolates.
It was on his way out of the shop that he saw that what he’d thought was a solid border in the paint design was actually composed of words. There were three languages: one couldn’t identify, one he thought was Spanish, and finally, English. He read:
Here on Earth, time is fleeting. Is it also like that in the world beyond? Is there happiness there, is there friendship? Or do we meet only here on Earth?
His heart was heavy with what he’d known all along, but would deny until the last. He knew she was gone. Yet he knew he would see her again.
¿Quen conchihuaz noyollo yehua? ¿Qué podrá hacer mi corazón? What will my heart do?
Enjoy, friends, that there are embraces here.
Draco awoke with a start, his heart racing, grasping tightly to the slippery sheets. But the tighter he grasped them, the harder it was to hold on. Like sand. Like his memories. Releasing his grip on his bedcovers, he willed himself to relax. They were gone, he reminded himself. She was gone. He closed his eyes, trying to remember the good times, the peaceful times, but all that came to him was the sound of the wind howling in the eaves. Even the wind did not help; it had an unfriendly sound. The phantom taste of chocolate lingered on his lips as he drifted into sleep once more, and as the sound of the wind slipped away, he vaguely wondered why he had never asked her favourite.
A Simple Moment in the Sun
Have you ever been outdoors and found a perfect patch of sunlight, and stood with eyes closed while the beams brighten your face? My mother used to do it all the time, and she made me, too, when I was little. Even though I didn’t understand it, the air of contentment that surrounded her made me think that there must be something to it. I stood there, eyes closed, face upturned, palms outward, and felt nothing.
I didn’t understand what was so great about it. But that’s one of the best parts of childhood – life isn’t complicated yet, so you can’t really appreciate the simple moments. You always want to be doing something, going somewhere. I was lucky that my mother felt the same, even though she was all grown up.
With age, I’ve learned that’s something I should have appreciated in my mother. Even standing still in the sun, there was a sense of motion about her that was more than just her bright skirts blowing in the breeze. She was the child, understood the child, and transcended the child. She understood the hidden rhythms of the world; they were a part of her I identified as much as her kindness, and laughter, and bright colours.
When I was eight or nine, I asked her about my father. Her smile flickered for a second, but she grabbed my hand, leaning in close, smelling of cloves and crisp leaves.
“I want to tell you something that’s very important,” she spoke, her rich brown eyes actually solemn. She turned to a display of dark chocolate truffles, handing one to me. I popped it into my mouth, the bitterness tart and sharp. “Xocoatl is an ancient name of the cocoa bean. It was called that by the Mexica, though it had many names before.”
“What’s that got to do with my father?” I burst out with sticky lips.
She turned away from me. “Everything,” she murmured. In a stronger voice, she continued, “It’s the essence of magic, knowing the names of things. We use names so carelessly these days. We don’t cherish them, respect them. They lose their meaning, and we have to invent new ones.”
I remember I was angry at her that day, so angry. She didn’t want me to know about my father. It was my right, and she was taking it from me.
Now I see that that day she indeed was teaching me the essence of magic. The pseudo-Latin and nonsense words for spells and curses aren’t important in and of themselves; it’s the focus of intention, power, and will that produces the results.
I also think she was afraid for me; knowing the old names for things can tell you a lot about their origins and the intentions of those in the past. I think she feared that my true name – and that of my father – would define me in a way she could not predict.
I’m glad she didn’t tell me. As I stayed with her all those days as she gradually faded and paled, I knew that I was hers and she was mine, and that it would always be so. I’m glad that I had no name, no concept, no way to identify her missing lover, because without a way for that anger to focus and grow, I could let it slip away with her.
After she was gone, blown away with the wind, I looked through her papers and found the thing that I had wanted since I was small. And, as many overused names nowadays, it meant nothing to me.
I stood there in the sun, eyes closed, palms outward, and smiled as the sun’s light warmed my face. The whisper of the breeze soothed me, because it was like her voice.
I won’t tell you my name, but I will tell you that I am glad it no longer has the power to define me. It is bittersweet, but it is true.
Following the Wind
He travelled quite frequently now. It had taken him a while to realize that there was nothing left tying him down. At every new city, every little village, he would always ask around and find the best chocolate there was to offer, for he knew that if she was there, that was where she would be.
Today he was in a little village in France, this time not on business. A bell on the door jangled as he entered, the strong, sweet smell of the confectionary washing over him. Memories stirred within him.
After looking over the selections for a few moments, a bright-eyed girl asked for his order.
“I don’t know,” he spoke. “Perhaps you could find me my favourite?”
She laughed. “What is it, then?”
“I don’t know,” he responded, though he knew it was a lie. But the shop girl obliged him, filling a small box with various chocolates.
It was on his way out of the shop that he saw that what he’d thought was a solid border in the paint design was actually composed of words. There were three languages: one couldn’t identify, one he thought was Spanish, and finally, English. He read:
Here on Earth, time is fleeting. Is it also like that in the world beyond? Is there happiness there, is there friendship? Or do we meet only here on Earth?
His heart was heavy with what he’d known all along, but would deny until the last. He knew she was gone. Yet he knew he would see her again.
¿Quen conchihuaz noyollo yehua? ¿Qué podrá hacer mi corazón? What will my heart do?
Enjoy, friends, that there are embraces here.
Author notes: The words described as in the painted border are not my own. The original is in nahuatl, the language of the Mexica (also known as the Aztecs). It is a poem called "¿He de irme? (Must I Go?)", attributed to Ayocuan Cuetzpaltzin. In the last decade, much work has been done in translating nahuatl to Spanish, and this one was done by my favorite academic, Miguel León-Portilla. I did a shoddy English translation of it, though I’m sure there are better ones available.
This type of poem was spoken or sung, and was called "in xochitl in cuÃcatl" (flor y canto) flower and song, the metaphor that stood for poetry, as nahuatl was a highly metaphorical language. Some chants are very beautiful, and some are very sad. Part of "Lament on the Fall of Tenochtitlán", my favorite, appears here, but it’s not a full translation, of which I can only find in Spanish.
The End.
Lyndsie is the author of 10 other stories.
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