Hes
April 14th, 2010, 3:23 pm
Vote here for your favourite personal entry. These entries are personal stories in which the members bring loved ones back with the Stone.
Do not vote for yourself
Entry 18
Wandering with the Woodman
Another busy evening. I glanced up at the computer screen, checking and rechecking that everything was correct; spelling; punctuation; labels to each picture; date; my ramblings not too wayward; some good general photographs along with the close-ups. Lichens are stunningly beautiful, but you can have too much of a good thing.
Yes, that would do for tonight. One last check, then the latest chapter of “Wandering with the Woodman”, my personal blog as a nature lover, was posted. I was pleased with the result. Nothing earth-shattering, just a collection of the photographs of the detailed world of nature I see around me in my small corner of the world, day by day, month by month.
I tidied the papers on my desk, sorted reference books back on to their shelves, put away the magnifying glass and pencils, made a few notes on what the next chapter should contain.
And glanced at the stone.
I had found it months back when taking pictures of a particularly lush moss growing on a tree stump in an ancient woodland. I had picked the stone up, noticing its odd shape, put it in my pocket, and thought no more about it.
Shame it wasn’t the real Resurrection Stone. I would love to bring my Uncle back. Just for a little while, to thank him for all of this.
We were inseparable. We were always so far behind everyone else on any walk undertaken. “Come on you two, it will be dark soon.” But there were so many things to see, so many things to learn about. An enthusiastic child and an Uncle who seemed to be the fount of all knowledge. Bird calls and butterflies; how to recognise trees in winter by their twigs; latin names for wild flowers; how to identify lichens and mosses, beetles and animal tracks, nothing escaped our notice. Those who accompanied us were often irritated, wanting a walk, not a nature ramble. We didn’t care.
His study was a wonderland to me. A place of quiet enjoyment. More books than I could count, drawings and pressed wild flowers, meticulously labelled, feathers from a Jay’s wing, tiny and startlingly blue. Many hours were spent there, the Uncle teaching, the child learning. It started with him. My love of nature.
How he would be fascinated by today’s world. I can picture his kind weatherbeaten face caught in startled amazement, staring at the computer screen; at the vast array of resources the internet supplies us with. How he would have loved the forums, discussing the latest findings, sharing the enthusiasm of people round the world. He was a wonderful teacher, and he would have embraced the technology we have today with open arms.
What a shame he could not see all this. I would love to be able to thank him for his gift to me, a lifelong interest in every aspect of the natural world. See how well you have taught me, Uncle.
What a shame the Stone was not real.
I smiled, glanced once again at the computer screen, picked up the stone, closed my eyes …
… and heard a movement behind me, and a much-loved voice.
“Goodness. That looks interesting. May I have a look?”
Entry 19
Silence.
The house was empty, as I knew it always was on a Wednesday afternoon. It would be empty for at least two hours, which was why I had chosen today to bring my, by all accounts impossible, discovery out again. And to use it.
I stared at the small black Stone in my hand. It was badly damaged – the ring that it had been set into was lost and appeared to have taken sections of the stone with it. That, added to the large crack down the centre, made me wonder if it would still work. I hope so, I thought desperately.
Because there was just the one person who I wanted to talk to again.
I had suffered quite a few losses in my youth; four relatives had died in the space of five years. It hadn’t fazed me much at the time – I was at the age where I didn’t truly understand death. As I grew up, I learnt to accept the fact that I wouldn’t see these people again.
However, one person stayed on my mind, especially at times when I felt angry or alone. I suppose the difference is that I have memories of my other relatives; I know who they had been and I remember them speaking. Most importantly, I remember spending time with them. Any memories I have of my Aunt involve hospitals, and apparently my five-year-old self didn’t feel it was necessary to pay attention to the person who I was visiting. I was more interested in playing with my Etch-a-Sketch.
But this wasn’t the only reason I wanted to talk to her.
I glanced out of the window to make sure that the rest of my family wasn’t returning home early. I closed my eyes and quickly turned the Stone three times in my hand. Nothing happened – or, at least, my other senses couldn’t detect anything happening.
Slowly, I re-opened my eyes. I was no longer the only person sat on the sofa.
I jumped, shocked. It had been surprising enough to find a magical object from a fictional world, never mind finding out that it worked.
“Hi,” I said, once I had regained the power of speech.
She laughed. My eyes must have looked as wide as they felt. We sat in an awkward silence for a few minutes, despite wanting to see her again, I felt immensely self-conscious sitting on the sofa next to my dead Aunt. She didn’t say anything though; she just stared around the room taking in the photographs on the walls and mantelpieces. Fortunately, she seemed to be content in staying silent until I was ready to talk.
Eventually, my thoughts became slightly less scrambled and I thought I would be able to talk without embarrassing myself.
“Thank you,” I muttered, highly aware that I was talking to a dead person.
“What for?” She turned to look at me, confused. “Coming back? I didn’t have much of a choice; I sort of got dragged here. I’m not complaining, by the way,” She smiled, “It’s good to see you again, just a bit uncomfortable.”
“No, not that.” I shook my head. “The ring. Your ring. Next year’s birthday present.”
My Aunt frowned. “You’re not supposed to know about that.”
I laughed – I had known about this particular present for years. “Mum’s not very good at keeping secrets.”
Any previous tension that had been in the air disappeared in that instant. My Aunt laughed and I began talking animatedly, unrestrained by embarrassment. I was glad that I had found the Stone, been able to use it, and, most importantly, had had the chance to thank my Aunt for my last birthday present from her.
Entry 20
To the man who spent his life turning stones into sugar cubes.
THE ALCHEMIST
“I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle.”
Had I been more inclined to believe in miracles and divine intervention, the day I stumbled over the innocuous amalgam of magic and sedimentation would have been the day the religious world as we know it crumbled to dust; there is no doubt in my mind that someone – some overzealous servant of Absolute Being or another – would have proclaimed its existence to all creation (in the vain hope of putting to rest eternal brawls for spiritual supremacy, no doubt), thereby plunging mankind into yet another bout of brotherhood-inspired bloodshed.
As it was… if any faith ended up broken, only one person ever need atone for it.
***
“You can't help respecting anybody who can spell TUESDAY, even if he doesn't spell it right; but spelling isn't everything. There are days when spelling Tuesday simply doesn't count.”
I could give you a million reasons for what happened that evening: I could claim a momentary lapse in judgment, disguise the entire ordeal as an act of kindness, or enshroud it in words of piety and praise. The simple truth is, however, that a favourable combination of time and circumstances will crumble even the most impenetrable of citadels - and who am I to claim superiority over the great city of Troy?
Suffice it to say it was done.
***
“We all die. The goal isn't to live forever, the goal is to create something that will.”
I did not really need to see his face again; its most prominent features – the jadeite green of the eyes, the elegantly scripted (in ceil blue) ‘i’ across the bridge of the nose, the slightly recalcitrant set of the chin – have all been preserved for posterity, albeit scattered across several generations.
Nor did I really need to hear his voice (and even if I did it would have made no difference, as proper vocalization requires a pair of lungs, a larynx and a mouth, any and all of which the ghosts of our past rarely possess) – what I really needed, with all the desperation of the Son of Dawn clawing at the gates of Heaven, was to re-confirm, reestablish as an irrefutable actuality, the fact that he had been a part of my life once, a part of my everyday reality.
A part of me, if you will.
***
“The one who loves you will make you weep.”
The very air around me shifted, but I did not open my eyes to determine whether the shadowy form before me was true to my memory (it could have just as easily reproduced his likeness from those last, pain-ridden days – there are no guarantees in death!). I could not look, could not breathe, desperate for a sign that he was as happy to see me as I was him, yet too afraid to move lest I disturbed the subtle balance of the moment.
Can such a gentle sound as a rustle of cloth break a human heart? Because, I swear, the moment his shirt cuffs grazed his hips on their upward journey, mine shattered into a thousand pieces.
***
“The quality of mercy is not strain'd,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.”
Silently, his hand blossomed into a universal gesture of request and I dropped the offending piece of rock into his palm; I hardly dared believe my eyes as it bubbled and morphed, the colour slowly but irresistibly fading, until all that was left in its wake was a perfect little hexahedron of pure white.
A sugar cube.
And that’s when the tears came.
***
“Promise me you'll never forget me because if I thought you would I'd never leave.”
Had I been more inclined to believe in miracles and divine intervention, the day I stumbled over the innocuous amalgam of magic and sedimentation would have been the day the religious world as we know it crumbled to dust; there is no doubt in my mind that someone – some overzealous servant of Absolute Being or another – would have proclaimed its existence to all creation (in the vain hope of putting to rest eternal brawls for spiritual supremacy, no doubt), thereby plunging mankind into yet another bout of brotherhood-inspired bloodshed.
As it was…
If any faith ended up broken, two new ones sprang up in its place:
Children, there is someone I would like you to meet…
Entry 21
She was 14; she always wore a silver identity bracelet and sometimes wore a straw sun hat. She had blue eyes and her favorite colour was orange. She was my friend for one summer and my first best friend.
She moved away with her family at the end of the summer. She died two years later.
She was always so full of life, a boundless energy; it always perplexed me how easily her force was consumed. Suddenly she had gone and there was no trace of life left behind. She belonged only in memory, in photographs and in letters. I found it impossible to hold on to her energy, her spirit, her essence. It was as if she had never existed except on page.
The ring feels cold in my hand, although it has sat in my clenched fist for over an hour.
An hour spent reflecting and imagining. Is it unreasonable to bring someone you love back, if you have the power to do so?
I feel the crevice in the stone against my thumb and begin to rotate the stone slowly in my hand. My thoughts are of her; familiar blue eyes, sunlight, vitality and laughter.
I visualize her standing before me, same face, same smile, same straw hat, appearing as if she had stepped from my memory. Smiling? Maybe even grateful, because I have brought her back into the sunshine, into its warmth and light.
I envision an emotional and expressive reunion, both of us endeavoring to say our piece and laughing as our insistent speech overlaps.
I think about what would be said and what would remain unsaid.
I feel the crevice against my thumb again and begin to rotate the ring a second time.
In my head I am my 14 year old self from my memory. I realize with a jolt however, that I am not 14 and bringing her back would not make me so. My stomach squirms anxiously. Would she recognize me now that I am older? Would she remember as I do that summer we spent as friends? Or had death faded those memories beyond her recollection?
Although we hadn’t met again in her last two years of life, I know she thought of me.
I know this because I received her letters. Two years worth of letters, which I had opened eagerly on receipt. Letters which were re-read often, but which mostly went unanswered.
Would she remember that? Would she remember that from the two dozen or so letters she had sent to me, she only received two or three replies in return?
Had she felt ignored by me? Her letters never revealed any letdown, much the opposite in fact. They were filled of details and updates of her life and warm recollections of the things we had done together. No, I was confident that she had not felt any resentment towards me.
The crevice was against my thumb again. I began an even slower third rotation of the ring in my hand.
Though there was no resentment, would she remember the trivial things I was able to recall? Would she remember as I do, that she always chose to be the boot in monopoly and that she thought me how write a limerick?
The updates she had sent me of her life had made me shy of her. She had left behind childhood things long before I had and I had felt left behind and nervous of her maturity.
Once I let them in the doubts rise up within me. Even if she had not forgotten me, surely it would be her family she would long to see?
Had she lived would we even be in contact? Probably not. The distance between us and my poor letter writing skills would have eventually taken their toll.
And where was I bringing her back from? Somewhere she was at peace? Or was I simply dragging her back into existence from nothing. Forcing her to life unnaturally and for what purpose? Simply to recollect a summer long ago and revive a friendship between too completely changed human beings?
I feel the crevice against the palm of my hand; I am rotating the ring so slowly now it is almost still. I think with such ferocity that my jaw is clenches and my whole body tightens.
Almost immediately I relax; I open my hand and feel the ring fall. I make no effort to prevent it. I don’t wait for it to hit the ground before I start walking. I am walking steadily, determinedly and without looking back.
Entry 22
Perhaps the tumbled smoothness of the river stone lying incongruous on the rough forest floor drew my eye? Or did the stone, imbued with the universal yearning to cheat death, have power to attract those destined to use it?
My hand trembled as I scooped it from the earth. I felt the jagged crack; the ugly record of Voldemort’s misguided attempt to use the stone for immortality, and testimony to the disaster of Dumbledore’s simple, instinctive desire to salve his regrets. Understanding powerful wizards had been mocked by this stone made me hesitate. Harry had been reluctant to reveal his story -- the one story that proved the stone could be used without harm. It was this story that I clung to now.
And in this moment of hesitation, without my conscious thought, it happened. Almost invisible in the forest underbrush, the slight, dark tabby approached. I knew her the moment our eyes met. On later reflection, I thought this no mystery. She was the only ghost that had ever appeared to me bodily without the stone; her simple, repetitive act of approaching from my right as I entered the drive having stamped her image on the landscape so deeply that she continued to appear in peripheral vision for weeks after death. Hers was not a ghost that resisted passing into the next life, but one that left behind her devotion to comforting routine as a monument. Approaching silently, she lay at my feet, belly up.
That posture was a mystery, both in life and death. A shy animal, possibly because she was the runt of a litter that had been born after her mother had been caught in a tornado, Tiger was afraid of almost everything, including being touched. But if you could catch her sunning upside down and rub her belly, she would relax and accept the attention. Most cats are defensive of their undersides, which made this behavior doubly unexpected, and the key to her feline soul.
I was reluctant to touch her at first -- fearing she would be cold or insubstantial -- but her invitation was clear, and when my hand felt warm fur, I relaxed too. It was right that she would be the first the stone summoned; and for her, nothing had changed – nothing except her sickness. It was good to see her whole again. At that thought, the cat opened her eyes, righted herself and slipped into the bushes. I looked up into the shade faces of the people I had come to see.
My great aunt and my cousin looked old – I remembered them no other way. But they looked fit, as they had been for most of their long lives. My cousin gave a polite and patrician smile – she had lived comfortably and we’d met late in her life. My aunt’s was warmer – she had lived in all sorts of circumstances, and we had been close. It was the one thing their lives had in common that brought me here.
“What was it like to change your life so radically at age fifty?” I queried.
“Life changes by itself; I just started a new career, you might say,” said my cousin with a quick laugh.
“Was it hard to leave behind your successful life?” I wondered.
“Success is what you think it is. None of us ever achieves all we want, or think we can – not unless you sell yourself very short, or give up trying.” She gave me a stern searching look, and I nodded in understanding. Escaping frustrated ambitions by depending on someone else for fulfillment is always a bad plan.
“So what about that ‘new career’,” I continued the metaphor. ”Wasn’t it hard to adjust?”
“Well, you know how they are,” she shrugged. “But it’s what you have together that makes it worthwhile; the joy and understanding of two people devoted to each other. That’s what matters, not what your family thinks of his age or religion.”
My aunt added, “What’s possible at fifty is sometimes too hard if one is young; by then you feel strong in yourself, and not as circumscribed by conventions you’ve inherited. It was fear of that presumed incompatibility that stopped you before, wasn’t it?”
I nodded. I was here now because sometimes I still wondered if I had done the right thing. “But I also have some real responsibilities that I can’t ignore.”
They both nodded. There was no easy answer.
“Whatever you decide, you must acknowledge and bring your real self to the relationship,” my aunt said. “If the other person does the same, you’ll know if it’s right.”
We talked on till the deepening shadows forced me to go. Whatever I decided, I knew my decision would be well informed and made honestly. The stone had brought peace a second time.
Do not vote for yourself
Entry 18
Wandering with the Woodman
Another busy evening. I glanced up at the computer screen, checking and rechecking that everything was correct; spelling; punctuation; labels to each picture; date; my ramblings not too wayward; some good general photographs along with the close-ups. Lichens are stunningly beautiful, but you can have too much of a good thing.
Yes, that would do for tonight. One last check, then the latest chapter of “Wandering with the Woodman”, my personal blog as a nature lover, was posted. I was pleased with the result. Nothing earth-shattering, just a collection of the photographs of the detailed world of nature I see around me in my small corner of the world, day by day, month by month.
I tidied the papers on my desk, sorted reference books back on to their shelves, put away the magnifying glass and pencils, made a few notes on what the next chapter should contain.
And glanced at the stone.
I had found it months back when taking pictures of a particularly lush moss growing on a tree stump in an ancient woodland. I had picked the stone up, noticing its odd shape, put it in my pocket, and thought no more about it.
Shame it wasn’t the real Resurrection Stone. I would love to bring my Uncle back. Just for a little while, to thank him for all of this.
We were inseparable. We were always so far behind everyone else on any walk undertaken. “Come on you two, it will be dark soon.” But there were so many things to see, so many things to learn about. An enthusiastic child and an Uncle who seemed to be the fount of all knowledge. Bird calls and butterflies; how to recognise trees in winter by their twigs; latin names for wild flowers; how to identify lichens and mosses, beetles and animal tracks, nothing escaped our notice. Those who accompanied us were often irritated, wanting a walk, not a nature ramble. We didn’t care.
His study was a wonderland to me. A place of quiet enjoyment. More books than I could count, drawings and pressed wild flowers, meticulously labelled, feathers from a Jay’s wing, tiny and startlingly blue. Many hours were spent there, the Uncle teaching, the child learning. It started with him. My love of nature.
How he would be fascinated by today’s world. I can picture his kind weatherbeaten face caught in startled amazement, staring at the computer screen; at the vast array of resources the internet supplies us with. How he would have loved the forums, discussing the latest findings, sharing the enthusiasm of people round the world. He was a wonderful teacher, and he would have embraced the technology we have today with open arms.
What a shame he could not see all this. I would love to be able to thank him for his gift to me, a lifelong interest in every aspect of the natural world. See how well you have taught me, Uncle.
What a shame the Stone was not real.
I smiled, glanced once again at the computer screen, picked up the stone, closed my eyes …
… and heard a movement behind me, and a much-loved voice.
“Goodness. That looks interesting. May I have a look?”
Entry 19
Silence.
The house was empty, as I knew it always was on a Wednesday afternoon. It would be empty for at least two hours, which was why I had chosen today to bring my, by all accounts impossible, discovery out again. And to use it.
I stared at the small black Stone in my hand. It was badly damaged – the ring that it had been set into was lost and appeared to have taken sections of the stone with it. That, added to the large crack down the centre, made me wonder if it would still work. I hope so, I thought desperately.
Because there was just the one person who I wanted to talk to again.
I had suffered quite a few losses in my youth; four relatives had died in the space of five years. It hadn’t fazed me much at the time – I was at the age where I didn’t truly understand death. As I grew up, I learnt to accept the fact that I wouldn’t see these people again.
However, one person stayed on my mind, especially at times when I felt angry or alone. I suppose the difference is that I have memories of my other relatives; I know who they had been and I remember them speaking. Most importantly, I remember spending time with them. Any memories I have of my Aunt involve hospitals, and apparently my five-year-old self didn’t feel it was necessary to pay attention to the person who I was visiting. I was more interested in playing with my Etch-a-Sketch.
But this wasn’t the only reason I wanted to talk to her.
I glanced out of the window to make sure that the rest of my family wasn’t returning home early. I closed my eyes and quickly turned the Stone three times in my hand. Nothing happened – or, at least, my other senses couldn’t detect anything happening.
Slowly, I re-opened my eyes. I was no longer the only person sat on the sofa.
I jumped, shocked. It had been surprising enough to find a magical object from a fictional world, never mind finding out that it worked.
“Hi,” I said, once I had regained the power of speech.
She laughed. My eyes must have looked as wide as they felt. We sat in an awkward silence for a few minutes, despite wanting to see her again, I felt immensely self-conscious sitting on the sofa next to my dead Aunt. She didn’t say anything though; she just stared around the room taking in the photographs on the walls and mantelpieces. Fortunately, she seemed to be content in staying silent until I was ready to talk.
Eventually, my thoughts became slightly less scrambled and I thought I would be able to talk without embarrassing myself.
“Thank you,” I muttered, highly aware that I was talking to a dead person.
“What for?” She turned to look at me, confused. “Coming back? I didn’t have much of a choice; I sort of got dragged here. I’m not complaining, by the way,” She smiled, “It’s good to see you again, just a bit uncomfortable.”
“No, not that.” I shook my head. “The ring. Your ring. Next year’s birthday present.”
My Aunt frowned. “You’re not supposed to know about that.”
I laughed – I had known about this particular present for years. “Mum’s not very good at keeping secrets.”
Any previous tension that had been in the air disappeared in that instant. My Aunt laughed and I began talking animatedly, unrestrained by embarrassment. I was glad that I had found the Stone, been able to use it, and, most importantly, had had the chance to thank my Aunt for my last birthday present from her.
Entry 20
To the man who spent his life turning stones into sugar cubes.
THE ALCHEMIST
“I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle.”
Had I been more inclined to believe in miracles and divine intervention, the day I stumbled over the innocuous amalgam of magic and sedimentation would have been the day the religious world as we know it crumbled to dust; there is no doubt in my mind that someone – some overzealous servant of Absolute Being or another – would have proclaimed its existence to all creation (in the vain hope of putting to rest eternal brawls for spiritual supremacy, no doubt), thereby plunging mankind into yet another bout of brotherhood-inspired bloodshed.
As it was… if any faith ended up broken, only one person ever need atone for it.
***
“You can't help respecting anybody who can spell TUESDAY, even if he doesn't spell it right; but spelling isn't everything. There are days when spelling Tuesday simply doesn't count.”
I could give you a million reasons for what happened that evening: I could claim a momentary lapse in judgment, disguise the entire ordeal as an act of kindness, or enshroud it in words of piety and praise. The simple truth is, however, that a favourable combination of time and circumstances will crumble even the most impenetrable of citadels - and who am I to claim superiority over the great city of Troy?
Suffice it to say it was done.
***
“We all die. The goal isn't to live forever, the goal is to create something that will.”
I did not really need to see his face again; its most prominent features – the jadeite green of the eyes, the elegantly scripted (in ceil blue) ‘i’ across the bridge of the nose, the slightly recalcitrant set of the chin – have all been preserved for posterity, albeit scattered across several generations.
Nor did I really need to hear his voice (and even if I did it would have made no difference, as proper vocalization requires a pair of lungs, a larynx and a mouth, any and all of which the ghosts of our past rarely possess) – what I really needed, with all the desperation of the Son of Dawn clawing at the gates of Heaven, was to re-confirm, reestablish as an irrefutable actuality, the fact that he had been a part of my life once, a part of my everyday reality.
A part of me, if you will.
***
“The one who loves you will make you weep.”
The very air around me shifted, but I did not open my eyes to determine whether the shadowy form before me was true to my memory (it could have just as easily reproduced his likeness from those last, pain-ridden days – there are no guarantees in death!). I could not look, could not breathe, desperate for a sign that he was as happy to see me as I was him, yet too afraid to move lest I disturbed the subtle balance of the moment.
Can such a gentle sound as a rustle of cloth break a human heart? Because, I swear, the moment his shirt cuffs grazed his hips on their upward journey, mine shattered into a thousand pieces.
***
“The quality of mercy is not strain'd,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.”
Silently, his hand blossomed into a universal gesture of request and I dropped the offending piece of rock into his palm; I hardly dared believe my eyes as it bubbled and morphed, the colour slowly but irresistibly fading, until all that was left in its wake was a perfect little hexahedron of pure white.
A sugar cube.
And that’s when the tears came.
***
“Promise me you'll never forget me because if I thought you would I'd never leave.”
Had I been more inclined to believe in miracles and divine intervention, the day I stumbled over the innocuous amalgam of magic and sedimentation would have been the day the religious world as we know it crumbled to dust; there is no doubt in my mind that someone – some overzealous servant of Absolute Being or another – would have proclaimed its existence to all creation (in the vain hope of putting to rest eternal brawls for spiritual supremacy, no doubt), thereby plunging mankind into yet another bout of brotherhood-inspired bloodshed.
As it was…
If any faith ended up broken, two new ones sprang up in its place:
Children, there is someone I would like you to meet…
Entry 21
She was 14; she always wore a silver identity bracelet and sometimes wore a straw sun hat. She had blue eyes and her favorite colour was orange. She was my friend for one summer and my first best friend.
She moved away with her family at the end of the summer. She died two years later.
She was always so full of life, a boundless energy; it always perplexed me how easily her force was consumed. Suddenly she had gone and there was no trace of life left behind. She belonged only in memory, in photographs and in letters. I found it impossible to hold on to her energy, her spirit, her essence. It was as if she had never existed except on page.
The ring feels cold in my hand, although it has sat in my clenched fist for over an hour.
An hour spent reflecting and imagining. Is it unreasonable to bring someone you love back, if you have the power to do so?
I feel the crevice in the stone against my thumb and begin to rotate the stone slowly in my hand. My thoughts are of her; familiar blue eyes, sunlight, vitality and laughter.
I visualize her standing before me, same face, same smile, same straw hat, appearing as if she had stepped from my memory. Smiling? Maybe even grateful, because I have brought her back into the sunshine, into its warmth and light.
I envision an emotional and expressive reunion, both of us endeavoring to say our piece and laughing as our insistent speech overlaps.
I think about what would be said and what would remain unsaid.
I feel the crevice against my thumb again and begin to rotate the ring a second time.
In my head I am my 14 year old self from my memory. I realize with a jolt however, that I am not 14 and bringing her back would not make me so. My stomach squirms anxiously. Would she recognize me now that I am older? Would she remember as I do that summer we spent as friends? Or had death faded those memories beyond her recollection?
Although we hadn’t met again in her last two years of life, I know she thought of me.
I know this because I received her letters. Two years worth of letters, which I had opened eagerly on receipt. Letters which were re-read often, but which mostly went unanswered.
Would she remember that? Would she remember that from the two dozen or so letters she had sent to me, she only received two or three replies in return?
Had she felt ignored by me? Her letters never revealed any letdown, much the opposite in fact. They were filled of details and updates of her life and warm recollections of the things we had done together. No, I was confident that she had not felt any resentment towards me.
The crevice was against my thumb again. I began an even slower third rotation of the ring in my hand.
Though there was no resentment, would she remember the trivial things I was able to recall? Would she remember as I do, that she always chose to be the boot in monopoly and that she thought me how write a limerick?
The updates she had sent me of her life had made me shy of her. She had left behind childhood things long before I had and I had felt left behind and nervous of her maturity.
Once I let them in the doubts rise up within me. Even if she had not forgotten me, surely it would be her family she would long to see?
Had she lived would we even be in contact? Probably not. The distance between us and my poor letter writing skills would have eventually taken their toll.
And where was I bringing her back from? Somewhere she was at peace? Or was I simply dragging her back into existence from nothing. Forcing her to life unnaturally and for what purpose? Simply to recollect a summer long ago and revive a friendship between too completely changed human beings?
I feel the crevice against the palm of my hand; I am rotating the ring so slowly now it is almost still. I think with such ferocity that my jaw is clenches and my whole body tightens.
Almost immediately I relax; I open my hand and feel the ring fall. I make no effort to prevent it. I don’t wait for it to hit the ground before I start walking. I am walking steadily, determinedly and without looking back.
Entry 22
Perhaps the tumbled smoothness of the river stone lying incongruous on the rough forest floor drew my eye? Or did the stone, imbued with the universal yearning to cheat death, have power to attract those destined to use it?
My hand trembled as I scooped it from the earth. I felt the jagged crack; the ugly record of Voldemort’s misguided attempt to use the stone for immortality, and testimony to the disaster of Dumbledore’s simple, instinctive desire to salve his regrets. Understanding powerful wizards had been mocked by this stone made me hesitate. Harry had been reluctant to reveal his story -- the one story that proved the stone could be used without harm. It was this story that I clung to now.
And in this moment of hesitation, without my conscious thought, it happened. Almost invisible in the forest underbrush, the slight, dark tabby approached. I knew her the moment our eyes met. On later reflection, I thought this no mystery. She was the only ghost that had ever appeared to me bodily without the stone; her simple, repetitive act of approaching from my right as I entered the drive having stamped her image on the landscape so deeply that she continued to appear in peripheral vision for weeks after death. Hers was not a ghost that resisted passing into the next life, but one that left behind her devotion to comforting routine as a monument. Approaching silently, she lay at my feet, belly up.
That posture was a mystery, both in life and death. A shy animal, possibly because she was the runt of a litter that had been born after her mother had been caught in a tornado, Tiger was afraid of almost everything, including being touched. But if you could catch her sunning upside down and rub her belly, she would relax and accept the attention. Most cats are defensive of their undersides, which made this behavior doubly unexpected, and the key to her feline soul.
I was reluctant to touch her at first -- fearing she would be cold or insubstantial -- but her invitation was clear, and when my hand felt warm fur, I relaxed too. It was right that she would be the first the stone summoned; and for her, nothing had changed – nothing except her sickness. It was good to see her whole again. At that thought, the cat opened her eyes, righted herself and slipped into the bushes. I looked up into the shade faces of the people I had come to see.
My great aunt and my cousin looked old – I remembered them no other way. But they looked fit, as they had been for most of their long lives. My cousin gave a polite and patrician smile – she had lived comfortably and we’d met late in her life. My aunt’s was warmer – she had lived in all sorts of circumstances, and we had been close. It was the one thing their lives had in common that brought me here.
“What was it like to change your life so radically at age fifty?” I queried.
“Life changes by itself; I just started a new career, you might say,” said my cousin with a quick laugh.
“Was it hard to leave behind your successful life?” I wondered.
“Success is what you think it is. None of us ever achieves all we want, or think we can – not unless you sell yourself very short, or give up trying.” She gave me a stern searching look, and I nodded in understanding. Escaping frustrated ambitions by depending on someone else for fulfillment is always a bad plan.
“So what about that ‘new career’,” I continued the metaphor. ”Wasn’t it hard to adjust?”
“Well, you know how they are,” she shrugged. “But it’s what you have together that makes it worthwhile; the joy and understanding of two people devoted to each other. That’s what matters, not what your family thinks of his age or religion.”
My aunt added, “What’s possible at fifty is sometimes too hard if one is young; by then you feel strong in yourself, and not as circumscribed by conventions you’ve inherited. It was fear of that presumed incompatibility that stopped you before, wasn’t it?”
I nodded. I was here now because sometimes I still wondered if I had done the right thing. “But I also have some real responsibilities that I can’t ignore.”
They both nodded. There was no easy answer.
“Whatever you decide, you must acknowledge and bring your real self to the relationship,” my aunt said. “If the other person does the same, you’ll know if it’s right.”
We talked on till the deepening shadows forced me to go. Whatever I decided, I knew my decision would be well informed and made honestly. The stone had brought peace a second time.