The Dragon Morpher

The Dragon Morpher

The day had started off simple enough. I was collecting firewood with Father to bring back to the cave and I was riding on his back as he soared through the air towards the cave that we call home.

My Father, Mother, and I were all Dragon morphers.

Being Dragon morphers meant that we were able to shapeshift back and forth between human and dragon form. Due to the sudden death of a different Dragon morpher, my family made sure to keep a low profile. In order to keep suspicions low in case I accidentally morphed during the day in the village, my Father used his knowledge in restriction charms to make necklaces for me that would resist my morphing magic. All my restriction charms were in either the form of necklaces or bracelets or anklets, the anklets because I didn’t wear sandals. The years of growing up outside had toughened my feet. My Father spent countless nights with me, teaching me what herbs to use in case I became lost I the forest.

Mother taught me how to sew so that I could make myself clothes in the forest. She also taught me what to do in case I was flying in midair and suddenly I morph back human. A shoulder roll is the technique to use in case of mid-air crisis. Of course, another resolve is looking for a tree and angling your body so that you land in the tree instead of the ground but the shoulder roll seemed easier.

It wasn’t.

Five dislocated shoulders later, I finally succeeded the stupid technique. That night we had charred deer and slightly burned blueberry mini-cakes. Regardless of the fact that everything was a little burnt, the dinner was great.

The wind rustled my brown hair and Father dipped and swirled a little bit. I love it when he does this. I literally am shaking at the effort of not yelling with joy. Father`s sides heave and that tells me that he’s laughing. We land in front of the cave I call home. The cave has three rooms. My room has a little sleeping mat set out with my toy Pegasus and a little bookshelf along with a rug set out. The room next to mine was the dining room, which had a table and three chairs. A rug covered the entire floor and the dining room had little paintings of birds flying through the air. I`ve never seen my parents` bedroom.

Mother welcomes us back with a smile because she is in human form and beckons us inside. I leapt off father`s back and run inside, carrying the firewood. I morph my wings, a skill which took a loooong time to perfect. My wins are the color of scarlet with purple. At dinner we eat fresh pineapple and melon, wild boar, and chicken.

We all give a word of thanks to Esmerelldaa, the first female sorcerer who gave the dragons morphing magic. She is the one who gave my kind this wondrous power. My name Elria in old dragon tongue means sunset and is also meant to be a sort-of copy of Esmerelldaa`s name.

We all ate our dinner in a content silence when father broke the silence. “Elria, I need you to take the cart full of this week`s catch to the butcher and trade the rest of the extras to people who will give you more clothes.” I nodded and forked a hunk of boar meat into my mouth. 

After dinner I headed to my room and slipped on the baggy dress that served as my nightclothes. Father and mother came in and kissed me night and as they left my room I pulled my Pegasus toy towards me and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

I woke up the next morning writhing in agony. A deep, pounding pain in my head caused me to flinch when I woke and I realized that I had a major headache. I walked out of my sleeping chamber and ate my breakfast, which consisted of blueberries and strawberries with a little bit of honey to help sooth my aching head. Mother and father were still asleep so I crept back into my room and pulled on a faded blue sundress and slipped on my seashell necklace charm. I hopped to the entrance ad leapt outside. I morphed both of my hands into dragon claws and grabbed each side of the cart. We had no horses so I carried around the cart.  Both of the pegs that allowed me to grip the cart were covered in shark skin so that I could toughen my hands and so that I had more traction on the pegs. Turning the cart towards the road, I started off and the quit hum of the forest silence and the occasional swish of the wind through the trees was a pleasant sound. The rosy peak of dawn was only just showing when the peace of nature was broken by a horse`s whinny. I quickly morphed every part of my hands back to human except for the palms and prayed to Esmerelldaa that this person not notice my palms.

I turned my head and saw a youth about my age riding on horseback. The guy had sandy hair and blue eyes along with a smile that would no doubt melt the hearts of most of the girls in the village. I turned back around and suddenly had a vision of a different man in the same armor the boy was wearing but this man wore a malicious smile and carried a spear that was slicked with blue blood. It took me a moment to realize that the blood on this man`s spear was dragon`s blood and the thought of this man being a dragon slayer chilled me to my core. I shivered despite the warm temperature.  

The youth caught up with me despite my best efforts to outpace his horse, which wasn’t very easy considering that I was carrying a cart full of dead game.

“Hello,” greeted the person with a smile. I stared at him with a blank expression. It probably looked like I was bored but in my head, well, my mind me was on her knees and was hoping that this annoyance would go away. “My name is Daryl and I`m looking for a Sheolan Town around here. Do you know where it is?” My mind me was devastated that he would probably be accompanying me to town and sat on her knees, resembling a very mad pixie. I offered a small smile and replied: “Yes, I know where that is. It`s where I`m heading. If you like, you can accompany me.” He slapped me across the face and I tried as best I could to drop the cart slowly as possible as I tumbled to the ground. “When addressing a dragon killer, one does not end a sentence without ‘sir’.” He said coolly as he slid of his horse and offered a hand. Tears stung my eyes from the slap and I faced him with a look so fierce that he backed off. I stood up, brushed off my dress, picked up the cart, and surged forward. “Wait! You were going to escort me to Sheolan Town!” called Daryl. I whirled around to face him, even though he was a few yards behind me. “Find it yourself!” I spat and stalked off, taking the poor cart with me.

When I reached the town, the sun was fully in the sky and the girls were gossiping as the children played in the streets. A few of the shopkeepers called out greetings to me and I smiled in reply. I was walking towards the butcher district when a thought finally occurred to me. What was a dragon killer doing heading to Sheolan Town? I heard collective sighs from the gaggle of girls behind me and turned to see what it was they were looking at. It was the annoying Daryl, A.K.A, the ‘dragon slayer’. I growled and continued my journey towards the butcher’s district but not until Daryl saw me. I cursed softly as I heard him jump off his horse and run to me. “Hello again, maiden,” said Daryl, matching my pace. “What is your name? I didn’t ask earlier.” I looked pointedly ahead but answered nonetheless. “Elria.” Daryl ran in front of me and I had to stop quickly so that I wouldn’t hit him. “Are you mad?!” I hissed at him. “I could’ve run you over!” He smiled and reached out a hand to touch my cheek. The cheek which still stung from the slap. I slapped his hand away and moved around him to, once again, the butcher`s district. But before I left him alone completely, I had to get an answer. “Why are you here, anyway?” I called. “There be a report from a shepherd that there are a family of dragons living here.” I thought that my blood literally froze upon hearing this. But I needed to know another thing. “Will more of you be coming here?” I asked in a shaky voice.

“Oh yes. Half of the army. I was just sent as a scout to see where the town is.”

Daryl turned to face me, which caused many protests from the ladies he was flirting with. “Why are you so curious anyway?” he asked. “Do you know where these beasts are?” I shook my head “No,” I said purposely not saying ‘sir’. I turned a corner before he could realize this.  

 After collecting the coins and clothes from selling the dead game I headed home. To save time, I morphed full dragon form and dodged trees like a pro. I left the cart hidden behind some bushes.  I looked up and saw the smoke that showed me where home was. I grinned and ran full speed towards the smoke. I skidded to a halt and realized with horror that I wasn’t home. In fact, I had stumbled into an area far, far worse.

 I had arrived into a camp area and every one of those soldiers had swords or spears. To make it worse, they were all staring at me.

A squeak of alarm slipped out as I charged backwards and succeeded in ramming my body into a tree. The entire area erupted in a collection of yelling and drawing weapons. Suddenly, every man in that clearing was charging towards me in the intent of killing me. I yelped openly this time, the noise reverberating for miles. I wheeled around and headed back towards the other smoke line. I ran faster than all of the men and glided through the air as I leapt away. By the time I had arrived at home I had left the men lost in the forest. I flung open the door as I ran to warn mother and father of the threat. “Mother! Father! Get ready for battle!” I yelled as I ran into their sleeping chamber. My mother opened one eye and was about to scold me until she saw the fear in my eyes. Mother quickly shook awake father and told him what was happening. He jumped out of bed and immediately morphed full dragon. Mother did the same. I quickly jumped onto mother`s back and we all thundered outside. Mother`s green and gold scales gleamed in the sunlight, as did father`s deep blue and red scales. My own scales were purple and scarlet. After hopping off mother`s back I stood in between her and father.

I looked at my father. A fierce expression had taken over his face. The same with Mother.

The yelling was the first sign that the soldiers had come. My necklace clattered against my scales and scared me. 

When the first soldier was in sight Mother plucked me off the ground and used an ancient dragon incantation to force me to turn back human. It felt horrid being forced to morph back. Mother looked into my eyes. “Elria, go into the house and take that ancient book off the pedestal and place it up here, along with your sleeping mat and blanket.” Whispered my mother fiercely. I opened my mouth to protest but she shushed me with a claw. Mother tucked a strand of hair behind my head and hugged me tightly. She then let go and whispered something to me: I love you. My eyes teared up as father roared the same thing. Mother tipped backwards, allowing the wind to let her drift down. I shimmied down the hole in our roof where the sun came in and grabbed the book and stuffed it into my bag, along with some food, my sleeping mat, blanket, and my waterskin. I clawed my way back up and found Daryl standing there. 

I allowed a small eep and started back down the hole when he grabbed my hand and pulled me up. “Come on!” he yelled over the chaos. “We have to leave while they kill the monsters!” My face paled at the thought of my parents being killed and then I shook off the thought. I peeked over the edge just as a stray arrow caught my father right in the heart. He unleashed a deafening scream and fell to the ground with a great thump.

“Noooooooooo!!!” I screamed. Father looked at me, managed a weak smile and mouthed I love you. Mother saw my father fall and gave a deep, raw cry of anguish and sadness. She looked at my face and mouthed the same thing my father had moments before his demise. Daryl was yelling with excitement and dragged me down the roof. Mother looked at me with those deep blue eyes and I knew what she was going to do. I shook my head as hard as I could but she mouthed it once more: I love you, and flew off, the soldiers and their shouts following. Daryl was dragging me farther away from my father’s body and I thrashed and fought back. “Let go of me! Get away from me!” I screeched as he continued dragging me backwards. I kicked his shin hard and he slackened his grip to nurse his leg. Tears were streaming down my face as I flung myself on my father`s body. A second cry choked through the air and I knew instinctively that mother was dead.  Tears were running down my cheeks even more and I howled into the air a mourning cry. When I had finally calmed down enough, I took one of Father`s beautiful scales and placed it in my tunic pocket. I delivered Father a farewell kiss on his sulfur smelling snout and faced Daryl. The young dragon knight grabbed me by my arm and hauled me off to go and see the ‘dead beast’ as Daryl says.  

We reached Mother`s body in an estimation of 10 minutes and by the time we arrived, I had already started crying again. One of Mother`s beautiful green wings was flopped over at an unnatural angle and a trickle of blood trailed from her mouth as she stared silently at nothing. Another strangled cry forced itself out of me and I thrust my arms outwards, forcing me out of Daryl`s grip.

I cradled Mother`s head on my lap and did the same mourning cry that I did with Father. I placed a kiss on her scaled head and took a scale from her and put it in my pocket as well. Strong arms hauled me up and something bashed me in the back of the head. The world faded in and out until finally, everything went black.

When I woke I found myself in a lavishly decorated room. There was a painting of the same man I had seen in my strange vision. And I was under the sheets of a soft bed. I threw off the covers and started running towards the painting when a wave of nausea struck me.

The world spun as I fumbled for something to grab hold on. I finally found a chair edge and steadied myself. The world swam in front of my eyes until gradually my sight finally returned to normal. I made myself aware of my surroundings and heard music coming from somewhere in the room.

Then I remembered.

I remembered being hauled off to this room and being left here. Mother and Father were now dead, our home almost undoubtedly destroyed. 

And I was undoubtedly in the home of the ones who killed my parents. I finally found the place where the music was coming from and turned a notch to turn it off. My mouth moved but no words came out.

Then the dam holding back my rage broke.

I whirled to the bed where I was laying earlier and tore at the sheets until they were ripped strips of silk. I then attacked one of the bedposts and clawed at it like I was a cat. I then kicked the stupid thing several times, enough to almost make it break completely and walked over to the vanity table.

After a second of staring at my reflection, I grabbed one of the table legs and heaved it across the room in my mad rampage. It was only then I realized that this probably wasn’t the best idea because I might accidentally morph while in this state. After considering this, I picked up a china vase, examined it, and then threw it against the door as hard as I could.

As I walked over to the painting I had seen, I tried to push al thoughts about Mother and Father away for the moment to stop myself from going mad with sorrow and grief. I reached the painting and looked at the caption underneath it.

“’Sir Aso Guordi, The great dragon slayer’.” I read aloud. “Heh. Hardly great that he’s a dragon slayer.”

I walked back to the bed ad promptly demolished it with a smile. I placed my hands on my hips and stuck my tongue out at the painting, then threw a perfume bottle at it. It broke on contact with the painting, filling the room with a sweet fragrance. I took one sniff of the air and almost died it smelled so bad. I faked gasping for air as I walked on over to the chair and sat down in it.

I sighed and punched the wall and managed to knock one block out of place.

After this I walked over to a bookshelf (which I didn’t know was there) and randomly picked a book off the shelf. “Ancient history of Eryia,” I sad aloud. I thumbed through the book and found that it was boring. The results were also the same on the next book and the next and the next etc.

On the last book I sighed with annoyance and threw it against the wall.

“Is there anything good to read in here?!”

I heard the soft tsk-tsk-tsk sound of disapproval as someone entered the room.

It was the man from the painting, the dragon killer.

I could feel the blood fall from my face and as soon as he opened his mouth to say something, I whisked myself out of that room and away from that man. As I ran I morphed my legs and ran faster as I tried to escape the place that that man dwelled in. This must have been a very poorly guarded castle because I whisked myself out of there before they could even sound the alarm.

AS I reached the forest I started to look for trees that I could stay in. Nope, too skinny. Definitely no, much too old and rotten. The rage that had been burning brightly a few minutes ago was now replaced with the jittery feeling of escape.

Finally I found a tree not too far from the castle area and that was strong and healthy enough to support my weight. I positioned myself for ambush from the trees because I wanted to send a message to the castle. MY message was that you shouldn’t annihilate a family just because you think it’s dangerous. My other message was that I wasn’t afraid to kill. My last message was practically a declaration of war.   

I was going to hold Daryl hostage the first chance I was given.

The chatter of a night patrol filled the air around my tree. Suddenly I was nervous. How would I take out so many men? How can I know if I can knock someone out if I haven’t even caught a squirrel? The answer was suddenly very clear: Father and Mother would do that same thing for me.

I gritted my teeth and gave the mother of all roars. I morphed my wings and morphed my legs and hands. As I dropped from the tree, I knocked out one man with a blow to the back of the head and another by doing the same. Soon the area around me had four men unconscious on the ground and the only one still standing was Daryl, not because he was an amazing fighter but because I needed him to see what I was capable of. He had his sword drawn and he was shaking as well.

I smiled and batted the sword from his grip like it was a ball of yarn. I quickly knocked him out with a swift hit to the back of his head and found a rope on his person. Stupid guy, I thought to myself with a smirk.

Now all I needed was someone to tell Sir Aso Gourdi about Daryl. . .

Finding Strength on a Week Day

As I try to do another pushup, the pain surges through my body, and I feel my back sag to the ground.  "Keep it straight," I think to myself, "just five more!"  The imitation carpet on the concrete floor digs into my palms as I struggle to push myself back up.  "Keep going!" I think to myself, while my lungs heave air.  Two words: it hurts.
 

As I climb onto my bicycle, I groan, because I ran ten miles yesterday.  "I could've had at least ten protein shakes instead of just one," I think to myself.  I know that ten is an unrealistic number, but I still feel like I could do it.  After all, my calfs and quads still hurt.  As I switch to high gear on the nicely wooded bicycle trail, I grimace.  I'm not ready to change gears yet, I decide.  I switch back to mid-gear, but I'm still uncomfortable.  It hurts.
 

I replay yesterday in my mind, and wonder where I went wrong. Step one, bicycle into town.  Step two, drop the bike off at the local gym.  Step three, drink from their water fountain.  Step four, walk to the light.  Step five, find the right song on my iPod Shuffle.  Step six, keep running until I'm done, or have to stop.  Step seven, bicycle home.  Step eight, eat something.  Step nine was "get to bed on time," and I skipped it.  I had a good reason then, but now, it just hurts. 
 

As I walk into the special-ed classroom that I'm required to volunteer in once a week, the students greet me.  "Miah!" Chip yells, turning to look at me.  "Mr. Cook!" Andrew says, getting up to give me a hug.  I wave at Chip, and then hug Andrew.  Glancing over at Alyssa and Jordiana, I see them sitting quietly in their wheelchairs.   Knowing that they can hear me, I go over and talk to them.  "Hi, Jordiana!" I say, with a big smile.  She turns her head to look at me, and I smile and walk over to Alyssa.  She's sitting in a corner, and from what I can tell, she doesn't know I'm here yet.

 I get on my knees, pick up a ball, and toss it into the air.  Alyssa starts to smile, so I do it again.  She giggles this time, so I grab the ball with my hand and hold it about a foot away from the left side of her face.  "Where is it, Alyssa?" I ask.  She turns her head to look at it, and I exclaim, "Good job!" I hold it on the right side, and she looks at it again.  I repeat this game, and she looks as it as I toss it into the air.   She laughs again, and again, and again as I continue tossing and catching the ball.  Most kids would find this boring, but Alyssa doesn't.  If she could, she couldn't tell me verbally, or use her hands to sign to me.  I take the time to play with her, because I know that not being able to communicate verbally or through sign language must really hurt.  After all, everyone has to guess what you want!
 

After a bit, the students go to their academic stations, and Alyssa is strapped into a  dynamic stander, which gives her the opportunity to walk around.   As she does so, I notice that her shoes light up with each step.  She drags them along, moving her hands and sticking out her tongue involuntarily.  Watching her, I wonder what it's like to have the freedom to move only when someone else wants you to.  I've seen her crawl on the floor before, dragging her palms as her fingers point inward at her wrist.  I've gotten used to it by now, but the first time I saw it, I figured that it sure must hurt.

As I think back to my workout yesterday, and my bicycle ride today, I realize that every pushup I do is a choice, and every step and turn of the pedals of my bicycle is a choice as well.  I don't have to work out.  I see this in Alyssa as well.  She's not someone with a disability, and she definitely isn't a disability.  She chooses to walk around, chooses to laugh, and chooses to look at the ball when I toss it into the air.  Best of all, she chooses to smile.

As the bell rings, I watch the special-ed assistants push her out to the bus. I know it's about to rain, and that I could ask for someone to bring me home so I can avoid the weather and the pain.   The students wave to me, and I make up my mind and head for my bicycle.  I know I'll get soaked, but this time, biking won't hurt.

Eye on the Sparrow

Eye on the Sparrow

The young man regained consciousness with his head throbbing.  He was spread eagle over a smooth rock face jetting out over a canyon far below which seemed like it went on forever.  Had he not been concussed, he would have been enthralled at the view from his perch with subtle hues melting into the sharp contrast of towering saguaro cacti. He felt the back of his head and the golf ball size bump on the right occipital part of his skull.  His initial attempt to sit up produced a stabbing pain in his right upper torso which was accentuated with each breath.  He leaned back down on the hot rock and heard a crack in his spine.  He tried to stand up but could only make it up on his knee. His right ankle was swollen and was not going to take his weight.  Suddenly, with the change of position his head stopped pounding and his back felt better.  He took a deep breath without pain and his spit blood.  He felt his lip and it was cut.  He must have bit it in the fall. 

The place was Sabino Canyon in the Santa Catalina Natural Area near Mt. Lemmon northeast of Tucsan, Arizona. His mission was to collect water samples from Lemmon creek.  He had fallen from a height of 35 feet.  The strange thing was he didn’t remember anything.  Not the hike, his purpose, where he was, or even who he was.  From his injuries he surmised that he must have fallen and landed on this rock.  He looked down and became dizzy.  Good thing this rock face stopped his fall because it was a long way down, maybe 400 feet.  He looked up to see the edge of the cliff overlooking the canyon.  What was he doing up there?  He had no idea.  However, he had a vague notion that he was running away from something or maybe someone?  He wasn’t sure.  He tried to think but his head started hurting again. He had to lie down. As he felt the afternoon sun radiating off the rocks surrounding him, he thought about the most important question. Who am I?

He was terrified. Reaching into his pockets he had no wallet or identification.  Everything he had, including the vile of water, his papers from the Department of Natural Resources, everything except for a pocket knife was in a backpack on the bottom of the canyon.  Gravity was ruling the day. He thought he must be suffering from amnesia.  He rubbed the back of his head and began to look for a way off the rock.  There was no immediate way.  The way up was impossible without ropes and the way down was dangerous with his injuries.  The five by eight foot rock had a slight decline toward the edge which made him feel uneasy.  He did not like heights.  It was clear though that there was no way off. Not the sides either.  That would be like stepping off a building.  “Shoot, I’m stuck,” he said out loud, but he did not feel unsafe because this rock was not going anywhere.

Slowly a feeling of dread crept into his consciousness.  He wasn’t sure if he was in immediate danger or if there was something about himself that should be wearing on him, but he couldn’t remember.  It was as if his entire memory banks had been wiped clean except for this ominous feeling of dread.  He hated it!  His breathing started quickening and he felt a surge of adrenaline. He knew panic was a bad response to his predicament so he tried to calm himself by slowing his breathing and leaning back against the warmth of the rock.  He looked out over the canyon and saw the sun at about 8 o’clock high in the summer sky.  He had about an hour of daylight.  The view of the horizon allowed him to feel a ray of hope although he wasn’t sure what to call it.  Well if not hope, then a reprieve from the terrible dread feeling?

He checked his pockets again and came up with a handkerchief and a card in his breast pocket that had five words on it.  You are not your own.  “What the heck does that mean,” he blurted.  He tried to stand up again and this time he succeeded on one leg.  “You are not your own.”  These words he spoke and they sounded familiar but he could not come up with any coherent thoughts about them. He leaned back against the rock wall and felt the weight come off his back.  In the distance, away from the sunlight looking north he saw a small wisp of smoke rising from the canyon floor. There is someone down there!  “Help!”, He called out with a weak cry.  His second attempt brought back an echo that gave him a feeling that he had accomplished something.  He wondered if anyone was looking for him.

His calling seemed to give him some energy but he was quickly taken aback.  An ominous red headed turkey vulture flew right by him with an eye pointed 90 degrees at him.

He shivered without being cold.  The large bird flew in slow swinging circles and lifted up on the thermals of the wind.  The male vulture reappeared in front of his view.  He called out again, “Help!” this time louder.  Again the echo resounded.  He took out the three inch blade and wondered if he could use it to protect himself. The temperature was going down with the sun.  There was a light in the canyon where the smoke curled up earlier.  As darkness crept over the rock, the beleaguered survivor curled up in a ball with his back against the wall on his left side, holding his head and resting his right ankle on top of his left.  He fell fast asleep.

The man awoke in the night with a powerful thirst and the need to take care of business.  He stood up on one foot, turned to the side and relieved himself.  He thought it’s always darkest before the dawn.  Looking up he witnessed the most brilliant star lights he’d ever seen, but he didn’t recognize them as constellations, only welcomed light because the light down in the canyon was gone. 

As if right on time, the birds started their singing and it appeared to him that their chorus made the rocks lighter.  His back was up against the wall which supported him on one leg.  His head hurt less when he was erect so he slid down into a sitting position.  The movement down created a sensation of vertigo.  His ankle pounded and he felt like he was coming apart.  The feeling of dread which now seemed more like emptiness rapidly overtook him as the new day made its appearance on the other side of the canyon. But almost simultaneously so did an electric light along with hope that appeared in the form of the familiar smoke signal as he had seen before.

He started in with his help message, now at various intervals.  He thought he had not tried hard enough yesterday and wondered if his voice carried his prayer far enough.  Suddenly, three vultures swooped down for a look at their prey.  They circled back and forth for several minutes and the man yelled warnings at them.  They were not deterred at his change of vocals.  Suddenly, a flurry of dive bombers in the form of sparrows made the vultures abandon their flight pattern.

He was so grateful for the little brown birds that he cried out in jubilation. So what if their mission was to protect their babies in their nests.  Then an odd thought came to him.  His eye is on the sparrow and I know he watches me.  Where did that come from?  Who is He?  Who am I?  These questions set off a chain reaction in his brain that exploded into a fit of weeping.  He felt so cold and in need of being saved.  The sunlight splashed against the whole wild wide world on the other side of his existence. 

Suddenly, a rope flew across and down.  It was the proverbial rope, a red rope, a life line.  A not so unfamiliar voice from somewhere above, spoke softly to his soul.  “Philip!”

What he didn’t know was his rescue was set in motion late last night when Philip’s wife Grace called the authorities worried about why he was not answering his phone.  Her sleepless vigil was kept with friends who helped mobilize a crew from U of A to track down all the possible leads; the hikers on the Sabino Canyon Road who recognized him and identified his direction, and the elderly birder who lived in a small cabin with a smoking fireplace who heard a distress call, to the ranger with a powered telescope who spotted a man sitting on a rock ledge, to the two rescuers who repelled easily down the 35 feet with their first aide gear.

Philip March was a 23 year old graduate student in Microbiology from the University of Arizona. He would soon to remember everything with the help of his wife and friends.  He was trained and accustomed to looking deeply at the small things in life through the eye of a microscope.  Now for this brief harrowing time Philip was propelled into a story that would allow him to look deeply and widely, outside of himself, his work, and at his relationship with ….well, he wasn’t sure yet. 

“Philip, are you Philip March?” The rescuer landed lightly on the rock and began to assess the condition of the hiker with initial visual and simultaneous verbal inquires.  Philip could only breathe and watch the skill of the rescuer since he seemed so out of place, like he was in the middle of a dream. Philip finally said, “I don’t know, but I know I need help.  Thank you for coming for me.”  The rescuer told Philip that there were a lot of concerned people, including his wife waiting at the end of the Sabino Canyon Road.  Philip looked out over the canyon as he felt his body being raised to the top of the canyon.  He was thinking, “I am not my own.”  Thank goodness. He smiled and began to think about his discoveries that were going to happen this day.  He needed mending and he needed to find out who he was.  He wanted to know the person whose eye is on the sparrow.

The End

Boo

I stood there at the worn door, prepping myself for battle. 

I could faintly hear a television through the thin apartment walls, and could just make out my mother's voice asking John to get something for her.  

John was my mother's eighth husband. Not my stepfather, just my mother's husband. I'd had so many stepfathers as a child I decided when I turned 18 and left home that I would never have another.  Any husbands after that would have nothing to do with me.  As a child our bizarre lifestyle had made me feel special.  I didn't excel in sports or music or academics, and I usually had no idea what was happening in politics or current events - those things were rarely discussed at our house. But I was the sole possessor of weird. I was the girl with the truly dysfunctional home in the days when dysfunctional wasn't the norm.  I didn't know then that a child will cling to anything to feel special.  Now I did.  Now I had a say. John was just my mother's husband. 

A soft questioning meow brought me back to the present, and I looked down at white whiskers poking through the carrier at my feet.  "Now?" I whisper.  "Now, you have to meow like a cat? After your perfectly quiet little interview and our perfectly quiet ride over here?"

My mother was a cat-person. Not a cat-lady, though I think if she'd had the means and space she would have hoarded cats for pleasure at the cost of reason. But she was a cat person, fully appreciating all things cat. She loved their purr, their fur, their independence and sass, their silky grace, soft paws and sharp brains, and always attributed to them her own dark, dry humor.  She used to say things like, "Cats were once worshiped as gods. (Add a perfectly-timed pause). Cats have not forgotten this."

But my mother had not owned a cat in over 20 years. Not since marrying this husband, this one who had lasted longer than all the others, though I could not understand why. This husband had said with resounding conviction for many years, "No cat!"  And my mother, rather than running off to look for Number Nine, had stayed to quarrel and fight and do the rest of her life with Number Eight.  She had thus remained cat-less. 

I knelt down and looked with trepidation at my new friend. She was absolutely beautiful. A long-haired, black and shockingly glossy Himalayan, she was the chic, celeb wanna-be of cats everywhere.  She reminded me of a roommate I once had who always woke up gorgeous. Her mere existence made it hard on all the tabbies of the world. 

"She has such a gentle personality," the nice lady had said. "She would be so perfect for an elderly couple," she had promised. 

She had been perfect for them, too, the lady explained.  Until their baby grew into a cat-chasing toddler, and two new dogs had viewed her as a chew toy.  Born on Halloween, almost completely black, they had named her Boo.  Now she was three and sitting in a strange carrier in a strange hallway with a strange new lady looking at her. 

I looked into her stunning green eyes, and wondered if I had been cat-hypnotized into believing this was a good idea. 

No. No, I understood boundaries. And yes, yes, I had stayed inside all boundaries, both reasonable and ridiculous, for the past 20 years. Because this was their marriage, her husband, their life, not mine. 

But it was easy to see that my mother's health was failing. She was 78 now, and that meant more trips to doctors with long hours in waiting rooms, more medicines, more anger, less mobility, less humor, more depression, more anger.  And more anger. What I didn't run from screaming, I wanted to help fix.  A cat wouldn't fix anything, I knew, but no cat-person should have to live, and eventually die, utterly cat-less.  

And now the moment of dread was upon me. The television program inside the apartment had just started a new game show while I gathered my nerve. 

"Oh, Boo," I sighed. "What have I gotten you into?  What have I gotten myself into?"

And I heard my mother's voice in my head answering for Boo. "Lady, is my new room ready?  They serve tuna, right?  I don't do the dry stuff.  So, where's the staff?"  

My mom was gonna love this cat.  But what to do about that no-cat husband of hers? 

I stood and again began to prep my mind for battle.

I had to prep my heart so many times for these visits.  "Go low," I would say to my heart, "Go so very low.  Remember, you’re only here to serve and to give. Don't let yourself expect anything - not affirmation, not appreciation, not connection, not love. You will only be hurt and disappointed. Again. Just give, just serve, just stay humble, just go low."

Now I felt the need to prep my mind for battle. This was a new a new stance, going to battle for my mother. I knew better than to do battle with her as I had never won. But now, of all things, I'm battling for a cat. For this insanely beautiful creature that I knew would bring her joy. 

I prep.  

I breathe.

I wait. 

I knock.  

John calls out in his usual high-strung manner.  

"Yes!!  I'm coming!!!"

And then lower, more to himself, "I'm coming, I'm coming."

I didn't like this man, this eight man my mother chose so much like the other seven, a former alcoholic, former chain smoker, with low self-esteem and easily manipulable.  My mother was the poster child for the manipulative relationships that prevailed in the 40's when she was still in her drop-dead gorgeous twenties. Pretend you are incompetent so your man feels smart.  Pretend you are weak so he feels strong. What amazed me was that it was still working in the 21st century, and for a woman in her seventies. And that there actually were men around who did not catch on, could not see through it.  Or, a new thought I began to entertain 10 years into this union, maybe they did.  Maybe they guessed her weaknesses were an act, but ignored them because they liked the feeling of pseudo strength and pseudo smarts. 

I thought of my own sons, raised by their own dysfunctional mother who was still, even after they were grown and gone, trying to fix the broken parts inside herself. I breathed a prayer of gratitude that they were not intimidated by strong, capable women. In fact, they cherished them. Then they married them. And then became even better men because of them. And yet none of them were manipulated and each knew how to lead. None were manipulated by their wives. They each, in turn, had been manipulated by their mother, because it was the only parenting class she ever attended as a child, and lessons thrust upon one in life tend to stick longer than all the workshops one signs up for later.

And my daughter? I'd spent her lifetime wondering how she could be mine. Healthily independent, terrifyingly adventurous, and so discriminating in her dating that she eventually found someone, in her words, like her brothers. 

If being strong was the only thing I admired in my children, it would have been enough. But I still wanted to grow up to be like them.

I could hear John manipulating the two locks on the door.  Always two locks.  Always fearful of the world.  He is telling me the whole time it's almost open. John is easily anxious, easily offended, always worried, often critical. His hyper-anxiety sets off an auto-trigger in me of extreme calm and assurance, a counter balance to downplay to his continual storm.  I realize now that I learned this downplay from my children, who used it in turn to counteract my meltdowns. If he lived long enough, I believe John would have tempted me to downplay the end times even as they descended on us. It's never fun seeing your weaknesses in people you don't like. It's probably why we spend so much time looking away from them. 

Now I would be creating his storm. 

The knob turned and the next sound I heard was, "Meeeeeeoooooow?!"

Not the soft inquisitive mew of a moment before, but a shrill cat-like meow more like, "Lady, if you don't show me hot food, cold milk and a litter box neeeeeoooowwwww, I'm going to find my way out of this prison and eat your face.  Your time has expired."

John never even looked up. He didn't have a chance. His face went from doorknob to hall, and without even a hello, he said, "What's that?!"

Prep was now over. The battle had begun. 

I picked up Boo's carrier, and smiled toward John (in case he ever took his eyes off the carrier).  I looked at him in a fun way that implied I brought cats to his place every morning, and said, "Oh, this?  This is Boo."

"Boo!?" John repeated as though he was waiting for me to tell him what a Boo was. It was a totally sane response, but I was so used to un-sane conversations in this relationship that I wasn't about to give him credit for switching sides. 

"Yes, Boo.  She's a cat."

I lifted the carrier eye-level and man and cat exchanged glances.  Neither uttered a sound.  Lowering it I broke the silence as naturally as possible. 

"Is Mom here?" 

It was a rhetorical question. I knew she was there. She didn't leave the apartment without him. She barely left it with him. John did all the grocery shopping, all the bill-paying, all the cooking, all the pill-counting, and all the cleaning, including now cleaning up after my mother.  The less she was capable of, the less she pretended to be capable of, the more he did. Unless she was in the hospital or rehab, my mother was always there. 

John eventually moved aside to let me by, and I forced myself to use a casual, yet respectful step. I could not describe what those 11 steps from door to recliner looked like, but the battle was now on, and I knew I had to carry myself carefully.

My mother was seated in the largest, softest of the two worn chairs in the tiny studio. I had actually bought both recliners five years before, and the two chairs before them. But they looked ragged and ready for replacement again from full-time use. 

I watched my mother's eyes catch mine as I entered, and immediately dart down my arm to the carrier. But my other eyes, the ones that my children said I had in the back of my head, those eyes were on John. I could feel him watching me. I could see his now reddening face just off to my left. I knew he was prepping for battle. 

I put the carrier down next to my mother, and knelt front of her. She would not look at me. She knew exactly what a cat carrier looked like and she only had eyes for it. Opening its door, I lifted out the softest, most dreamy blob of love in the form of cat that was ever created. Boo, as if on queue, immediately purred and curled into a massive ball on her lap. 

I have no medical training and don't ever wish to. Most things medical repulse me. I am a writer, a word sculptor, and the reality of cells and organs and blood and mucous totally ruin a story. This outlook is unlike my daughter's, who for reasons I will never relate to, enjoyed holding peoples' guts together so much as an emergency room nurse that she went on to stitching them back together as a PA. 

But at that moment, watching fibers in my mother's being soften, hearing her soft coos to Boo, I would swear on a stack of medical journals that I had witnessed someone's blood pressure come immediately down. Her face instantly brightened and softened, and her entire being was instantly happy. She was absolutely lost in cat. 

I, however, was still absolutely present with John. He had been talking almost non-stop since I entered. 

"A cat!?  I don't like cats."

"Did you ever have one?" I asked, still kneeling, not daring to look at him. 

"No!  We never had a cat when I was growing up."

"They can be pretty nice, John."

"I don't know anything about cats."

"There isn't a lot to know.  They are pretty easy."

"I heard they can be mean."

"I don't think this one is."

“Well, we don’t have any litter.”

“I bought some.”

"We don't have a litter box."

"I brought one."

"We would have to leave it alone when we go out."

"She would be okay."

"She might destroy things."

"She is declawed."

"Well...she might not like us."

"She probably won't."

"What??" 

"She probably won't like you."

I had taken him off guard.  This is a good thing to do when one is in battle.

"What??  Why is that?" 

"Cats don't like people, John."

He was slowing down. He wasn't acting as defensive. He was thinking. 

"They don't?" 

"No. They like themselves. It's part of their magic."

"Well, I never heard of that."

"Well, you never had a cat," I smile. 

I stand up and gently pry this thing that is now one with my mother from her lap. 

"Mom, let's let Boo meet John."

The dynamics in the room are palpable. My mother's pleasure, John's nerves and my terror.  In 20 years I had never crossed this man's boundaries, and I just walked into his home with a creature he had forbidden. Now I was going to place the enemy in his arms. 

I turned toward John with Boo filling my arms and could see that he had stiffened.  I can retreat or I can go forward. I've prepped for this battle. I must go forward. 

I took a step toward John and lifted Boo to eye level.  They gazed at each other again. 

"I don't know anything about cats," he repeated. "It probably won't like me," he repeated.

"She is analyzing you right now, John."  

"She is!?"

"Yes," I flatly state.  "She's deciding if you are worthy enough for her to master."

"What? That's not going to happen.  I'm not going to let some cat be my master."

"You will if she decides you will,” and I slip Boo into his arms. 

This cat must have guessed which side her bread was going to be buttered on because she immediately re-melted into John and cranked her purring several decibels up. 

"She's purring," he smiled.

"You must be worthy," I said. 

My boldness surprised me. I had never been so forward with this man. Indeed, I had never tramped so blatantly over someone else's boundaries. At least not since learning about boundaries. When one is raised without them, other people's fences are nonexistent. When one is raised in dysfunction, it's hard to perceive where your own fence lines belong. 

But now I knew. Now I was an adult. Now I had years of jumping over peoples' fences, with intentions both good and bad, years of making amends and starting over, years of no excuses for walking into someone else's door with that which has been forbidden. 

Boo faithfully kept up a powerful rendition of, "You Cannot Live Another Day Without Me" in a rumbling bass, and I could see that John was beginning to slip under her spell.  Boo had just joined the battle.

I finally decided her weight would likely put an abrupt end to her concert and slipped her gently back into my mother's lap amid my mother's purrs and John's ongoing postscripts. 

"Well, she's soft, I'll say that.  She purrs loud, doesn't she? Could you hear her purring? She's shiny," and many other accolades. 

The next thirty minutes brought relative calm to my soul, John distracted with gathering laundry and my mother transfixed with Boo. I don't who know was happier, my mother, the cat, or me. 

Finally, John said he was heading downstairs to start a load of wash, and as soon as he was out the door I knelt again in front of my mother. 

"Mom," I began.

She looked up, delighted. I pushed down a thought that maybe, perhaps she would love me now, that this moment might spark some kind of motherly connection.  "No, Down Hopes! Down!", I silently barked at myself. "Disappointment ahead!"  And true to my gut, my mother's look drifted back to the cat, where all the motherly instincts she possessed would be spent. 

"Mom, this cat is just here on trial, " I began. 

She jerked her attention back to me and said, "What?  Why?!"

"Because I talked her owner into one overnight stay to see if you two were a match. If John insists, I will take her back in the morning. I don't want this cat to come between you."

My mother's reply was meant to be humorous, but she was sincere as she put both hands on Boo and stated with flat conviction, "Over my dead body."

We both laughed. I knew the battle had just become hers.  Hers and Boo's.  

To be continued....

One More Step

“One more step. One, more, step.  One. More. Step.”

The hot Bahama sun beat mercilessly down on my tanned face, as I wearily bent down to pick up a cinder-block in each hand and start back over the same roof I’d been walking since daybreak that morning.  Today was Tuesday, and I knew that I still had three days left ahead of me, in which my team would successfully lay over a thousand cinder-blocks to help build a school for impoverished children in one of the poorer areas of Nassau Island.  Only aware at the time of the large, monotonous task in front of me, I wearily carried the cinder-blocks another twenty feet, put them down, and went back for more.     

“One more step, One more step, One more step,” I murmured under my breath, as my dusty shoes tramped along the flat concrete roof.

As I picked up two more cinder-blocks, I glanced over at the children in the playground off to my right.  Their clean, gleaming faces contrasted with my dirty, sweat-stained one.  To them, life was good, and utterly carefree.  As I watched them, I became aware of the huge buildings of Atlantis Paradise Island in the distance, and noticed a cruise ship coming in.  The difference between their lifestyles and the ones of my fellow countryman became clear.   

Squaring my shoulders, I concentrated on lifting the twenty pound blocks with my legs, and chipped a corner of one as my hand slipped.  I gritted my teeth and focused my eyes on the other side of the building, thirty feet away. As I focused my eyes, the importance of my task became clear in my mind.  It was as if I'd surfaced the muggy Atlantic waters that we'd flown over and was now looking through the crystal waters of Cabbage beach.  

The bricks that I carried in my worn hands were the students' future, and the mortar that my team was laying would bind their lives together for decades.  No longer tired, and with renewed energy, I feverishly transferred cinder-blocks from one side of the roof to another, as if the children's futures depended on me. 

“OneMoreStep, OneMoreStep, OneMoreStep!”

Looking back on that blistering day, I wonder if someone looked at me as a child, knowing that their work in building a school would result in a better future for me.    I think about my own education, and wonder about the buildings I’ll study in.

During college, I'll remember to keep going, even when things are rough.  When I stroll down the halls, I’ll note how the mortar was laid, and see if any blocks have dents in the corners. If they do, I’ll know that someone had stopped to reflect and didn't give up.  After all, the good life would only have been possible for me if someone had taken one more step.