My Favorite Christmas Story

This is my favorite Christmas story of all time. I had been missing it for some ten years. Just found it again, finally, today. Enjoy. 

~Samuel

Pa never had much compassion for the lazy or those who squandered their means and then never had enough for the necessities. But for those who were genuinely in need, his heart was as big as all outdoors. It was from him that I learned the greatest joy in life comes from giving, not from receiving.

It was Christmas Eve 1881. I was fifteen years old and feeling like the world had caved in on me because there just hadn't been enough money to buy me the rifle that I'd wanted for Christmas. We did the chores early that night for some reason. I just figured Pa wanted a little extra time so we could read in the Bible.

After supper was over, I took my boots off and stretched out in front of the fireplace and waited for Pa to get down the old Bible. I was still feeling sorry for myself and, to be honest, I wasn't in much of a mood to read Scriptures. But Pa didn't get the Bible, instead he bundled up again and went outside. I couldn't figure it out because we had already done all the chores. I didn't worry about it long though, I was too busy wallowing in self-pity. 

Soon Pa came back in. It was a cold clear night out and there was ice in his beard. "Come on, Matt," he said. "Bundle up good, it's cold out tonight." I was really upset then. Not only wasn't I getting the rifle for Christmas, now Pa was dragging me out in the cold, and for no earthly reason that I could see. We'd already done all the chores, and I couldn't think of anything else that needed doing, especially not on a night like this. But I knew Pa was not very patient at one dragging one's feet when he'd told them to do something, so I got up and put my boots back on and got my cap, coat, and mittens. Ma gave me a mysterious smile as I opened the door to leave the house. Something was up, but I didn't know what.

Outside, I became even more dismayed. There in front of the house was the work team, already hitched to the big sled. Whatever it was we were going to do wasn't going to be a short, quick, little job. I could tell. We never hitched up this sled unless we were going to haul a big load. Pa was already up on the seat, reins in hand. I reluctantly climbed up beside him. The cold was already biting at me. I wasn't happy.

When I was on the sled, Pa pulled it around the house and stopped in front of the woodshed. He got off and I followed. "I think we'll put on the high sideboards," he said. "Here, help me." The high sideboards! It had been a bigger job than I wanted to do with just the low sideboards on, but whatever it was we were going to do would be a lot bigger with the high sideboards on.

After we had exchanged the sideboards, Pa went into the woodshed and came out with an armload of wood -- the wood I'd spent all summer hauling down from the mountain, and then all Fall sawing into blocks and splitting. What was he doing?

Finally I said something. "Pa," I asked, "what are you doing?"

"You been by the Widow Jensen's lately?" he asked. The Widow Jensen lived about two miles down the road. Her husband had died a year or so before and left her with three children, the oldest being eight. Sure, I'd been by, but so what?

"Yeah," I said, "Why?"

"I rode by just today," Pa said. "Little Jakey was out digging around in the woodpile trying to find a few chips. They're out of wood, Matt."

That was all he said and then he turned and went back into the woodshed for another armload of wood. I followed him. We loaded the sled so high that I began to wonder if the horses would be able to pull it. Finally, Pa called a halt to our loading, then we went to the smoke house and Pa took down a big ham and a side of bacon. He handed them to me and told me to put them in the sled and wait. When he returned he was carrying a sack of flour over his right shoulder and a smaller sack of something in his left hand. "What's in the little sack?" I asked.

"Shoes. They're out of shoes. Little Jakey just had gunny sacks wrapped around his feet when he was out in the woodpile this morning. I got the children a little candy too. It just wouldn't be Christmas without a little candy."

We rode the two miles to the Widow Jensen's pretty much in silence. I tried to think through what Pa was doing. We didn't have much by worldly standards. Of course, we did have a big woodpile, though most of what was left now was still in the form of logs that I would have to saw into blocks and split before we could use it. We also had meat and flour, so we could spare that, but I knew we didn't have any money, so why was Pa buying them shoes and candy?

Really, why was he doing any of this? The Widow Jensen had closer neighbors than us; it shouldn't have been our concern. We came in from the blind side of the Jensen house and unloaded the wood as quietly as possible. Then we took the meat and flour and shoes to the door. We knocked. The door opened a crack and a timid voice said, "Who is it?"

"Lucas Miles, Ma'am, and my son, Matt. Could we come in for a bit?"

The Widow Jensen opened the door to let us in. She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The children were wrapped in another and were sitting in front of the fireplace by a very small fire that hardly gave off any heat at all. The Widow Jensen fumbled with a match and finally lit the lamp.

"We brought you a few things, Ma'am," Pa said and set down the sack of flour. I put the meat on the table. Then Pa handed her the sack that had the shoes in it. She opened it hesitantly and took the shoes out one pair at a time. There was a pair for her and one for each of the children -- sturdy shoes, the best, shoes that would last. I watched her carefully. She bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling and then tears filled her eyes and started running down her cheeks. She looked up at Pa like she wanted to say something, but it wouldn't come out.

"We brought a load of wood, too, Ma'am," Pa said. He turned to me and said, "Matt, go bring in enough to last awhile. Let's get that fire up to size and heat this place up." I wasn't the same person when I went back out to bring in the wood. I had a big lump in my throat, and as much as I hate to admit it, there were tears in my eyes too. In my mind I kept seeing those three kids huddled around the fireplace and their mother standing there with tears running down her cheeks with so much gratitude in her heart that she couldn't speak. My heart swelled within me and a joy that I'd never known before filled my soul. I had given at Christmas many times before, but never when it had made so much difference. I could see we were literally saving the lives of these people.

I soon had the fire blazing and everyone's spirits soared. The kids started giggling when Pa handed them each a piece of candy and the Widow Jensen looked on with a smile that probably hadn't crossed her face for a long time. She finally turned to us. "God bless you," she said. "I know the Lord has sent you. The children and I have been praying that he would send one of his angels to spare us."

In spite of myself, the lump returned to my throat and the tears welled up in my eyes again. I'd never thought of Pa in those exact terms before, but after the Widow Jensen mentioned it I could see that it was probably true. I was sure that a better man than Pa had never walked the earth. I started remembering all the times he had gone out of his way for Ma and me, and many others. The list seemed endless as I thought on it.

Pa insisted that everyone try on the shoes before we left. I was amazed when they all fit and I wondered how he had known what sizes to get. Then I guessed that if he was on an errand for the Lord that the Lord would make sure he got the right sizes. Tears were running down the Widow Jensen's face again when we stood up to leave. Pa took each of the kids in his big arms and gave them a hug. They clung to him and didn't want us to go. I could see that they missed their Pa, and I was glad that I still had mine.

At the door Pa turned to Widow Jensen and said, "The Mrs. wanted me to invite you and the children over for Christmas dinner tomorrow. The turkey will be more than the three of us can eat, and a man can get cantankerous if he has to eat turkey for too many meals. We'll be by to get you about eleven. It'll be nice to have some little ones around again. Matt, here, hasn't been little for quite a spell." I was the youngest. My two brothers and two sisters had all married and had moved away. Widow Jensen nodded and said, "Thank you, Brother Miles. I don't have to say, 'May the Lord bless you,' I know for certain that He will."

Out on the sled I felt a warmth that came from deep within and I didn't even notice the cold. When we had gone a ways, Pa turned to me and said, "Matt, I want you to know something. Your ma and me have been tucking a little money away here and there all year so we could buy that rifle for you, but we didn't have quite enough. Then yesterday a man who owed me a little money from years back came by to make things square. Your ma and me were real excited, thinking that now we could get you that rifle, and I started into town this morning to do just that. But on the way I saw little Jakey out scratching in the woodpile with his feet wrapped in those gunny sacks and I knew what I had to do. Son, I spent the money for shoes and a little candy for those children. I hope you understand."

I understood, and my eyes became wet with tears again. I understood very well, and I was so glad Pa had done it. Now the rifle seemed very low on my list of priorities. Pa had given me a lot more. He had given me the look on the Widow Jensen's face and the radiant smiles of her three children.

For the rest of my life, whenever I saw any of the Jensens, or split a block of wood, I remembered. And remembering brought back that same joy I felt riding home beside Pa that night. Pa had given me much more than a rifle that night, he had given me the best Christmas of my life.

I hope life brings you much success.
I wish you a very happy day. 

The Dream of Kings

I read a book when I was in jail, an amazing story, if not quiet and obscure. I do not recall the name of the book, or the author, unfortunately... but this, below, are the notes I wrote in my cell, some thoughts I took from it. 

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Words are cruel, words play tricks, they distort what is in the heart. They conceal the heart- the heart speaks through silence. One learns of the pain of others by suffering one's own pain... by turning inside one's self... by finding one's own soul.

It is important to know of pain.

It destroys our self-pride, our arrogance, our indifference towards others. It makes us aware of how frail and tiny we are, and of how much we must depend upon the Master of the universe.

"How will I teach him to want to take on another person's suffering? A leader must take their pain from them and carry it on his own shoulders. He must cry, in his heart he must always cry. 

How strong, to carry this burden?

To be a mind, without a soul, what ugliness it is. 

To leave your mark on the world as honor, and not intellect. 

To find riches is a beggar's dream... but to find love is the dream of Kings.

BANG

I read a blogger today who talked a lot about women... but the guy had no heart. He was a pick-up artist, a self-proclaimed loser during younger days, now making up for it by running around getting all the tail he can, and doing pretty well with it.

Girls are just a ‘bang’ to him, which is why he titled his book thusly.

Bang.

Is that all you are?

Sadly, that’s all he is, just as he considers his conquests as nothing more.

The guy had no heart. I was shocked to learn that he had a sister that he professed to care deeply about. Most guys have the sense to make that connection well enough to recognize that girls are also people, human beings, and treating them essentially as though their personhood is of no relevance or value at all... defies common sense, as well as any sense of decency. Or reciprocity. Since he was an atheist, maybe he does regard himself as irrelevant as well as the girls. Or all-important.

Seems like he would tell you that hearts are for suckers. Falling in love is a joke, a physiological trick, a curse to be overcome. Know anyone like that?

Really, what are your thoughts about love?

Do you value it? Do you even believe it exists... or is it a hoax completely?

This guy, he was so cold. So cruel. So heartless. I think he may have also suffered that one effect that promiscuous people don’t expect, but eventually discover- you start to hate the opposite sex. Oh, you’ll still sleep with them, but the idea of love fades out and you are empty, as though your heart poured all out. Restoration can be hard to find.

Some might say that a heart is only a fleshy organ in your chest, nothing more. Others say that there is nothing more important than the condition of our hearts, in some spiritual manner, and there is nothing greater than love.

This guy I read today, he would call a guy in love a ‘chump’. Acting like you have a heart, or love in your heart, won’t get you laid, he says. You end up like some Beta Male who has no game and is generally needy. It does seem, perhaps, that love can make us needy, in the sense that when we get a good deep taste of it, it’s a drug like no other, and we definitely need more.

Or perhaps it’s our needs that drive our love, drive us to be loving first, hoping to see the same sentiments in response to your loving behavior. 

Both kinds being selfish, but the ‘give-first’ approach is the only one that genuinely works.

Anyway, what these heartless people often come to realize is that being heartless is not good. It feels empty, and becomes like a great yawning cavern of emptiness, no feeling... and deep isolation.

I guess some people become heartless when they have been hurt too much, and some people become so preemptively, discarding notions of love as antiquated foolishness here in our modern times of a new age.

It grieves me to see so many people grow so cold. 

Tell me this- how much of your outlook on love, and matters of the heart,

 is connected to your spiritual beliefs?

If you slay your own conscience, do you not slay yourself?

The Gypsy Queen CHAPTER 1

THIS IS THE FIRST CHAPTER OF MY WORK IN PROGRESS, THE GYPSY QUEEN-  THAT MEANS:


1) ITS A ROUGH DRAFT


2) I'D LOVE YOUR INPUT OR IDEAS!


Thank you...


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Yana set her bare feet up against the hot rocks that adorned the edge of the fire pit.  She stirred the embers with the black tip of her stick, and watched it smolder. She considered her fire, as she breathed in the countryside air. It was warm, even as it dwindled. It was something she could always count on, no matter where she was. As she scattered the ashes and sparks from the glowing remains, she realized also that she was just as scattered sometimes. The fire was freedom, but it was also chaos. The stones held the warmth well past its time, and kept the fire from streaking across the meadows. It was always a comfort, even for the few times she had been burnt. She touched her wrist lightly, remembering.

    Yana had been a gypsy her whole life, and a fighter from the first day she could walk. It suited her. Survival itself was a fight. She couldn’t imagine living any other way. She slipped her feet back into her boots, as the moonlight took over and the light at her feet flickered dimly. She looked down over the gentle downward slope of the hill. The rest of her caravan was lower down, and she could see they were about settled in for the night. Yana had come up here with her wagon alone. She knew there were good berries further up, but really, she was just restless. Something was afoot... and so was she.

   She wandered up a bit, towards the crest of the hill, where she saw them.  There were five of them. They were making very little noise, which was remarkable for five horsemen, but it communicated to her immediately what they were up to. Stealth. She peered into the dark as much as the moonlight would let her. Was that him? It couldn’t be. Chills raced across her skin.

   It certainly was him. She could sense him without seeing his face, and it had been ages since she last saw him. Yana was not sure where they might be going, but at this hour, dressed so black the faint light revealed almost nothing, and surely armed, there was only one thing they could be. Assassins.

  She had heard of them. Men who travel under cover of darkness. Not even the jingle of weapons and supplies could be heard. They had been naught more than a campfire story to her, until tonight.  It was early spring, the air still chilled with the melt of winter, the ground wet and cold from the thaw. Excitement shot through Yana as she pulled her hood over her head, and ran back to her wagon. She slung her quiver of arrows across her shoulder along with her bow, and tucked her dagger into the loop on her makeshift belt. She went to grab a pouch full of coins, just in case- but then stopped. The clink of the coins would give her away. She would have to go without. Yana untied her horse, Kuta, who was stirring, knowing her friend was restless. Yana had all sorts of trinkets and gear for the horse, but thankfully, it was all removed for the night. She would go bareback, with only leather reins to guide her. Kuta would have to be quiet too.

  She slid up deftly onto her horse, and prompted her in the direction she had seen the horsemen. Kuta carried her swiftly, as she tracked them. Yana was an excellent tracker, and knew these hills and meadows well. She stayed off the worn trails, and quickly picked up their path. She stayed behind. It occurred to Yana that she may be a fool, just then- that she should turn back immediately, and pretend she had seen nothing, and say nothing. If they really were assassins, they would not want to be tracked or spied. If they caught her, it could go badly.  She was convinced however, that she knew one of the men in the group. She didn’t know how she knew... she just knew. In fact, while she was using all her senses to track the riders, she was also using her intuition. She could sense him. Maybe that was what was making her so restless.

  She followed a ways, deeper into the hills than she cared to be, but there was no turning back now. She knew her people would tend to her wagon, and her curiosity was getting the better of her. She wanted to know what they were up to... and she wanted...

she wanted to see him.

  Light began to crest the distant eastern hill, as daybreak would soon be upon the land. The riders ahead had descended into a gulley she was not familiar with, but if she was going to remain undetected, she would have to dismount, and go ahead on foot. Her stomach tightened in anticipation. This was dangerous. Without hesitation, she slipped off her horse, and tied her up to a little scrub oak.

  Yana crept silently down into the narrow path. She moved forward, not only trying to track the mysterious riders, but making sure she was not careless... there were many dark shadows and corners, and predators could be anywhere.  Her senses were fully alert, and her footsteps...

  Turn back, Yana. Now her mind spoke out against her, as her instinct to pursue was conflicted with her instinct to flee, a still small voice that was always right. She stopped. She should turn back. Light was slowly invading the sky, and she would not be unnoticed much longer.

  Suddenly she heard shouting, a clash of metal, and then another. It was them, up ahead! A fight! She ran directly for it, as she simply could not help herself. She drew nearer, as she heard more men shouting, a language she barely knew, and then a voice she knew quite well. She cursed her luck. I knew it, Yana thought wryly.

  It was him.

  She peered around a rock, as she was very close to the commotion. There were two groups of men, the black garbed riders she had been tracking, and another group, she guessed to be Moldavian, from their language. The Moldavians had ambushed the black rider assassins, and two of them lay still on the ground. The other 3 were hostage, as the Moldavians menaced with their swords and weapons. They were shouting commands, and the hostage in the center was shouting back. The leader. The one whose voice she recognized clearly.

  She realized without thinking that she had drawn her bow. She had to help! Now this really was crazy. This was not her battle, and she would only bring problems for her people, the gypsies. There was no way she could let harm befall them... but there was no way she was going to leave and let the black riders be killed. It would not be the first time she had helped him, she thought.

  One of the Moldavians was holding him at sword-point now, and the absurd conversation they were attempting sounded like it was going badly, because no one was understanding... and the two men were still on the ground, presumably dead.

  Yana would have to act.

  She pulled the cord back taut, arrow already knocked, and aimed it. She was an expert with it, but she had never put an arrow into a man before. She gauged the situation, to see if she could turn the tables without any real bloodshed. She made her decision, and let the arrow fly.

  “Yahhh!” screamed the man holding his sword to the leader’s throat, as he stooped down to clutch the arrow she had drilled into his calf. Before anyone could even turn to see what had happened, she stroked another arrow into the next closest man, the one who had an arrow aimed at the riders. His arrow went careening off and his bow dropped, as he shouted at the arrow lodged halfway into his hand. Yana ducked out of sight, and had been so quick that perhaps no one had even seen her. The light was still poor, especially in the shadows of the gulley.

  The leader of the black riders had not wasted the opportunity, and they clashed into full battle again. He took up the sword of the one with the arrow in his calf, and ended that man promptly. His two accomplices were engaged as well, as the remaining Moldavian men rushed in. Yana gritted her teeth. She didn’t want to get further involved. Maybe what she had done would be enough. Maybe she could still escape without attracting trouble. She looked out from the rock again, knowing she shouldn’t.

  He looked her right in the eye.

  Still battling, slashing and clashing with the last two men, just for a split second, he looked her right in the eyes. She cursed her luck again, pulled her hood down further over her face, ducked out of sight, and fled. Back up the winding trench, across the rocks, leaping over the little stream- nearly stumbling into it, she ran frantically, full of panic and speed. She got back to her horse in what seemed like no time, yet an eternity. She could not go fast enough to flee this place. She hesitated for a moment, looking back, just before she leapt back onto her horse. No amount of running was going to help her now. He would be coming to find her.

  She tore off anyway, her horse seeming to sense her urgency, as she prodded Kuta to her highest speed. She flew across the meadows, headed back to the caravan. Her thoughts flew even faster. She would have to break camp. Everyone would have to break camp- or maybe she could go into hiding alone. She didn’t want anyone to be in danger for what she had done. Her thoughts raced- had the black riders prevailed? Had she saved him? Why were they on an assassin’s mission? For all her fury at herself, her speed, and desperation to get anyway, she also realized... she still wanted to see him again.

_____________________

  The black riders did battle with their ambushing enemies, and finally defeated them. The leader took off his mask, and addressed his men. “Is that all of them?” he asked, trying to catch his breath.

  “I believe it is,” the one closest to him replied.

  “Stand guard,” the leader ordered, as he went to check on his companions. The two men on the ground were slain, and his face showed the sadness of it. These were good men, they had trained together a great deal. This was a terrible loss, as they were intending to be the ones doing the ambush. He stood up, surveying the scene. These Moldavians were the very men they were hunting, so their mission was otherwise a success, even for this loss.

The third survivor approached him with a grimace, as his arm had been cut in the fight.  They quickly tended each other, and prepared for what they must do. The leader directed them. “Get these men hidden,” he instructed, pointing to their slain enemies. They were not where they intended to be, as the whole mission had gone awry, but it did lend them some privacy. They had to preserve the greater operation. They found a gash in the dirt wall that had been washed out from flooding, and dragged the Moldavian attackers into it. They were heavy, and the man with the slashed arm was not much help. Once they were finished, they stripped down the horses of the enemies, that they had found not too far away. The enemy had, the leader realized, set a pretty good little trap. For all their skill, they would have failed and met their end, right here, had it not been for her.

  He looked closely at the arrows he had retrieved from two of the men. There was no doubt they were gypsy arrows, but he was all the more certain of whose they were. She was the last person in the world he would have guessed to have seen, as he had not seen her in years, and this was not her affair. Unmistakably, however, he had looked into the eyes that once haunted him, and sometimes still did, when he dreamt. He could feel an echo of the electricity that had almost killed him. No question.

  He had seen Yana.

He tucked her arrows into the holster on his horse, as they finished up. They removed their own outer clothing- the deep black garments they used in the night, revealing ordinary brown burlap clothing underneath- the kind peasants would wear. This mess would take some care to cover up. Their team was best known as a myth; they could not just walk around in broad daylight. Once they had settled the scene and cleaned up everything they could, kicking dirt on the blood and moving loose brush, they made arrangements to get back. They found an excellent spot to hide. One man was to take the extra horses from their enemies and travel west, as far away from Moldavia as they could get, and set them free. They couldn’t just turn them loose in this region, or someone would piece together the facts. The other man, with the injured arm, would wait until nightfall, and take a roundabout route through the dark back to the great city, bringing along the horses and the bodies of their fallen warriors. The scum they had defeated deserved an inglorious fate, but not their own.

  “We must not fail,” the leader told his men. They nodded agreement. “Travel two days west, and get them across the Sardica river, before you free them,” he instructed. He address the other, “Get back to the city through the King’s passage, once you have the cover of dark.”

  “I’m going to track the spy,” he said.

  He prompted his horse, and departed, in the direction he knew that she must have gone. It was well into the morning now, as they had taken a good bit of time to resolve the evidence of the skirmish. He already knew what direction to head, as he was well aware of the general vicinity of the gypsy camps. Of course, they were ever-changing, but they did have their tendencies and trails. He wondered how she found them; they must have passed by too closely. He chewed on a piece of flatbread from his pack, as he traveled.

________________________

  Yana pulled up to her wagon quickly, and began gathering her things. “Yana!” she heard the voice of a child. “I caught one!” It was Luba, her young friend, an orphan that had joined them two summers ago. “Come to the fire and see!” Luba called. Yana smiled, forgetting her hurry for a moment.

  “You did? What did you use?”Yana asked.

  “I set the trap with the herbs you gave me!” Luba exclaimed, running up to her. Then she paused.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked. Yana’s face was giving away her preoccupation.

  “We have to break camp,” Yana said, no mirth in her voice. 

  “Why?”Luba asked. “We were going to wait 2 more days,” she protested.        

  “We just have to,” Yana said. No way she was going to explain herself.    

 “Well,” Luba hesitated. “Can you come see the rabbit I caught first?”

  Yana smiled. “Yes, of course,” she said.

  “Come on then,” Luba shouted, already bounding toward the rest of the caravan, where the people were stirring, and the smoky smell of campfires and hot tea graced the morning air. Yana figured she had some time. There was no way she would be immediately pursued, or immediately found... but there was no way she could stick around either. She walked into the camp to Lyubov’s wagon.

  Lyubov was a kind old lady, and Yana loved to hear her speak. Luba, while very young, had taken to her as well, and the two of them traveled together. The wisdom of little Luba seemed far beyond her years, as though she had come from the stars... though she was still just a little girl trying to survive... but that was why she fit so well with Lyubov, the brilliant and wise lady who Yana herself loved to sit next to, and hear her tales. They were so alike, Luba and Lyubov, they almost seemed like the same person, but for their great age difference. They were truly family, to Yana. Yana had been teaching Luba how to trap rabbits, and her favorite gypsy dances.

  Lyubov had already cleaned the rabbit and had the fire going. It was unusual to cook this way in the morning, but Lyubov wanted to do something special; so excited was Luba for her accomplishment.

  “Here,” Luba said, handing her stick to Yana, with some meat on the end. Yana obliged and took a bite. She didn’t eat meat too much, she always wanted to be light on her feet, though she always enjoyed a good pastry when she could. The rabbit, of course, was tasty, and Yana nodded in approval. 

  “Well done,” Yana said. There wasn’t that much meat, as it was a scrawny little animal. “Will you save the hide?”

  “Of course. I already salted it!” Luba answered enthusiastically.

  “What troubles you, Yana?” Lyubov asked her. Bosh, Yana thought. How did she always know? No one knew Yana as well as she did. Yana leaned in close.

  “We need to break camp, right away, this morning,” Yana said. Lyubov nodded.

  “Da. We will break. I saw this in the leaves this morn.” Lyubov was good with the tea leaves, better than any that Yana had seen.

  “What else did you see?” Yana asked, unable to help herself.

  “Bastion,” she said.

  Yana was speechless.

  Lyubov looked over to Luba, and instructed her. “Tell the people we break now,” she said. Luba nodded, and went off to tell the people. Yana looked behind her, and saw that one of the young boys had ventured up behind her.   

  “Oi, Yana!” he exclaimed in greeting. “Oi, Dimmie,” she replied. “We break camp this morning.” His face fell.

  “I don’t want to! I wanted to take you to a field of blackberries I found.”

  Yana sighed with resignation. “You can do as you wish, but I am on the move,” she said. Dimmie knew there was no point to argue. “Go tell the others. We head southeast,” she said, pointing.

  Dimmie smiled. “That’s where the blackberries are!”

  Yana smiled back. “Then you will have your breakfast after all,” she said. “Will you help the pitch?” she asked.

  “I’ll help!” he declared. “But why now? I thought we were going to wait.” he said.

  “Just trust me,” Yana said.

  “Trust a gypsy?” he said, grinning widely. Yana gave him a look that said it all. Dimmie blushed and looked away. He bounded off, announcing the break to the people.

  Yana looked back to Lyubov, who was sitting at the morning fire. Lyubov motioned for her to sit back down. Yana lowered to one knee.

  “What have you done?” Lyubov asked. Yana was silent. She had no idea how to explain, and they didn’t have enough privacy. Her silence said plenty. She had done something. “I saw the break,” Lyubov said. “But I saw something else too. I saw five in black.” She was searching Yana’s eyes. Yana said nothing. Lyubov nodded. She already knew. Yana had seen five in black as well. “We talk soon,” Lyubov said. Yana nodded.

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  The rider tracking Yana was fairly certain he had successfully found his target. He tied his horse by a stream, and walked up a hill that overlooked a great valley. He leaned up against the big tree atop the hill. To the north, he could see the slightest tips of the city. To the east, in the valley below, he could see a gypsy caravan that had just broken camp. They were headed southeast, and he thought he might do well to follow them until nightfall, and allow them to pass the meadows into the forest. Perhaps he could catch her alone.

__________________________

Yana rode in her wagon, all her earthly possessions in that one little spot; she liked to keep her things close, sparse as they were. Lyubov rode next to her, and Luba had run on ahead with Dimmie to search for blackberries. Emilee was guiding Lyubov’s wagon, as it was a strain for the old lady to travel long distances. Yana was grateful that the people had broken so quickly, as she wanted to be as far away from here as possible. She had been preoccupied with gathering everyone, helping everyone, and getting the caravan moving, but now she had a moment, and her thoughts wandered back to the twilight of morning, and the look in his eyes. She wondered if he had survived.

  Just as she thought it, the hair stood up on the back of her neck, as she knew the answer. Lyubov’s voice rang in her ears, that one word. That name.

  Bastion.

  He had not only survived... he was close...

Damaged Goods

She held his hand tightly, her inner voices at war.... her face staying as light and neutral as she could keep it. Maybe he wouldn't notice.

She had said she wanted honesty from him. She had declared that she was indeed honest. But she knew she wasn't. She always marveled at how stupid men were to take her word for it.

Who would want her now, really?

She wanted to be honest, she really did. But there was no way she could. It wasn't so much to trick him with cruel intentions... but to protect him from knowledge she knew he wouldn't want. Knowledge of her.

Men had put her on a pedestal, before. She wished she could enjoy the princess treatment- really, what girl wouldn't? But she couldn't put on the act long enough to maintain that lofty perch, and she couldn't respect a man dumb enough to put her there.

She knew what she really was. She knew of the drugs she did, the drinking. She remembered more of the drinking than she really wanted to, because ugly words she had slashed people with still echoed in her ears. Often, she wasn't drunk at all, when she smashed faces with her words.

She knew what she really was.

Things she had accused of others.

Slut.

Whore.

Liar.

Thankfully, most people around her didn't know any better. Thankfully, he didn't know any better. But it made her feel certain doom, every time she tried to love a man. She didn't mind the things of his past, and really didn't want to know, except her morbid curiosity kept her asking and listening. It made her feel better, that she didn't have to feel so bad about the things she had done, the things that made her feel so deeply stained.

But her torment lied in the conflict of not being able to tell him. She was undesirable, and had to keep quiet so he wouldn't know. He was trying to like her, trying to be nice, and she just couldn't ruin that for him. She was grateful for the clean slate of knowing someone new, but she could never have a clean slate for her, for her own heart, could she? She wondered if she could take her secrets to the grave, or if they would take her there instead.

Her deeds couldn't be undone. The immovable truths underneath her illusions.

She wondered sometimes, if there was a God. What he might say of her.

She wondered if he would understand, if he existed.

If he cared.

She wondered, of the man whose hand she held now...

Why didn't he ask of her past? Why was he so patient with her? Looking into his eyes was disconcerting, because they were knowing. He wasn't fool enough to expect any purity, yet he was kind enough not to ask. He spoke healing to her sometimes. He encouraged her and made her laugh.

and it dawned on her.

He wasn't asking for her purity. He wasn't asking for her honesty, or her confession.

He was merciful.

He was just loving her.

He was only asking for her to love herself too

it was absurd, the idea. Her scorn tried to scoff at him, at the idea

but oh

it was tempting

to feel ok again

to feel acceptable

lovable

valuable

she was still so tentative

it terrified her

she still felt so damaged

but it was by his choice, foolish or wise

to see of her

to ask of her

the good