Anastasia's locket

Some people seem to be born with vital energy that never seems to die. Not only does it enable them to keep up with the times, but it also qualifies them to provide quite a bit of momentum through their personalities. Even crossing borders into the insane. Those are blissful beings who do not feel compelled to understand the meaning of things. They never tire, do not miss a step, don't fall out of rank, only to be left by the roadside and watch the procession as it moves on without them.

Fred was such a man. And yet Anastasia found that the moving procession of life, with those fantastic colors more beautiful than sunbeams on life's undulating waters, had left him behind. Dumped by the side of the road, somewhere in the realm of shadows.

Does it really matter if souls fall under the feet of an eternally pressing crowd, moving with the majestic rhythm of the spheres? The dissonant clashes blow up in a single harmonious note that merges with the music of other worlds to complete a divine symphony. Bigger than the stars, this procession of human energy...

Had he cried when he was left in the grass under the clouds? Fred had always felt at home in society and the volatile nature of life. But it had caught up him, this cruel procession; he had had to endure the ruthless hands and the suffocating breath of the crowds. He could no longer hear the rhythm of the march.

Be still, stupid heart! Keep still and wait!

On the slope of a hill, a few men had gathered around a fire. Their clothes were worn beyond the point of rags. One of the men was holding a tin cup over the fire. Two other men were sprawled on the floor and a fourth sat closer to the fire, trying to read a scrap that had been a letter once.

-"What do you have there around your neck, Fred?" one of the men lying in the darkness asked.

Fred did not answer and fumbled at the buttons still on his shirt, while he kept reading his letter.

-"What is that in your hand Fred? A picture of your sweetheart?" the man continued.

-"That´s no gal´s pic." mocked the man sitting by the fire with a cup in his hand. "And I'm sure that necklace is voodoo business. It's a charm, am I right Fred? “It is supposed to keep you out of trouble." he chuckled, "How much did you pay for it?"

-"What are you talking about?" Fred asked absently.

-"What you have there around your neck: That's a hocus pocus charm isn't it?" the man pushed mockingly.

-"Perhaps." Fred replied. The letter had aroused sadness in him. He lay down on his back and stared at the stars. He let his mind drift to a spring day long ago. He could hear the bees buzzing, and he saw a girl bid him farewell. She unfastened her locket and attached it to a chain around his neck. It was an old-fashioned locket to commemorate her parents' wedding date and her most prized possession. Fred could feel the fabric of her white dress and saw the English sleeves drooping as she wrapped her arms around his neck. Her sweet face floated so vividly before his mind's eye. That pretty face, so haunted by the pain of their parting. Fred turned and buried his face in his arm.

The darkness of the night, with its treacherous silence and illusion of peace, seemed to embrace the men. Fred dreamed of Anastasia. She brought him a letter. He was ashamed of himself for the way he looked. He didn't even have a chair to offer her. He wanted so badly to give her something to eat, but he had no food.

A snake wriggled its way into Fred's dream, wrapping itself around his throat. He tried to grab it, but the beast would not let go of its stranglehold. Fred woke up with a start.

What was this rush and rambling on the hillside? Movement rushed through the pines. The dawn unfolded in the east.

-"What is going on?" Fred asked.

 Rumble rolled across the plain. Smoke curled up to the sky and overshadowed the hills.

-"Maybe it's going to rain?" Fred wondered. No! No thunder. He knew better. He understood.

There...two men were walking across the plain. A large man dressed in priestly robes, and behind him a smaller man carrying a bucket of water and a bottle of wine. The two men looked at the dead on the ground. Their mission was to comfort men in need of a glimmer of hope.

 They came to a young soldier: still a child really, his face turned to the sky, as if imploring the heavens. His fingernails were filled with dirt he had gathered in his desperate grasp for life. Around his neck hung a gold chain with a locket. The priest leaned over the young soldier and removed the chain. The old priest was accustomed to the horrors of war, but its pathos always brought tears to his old eyes.

The Angelus sounded in the distance. The priest and his attendant knelt and muttered a prayer for the dead.

The beauty of a spring day always hangs over the earth like a blessing. Down the leafy road that ran along a narrow, winding creek, an old-fashioned car rumbled, not really built for driving on rough country roads.

The old Chevrolet rode past two large black horses, pulling a heavily loaded cart at a slow measured trot.

 A girl sat in the car, scarred by a life that robbed her of youth´s illusions and earthly compensations, turning her into an old woman way too early for her time. And an older man had come to get her for a morning ride and sat next to her.

Anastasia wore a simple but stern black dress, as befits a nun's dress. A medallion nestled under her undershirt. She never showed it to anyone. It was sacred in her eyes because it had returned to her and was forever linked to a terrible but important moment in her existence.

The locket had returned in a letter. Every morning she smoothed the letter on her knee and read it. 

 The world had seemed so beautiful until then. Everything was unreal after reading the letter for the first time. She had been so young and full of life until the arrival of that letter.

The letter told of an autumn day drawing to a close, and the red fading in the skies. It described the night that had begun to gather shadows to cover the faces of the dead. One of those fallen was hers. She saw that face of her dead in her mind's eye, lifted to the gray sky in agony. A flood of resistance had engulfed her at first. Why was spring still here with its flowers and tantalizing scents when he was dead? Why was she still here? What did she have to do with the world of the living from now on?

Anastasia was listening to the buzzing of the bees and the song of birds. She enjoyed the heavy spicy aromas that hung in the air.

Anastasia was again overcome by that terrible sense of loss that had descended on her so many times before. The soul of her youth cried out for its rights, for a share in the glory and joy of the world.

She leaned back and pulled her veil a little closer around her face. A whiff of dust had blown in, and she wiped her cheeks with her white handkerchief, which she had made herself, from one of her old muslin petticoats.

-"Do me a favor, Anastasia." the old man said, "Take off that veil. It clashes with the harmony and beauty of this day."

Anastasia obediently gave in to the wish of her old companion, and untied the cumbersome, gloomy curtain from her cap, folded it neatly, and placed it on the chair next to her.

-" Ah, you see, that's so much better!" the old man said, in a tone of boundless relief. "Don't ever put that thing on again, honey."

Anastasia felt hurt as if he wanted to exclude her from sharing in the torment that had been put on so many people. She pulled out her muslin handkerchief again.

The car left the main road and drove into a plain that used to be a meadow. Clumps of trees stood here and there, shining in the spring. In the distance, cattle were grazing in the tall, lush grass. A lilac hedge ran along the path leading to an old house. The scent of heavy blossoms met Anastasia in a tender embrace as she stepped out of the car.

-"Don't you think a day like today holds the promise of miracles?" the old man asked, putting an arm around her shoulders. "The whole earth is brimming with life. Can you believe, Anastasia, that on a day like today, heaven will give us a glimpse of our dead? Give them back to us, just for a moment?" He spoke in a soft, but impressive way. A tremor sounded in his voice. Every line in his face radiated excitement. Anastasia stared at him with a certain sense of inexplicable terror, but with eyes full of joy.

A sudden stream of melodious greetings fluttered from leafy shelters. Anastasia felt as if she had entered a dream, more poignant and real than life.

Amid a haze of green, Anastasia saw familiar faces. She heard voices coming from the fields.

-"Fred? There... isn't that Fred? Her Fred. Her dead Fred. No, her living Fred. He came up to her and held her. She felt the beating of his heart and the bliss of his kisses that strove to awaken her spirit and bade her to rejoice.

Many hours later Anastasia drew the locket from her bosom. In her mind's eye, she saw the face of her dead soldier again, his face lifted to the sky in agony.

She said nothing but thought a silent prayer of thanks for Fred who had been allowed to return to the land from beyond the shadows. For the briefest of moments….

Some people seem to be born with vital energy that never seems to die. Not only does it enable them to keep up with the times, but it also qualifies them to provide quite a bit of momentum through their personalities. Even crossing borders into the insane. Those are blissful beings who do not feel compelled to understand the meaning of things. They never tire, do not miss a step, don't fall out of rank, only to be left by the roadside and watch the procession as it moves on without them.

Fred was such a man.

Does it really matter if souls fall under the feet of an eternally pressing crowd, moving with the majestic rhythm of the spheres? The dissonant clashes 

blow up in a single harmonious note that merges with the music of other worlds to complete a divine symphony. Bigger than the stars, this procession of human energy...

Be still, stupid heart! Keep still and wait!