post-grad bumblings

In between cleaning, taking care of cute little chilluns, teaching a quickly-growing studio of private voice and dance students, and grading essays for AP English classes, I've been keeping pretty busy these days.  However, it has been on my agenda for a while to get back into regular blogging... so here is a quick list of random various things.

- I've been trying to get a lot more reading done.  right now: in the midst of That Hideous Strength.  the action is finally picking up, and I'm loving it.  I'm intrigued to find out whether this will become my favorite of Lewis' trilogy (as it is for several people I know)!

- this is very much slow on the uptake, but I'm kind of excited for the premiere of Once Upon a Time in Wonderland!  Why does it look so much better than Once Upon a Time...?  Perhaps it's the neverending allure of magic + Victorian England...

- And speaking of new series, Emma Approved starts today!  Lizzie Bennet Diaries was a lot of fun, so I'm looking forward to this.

- also, speaking of Victorian England, I'm in the process of trying to piece together a Victorian schoolgirl-esque costume for All Hallows' Eve.  I'm going as, shall we say, a certain entity... :)

- if all goes well, I'll be visiting the Cloisters in NYC over Thanksgiving with my wonderful boyfriend!  anyone who knows how much I love the Unicorn Tapestries can imagine all of the feelings I am feeling at this time. :)

- some friends recently introduced me to the magical Japanese-American artist Kishi Bashi, and I'm in love!  check him out:

I woke this morning to 52-degree weather, for which I am abundantly grateful after the sweltering weekend.  it's beginning to feel like proper fall! 'tis the time to revel in hot tea and bonfires and warm apple pie!  till next time, dear friends!  God bless!


image credit: historyandotherthoughts.blogspot.com

Song for Two Voices

I.
 

HER: I am no prophetess,

but I caught a glimpse this morning,

as I kept the dragon at bay -

my mind's eye showed me this:

a knight's dark head

bending over my hand,

laying his lips on my wrist,

where the blood pulses beneath my skin.

There's largely haziness these days:

gray fog in the mornings,

black smoke by night.

I used to dream about a garden,

when I was small,

and that, one day, a knight would be waiting there

(waiting for me),

standing beneath a tree of golden leaves:

sword set aside -

armor put to rest -

his face steeped in illuminated-manuscript splendor;

his shoulders broad with Gothic grandeur.

But a snake entered the garden,

as I slept.

He sang to me in my slumber,

and spoke to me when I woke.

He offered me fruits that

bit at my tongue,

and burned bitterly all the way down,

caustic to the heart's core.

A prince entered the garden

never at all.

None of my companions have been sweet.

II.

HIM: It's been years, now,
since I was sent forth.

I went out in search of

the maiden who battles the dragon

by night,

the warrioress,

for she would be

in need of a helper.

There was neither map nor fare,

but I was given a horse,

and I was given a sword,

and I was given a blessing

for the way.

My lord told me that

sustenance would fall

into humble beggar hands,

and only these.

He told me that

the way would be found

carved into my heart,

or not at all.

There have been times

when it seemed that

the path which beckoned to me

would destroy me, in the end:

such treacherous terrain,

such thick vine-growth,

such hungry thorns.

Firestorms surround me,

ahead and behind.

But this road is all I know.

And you should know, my lady,

that even if I lost my steed,

I would continue on until

my bloody feet had brought me

to your throne.

I gallop across fields of flame for you.

Perhaps you're enduring the dark smoke, too? -
I hear your voice crying from far beyond -

And now your beauty comes thundering through.

You are every promise, come true.

What's this darkness you speak of?

You make the night brighter than day.

See the sunbeams streaming from

your hair,

your fingertips,

your face -

oh, if I could

seize that light,

and swallow it like rich bread,

it would be food enough for all this journey.

 

III.

HER: I was promised a heart-pounding

good dream of a fairytale,

back in the beginning.

Where are you now?

And what has passed?

Where am I now?

Fast asleep in a tower of gold,

waiting to be wakened with a kiss.

Oh, it's a sweet dream,

such a sweet dream,

just a sweet dream.

My body, once so white and fresh,

is now bruised by this bleak armor,

striped red from the dragon's claws;

my hands scorched by his breath.

My mane used to trail after me,

a train of gold,

but I sheared it off long ago

(a warrioress cannot daydream of

letting down her hair).

Once I was the white-and-gold maiden.

Now I am blackened

and reddened

and burnt all over.

I fear, my prince, that you will find me

different than what you were promised

(for you, too, were made promises).

HIM: No, princess,

for here is the gold,

here is the treasure

(though you may not see it).

I see you,

a small, sweet-nimble soldier,

fluttering by the gates,

a wound in your shoulder -

Your mouth is sad,

your eyes are long,

but your arms are sure

and your heart is strong

and I want nothing else

than this lovely white dove,

this soldiering songbird

singing the daybreak to life.

HER: I sometimes hear you singing,

from very far away.

Will I ever see your face?

HIM: I see yours.

Please, do not turn it away.

HER: Here I am, cast out of my castle again.

I am shivering and alone in the night,

and I am frightened.

This sword weighs heavy on my arms.

When will your hands join mine upon the hilt?

Am I to be a vagabond princess?

HIM: You'll match me, at the very least.

Will you be my vagabond princess?

We might go wandering together.

HER: Then I would be only half-vagabond,

half-beggar,

having found not heart's home, no,

but heart-haven, yes;

A cove along the stormy shore

where shorn princesses may rest

and become fresh-water naiads once again -

or we might build together a tower of gold,

here in the dale,

we might weave ourselves a castle of

golden flowers

(so tender and safe)

and I would be new again,

I might turn young, just from

gazing into your face -

face warm and open, like a cup,

from which to drink up all the sweet sun-rays.

But now the smoke all but swallows me up.

Where are you? How long?

HIM: I will find you.

I will see you by the dawn.

BOTH TOGETHER: Oh, the fire, the fire!

I see now how we must go through together,

trusting that the flames will meld us into

forms more noble, forms more able to love.

HER: Sometimes it seems that

the fire will last for ever and ever

and ever and ever and ever and ever

and

ever -

HIM: I am here now, princess.

My dusty feet have come to stand

before your gates.

 

IV.

HER: Now I see -

and I should have known -

how things spring up where you go;

you carry the garden in your step.

I thought that it was dead.

HIM: Have you forgotten?

Do you remember?

I hope that you never forget

all the living things that in you bloom.

HER: What a night it has been!

HIM: What a day it will be.

HER: Now I see your sweet, sun-burnt face.

The golden tree is in your eyes.

HIM: You are so lovely -

please, let me help you slay the dragon -

you are so lovely.

HER: Good morning, my wandering minstrel.

HIM: Good morning, my lady.

 

V.

HIM: The fire may last long into the night,

but only Beauty will last for ever.

HER: All of my life,

I have wandered, thirsty, throughout this land,

searching for the cool spring that runs

down the mountainside.

My body has always chafed

against the world.

My heart has always ached

for the company of another pilgrim -

ached for one

with which to ache

for Beauty.

None could understand,

though I wanted someone to -

desperately I did -

and now you do.

 

VI.

HER: Promise me this, my dearest:

that no matter how much I may protest,

you will not let me glance back at you

as we climb out of the shadows.

Do not let me lift the lid of the box,

the pomegranate to my mouth,

or the candle to your face.

If I wake to strange noises in the night,

will with all your might

that I will not fly out

in search of the source,

but rather draw closer to you in our bed,

holding your hands to my ears.

HIM: There's no use pretending:

autumn will follow summer.

The knives will pierce your feet.

HER: And the glass will tear at your eyes.

HIM: So the circle will run complete.

But let us keep on climbing,

let us keep looking up;

I will carry you across this desert,

if you will be my eyes.

Let us always help one another from falling.

Let me carry you in my arms.

HER: Let me guide you.

He keeps us hidden away in the mountains;

he schools us until we are fit

to go out and sing of him -

oh, teach me nightly of the stars:

their shapes and their signs.

HIM: Discourage me from gazing too distractedly

into the constellations of your eyes.

HER: Tonight, my love,

I dream of when

I realized that

you would be my sole companion:

We had been fighting together

against that black snake, and

I had lost far too much blood.

Forgetting to think of yourself,

but knowing only the Home

which is waiting for us,

you pressed your lips to mine;

my veins to yours -

it was a transfusion of wine

and sunshine

and it surely saved my life.

Copyright © 2013 by Olivia Meldrum

Here, have some magic

Hello, dear friends.

It has been almost three months since I last posted here!  The fall semester was crazy - I wrote my senior theology thesis (and, with the help of the Mystical and Mellifluous Doctors, got an 'A-'), sang a full role in our Sacred Music program's production of St. Hildegard's Ordo Virtutum, and was kept quite busy with other endeavors on top of it all.  But now I am done (at least for a few weeks...) and am ready for Christmastime celebrations to commence!

With some leisure time finally at my disposal, I've returned to hunting down splendid and delicious art - and I simply must share what I have found recently.

ok first of all, confession: I guess that John Singer Sargent had, up till now, been classified in my mind as a guy who did a whole lot of not-particularly-exciting portraits...

But then I found THIS.

Chiron and Achilles (c. 1922-1925)

the contrast here is perfect: Chiron (who is inexplicably leaping through the clouds), Achilles and the eagle lend structure to the composition with their paralleled bows, arms and wings; while the clouds are simply fluffy and peacefully ubiquitous.  (are you enjoying my artistic commentary so far?)

(feel free to scroll on once you have reveled sufficiently)

this next artist is probably my most exciting discovery in a long time.  so prepare yourself for

JOHN BAUER.  (The Fairy Princess, 1905)

BAM.

and THIS

from The Crofters and the Gnomes  by Anna Wahlenberg

and I think my favorite so far is THIS

"He found her hiding in a tree"

and that is all I will share for the time being, because prolonged exposure to John Bauer's art has been known to cause confusion, fatigue, and occasionally explosion of the brain.

I will be posting again hopefully within the next couple of days - stay tuned!

Wishing you a joyful last week of Advent,

Olivia

Stern and splendid: why abortion can never be the "compassionate" solution

Yesterday, I received a tumblr message from a fellow user of the blogging site.  She was challenging the pro-life views that I occasionally express on my tumblr blog.  Her claim?  That it is "uncompassionate" to deny an abortion to a woman with an unwanted pregnancy.

Here's my response:

'The great theologian and philosopher C. S. Lewis once asserted that “love is something more stern and splendid than mere kindness.”

What’s he saying here? That kindness is unimportant? That we can stop being nice to each other, because it doesn’t really matter? No: just that kindness alone can’t be considered the epitome of love. It is only one side of a multi-faceted gem. Sometimes things must be put before comforting expressions of affection – things like truth. Love does not, and never can mean simply letting someone do whatever they want. Failing to interfere when someone is about to make a bad decision isn’t called love, it’s called cowardice. It seems that true love is often tough love.

Ok, now consider this. In my class on the theology of healing this semester, one of the many wonderful texts we’ve been studying is Peter Kreeft’s Making Sense Out of Suffering. In it, at some point, he talks about the ancient Greek philosophers’ understanding of the meaning of happiness. To them, happiness is not a mere emotion. Rather, it is a state of being. The Greek word for happiness is eudaimonia, which means “good spirit” or “good soul”. Whether or not one is authentically “happy” is dependent upon his moral state. And thus, to these great thinkers, there existed much greater evils than to suffer, or even to die. To sink into moral depravity is the greatest evil – and greatest killjoy, if you will – imaginable.

To quote Kreeft: “What is the greatest good? What gives our lives meaning? What is our end? Modernity answers, feeling good. The ancients answer, being good…Furthermore, the most popular modern answer to the question of what it means to be a good person is to be kind. Do not make other people suffer. If it doesn’t hurt anyone, it’s O.K. By this standard, God is not good if he lets us suffer. But by ancient standards, God might be good even though he lets us suffer, if he does it for the sake of the greater end of happiness, perfection of life and character and soul, that is, self.” (Making Sense Out of Suffering, 1986, pp 64-65.)

See, you speak of “compassion”. I suppose that if, faced with a frightened, distraught, confused pregnant woman, I could convince myself that it would be “compassionate” towards her to support her in getting an abortion. But oh, wouldn’t I feel like a hypocrite? And wouldn’t I be one, showing her “kindness”, at the expense of her own child’s life? Forced to choose one or the other, feeling good can never be chosen over being good. Emotions are fleeting. Your substance – well, that’s who you are.'

Receiving such messages via a computer - and from complete strangers, no less - often frustrates me, and always saddens me.  But I've discovered that these situations are really blessings in disguise.  Not only do they force me to think through, articulate and defend my beliefs, but they give me the opportunity to witness.

What do you think about the issues this woman brought up?  How would you respond?  Share below!

image: Charon and Psyche (detail) by John Roddam Spencer Stanhope

the great and wild Fairytale

To the atheist living in the secular world, fairytales do not exist, because they are too fantastic and too beautiful to possibly be true. Gerda never trekked across the frozen wilderness to save Kay from the Snow Queen. Beauty never went to stay in the Beast's palace. A certain dapper cat never set out to make a prince of a miller's son. It is good to believe that such stories are real when one is a child, and it is good to believe in their “messages” when one has grown up. But that is all.

To the Christian, the fact that the aforementioned events did not actually occur in history is mere happenstance: the Divine Author simply chose not to write those stories upon the pages of time. Instead, he chose to write the greatest and wildest Fairytale of all: the story of how God became man, suffered and died, in order to conquer death within us; and then rose again from the dead, in order to restore life within us. Before returning to Heaven, he bestowed upon certain chosen men the power to transform bread and wine into his very body and blood, and he commanded us all to eat this strange and beautiful Food, so that he might be with us always, and so that he might be always bringing us back to life.

See, the Christian does not shy away from the fantastic. It is his sustenance, his pilgrim's fare.

He is the quintessential dreamer, the odd-one-out, the one who has been to the magical world and back, who has seen wonderful things there and who has been changed by them. He is the one whom no one believes, who is named the fool or worse, the madman; he is the one whom society rejects, because a society obsessed with being modern and sophisticated has no place and no patience for the one who still believes in fairytales.

And yet, he is the one who always seems to be proved right at the end of the story. His childlike faith is always rewarded.

The world says to the Christian: “Your tale tickled our fancy at first, but now you have taken it too absurdly far. How could you believe that such impossible things actually happened? And how could you believe it so much as to let it change the way you live every part of your life? We will not be so changed – such a change would be too hard, too risky for us.

“Enough. Stop dreaming. Rub that stardust from your eyes.”

The Christian's reply is simple: “No, I cannot. The stardust allows me to see.”

Image: St. George and the Dragon by Edward Burne-Jones, found at illusionsgallery.com

In which the music of Georges Bizet does not prove conducive to getting to bed early

I think I've found my theme song.

I discovered it the other night, stayed up till 1:00 auditorially ogling it, and have been in love ever since.

It's going to be part of my French set for senior recital next semester.

Just look at the translated lyrics:

One day in the Springtime
as they walked in the valley,
Joseph sang a song
 to express his desire:
Shepherdess, oh shepherdess, 
 Oh tra la la (bis)
Shepherdess, oh shepherdess, 
Oh tra la la (bis)
Please allow, grant me this, may I now steal a kiss?
Oh fair shepherdess, won't you let me steal a tender kiss?
Oh fair shepherdess, please let me steal a tender kiss.

She then in reply
answered him in this way:
You wish, says your song,
 to take something of mine.
No, Joseph. No, Joseph,
 tra la la (bis)
No, Joseph. No, Joseph,
tra la la (bis)
Would you dare steal a kiss? Could I be so remiss?
No no no no, Joseph. You won't steal it.
I will give it away!
No no no, Joseph. You will not steal it.
For I'll give it away to you!

It's humorous and heart-melting at the same time. It's just so sweet. I love, love, love it.

gah. I can't wait

Pulchritude tam antiqua et tam nova

"Late have I loved you, O Beauty ever ancient, ever new, late have I loved you!  You were within me, but I was outside, and it was there that I searched for you.  In my unloveliness I plunged into the lovely things which you created.  You were with me, but I was not with you.  Created things kept me from you; yet if they had not been in you they would not have been at all.  You called, you shouted, and you broke through my deafness.  You flashed, you shone, and you dispelled my blindness.  You breathed your fragrance on me; I drew in breath and now I pant for you.  I have tasted you, now I hunger and thirst for more.  You touched me, and I burned for your peace."


St. Augustine, pray for us, that Beauty might ever draw us into deeper conversion, and deeper into Himself.  Thus may creatures come to resemble Creator; thus may we all become little beauties, fit for stirring hearts and rousing the world.

image source: cacina.wordpress.com

the Shepherdess doth protest: thanks to Obamacare, girls as young as 15 can now undergo free sterilization without parental consent

Because allowing minors to decide to permanently maim their sexual organs is a great idea.

***

Read about it here.

Right now I'm trying to picture myself at age 15.  If I remember correctly, I made some horrible decisions.  I was obsessed with glittery lip gloss.  I wore velour scrunchies and other garish little hair accessories around my ballerina's bun.  I was convinced that The Phantom of the Opera was the best musical ever.  In all seriousness, though - I did not have my crap together.  Most of us didn't.  And that's perfectly fine, because no one's expected to have his/her life figured out by age 15.

That being said.

So, a fifteen-year-old girl in Oregon decides that she wants to have sex, but never wants to worry about having babies EVER. (Since our government presents the unwanted pregnancy as if it were a disease to which abortion is the “cure”, who can really blame her?)  Where does she turn?  Well, sterilization is permanent birth control! What could possibly sound better to a frightened, self-conscious teenager?  After all, society is constantly pressuring her both to (a) have sex, and to (b) never get pregnant (all, of course, while ignoring the natural cause-effect relationship between the two).  

Plus, not only is it now legal for this girl to undergo sterilization; she doesn't even need to get her parents' permission. This has got to be a good, safe thing.  The leaders of this country know what they're doing. Right?

Right?

What happens when she's 20, and realizes that she wants to have babies with the man she loves?

What happens when her heart is ready for motherhood, but her body isn't - and never will be?

What happens when she realizes that she's made a huge mistake, one that she'll regret for the rest of her life?

You wouldn't give a 5-year-old a kitchen knife and then urge him to run around outside with it. So don't give a 15-year-old the power to choose sterilization, and then present it as if it were in any way a good or wise option.

Here's the thing: nobody deserves brokenness. Everyone deserves wholeness – of mind, soul, and body. Total wholeness. Wholeness of being.

All kinds of brokenness happens every day that we do not have control over: broken hearts, broken families, broken lives. Obamacare, don't give our children the option of adding their bodies to that list. Dressing it up as an avenue to “freedom” in the form of baby-free sex is putting a wolf in sheep's clothing. Brokenness is never the answer.

I'm sorry, but this is not "healthcare". This is called exploiting the naïvete of precocious children, and it is SHAMEFUL and HORRIFIC that ADULTS in power in our country have come to this decision.

and that's all.

p.s. yes I made a meme

the artist's prayer

O Sacred Heart of Jesus,

Today, I give you my heart. May it stay healthy, so that I may continue to live and work for you.  May it always be filled with longing, a golden string, by which you continually draw it closer to you.

I give you my imagination. May it remain good, pure, and fertile. May it dream things wild and sweet.  May it communicate joy to all those who encounter me and my art.  May it be ever poised for the realization of new epiphanies of Beauty.

I give you my mind, that it may remain clear and sharp.

I give you my hands: hands on the keys, hands covered in ink and paint, hands reaching outwards to express spoken word. I give you every callous; it is by these scars that they will know what I am, know that I am marked by you and for you.

I give you my tongue, my teeth, and my vocal chords, along with every note that comes forth from my mouth. I give you my lungs; keep them strong, that I may always sing for you.

I give you my feet, that they may take me where I must go.

I give you my ears, that they may always be listening for the Call.

I give you the corner of my eye, that it may always be waiting, watching, hoping for the glimpse of Heaven.

I give you myself, that I may become more fully a custodian of Beauty in this world, and for this world; for your glory.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, amen.

images: overheardinthesacristy.wordpress.com; flickriver.com

I have jumped on the Georgette Heyer bandwagon, and you should join me, for it is witty and rollicking and full of fluff

                                 

                                                                        

This book...I like it!

ANOTHER!!!

***

I mean, what is summer for, if not to while away the afternoons with charming Regency romances in the tradition of Austen?

Sylvester was just so sweet, and so much fun.  When Sylvester Rayne, the charming young duke of Salford, decides it is time to get himself a wife (a role that just about any young woman in England would love to fill), his godmother encourages him to consider one of her granddaughters, Phoebe Marlow.  Plain, unrefined, and frequently tactless, Phoebe has not much to recommend her other than her sparkling wit.  Sylvester is shocked and insulted to discover that Miss Marlow apparently detests him, but when she runs away from home, he finds himself coming to her aid.  Will misunderstandings keep them quarreling forever??  WHAT WILL HAPPEN IN THE END??? (yes, we all know what will happen. but wouldn't you enjoy reading it to find out for yourself?)

As a writer who was clearly a Jane Austen fan, Heyer hits all the right spots here.  The intelligent, somewhat naïve heroine who loves sentimental, sensational Gothic romances was clearly a tribute to Northanger Abbey.  Likewise, a hero-heroine relationship filled with as much fiery indignation as attraction certainly brought to mind the now-archetypal Pride and Prejudice pairing.

And yet, this book is very much its own little historical romance.  In fact, something that I thought was very interesting was the kind of language Heyer used, especially in her dialogue.  I'm the farthest thing from an expert on Regency etiquette, but here and there, she has characters using expressions the likes of which I've never seen in any of Austen's novels.  Rather, Heyer's dialogue seems sometimes to emulate, say, the clever banter in some old 40's or 50's film with Cary Grant.  These books are now old enough that they allow us to revel in the charm of two different eras!  We get to see the beautiful, fascinating world of Regency England as imagined by a woman who grew up at the turn of the century.  How doubly delightful.

So...if you've already read all of Jane Austen's novels and watched all of the BBC adaptations five times each this summer, and are looking for something new... here ya go.  Enjoy!

Image source: austenprose.com

Sunstroke, chapter 8: The Man in the Tree

In which Genevieve goes back,

Percy yearns for the rest of the story,

and Soleil is violently startled

***

It was only when the centaur, whose name was Diamon, was settled down onto the parlor floor (a process both awkward and endearing to behold; his legs were shaky, like a newborn colt's) and given a cup of tea (which he sniffed suspiciously before sipping), that he began to answer the questions that Percy and the others could barely keep from asking. Yes, he had Prince Percival and his sisters to thank for his sudden appearance at Minnowway. Yes, he was brand-new. The first thing he'd known was that he was standing in front of the King. There had been nothing before that, although it was odd: he seemed to have visions, or senses, if you would, of centaurs racing across fields together, gathering around fires at night to roast the day's kill; playing sweet, strange tunes to each other upon pipes. This knowledge of his ancestors seemed something like memories, but only because there was nothing better to which they could be compared. Yes, it felt rather wonderful to be newly-made, to be freshly alive. Yes, he was starving, and – with utter politeness – might someone be troubled to show him to the grounds of the estate, where he could find running water and fresh vegetation?

Genevieve summoned a servant, and Diamon trotted eagerly out of the room after the white gloves, an enormous smile upon his kind, bearded face.

“Mmm,” Genevieve sighed contentedly, after a moment. Percy felt as though he were afloat on a sea of golden champagne. The grand expanse of all these discoveries was simply overwhelming.

“But,” Musetta began, and when she spoke, her voice had softened – less inquisitive, and more awed - “please, might you tell us about yourselves? I mean – to which species do you belong? You seem rather close to human.”

Genevieve stiffened in her chair, her chin snapping up.

“I am human,” she said coldly.

“Oh,” Musetta said, sounding taken aback. “I beg your pardon.”

A charged silence ensued. Percy observed the white cat cautiously. Her eyes were downcast, her faced suddenly pained. She was playing with the golden locket that hung around her neck.

“Gen and I – we didn't – we didn't always look like this,” Hamlin said hesitantly. “We were both blond,” he added, as if this was key information. Then the tips of his ears turned red again, and he bowed his head. The silence resumed.

“A spell has been cast upon us,” Genevieve finally spoke up. “It's what turned us into cats, and turned our servants invisible.” She gave a helpless giggle. “I'm sorry, it's just that we've never had to explain this to anyone before. Well, except Mortimer, but, you know, he's -” she turned to the dark, slender man, and he glanced up at her. They held each other's gaze for a moment. “- one of the kindest, most understanding people I've ever met,” Genevieve finished, with another giggle. Mortimer's eyes dropped, and he smiled gently.

Percy looked keenly from one to the other. He hadn't realized that there was something between them. He wondered who Mortimer might be – what his full name was; why he stayed at Minnowway rather than with his own family. Percy curbed his tongue, deciding that he'd better not pry. Things seemed to operate on their own terms and at their own pace here. It was all so different from the stiff, staunchly formal world Percy had always known, where the smallest breach of etiquette could bring unreasonable shame upon one's family; all while insincerity, deception, and masked malice were ignored, and understood as simply being part of the game. It had always seemed to Percy that, within a family and among friends, one could commit the very worst of crimes; and yet still be redeemed through honest contrition and honest pardon.

But treat one another with insincerity, Percy thought, and you may as well throw in the towel. You've forfeited your ability to make honest mistakes, let alone honest reconciliations. Your actions are that of a paper doll; your words those of a mechanical bird. You have chosen to be less than real.

He saw no such dark cloud amongst his new friends. He saw only kindness and openness; and sweetness: in a spectrum that spread from the proud, sparkling little cat-woman, to her gruff, bumbling brother, to the dark man whose green eyes seemed to see and perceive all.

“You should tell them, Gen,” Hamlin said, touching his sister's elbow.

“I know. I'd have to go back,” she said quietly. She turned her hands palms-up on her lap, and gazed down at them, smiling. Percy waited, a smile creeping onto his own face.

When she finally looked back up, she had changed: she was shining as if reflecting the sun; she had come fully alive. Her clothing seemed to be no longer black, but white, white as a bride's gown. And everything else had changed with her: colors were more vibrant, and sounds echoed more richly throughout the parlor. Percy found himself sitting at the edge of the sofa, leaning in to hear what the white cat had to say. All seemed to have stopped to observe her: the birds and even the trees were silent and still, inclining ears and waiting breathlessly.

“It happened three years ago,” Gen said. “I was seventeen, and it was summertime.”

***

THE CHERRY TREE

being an ACCOUNT of the SUMMER of 1760

in the LIFE of GENEVIEVE MARIETTE BEAULIEU

I.

“Ham? Ham. Ham.”

Genevieve was poking her brother repeatedly in the stomach as he lay in the sun room's hammock, reading a volume of poetry. At length, the book shifted to the right to reveal a pair of doleful blue eyes.

“Gen.”

“Ham. Help me convince Miss Marie to throw another party here tomorrow night? Please?”

“No, Gen. I'm all party-ed out. Besides, you know I'm not much a party person to begin with.”

“Well, you...you seem to like parties when certain pretty girls are involved,” Genevieve retorted. Hamlin's eyes went wide. The book resumed its original position over his face.

“That's why you're reading so much poetry all of a sudden, isn't it? Because you know that Jacqueline Bertrand loves it.”

“Well, I – I – ahhmurnuhummrrnun,” Hamlin said, his voice sinking to an indistinct rumble. Genevieve could see his ears glowing pink where they protruded from his golden curls.

“And that's why you finally shaved off your beard, too,” she added, grinning.

“Just, it was – get – hotmmmergapuph,” Hamlin replied.

“I'm so BORED! And it's so beastly hot,” Gen sighed, sitting down abruptly and flopping back onto the floor. She snapped open her fan and beat it until her curls flew about, sticking to her face.

“So, stop being bored and go do something,” Hamlin said after a while, a little resentfully.

“See?” Genevieve cried, sitting up and pointing. “You mumble deliberately.”

The book moved aside once again. “Genevieve, you've got thousands of books and two hundred acres of land at your disposal. It's no one's fault but your own if you're bored.”

“It would only be hotter outside!”

“Then you find a tree, and sit in its shade! Goodness, Gen, you're seventeen years old. You're not a child anymore!”

“But I hate just going off and being alone. I can't stand it!”

“Now's the perfect time to learn to,” Hamlin said simply, and the book went back up. Genevieve glowered at him for a few minutes before heaving a sigh, getting up, and marching out into the corridor. She paused to give another exasperated sigh at her reflection in the mirror by the back entrance. Puffing out her lips into a pout, she turned and slouched through the doors.

Once outside, Gen blinked beneath the bright sunlight. Oh, silly – she'd forgotten a hat. After staring listlessly back at the entryway for a few minutes, she decided that she didn't feel like going back inside. She shrugged and began to meander east. She figured that the gardens must be diverting enough.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd been outside, alone, for no reason other than to be outside. If friends were visiting, she'd show them Minnowway's grounds, but it always seemed to be more for the sake of making an impression than out of some kind of love for the outdoors. Gen nodded stiffly to workers whose names she couldn't remember.

She breezed through the first garden, which was filled with ponds, all surrounding one great fountain in the center. She passed on into the next one, which was devoted to topiaries of fantastical creatures, and on into the next one, where peafowl were strutting about. She moved through the maze of countless gardens, her heels clicking primly.

Finally, she came upon one garden that made her linger before entering. She frowned up at the stone archway, unsure of why the simple design struck her so.

She stepped within, and the hot bustle of the summer day instantly stilled.

This world was enveloped in silence, punctuated only by the occasional burst of birdsong. Genevieve strolled easily along the winding brick walkway, motivated, for the first time, by curiosity. The grass that lay on either side of the path looked so very luscious; most luscious of all where the trees created deep, cool patches of shade. She was about to slip off her shoes and go dancing about in it, until she realized how ridiculous she would look. Such behavior was for children, not young ladies. What if one of the servants were to see, and then spread word about it? Pull yourself together, Gen, she scolded.

She turned her eyes upward. The towering chestnuts created something of a canopy above. Squat little umbrella trees, now in full bloom, provided miniature oases from the sun. She picked her way delicately through the beds of daffodils and lavender. The wild rose bushes that lined each wall of the garden were bursting with delicate pink and deep fuchsia. As she moved deeper, their rich, sweet scent wafted forward. Her steps slowed until she was standing perfectly still. The fan slipped from her hand, but she didn't think to pick it up again. Her chin lowered itself from its place in the air, and she stared, distracted, at the closest rose bush.

Something shivered, at the back of her mind, and then in the pit of her heart – something that she had never known before. At least, something that she had only known very, very long ago, when she was a child. She put out a shaky hand to balance herself against a tree trunk. She turned, slowly, and continued deeper into the garden.

Her steps were careful now, and hesitant. Her eyes scanned the ground; she was afraid, somehow, to look haphazardly in just any direction.

She stopped when the toe of her shoe bumped into the roots. She knew where she stood.

It was the cherry tree, the one whose planting none of the gardeners had ever been quite old enough to remember; the one that had grown taller and broader and stronger than any proper cherry tree ever should; the one that little Gen had climbed; whose branches had provided a bed for warm-weather naps; which had served as base for hide-and-go-seek with Hamlin; which had fed her through every summer, fed her belly, fed her heart, till her fingers and mouth were sticky and red and sweet.

Gen looked up.

There, sprawled out among the branches, and fast asleep, was a beautiful young man. He was very long, and very blond, and his suit was of golden brocade. He had propped his bare feet up onto one sturdy branch, and his arms were flung carelessly over his head. His beautiful, pale face was turned towards her, and there was a smile on his lips. She stared up at him, dumbstruck.

The man stirred, taking a deep breath and stretching his arms. He rubbed his eyes, blinked them, and looked down at Gen. A smile bright as the sun broke over his face. He sat up. “Hello, my lady,” he said, in a voice like warm earth and red wine.

“Hello,” Gen said hazily.

“Is it your land upon which I have ventured? I beg your pardon for this rather unconventional situation in which we meet; it's only that I desperately needed a place to lay down my head for the night; and this fine tree seemed just made for repose!” He patted the trunk appreciatively.

Gen goggled at him. “Y-yes, it is my brother's land,” she stammered.

“Oh – I am most abominably rude – I am Luc, prince of the Land that lies beyond the East,” he said. Gen caught her breath in awe. A prince! “And what is your name, my lady?”

She flushed proudly. “I am Genevieve Beaulieu, Lady of Minnowway, where you now find yourself; my brother, Lord Hamlin Beaulieu, is Duke.”

“Lady Genevieve. It is a delight to meet you.” His bright blue eyes smiled along with the rest of his face.

“Likewise,” she said, and then, partly because curiosity was killing her, and partly because his bold smile emboldened her - “your Highness, if I may inquire, what is it that brings you here, and so unaccompanied?”

“Oh! I am simply traveling for the sake of seeing what there is to see. To meet people, to know places, to encounter beauty. And, sometimes, I do prefer to travel alone, to be alone. There are some things that must be done on one's own, after all.”

Genevieve stared up at him, shocked. “But – to travel all alone! And a prince! The thought is inconceivable!” She cried. “What if you were to be robbed, or to injure yourself?”

He lifted his brows. “That is, indeed, a risk that I take,” he said simply.

“And who tends to you throughout the day, and prepares you for bed at night?”

“I do. I gather fruit or hunt game, and find a good place to settle each sundown. Tell me, lady,” he said, his voice taking on a confiding lilt, “don't you ever wish to strike out and do things all on your own? Don't you ever grow tired of being waited on hand and foot?”

“Why, of course not!” Gen said, a little indignantly. “Such treatment is my right as noblewoman.”

“And how did you earn that right?” the prince asked softly. “By choosing to be born to a duke?”

Genevieve was stricken wide-eyed and silent.

Prince Luc looked at her very seriously for a few moments. But then he blinked, and a smile smoothed his face again. “Are you Lady by virtue of those golden curls?” he teased. “Or perhaps those rosy cheeks? Or is it that proud little demeanor?”

Gen dropped her gaze, blushing hotly. She heard him chuckle above her.

“But truly, fair one,” he continued, “what I mean is that a queen cannot rightfully call herself a queen unless she is willing to serve her own subjects.”

“Ah, but I am not a queen.”

“For shame, my lady.”

It was Gen's turn to chuckle. A fleeting thought passed through her mind: why do you feel so at ease with a man you've never met before? And a prince, no less? But she brushed it aside.

“Is not your father needing you at home in his kingdom, your Highness?” she asked, hoping that the question was not too impertinent. She imagined that few questions could be, when addressed to a man up in a tree.

“Not at the present. Indeed, it is my father who sent me.”

Genevieve tried to decipher this, and failed.

“Well, Sir,” she said, folding her hands pertly, “where have you left your horse?”

The beautiful man grinned. “I haven't got one.”

“What! You, travel on foot! Now that, I cannot believe. You are jesting.”

“So little faith in my bodily fitness!”

“Well then pray, Sir, where have you deposited your shoes?” Gen asked, looking pointedly at his feet, which he was now dangling cheerfully from his perch in the tree.

“Haven't got those either,” he laughed. When Gen gaped, he laughed some more, and pointed to his feet for inspection. “See for yourself,” he said. Sure enough, his soles were brown and covered in thick, impressive-looking callouses.

“Your Highness,” Gen said, “I am utterly shocked by your lack of footwear. It is disgraceful!” (But secretly, secretly, she was utterly delighted by this beautiful, barefoot vagabond of a prince.)

“I beg to differ, my lady! Indeed, what are you doing, wearing shoes on such a day as this? It is outrageous! The earth seeks to please you by providing warmth and sunshine, and you respond by clomping about on it with heels? I am scandalized by your feet, and the slippers in which they are currently clad.”

And they both laughed.

“Lady Genevieve,” Prince Luc said, after they had quieted, “may I rest here at Minnowway for a while?” His eyes had turned wistful, and a little sad.

“Of course!” Gen assured. “I mean – as long as my brother doesn't object, and I don't see why he would!”

“Good,” he replied, and he smiled at her once again. There was something supremely wide-eyed and candid about the way that he looked at her. It made Gen feel naked and shy and beautiful all at once. She had to keep looking away.

“Lady Genevieve,” he said softly, from above. Gen forced herself to look back up.

He was grinning at her as though he thought her to be the loveliest woman in the world; as though she were the only woman in the world. It was all so strange. What is happening? Could this possibly be real? Gen thought faintly.

“Aren't your feet tired from walking for so long in those fussy heels?” His eyes were sparkling.

“Oh – well, I – I mean, I'm used to it -”

“They're coming off. I insist.”

And then, in one, easy movement, Prince Luc jumped down from the branches. A small shower of cherries rained down in accompaniment, bouncing about his feet.

There was something somehow new about the way that he walked. It wasn't particularly fluid, but it was very steady and very strong. And it wasn't as if he were taking his first steps, either – rather, it was simply as if he walked without every having stumbled or fallen. Dusting off his suit, he took the few steps necessary to come to stand directly before Genevieve. She had to turn her face all the way upwards to meet his eyes, for he towered over her; she did not nearly reach his shoulder. He extended his hand, and she took it.

She stooped to dislodge one foot from its shoe, but it took longer than was necessary, for all she could think about was the warmth of his hand holding hers. When she finally stood back up, a wave of dizziness washed over her, sending her off balance.

“Oh -” she yelped, tottering backwards, but he caught her and steadied her once again. “Thank you, Sir,” she gasped.

“Of course, my lady.”

“I'm not sure – maybe – perhaps it is the sun – I did forget a hat today, and I haven't been out very much lately – just a touch of sunstroke, that is all. I feel quite better now.” Gen did not disclose that the sensation had not been entirely unpleasant, or that it had worsened when he had put his arms around her.

“Well, then -” and he bent down to scoop up the tiny slippers, and then straightened and offered her his arm. “Are your toes happy?” He inquired merrily, as they made their way out of the garden.

“Oh, very! The grass is simply lovely,” Gen breathed.

“Of course it is! Will you introduce me to the gardeners, Lady Genevieve?”

“Oh – your Highness, I – I am ashamed to say that I can't remember their names.”

The beautiful, barefoot, brand-new man drew her arm closer through his own. “Then we'll find out together,” he said.

***

Percy stared incredulously at Genevieve. He smiled over at Mortimer, expecting to get a twinkling grin in return. But Mortimer was focused on the little white cat, his face drawn.

“Is there more to the story?” Percy finally asked, politely.

“What?” Genevieve piped, looking up. Her eyes were blurry and distant.

“You wandered outside, and found a man named Luc sleeping in a tree...” Percy trailed off. He glanced over at Musetta, who seemed to be equally confused.

Gen stared at him, seeming to be somewhere else entirely.

“I don't understand,” Percy said finally, with a laugh. “Am I missing something? I don't see what any of this has to do with the... the spell that you mentioned. Is there more to the story?”

Genevieve smiled, dropping her eyes. “There is more,” she conceded. “Much more. But please, might it wait till tomorrow night?” She looked up, and her eyes were pleading.

Percy nodded, although he still felt lost. “Of course, my lady.”

Genevieve smiled. “Please. All of you – call me Gen. Let us drop formalities. And now, as it is almost seven o' clock, let us make our way to the dining hall.”

***

Upon retrospect, Soleil would not remember that night's dinner in the same way that four other of the people at the table would remember it. Her impression, instead, would be similar to that of only one other.

She would remember, hazily, how Gen revealed yet another surprise: a midnight soiree, a gathering of members of the Guild of Enchanted Ones; Kay and Gerda were already due any time now – they had been Queen Viviana's mentors, and now they, along with two others, would come to stay at Minnowway to serve as tutors for the six of them.

She would remember the food, which tasted even more decadent than it looked: the roasted fowl, the colorful selection of puddings, the array of candied and crystallized fruit, the endless bottles of golden honey-berry liquor.

She would remember thinking it strange how Mortimer kept showing her attention, when she was doing nothing (so far as she could tell) to encourage him – and especially when Musetta was trying her hardest to catch his eye.

She would remember being at the very height of giddiness, continuously suspended in a state of surprised delight; sitting there with her family and her new friends, with chandeliers blazing above; surrounded by more beauty than she ever knew existed, as well as the promise of more beauty to come; finally convinced that it was not all a dream – is it not strange? How somehow, the living is sweeter than the dreaming, she thought to herself.

But one memory would stand stark and glittering-clear, sharp as a sword's edge, in Soleil's mind, when she would seek solitude in order to think later that night.

She saw what happened, perhaps because she had been waiting for it; perhaps because fate would have it that she should be the first of the Simons to see. In any event, it did seem odd that it should go unnoticed by everyone else at the table.

Musetta had just said something witty, and everyone was laughing. Mortimer reached out to take up his dessert fork, and upset his water glass in the process. He hurried to catch it (in this moment Soleil realized that the glass had been completely full, while the wine glass beside it empty), and his right hand consequently got quite doused. Soleil took in that

(firstly) Mortimer winced in response to the water, and grasped his hand, as if it were acid burning his skin;

(secondly) Mortimer folded back the cuff of his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt at the wrist, and began to roll it up when he saw something beneath the fabric that caused him to pale (if it was possible for him to become paler) and quickly pull down his sleeve once again. Before he managed this, however, Soleil caught a glimpse of thin, red marks beginning at the inside of his wrist and traveling up his arm, marks which could have been anything from knife-cuts to fresh burns.

(thirdly) Mortimer lifted his gaze and looked her squarely in the eye.

(lastly) Soleil snapped her eyes away, thunder roaring her chest, and deafening her ears.

Copyright © 2012 by Olivia Meldrum

Summertime scribblings

More little characters, not connected to any book I'm writing...yet :)

1.  Gnome

2.  Frightened nymph

3. Monocle

4. Old mountain man

5. Ghost of a schoolboy

6. Sprightly

7.  Jaded businessman

8. The maiden conceals herself

9. Shepherdess

10.  Reclining faun

I'm so happy that I've finally started drawing again!  I'm having so much fun :) enjoy!