Every day as “part of what I do” I click through blogs, video blogs, links, photos…I love all of the sharing that happens via Social Media (you can read more about that here). But when there is a document that the trail of breadcrumbs (tweets, mentions, etc.) leads me to that requires me to dowload…I have to think twice. Do I really want that document? Do I trust the source? That hesitation that I have, has lead me to do something that MIGHT be unusual. I am posting the first Chapter of Kay Whitaker’s book right here, no download required 🙂 I hope you like it! The entire book is available at Sterling Hope – when you purchase a book with Sterling Hope a donation is made to a charity fund…oh I am getting way off track. Here’s chapter 1:
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Barefoot, Ahman Mason sat on the farm house porch watching the haze of twilight descend on the meadow. She poured a glass of wine reserved for this moment, savoring the texture as she placed the bottle on the table between the two rockers. Two rockers, proof she wanted company, for now the box filled with books was enough.
She stood up, rubbed her aching arms. It only took a day to unpack. The realtor said leave the furniture, clear the closets and the cupboards. People like to see their things not yours. She had shut the door on him, looked up at the chandelier like a tourist in a museum. Stared in detached wonder at the table, the rug beneath and the heavy tapestry beyond, all had been important choices. The leather bookmark dangled from the decorator’s artfully placed stack meant to appear as though she absently left it. No more than a prop then, she had yanked it out discovered the silent satisfaction, the only satisfaction remaining in these lovely things was in shucking them into garbage bags, pressing them into the Goodwill man’s open hands. It gave her momentum, sustained her.
Ahman approached the railing of the porch and breathed in the sweet spring fragrance of the meadow’s exhale. Settled, she clutched her throat squeezing away the rising panic. Papers signed such an innocent sinister act.
No, this was right. She was right, finally right. She watched an owl glide across the field, soaring toward her roof top. Owls meant something; she glanced at the box of books bit her lip trying to recall if she kept the one that would give her the explanation.
Time yawned before her like the night sky swallowing the meadow. She yanked her hair away from her face, hooking it behind her ears. Holding onto the porch railing she raised and lowered herself like a ballerina. The trees stood like dark sentries at the edge of the meadow. No one would see her. And what did she care anyway? She had become a voyeur pressing her nose against thick glass separated from the functioning world. The oxygen was thinner on this side. She gulped her wine and executed a pirouette. Laughing as the ruby liquid sprinkled her, splattered the porch. She refilled the glass, toasted the empty rocker as she dipped into a slow waltz pinching her fingers together to hold up her imaginary gown. She closed her eyes, humming.
Her bare foot stepped on something that felt like a garden hose. She looked down mesmerized at her white skin pressed against a wriggling black tube.
Snake!
Ahman vaulted twisting her ankle as she crashed onto the floorboards her face landing inches away from the flicking tongue. She screamed and rolled to her feet seizing the first object she could fit in her fist. She smacked the bottle on the snake’s tail. It coiled toward her. She closed her eyes and thwacked away wine spewing everywhere. Her arms vibrated glass against wood. She peeked in time to see the snake slithering toward the rosebushes. It lived there. If she let him escape she would have to share her space. A part of her that she had forgotten rallied. She stepped toward the retreating serpent wielding the bottle like a club.
“Don’t hurt him.” The voice was barely audible.
Ahman stopped, glanced around. The snake left an undulating trail through the spilled wine as it slid over the porch edge. She lowered her arms, trying to even her breathing. Would it be worse to hear voices or have an intruder? She glanced accusingly at the trees that dropped their guard and saw the gleam of an arm next to a porch column.
“Come out,” she said, tightening her grip on the bottleneck. A slender young man stepped into the light. His arms hung at his sides; a thick clump of red hair covered part of his face.
“Come on.” Ahman spoke in a softer tone putting the bottle down as the boy slowly came up the steps. “What are you doing?”
“Standing,” he said, averting his face.
Ahman opened her mouth hastening to close it again, swallow the reprimand dancing on her tongue. She clasped her wrist with her index finger, her thumb free to make circles around her pulse point, a trick she used to calm her flash point temper. The part of her awakened by the intruder was still shaking pulse pounding, as if roused from a deep sleep to do battle. She still cared, or some diminished part of her still cared and that was enough. “Then come, sit.” She indicated the rocker.
Even with his shoulders hunched forward he was taller than her. He took a giant step to avoid the curving pattern the snake made through the wine. Ahman skirted it as well noticing the stains on her tee shirt; the freshly painted porch looked like a crime scene. The young man sat on the edge of the rocker, hands resting on his knees, back straight. His skin was alabaster.
“I’m Ahman, Ahman Mason.” She did not hold out her hand. “I just moved in, today actually. But I’m not new here.”
“It’s a black snake. They don’t bite. Round heads are safe.”
“Uh, oh, yeah, I think I remember that.” Ahman glanced over at the rosebushes. “When you come face to face with one… I guess I looked pretty silly.”
The young man lifted his chin slightly revealing a handsome face, full lips and gentle eyes that remained focused on the floor.
“What’s your name?”
“Stephen Cane.”
“So, Stephen…” Ahman stopped a flip comment examining the boy as if he were one of her patients. It had been a long time since she stood by a bedside, adjusting the oxygen tubes, checking lung capacity. Her thumb circled her pulse point faster. “You know a lot about snakes. Do you hike?”
“No.” He sighed. She noticed the briars stuck to the thick socks protruding from his boots, the scratches on his thin hairless legs. His index finger looped back and forth. Ahman turned, following his gaze to the snake’s pattern.
“Did you cut through the woods?”
“No, I walked.”
“I see. I used to walk through the woods, along the ridge. The Cane farm’s on the other side. I think Marge Cane still farms it. Do you know her?”
“She is my Aunt.”
Ahman tallied a small victory; renewed her efforts. “Oh, are you visiting?”
“I’m staying with her while my mother dies. One time one of Aunt Marge’s crew cut a snake’s head off. The body twitched and sent the blood everywhere, like here.” He pointed to the wine stains.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, he should not have killed the snake. It was only sunning itself on the rock. It had a round head, not a triangle.” Stephen shook his head.
“Uh, well not everybody knows that I guess. Your mother…no, let me think. Do you want a glass of water?” She remembered how the simple act of sipping, swallowing and taking a breath centered her patients. Ahman hustled into the house. In the kitchen, she kept him in sight, as she found the number, called.
Marge Cane shouted hallelujah into the phone. Her prayers were answered. Ahman caught her reflection in the window, surprised to see a smile. The eyes maintained their haunted gaze; she looked down to fill the glass. She set it down hard on the counter and pressed her fingertips to her temples as the familiar bright light obliterated her vision for a split second. And when it passed she gulped the water, filled another glass and headed toward the porch.
Stephen rocked with the precision of a metronome. She hesitated before placing the drink on the table, retreating to her rocker. He stopped abruptly blew through his lips, gently gathering the twirling index finger in his free hand pulling it into his lap. He turned and picked up the glass with both hands drinking the entire contents before placing it exactly in the original water ring. He began to rock again.
“So you cut…walked through the woods and ended up here.”
Stephen did not respond.
She wanted to ask about his mother, offer sympathy but that was her need not his. Ahman looped her index finger around her wrist circling her pulse point with her thumb. “I used to climb up to the ridge and then run to the end, where the creek cuts…makes a big ravine. It was my secret spot.”
Stephen’s rocking slowed.
“Funnel rock. Standing on it felt like looking into a funnel. It has a hole in the middle, and I always wondered what it emptied into.”
“A cave, there has to be a cave underneath,” Stephen said.
“Oh, you’ve seen it?”
Stephen nodded then stopped and shook his head no. “I sat on funnel rock and figured it all out. I didn’t want to go near the water. I don’t like water. A tree fell into it.”
“The sycamore?” Ahman tried to imagine it broken; the white barked tree was her knight, guarding her childhood daydreams. “We should walk there sometime,” she said.
“I walk with Pastormat every day.”
“Oh, well…” Ahman reminded herself to go slowly. He was not one of her projects, something on a list to be checked off. She winced at the familiar accusation from her husband John, ex-husband.
“I’d rather walk with you. Pastormat is trying to save my soul. Not my sole.” Stephen flashed the bottom of his hiking boot.
“Where do you walk with Pastormat?”
“Down the road. My Aunt doesn’t want me to go into the woods.” Stephen blew air through his lips. “We walk to Serpent’s Mound. It twists like the snake did.” He extended his index finger toward the tracks the snake left, curled it under and stuffed his hands in his armpits.
“The park, it’s a burial mound. But when I was in Sedona I found out it has energy fields stronger than out there. Here I got this.” Ahman rummaged through the box of books.
“The sun drops into the serpent’s mouth on the summer solstice. The curves of the snake’s body trace the elliptic,” she read.
Stephen puffed his lips, closed them deliberately. Ahman handed him the pamphlet entitled Energy Vortexes, the natural power centers. He took it bringing his nose a few inches above the cover, immediately absorbed. She noticed goose bumps on his arms and ran into the front room of the house. Spied the throw on the couch gathered it up and pressed her face into it. Marge had said nothing about his mother. She squeezed the fabric, lowered it to peer through the window.
Stephen ran his finger down one page, then the next rapidly devouring the pamphlet. She tilted her head, a lilac glow surrounded Stephen. Staring made it slide away as if it were shy. She blinked then winced as another piercing bolt of light doubled her over. She massaged her temples, panted until the pain subsided. She straightened, and rushed back out to the porch.
Ahman unfurled the throw before Stephen and waited as he read the back cover of the pamphlet. “I brought this for you. It’s soft.”
It took a moment for Stephen to look up. Slowly he reached out and touched the cloth gathering a corner between his thumb and index finger. She took a deep breath before draping the throw over his extended hand. A glimpse of a smile crossed Stephen’s face as he rolled the fabric between his fingers. Ahman felt her carefully constructed cocoon tearing as he flung the throw over his shoulders.
“They got the Tzolkin wrong.” Stephen handed her the pamphlet.
“The what?”
“This has the Tzolkin wrong.” He closed his eyes, exhaled heavily gripping the arms of the chair. “They drew the Tzolkin with the day signs out of order.” Stephen set his jaw.
Ahman scanned the pamphlet and found a figure labeled Tzolkin, sacred Mayan calendar. It looked like a coin stamped with dots and lines rimmed with cartoon characters. “You can look at this and tell it’s out of order?” She held up the drawing.
Stephen reared back in the rocker. Fearing he would crash through the window she instinctively grabbed the arm. He flinched hugging the opposite side. Ahman stepped back held up both hands in surrender.
“Stephen, I’m sorry Stephen. It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay. The figures have to be kept in the order the Mayan Priests set.”
Ahman was startled to see red flaring around his body. It quickly faded to radiant lavender as he blew air out. She looked up at a moth buzzing the porch light.
“It matters. I can predict everything with the Tzolkin.”
“What do you mean everything, Stephen?”
In the distance headlights swerved off the road and onto the long gravel driveway.
“You think I don’t know.”
“No, I believe you I just don’t know what you know. Tell me. Help me.” Ahman squatted in front of him.
Stephen pursed his lips and blew out a long stream of air. Gravel crunched as the vehicle made its way toward them.
“The Popol Vuh is the Mayan creation story. This is the fourth creation. At the beginning, people were perfect. It worried the gods so they blurred their vision, made everyone near-sighted. We are those people. But the Priests’ calendars let us see.”
“And you see?” Ahman asked.
“That’s what I told you. I can see until 12.21.2012.”
A woman jumped out of a crew cab pickup, apologizing as she bounded up the steps. Ahman rose and smiled, surprised she recognized Marge Cane who was trying out for boy’s sports before anyone heard about Title IX. Ahman extended her hand, and was pulled into the kind of hug reserved for homecomings.
“Stephen, you’ve been gone for hours. Half the county’s looking for you,” Marge said.
“I was hiking.” He stood up.
“We even called the sheriff.” Marge stepped in front of Stephen, arms at her side, hands flexing.
“Am I going to jail?”
“No, you’re fine. Why don’t you go get in the truck? I brought that calendar you like to trace. It’s in there.”
“Stephen, I’m glad you found me.” Ahman held her hand inches away from his back as he moved past her. He paused, raised his head. She could see the muscles of his jaw working. He whirled to face her.
“You were not lost.” He muttered turned and strode toward the truck.
“His Dad brought him that Mayan calendar when he was tiny. He’s been fascinated ever since.” Marge waited, leaned toward Ahman.
“Did he tell you where he was? Hiking?”
“Is that unusual?”
“Unusual? There’s duct tape on the floor to get him through his morning routine. Unless you get him started talking about the Mayans, then watch out. And Pastor Matt just dumped him off. Can’t believe that man.”
“Do you trust him?”
“Who Stephen or Pastor? Stephen’s as honest as God, boy can’t tell a lie. The Pastor’s, well a little short in the responsibility column for my money. Oh well, who am I to judge? Sorry for your trouble Ahman.” Marge paused, stepped back squinting at Ahman who hastened to cover her wine stained shirt.
“You look like your mother; eyes like a cat’s.”
Her mother? Ahman blinked, unable to think.
“Well, I best be getting Stephen home. If you need anything at all, call. If you’re willing, you’re welcome to Sunday dinner. Church starts at ten.” Marge hopped off the porch and jogged to the truck. She reached across Stephen to help him with his seatbelt and waved as she backed out.
Ahman waited until the tail lights disappeared, held her arms out embracing the starlight. Something stirred within her, so faint she had to strain to recognize the first tremor of hope.
Business Partnerships are like Strong Marriages… and we know the odds of a successful marriage…so what makes some partnerships survive and thrive? Well, think of those couples, the ones who are still holding now ‘wrinkled’ hands. Really, their success translates into successful business relationships.
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