Good Day for a Grail Quest, Continued

(Many versions of the Grail legend exist, with various authors each selecting and arranging elements to suit a personal interpretation. This is my attempt.)

The Grail Castle: What Gawain Saw There and How He Sped

At the top of the stairs, Gawain paused in a vestibule. Ahead of him was a short corridor with a closed double door at the other end; to his left and his right, stony corridors, lighted only at the near end, stretched into darkness. Before Gawain could take another step, a low-pitched growling issued from both sides, and two enormous lions emerged from the dark, moving toward him as with one accord. Gawain waited as the lions advanced, their heads held low and eyes burning, until they reached the edge of the vestibule. The lion on the right snarled and bared its teeth, while the lion on his left stretched one paw into the antechamber--whereupon Gawain drew his sword. 

Though I would do no unnecessary harm to man or beast, he said, God knows, if you accost me, I will cut off your heads. As you will.

After a brief pause, both lions retreated into the shadows. Gawain, sheathing his sword, proceeded to the wooden doors, which opened noiselessly at his approach and closed with a thud behind him. In the spacious, high-ceilinged chamber in which he now stood, a throng of richly appareled people was gathered, talking together animatedly. They all turned to look at Gawain, though their conversation continued as before.

Couches and benches with embroidered cushions were scattered about; stone steps at either end of the room led to an upper gallery on the opposite wall. The few windows were high overhead and blank with night. Tapestries hung here and there, and the floor was covered with black and white marble tiles. In one corner of the room, a harpist was accompanied by a dulcimer, timbrel, and flute as a trouvere sang. From a hanging candelabrum in the center of the room, a monkey in vest and breeches swung, eating a pomegranate and eyeing the crowd with glittering eyes. In front of the fireplace, a crowned, gray-haired man, clad in robes edged with fur, reclined on a sofa, playing chess with a courtier.

At Gawain's approach, the gray-haired man raised his head and lifted a hand in greeting. Welcome, knight, he said. Welcome to Corbenic. I have a wound that troubles me, so forgive me if I do not rise, but such as we are, you see us. He waved his hand to encompass the hall. I am King Pelles.

Corbenic, said Galahad. Then I've come to the Castle of the Grail.

Yes, and just in time for dinner, the king said. I commend you on your alacrity. You were not hindered at the gate, I take it.

No, Gawain said, though I wonder at your keeping such a pair of greeters when a couple of strong watchmen would do.

One of our idiosyncrasies, said the king. You must indulge us. But now, dinner.

As he said this, the light in the hall dimmed and all conversation from the assembled ladies and gentlemen ceased. Soundlessly, they melted away into shadow; the courtier sitting with the king arose and disappeared with the others, leaving the game unfinished. The king motioned for Gawain to sit down.

No sooner had Gawain settled himself than a strange procession entered the hall, issuing from a set of steps half hidden in the corner beyond the fireplace. Foremost was a squire grasping the hilt of a broken sword with both hands, the shattered blade pointing straight up; he was followed by a damsel carrying the rest of the blade on a cushion. Next came a knight holding an upright lance that bled profusely from its tip, followed by a gentleman carrying a boar's head on a deep platter. Lastly, a maiden entered, bearing a silver cup that glowed with an inner light. Passing slowly and without expression in front of Gawain and the king, they crossed the dim hall wordlessly and disappeared.

As they did so, light sprang up in the room, and Gawain could see all the courtiers now seated at couches and tables set with gold and crystal. The tables were weighed down with everything from fish to nuts, and delicious aromas wafted through the hall. In front of the king, a repast had taken the place of the chessboard, and the king indicated that Gawain should serve himself first. Gawain found that, though it had been long since he had last eaten, he had strangely little appetite, despite the fabulous display in front of him. But after rinsing his hands and wiping them, he took some soup, potatoes, and a dish of meat.

Murmurs of conversation and strains of music reached Gawain from the assembly, though no one spoke to him. The king ate his dinner without comment, only looking over now and then at the courtiers gathered in his hall. Gawain noticed that despite his wound, which seemed to prevent the king from sitting up straight, he was strong in appearance. I hope, sir, he said, that your wound doesn't trouble you greatly.

Ah, said the king. You wonder, I guess, what sort of wound could keep a strong man recumbent. Self-inflicted, I'm afraid, and of a rather delicate nature.

A sporting accident, then? Gawain ventured.

It was a--ah--hunting accident, the king replied. It does not prosper me, but I've learned to live with it. No physician can help me with it, you see.

I'm sorry for that, said Gawain.

The king was silent then, and after eating enough for politeness' sake, Gawain spoke again, saying, sir, I wonder at the meaning of the procession in your hall of those carrying relics. These are hallowed objects, I presume, and the ritual has purpose.

Sir, said the king, you are right. I thank you for your consideration and your acuity. But let us not speak of it. It touches on my trouble, and my kingdom, and more besides. I would not have you sit at my table and listen to tales of woe all evening.

Soon after that, the king signaled to pages stationed at the edges of the room. All of the courtiers rose, and as they did, the lights went down once again in the hall, the music stopped, and the squire, the knight, and the gentleman of the procession appeared at the king's side, along with the chess player from earlier in the evening.

I bid you good night, the king said, and such hospitality as my hall affords. You are welcome to it. Then each of the four attendants lifted a corner of the couch on which the king reclined and carried him away. Gawain was then approached by the same maiden, remote and pale, who had earlier carried the silver cup. She now held a torch.

Sir, she said. I will light you to your room. Gawain followed her across the hall, noting in the torchlight that tables, couches, courtiers, musicians, and pages had all disappeared. In a chamber off the main room, plainly but adequately furnished, the maiden lit a candle, leaving it on a table. In the torchlight, Gawain could see that the bed coverings were figured with an intricate wheel-like pattern. The walls of the room were of thick stone, and the floor was of the same black and white marble as in the main hall. The room had two windows but no fireplace.

I will leave you now, said the maiden to Gawain. And fare you well.

Well, said Gawain. I hope so.

As this damsel retreated, Gawain noticed that an owl had perched in one of the windows. As he approached, it swiveled its head to look at him before flying away in a rush of wings. When Gawain looked out, he was surprised to see the faint outline of the causeway visible in the foaming sea below. For, he said to himself, I entered this castle from the opposite side, and there the causeway ended. It's a strange thing that it should now appear on this side, as if the castle had turned--though one hears tales of such things. Then he closed the shutters, got undressed, and climbed into bed, blowing out the candle.

He had no sooner lain down than came a sudden whistling noise, and out of nowhere a spear was flung hard at him. Though caught off guard, Gawain managed to catch it. Anticipating further attack, he leaned over to grasp his shield, which was propped against the table. He was just in time, for something heavy leaped at him with a snarl from another quarter, and though he tried to beat it off with the lance, he found it as much as he could do to hold onto his shield, so he threw the lance away. He then discovered that the bed itself was not stationary, but whirled about the room of its own accord, banging him against the headboard and the walls and making it that much harder to combat his unseen foe. For what seemed half the night, he fought the malevolent creature, whose strength never appeared to wane.

At last, Gawain saw an opening to use the moving bed to his advantage. As it twisted past the wall where his sword leaned, he reached out just as the weapon came within reach and snatched it from its scabbard. Striking at the creature, he elicited a blood-curdling howl as the blade hit home. His enemy, which he now saw bore the vague outline of a huge wolf, fled immediately. Gawain, exhausted but unhurt, lay back on the now unmoving bed.

It seems, he said to himself, that I have not come to a restful hostel. I will keep watch. Propping himself against the headboard, he made ready to spend the remaining hours until daylight awake. But his plan did not succeed, for sitting up in bed, with his sword in one hand and his shield in the other, he unknowingly fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

How Gawain Found Himself on the Morrow

When Gawain awoke at last, he lay for several moments with his eyes closed, unable to recall where he was. When at last he opened his eyes, he was no longer in bed, or even in the room to which he had retired. The room, the castle, the causeway, and all had vanished, and he was resting on a grassy dune near the sea, with his sword at his side and his shield covering him. His horse, Gringolet, was nibbling at the grass nearby. Gawain had awakened to a gray daylight world, and though he was dry, a heavy mist was on the land. 

Inspecting his shield, he saw that the creature he had battled the night before had not only gouged the shield with its claws but had left them embedded in it. On the other hand, it seemed wonderful to have fought a mortal combat and yet find no trace of it on his sword. For Gawain's sword was entirely clean, as if he had just polished it.

Looking out long at the sea, Gawain saw nothing but a featureless sky merging into empty waves.  After a time, he turned his back on the water and faced the land, which stretched out eastward in small hills tangled with gorse and trees. It seemed both colder and more desolate than he remembered it. No particular path recommended itself, but it was certain there was no going back to the Grail Castle--even if, he said to himself, one wished to prolong one's stay. Calling to Gringolet, he walked straight to the edge of the waste land, and pausing for a moment to grasp the horse's bridle, began to pick his way through the scattered shrubs.

To be continued . . .

Good Day for a Grail Quest

(Many versions of the Grail legend exist, with various authors each selecting and arranging elements to suit a personal interpretation. This is my attempt.)

How Gawain Put His Impertinence on Hold and Took Up an Adventure

In the days of Arthur, it was the custom at Camelot to await the onset of a marvel before sitting down to Sunday dinner. One particular Sunday in spring, when it was raining, the King had almost decided to forgo his usual custom for that day, due to dampness, when a sudden breeze penetrated the hall, slamming all the doors and nearly blowing out the candles. A single beam of piercing light entered through a high embrasure, and a sweet odor filled the air with a wonderful fragrance. Before the astonished eyes of the court, a shining cup appeared, shedding a soft radiance through the silky veil that covered it as it wafted gently over the heads of all assembled. When the ladies and gentlemen looked at one another in the strange light, each appeared as his or her best self, astonishing in grace and comeliness.

Speechless as they were, each went quietly to his or her seat, wondering at the beauty evident now in every face. None of them had ever looked so fair! Silently, as the cup passed over each of them, all of the things he or she loved best to eat and drink suddenly appeared. Once everyone had been served, a crack of thunder and a sharp blaze of lightning occurred simultaneously, and the court was momentarily blinded. When they could see again, the cup was gone, but something of its soft light still shimmered in the hall, and the odor of rare and precious flowers and elixirs lingered delightfully.

Breaking the deep and profound silence, Arthur said, well, we have seen a marvel this day, for certain. I wonder if any assembled here can explain the meaning of this thing.

The king's bard spoke up then, saying, I have heard tell of a wonderful cup from the Otherworld, a Grail of plenty, but the stories, truly, do not do it justice, from what I have just seen. It is said that when the Grail appears, it heralds the start of a great quest, and those who make it their business to seek it will have many adventures. Yet few who seek it shall ever find it. It is a high quest, but perilous.

And the purpose of this quest? Arthur asked. For if any of my people were to undertake this adventure, I would have them know to what end.

It is said, sire, that the meaning only becomes clear to the one seeking, who may then return to reveal it to others. The appearance is a rare gift and carries no obligation, except for the one called to follow the Grail.

Gawain, who sat near the king and was known for his surly and outspoken disposition, surprised them all by saying, I have a mind to seek this thing, although I do not know the reason. I have not much use for nonsense, but this Grail has moved me. It's a thing I will never forget.

You, Gawain? said the king in surprise. I would have thought Perceval, or Galahad . . . and he gestured towards these two noble knights, known for their high-minded and spiritual natures. Yet neither of them spoke.

Yes, you doubt that I am the one for the job, said Gawain. But after all, an irreverent fool may be best suited to such a strange adventure and may succeed where the pious fail.

No one doubts your courage, Sir Gawain, but I would have thought that a more tender nature . . .

It is hard to say what one may encounter on the way, said Gawain, and they all could see that he was determined to go (and many in the hall that day, though they ate and drank all the good things gladly, were happy with all their hearts that someone else undertook the quest).

Two days later, Gawain, fully appareled as befits a knight, took his leave of them. All of the deep and winding ways he traveled would be a long tale to tell, though he encountered nothing out of the way for a knight used to deeds of errantry. (Truth be told, Perceval or Galahad might have fared differently, but Gawain was notoriously level-headed, and marvels tended to stay out of his way.) At the end of two weeks' ride, which took him well beyond the borders of the king's lands, he found himself at the edge of a sea, with a storm coming on.

Strange though it seemed, he descried many lights far out across the water, though in the darkness, he could not tell what they might signify. Stepping forward into the surf, he found the beginnings of a stone causeway beneath his feet. As the moon rose, he began to see the vague outline of a castle whose many windows glimmered through the rain. Climbing onto his horse, he set off at a gallop, hoping to reach the gates before the storm broke in earnest.

In that, however, he was disappointed, since no matter how hard he rode, the castle never seemed to draw nearer. On and on he went, with the rain in his eyes and the wind in his hair, with huge waves crashing across the causeway, almost as if they would wash it away before his eyes. Yet he rode on, never stinting, and after what seemed endless hours on the causeway in the howling storm, he at last discerned the gates. As he slowed his horse to a walk, he noticed a faint glimmer in the churning sea on either side. Looking down, it seemed to him that there were faces in the water, though, he thought, it might have been the merest fancy.

If Galahad were here, he said to himself, he would doubtless believe he had seen mermaids and mermen and even a selkie. I am not so sure that it isn't some type of sea creature, because, for certain, the light is bad, and being a landsman, the sea is strange to me. Perhaps it is what they call dolphins or some other fish.

Riding up to the gate, he gave it a hard knock with his fist, whereupon the metal grate rose and the wooden doors swung inward into a spacious forecourt with columns, hanging greenery, and a plashing fountain. The doors closed behind him immediately, shutting out the sounds of the storm. He might have been, he thought, at any richly endowed castle in Logres or Brittany. A squire came forward to take his horse, and Gawain climbed a set of wide carpeted steps toward a lighted doorway.

To be continued . . .

Original Sin, or . . .?

There was an article in The Hill about a former U.S. congressman, J. C. Watts of Oklahoma, who defines the difference between Democrats and Republicans on the basis, essentially, of belief in original sin. He believes that Republicans think human beings are bad at heart, and that when bad things happen, it's often the fault of the individual--hence the Republican disinclination to extend help to the poor or disadvantaged, who, it is thought, should be able to pull themselves up by their own bootstraps. Democrats, on the other hand (says Mr. Watts), believe that everyone is born good, and that when bad things happen, it's often due to injustice or forces beyond the individual's control. For that reason, safety nets and assistance in the form of social programs are said to be necessary.

I think there's some truth in what Mr. Watts says (and some depth psychologists have identified competing archetypes behind many political disagreements, such as the arguments over health care, abortion, and national security). But I don't think his argument holds up completely. For instance, when you think about gun control, many (though not all) Republicans don't feel the need for stronger laws, and many (though not all) Democrats do. If people are basically bad, wouldn't stronger gun control be an easy sell for Republicans? And what about the fact that so many progressives (many of whom are Democrats) support the need for stronger regulation of corporations, corporate CEOs, and financiers? If people are essentially good, why regulate these people? And why is this an area where so many Republicans are against more regulations?

To me, this latter circumstance points to a more telling way of slicing the differences between "Democrats" and "Republicans." Differing attitudes toward money, economics, and power, at a time when wealth inequalities are very much a part of the political discourse (and much on the minds of most Americans), is, in my view, a crucial reason why there's so much stalemate in Washington. Those who believe that capitalism and market forces should be allowed to proceed unhindered and those who believe that they must be regulated to prevent money and power from being concentrated "at the top" have profoundly different worldviews. Arguments that focus on dividing people on dimensions of virtue and vice often obscure that important fact.

It's certainly possible for people of good will to disagree. The perception of many in the American public, however, is that, for a number of years now, the Wall Street bankers, the CEOs of major corporations, and their cronies have held far too many of the cards, and that politicians in general are no longer listening to their constituents in favor of these oligarchs. According to a poll done last year by the Pew Research Center, most Americans, despite considerable polarization of views, still want their government representatives to work together to iron out differences--but this is what we fail to see happen.

I've read recently that some policy proposals regarding taxation and other matters, now considered wildly radical and progressive, were actually in line with the policies of self-respecting Republicans a generation ago, proving that political policy is not as set in stone as it sometimes seems. By the same token, I believe that many Democrats (though not all) who espouse the "traditional" Democratic platform of workers' rights, equality, and social welfare actually do not serve these interests, having moved their allegiances from the middle and working classes to the wealthy and powerful. They just don't acknowledge that this is what they've done.

Is there a solution to all of this? Maybe less attention to the issues that divide us and more to the ones so many of us agree on would be the place to start. If voters let their representatives know their priorities and their interest in keeping power in the hands of the people, where it belongs, politicians can't say they don't know where the public stands. Too much of the conversation seems to be driven by the forces at the top; let's hear from the American people.

A Blessing on the Road

Last week, I wrote about the imaginative possibilities of walking. I know the area surrounding my home intimately as both a walker and a driver, and this past week has ushered in a new era for those of us in south Lexington: a major connector road, closed all summer, has reopened, newly realigned and boasting not one but two rotaries. Rotaries are relatively rare around here (I know of one other in town), and I was curious to see how people would take to them. So far, everyone seems to be taking them cautiously but in stride.

I set off down the road myself the first day I saw it open, and it was a bit like a circus (no, really, a circus) to come upon the first rotary, bristling with crosswalks and traffic signs where there used to be a simple four-way stop. At the old intersection, there was one crosswalk, not clearly demarcated, and it was always a question when you were on foot whether the driver would stop (or even see you). Navigating the rotaries takes a little attention, so it does require drivers to slow down. If you're making a left turn from either of the rotaries, your semicircular sweep is a little like a twirl on a carnival ride, with the caveat that you may have to stop.

Work on the street took all summer, starting in May, and I remember the first time I crossed the newly closed road on an evening walk. The familiar pavement was simply gone, leaving a dirt road leading off through the low hills into the middle distance. In my reading lately, which has focused on Celtic mythology, there's a lot of emphasis on shapeshifting, mythic events impacting the shape of the land, and the existence of an Otherworld often contiguous with the everyday one. My first glimpse of that formerly busy road suddenly transformed (almost overnight, it seemed) into a dirt track gave me a little of the feeling of all three phenomena rolled into one: the same familiar hills and trees, the same sky, the same buildings were there, but--poof!--the road had vanished. What was once suburban now looked like the country, and I hadn't had to go anywhere.

Now, I have to say I haven't encountered any even remotely Otherworldly beings all summer (though I have seen a few mortals who may have gone astray on their way home from the pub). No Sidhe, no bards, no supernatural warriors, nor even any wandering knights, magical horses, or enchanted deer. But I'll always remember the day I crossed the street and the road was gone, giving me a quick glimpse of what the area might have looked like before there were any roads (though I bet there were more trees then as well).

It's ironic that this brief, bucolic experience came about as a result of progress; new dorms and a big new parking lot have brought more people to this side of town, and the old road was no longer adequate to serve the increased traffic. But actions sometimes have unintended consequences, as may happen when you tear down a road to build a new one and shift the view temporarily. As to whether all the new bustle in the neighborhood has bothered the Sidhe, if there are any about, I'm not really sure. I believe some people think that they don't like busy places and lots of people, but if my understanding of their essential nature is correct, they're not likely to care one way or the other. If they did, you'd be the one discommoded, not them.

May the road rise to meet you. Oh, no worries, it already has.

Shakespeare and Alice

I once read a novel called Mythago Wood in which a forest was a sort of otherworldly zone from which mythical figures occasionally emerged into the everyday realm. The main character saw this happening and kept trying to cross the barrier that kept ordinary humans out of the mythical space, which turned out to be a tough go. The idea of the forest as a sort of zone of the unconscious is a familiar one to most of us, so the existence of a patch of woods next to our local arboretum may help explain why walking there is often such an imaginative exercise.

Then, too, I've seen a number of Shakespeare plays produced in the arboretum in the past, which probably helps explain my penchant for peopling the park with his characters. I once had the idea that it would be fun to have a free-roaming theatre company enact scenes in various parts of the park instead of on a fixed stage, so that playgoers would stroll from one scene to another. Since the idea occurred to me, there's been no looking back. I'm sure this would entail a lot of logistical headaches, but just think how much fun it would be.

You might stage the beginning of A Midsummer Night's Dream in the parking lot to represent Athens, then move the bulk of the action to the park itself, with lovers, fairies, and rustics continually stumbling onto one another under the trees. Think how magical it would be on a summer's night to eavesdrop on the fleeing lovers in one leafy corner of the park and overhear Titania quarreling with Oberon in another, as the fireflies winked and the moon rose over the trees. I've been living with this idea for so long that I sometimes stage scenes in my head when I'm walking, picturing the mortals waking up in this particular grove, Puck flitting about behind that oak over there, and the rustics enacting Pyramus and Thisby using that low wall as a prop.

And why stop with A Midsummer Night's Dream? There's an open grassy area in back where I occasionally imagine Richard III stumbling about, calling out for a horse. That quiet corner with the arbor would do admirably for Friar Lawrence's cell, while the gazebo works for Juliet's balcony and bedroom. A patch of hilltop trees sheltering a shaded path translates in my mind into the gloomy corridors of Macbeth's castle, and over there, behind the hedge, is Ophelia's pond. That bowl-shaped meadow is plenty big enough to represent Agincourt and the meeting of Henry's army with the French. The garden, with its series of outdoor rooms, is the perfect spot for staging Much Ado About Nothing, while Julius Caesar could meet his murderers on that narrow walled court down by the roses.

Probably, the nature of the park itself--an open space of trees and fields shaped by human hands and filled with paths--situated next to a small but thickly wooded forest--contributes to my tendency to see it as a stage. It's part nature and part human and has, as a place set apart for no purpose other than leisure, a bit of a liminal feel. Your mind wanders as your eye roams over broad vistas punctuated with many intimate spaces, and there are numerous ways to explore aside from staying on the main path. Paths into and out of the woods provide access to a deeper imaginative realm. It's a writer's and an artist's dream.

The park tends to be well populated these days (see my post "Is That Really Necessary?") and much noisier than it used to be. It strikes me that the increased noise works to decrease the park's liminal qualities, making it harder to imagine Athens, Rome, Verona, or the English countryside. It's more of a neighborhood circus many days than a "thin place," but if you cultivate mental self-containment, it's still possible to have stolen moments of reverie, which gives walking there a sort of fitful charm.

I often encounter rabbits in and around the park, which takes me in a different but related direction, making me think of Alice drowsing on her river bank on a summer day--a subtle reminder that the world of the imagination is never far away, if indeed, there is really any distance at all. (Alternately, it's a reminder that any time spent in a public space these days, from the park to the shopping mall to social media, carries the possibility of falling down a rabbit hole--but let's accentuate the positive.) With the busy outside world surrounding the arboretum on all sides, the park still manages at times to fill the important function of providing room for imagination and untrammeled thought. For that, I thank it.

Battle of the Bulls

Following up my interest in Welsh and Irish mythology from last week, I've been re-reading The Tain, Thomas Kinsella's translation of the great Irish epic, Tain Bo Cuailnge. The story concerns a great cattle raid in which Ailill and Medb, king and queen of Connacht in west Ireland, attempt to steal the Brown Bull of Cuailnge from Ulster in the east. (I wrote about bulls recently in recounting the story of King Minos and the white bull from Greek mythology; a bull is a potent symbol in both stories, though I wouldn't say it necessarily represents the same thing in both cases.)

The idea of stealing a bull stems from an argument Medb has with Ailill concerning which of them is worth more. She's greatly displeased at finding, after an exhaustive inventory, that no matter how closely her wealth matches that of her husband, she is one down because of the defection of a prize bull, Finnbennach, the White Horned (which, we're told, didn't care to be ruled by a woman), to the king's herd. Determined to fix this, she sends around the whole of Ireland to find a bull to replace it. After being told that Donn, the Brown Bull of Cuailnge, has no equal in the land, she decides to get him for herself. When the owner balks at lending him to her, Ailill and Medb amass a great army to go after the bull, despite omens of certain disaster for their warriors.

When I started the story the other night, I sat up in disbelief at the part where Medb and Ailill agree to go war to obtain the bull. What started as a marital disagreement quickly turns into a full-fledged military campaign, with Ailill's full participation. I'd forgotten how foolishly it all started . . . though the reasons for fighting in many of the old Irish stories (and not just the Irish ones) often turn on something this seemingly insignificant.

The story is full of death, destruction, foul deeds, and the exploits of the hero Cuchulainn, the famous Hound of Ulster, a one-man fighting machine who adroitly destroys a whole host of Medb's and Ailill's warriors. Despite the epic's bloodiness, the story is told with great humor and wit; Cuchulainn's outsize accomplishments and outrageous feats of arms provide, in my reading of it, an ironic commentary on the supposed heroism of the entire affair. So much is attempted for so little, and so many lives lost; the countryside is hacked and hewn so that ever afterward place names reflect the deadly events that took place there; friend fights against friend and alliances are broken--but Cuchulainn's superhuman acts will never be forgotten.

That the war comes to nothing in the end is no great surprise. As the Connacht faction attempts to escape with the Brown Bull, they come across his counterpart, Finnbennach, and it is the two beasts' turn to give battle. Following an epic struggle, the Brown Bull shows up the next morning bearing the mangled remains of his enemy, and after staggering about for a time, mortally wounded, gives up the ghost. Ailill and Medb make peace with the Men of Ulster, and everyone goes home. So much for the urgent imperatives and well-reasoned arguments of war. This is one epic that seems to turn on the futility of war, not its nobility.

When I first read this story a few years ago, it was entirely new to me, or so I thought at first. At some point during or after my reading of it, the phrase, "the Brown Cow of Cooley," surfaced from somewhere in the past. It was a phrase I remembered hearing my mother (who was Irish) say when I was little, and it occurred to me that her Brown Cow and this Brown Bull must surely be one and the same. I can't remember the exact context in which she spoke of it, but I seem to remember some exasperation in her tone that went with the phrase, as if it represented some great undertaking that was either impossible, not worth the effort, or both.

The story itself, if not the battle, is well worth pursuing for the verve and humor of the telling. When Medb, who does not know Cuchulainn, asks who he is, she is told, matter-of-factly, "You'll find no harder warrior against you--no point more sharp, more swift, more slashing; no raven more flesh-ravenous, no hand more deft, no fighter more fierce, no one of his own age one third as good, no lion more ferocious; no barrier in battle, no hard hammer, no gate of battle, no soldiers' doom, no hinderer of hosts, more fine. . . ."

"Let us not make too much of it," Medb said.*

*(Quotation from The Tain, translated by Thomas Kinsella from Tain Bo Cuailnge. Oxford University Press.)

In the Day of Trouble

I had a curious dream the other day, which I was moved to jot down. It seemed more amusing than anything else, but it left me feeling oddly cheerful and optimistic. At first I couldn't see a relationship between the events of the dream and waking life, but as often happens, connections appeared after I started thinking about details, such as the bottle of Frangelico that popped up in the middle of the dream, seemingly out of nowhere. Yeah, really--Frangelico!

In the dream, I was stranded in an affluent suburb outside Omaha. I know: why Omaha? I've no idea, except that to me, the city seemed to be somewhat farther south and to the east of Omaha, more in the vicinity of, say, Saint Louis. Nevertheless--Omaha. It was an attractive retail area and actually had more of an urban feeling than the word "suburb" indicates, but I really wanted to get back downtown, where I was staying. I seemed to be there for a conference at a university and had somehow gotten stuck in the outskirts, where I was repeatedly frustrated in efforts to catch a bus.

I had several bus tickets with alternate numbers written on them, along with a bottle of water and some other items. I kept seeing buses go by, but never the one I needed. There was a chic little restaurant just off the street, and I passed a little time inside at a table. (For a moment, I seemed to be in my own neighborhood at home, but that feeling passed.) When I got up to leave, I had the bottle of Frangelico in my hand, and my bottle of water was nowhere to be seen.

As far as I know, I've only had Frangelico once, in a delicious chocolatey sort of drink. It was very good, and I'd certainly have it again, but in the dream I was incensed that my bottle of water had disappeared. I complained to the cashier, who, while polite, seemed mildly obstructionistic as I tried to exchange the Frangelico for my bottle of water. It didn't look like a real Frangelico bottle but was instead fairly small and flat, like a flask. The liqueur was golden brown and had small brown seeds at the bottom similar to cloves.

I'm not actually sure whether I ever got my water back, but I was outside and sort of flying around chasing a bus when Harrison Ford showed up. Then we were both chasing the bus, and I had the feeling that I'd known Mr. Ford before and that we were actually old friends. It finally started feeling like things were going my way, and although we still seemed to be pursuing a bus, it was now a fun sort of pursuit and no longer worrying. Then I woke up.

I may have known that Frangelico is made from hazelnuts, but if I did, I'd forgotten, until I looked it up. I then had to look up hazelnuts, remembering vaguely some associations they have with Celtic mythology. In fact, I had just been reading about hazelnuts in the last book of "The Dark Is Rising" series (which I wrote about last week). In the book, two heroes on their way to retrieve a crystal sword stop to eat some hazelnuts and apples given to them by a character who may or may not be Taliesin, the mythical bard and sometime god.

You may be wondering what that has to do with waiting for a bus in Omaha. Me, too. I note that I was not particularly happy to have a bottle of hazelnut liqueur instead of the water I started out with. Frangelico didn't seem like a practical beverage for a long bus journey, but more than that, I seemed to be saying "no" in some way to an idea of someone else's. In some of the old Celtic stories, hazelnuts are a source of wisdom (obtained in one instance by eating a salmon that had previously eaten hazelnuts). You'd think a mythologist would be the first one to say "yes!" to hazelnuts, but apparently it's different when you have a bus to catch. Maybe a jar of Nutella instead?

The beauty of the old tales about Taliesin, Fionn, and the Salmon of Knowledge, slippery and shape-shifting, has long appealed to me, and I had a good time today re-reading just about everything I've ever read about them. One nugget I came across was the idea that Elphin, the hapless youth who fished Taliesin out of a weir and was rewarded a thousandfold for his act, did this on April 29th. This is so close to the cross-quarter day of May 1 that I assumed a connection, and, yes, there are stories linking Taliesin and the salmon to May Day. Wisdom (and possibly fertility) is a special gift of Taliesin, who told Elphin, "In the day of trouble, I will be of more service to you than three hundred salmon." And he proceeded to make good on his word.

I actually had my dream not on May 1 but on August 1, which happens to be the cross-quarter day of Lughnasadh, an early harvest festival and celebration of the Celtic god Lugh. Lugh, by the way, had an emblem, a spear that never missed its mark. I may have had Lugh in the back of my mind, since I've written about the cross-quarter days before, and his spear certainly has a connection to a magic sword, the sword of Nuada; together, they are two of the mythical Four Treasures of Ireland. Apparently, reading about a magic sword and hazelnuts shortly before having this dream triggered an association.

But a spear is not a sword, and it wasn't Lugh, Nuada, or Taliesin that I encountered while chasing a bus, but a calm and collected Harrison Ford. While not a Celtic god (or is he?) he is certainly known for playing larger-than-life characters. So the moral of this story is . . . better one good hero of proven vintage or a bottle of spirits of dubious provenance? Well, which would you rather have in a tight spot?

Finding Arthur

Over the last couple of weeks, I've been reading Susan Cooper's "The Dark Is Rising" series for young people. I read the second book, The Dark Is Rising, years ago when I was studying children's literature, but I'd since forgotten most of the plot details. What I mainly remembered was its tone of eerie suspense and the elaborate interweaving of the ordinary with the supernatural in the adventures of its young hero, Will Stanton.

I've been reading the books out of order, which has actually made it more fun than if I'd done it linearly. This is not surprising if you know the story line. The plot involves a lot of time hopping, past lives, recovery of things forgotten, and travel from one world to the next, so jumbling the order of the books just increases the pleasurable sense of not knowing what's going to happen next mixed with a bit of deja vu. It's similar to the way I might have read the books when I was a kid, coming across one at random and not being overly concerned with sequencing. It's a very relaxing way to read, I have to say.

After reading just The Dark Is Rising for class, I didn't realize the extent to which the series relies on British and Celtic mythology for some of its characters and themes. This would have been clear if I'd read the first book, Over Sea, Under Stone, first, because it contains a major plot reveal concerning one of the characters. Finding out the probable identity of that character makes it clear that the series is steeped in Arthurian legend, which for me is the icing on the cake. I knew there was a reason I liked that book!

Taking a children's lit class cured me of any tendency I might have had to think of young adult literature as escapist. The Dark Is Rising (as well as many of the other young adult books I read) has a much more serious outlook on life than you might imagine given the sometimes fantastic elements of plot. All of the fantasy and magic is in the service of a gigantic and ongoing battle between the Light and the Dark, or Good and Evil, in which even a little boy has a great and inescapable responsibility. Young Will, with his unique role in the age-old struggle, sometimes feels the loneliness of a burden that's impossible to share with others, including his family.

The series deftly portrays ordinary time and mythic time co-existing and interacting. A basic dualism in the stories is somewhat complicated by natural magic, which is independent of Light and Dark and not easily biddable. While it's essentially neutral, it sometimes plays a role in the fight by lending its influence to one side or the other. There's an indication that the Light/Dark struggle will end, although I don't know how because I haven't gotten there yet. If the Light wins, presumably this ushers in a Golden Age of some kind, so that although the membrane between past, present, and future is very fluid in the stories, there is a kind of historical movement. Does that mean that ordinary time will be subsumed into eternity at the end of the story? It's hard to say, which is why I'm continuing to read.

I was thinking today about the role of figures like Arthur and Merlin in this story, guardians for the Good with a special authority and responsibility. This is, I suppose, a bit elitist, since they are portrayed as a category of beings with powers and superior wisdom that more or less set them apart. The author plays down the elitism by incarnating her heroes into fairly conventional people who find out that they are not merely who they think they are but something more. Will comes from an average family, and so do many of his allies, but they are born with inherent abilities that are part of their special destiny.

There's an old saying that King Arthur never really died and will come back again in an hour of great need; this series interprets that part of the legend in its own way, depicting a world in which anyone, even the youngest boy in a large middle-class family or a lonely child on a working-class farm, can discover inner nobility and purpose. That matches my idea of the return of Arthur, which is to say that if he lives anywhere it's inside all of us. It's no good waiting around for him to come back; if we want him, we have to discover him in ourselves and bring him back around that way. Even in America, where we don't have kings, this is possibly a good thing to remember.

Is That Really Necessary?

Is it noisy where you are? One of the hardest things to come by in this day and age seems to be the simple ability to hear oneself think. A bit of peace doesn't sound like much to ask, but, even as someone who lives a quiet life, I'm constantly inundated with noise--specifically, noise in the form of loud people. I'm not sure when yelling became the normal mode. I, personally, don't feel the need to announce every idea I have in an ear-splitting voice to all and sundry, so I must ask: Is all this noise, strictly speaking, necessary?

I occasionally switch coffeehouses when the one I'm going to seems to get too popular (which always happens sooner or later). Finding one in an unfrequented part of town, going at off-hours, sitting in an unoccupied corner--none of these tactics seems to hold off the noisemakers for long. People who can't seem to speak without yelling are drawn to me as moths to an open flame (it's a bit like the old saying that cats always seek out the person who doesn't like them. I actually think cats are smarter than that, but I'm unsure of the people).

Not long ago, I was sitting in a coffeehouse wearing earplugs, with my fingers in my ears, as a parade made up (apparently) of every friend and acquaintance ever known to the baristas made its way through the line. In that posture, I usually hear little of what's actually said, though I always feel annoyed that I have to go to that length to maintain psychic space. After switching seats for a corner perch, I got so annoyed with the high-pitched laughter of a woman standing in line that I simply left. It sounded like she'd just come from Bedlam (no exaggeration). I wouldn't be surprised if all the milk in the place had curdled after that performance, but the barista stood there like it happens every day.

Even the public library isn't immune to noise displays. I went to return some books the other day and found myself sitting in the car, reluctant to go in, knowing I'd have to pass through a crush of people just to get to the Circulation Desk. I decided to wait until almost closing time to let the place empty out, which wasn't a bad plan. Understand, I'm not a misanthropic person and generally enjoy polite society, but I don't like wading through crowds of exhibitionists, where it's not uncommon for someone to walk right in front of me, screaming on a cell phone, or even to bump me. For heaven's sake, the place is not that cramped. In fact, it's fairly spacious.

The park is another wide open space that should have plenty of room for all but starts to seem like a very small world indeed once you begin encountering all the declaimers and lollygaggers it pulls in. I hate wearing my earplugs in the park, but if I don't, I have to endure one screeching group after another. It's worse than parrots. This even happens at times when you'd think the park would be nearly empty. And don't get me started on people who stop right in the middle of the path to gab, blocking access for everyone else. I'm assuming that at least some of these people are tourists, because most people would behave more considerately knowing that they're likely to encounter friends and neighbors--though tourism is still a poor excuse for rudeness.

I do occasionally get crotchety with someone over this, and you can never really tell when it will happen. I'm sort of a believer in live and let live, but I also believe in appropriate boundaries, which are really a necessity (not an option) for social living. Here's a hint: If I wanted to hear what you have to say, I'd invite you over for tea. Otherwise, we haven't met but are actually perfect strangers in a public place, and in public settings, a little politeness goes a long way.

Pluto, Is That You?

Yesterday I took an online quiz to test my knowledge of the planet Pluto, and to my surprise I got all the questions right. I didn't know I knew that much about it, but I have seen a couple of news articles about the New Horizons space probe and recently read the story of how Pluto was discovered in 1930. I understand that the photographs received by NASA have revealed the planet to be a bit bigger than scientists thought it was, and I'd like to congratulate Pluto in this regard. It must be hard enough hanging out there in the Kuiper Belt without being demoted; maybe being bigger will give Pluto back its bona fides.

When I was growing up, I thought of Pluto as almost the mascot of the solar system, probably because it shared its name with that friendly but goofy Disney dog. At the same time, its remoteness gave it a mystique no other planet had. Now all these years later, images of its surface are raining down on us from the space probe, and we're getting acquainted with its actual features. Imagine an object the size of a piano traveling safely for nine years across the vastness of space, arriving in the vicinity of distant Pluto in good enough condition to send back crisp images. What a miracle.

I read today that scientists are excited about the size of the mountains on Pluto and the likelihood that the planet has water. Pluto seems to be defying expectations in lots of ways, but surprisingly, the images I've seen don't stray all that far from what I might have imagined if you'd asked me to draw it when I was growing up. I think I imagined it as a very cold, silent, dim place, a place it would be hard to get to know.

As everyone knows from mythology, Pluto was also called Hades and was the god of the underworld--conceived as being below the ground, not out in space. Pluto was in some way connected with wealth, which may have come from the fact that he ruled his own vast kingdom, quite distinct from that of the upper regions. Despite the riches below the earth, his realm was a dim, inaccessible place for the living, not a place to go willingly even if you could get there, in contrast to all the effort it's taken to get to his planetary namesake.

We've sent a spacecraft as our emissary to the planet Pluto, a destination that will, in its own way, have a wealth of features to discover. I sometimes have mixed feelings when I read about explorations of other worlds and plans to possibly exploit them for our gain (though I realize anything like that is probably far in the future for distant Pluto). If only we could get our own house in order on Earth I might feel better about the possibility of colonizing other worlds, but I guess if we waited until we were perfectly wise we might never get anywhere.

I hope the images we're receiving will make all the work that went into the New Horizons project pay off, and I'm glad the ashes of Pluto's discoverer, Clyde Tombaugh, went along for the ride. That was a lovely gesture that puts a human face on the whole enterprise and makes a nine-year voyage seem perhaps a bit less of a lonely ride. It also makes Pluto seem not quite as remote as it once was--though regardless of the distance, Pluto will always be a part of my solar system.

Off-Trail on the Fourth of July

The Fourth of July has come and gone, and it was a quiet one here. I considered taking my lawn chair to the top of the hill and watching the official fireworks from there, though I never found out if the show was even being held downtown, and the weather didn't seem that promising. I also considered seeing if I could buy sparklers for my own mini-celebration: I had a momentary vision of myself twirling one in each hand like a majorette while running around the yard. In the end, though, I settled for a walk in the park, conducted with what I believe was the proper amount of adult decorum, though I did sing a little when no one was near.

It was a humid, cloudy evening, and most of the action was obviously elsewhere as the neighborhood was quite still except for the sound of firecrackers going off here and there. The June bugs, the fireflies (which lit up the woods and grass like a convocation of fallen stars), and I had the place mostly to ourselves except for a few determined walkers. I went off-trail, which I enjoy doing now and then because there are a number of beguiling paths winding across the meadows and through the trees, and anyway, why rush? The Fourth of July should be spent outdoors.

It was while I was wandering through the trees that a partial clearing in the west revealed a fiery orange sunset, which faded briefly to pink before sinking into grayness. Something about that brief, almost lurid glow, along with the fact that I was remembering a particular family Fourth of July from long ago, got me to thinking about my grandparents' backyard, and before I knew it, I had mentally transposed this sunset onto that setting. I don't recall ever seeing a sunset like that at my grandparents' house, but my mind brought the two things together in a sort of magical prelude to a short story in which I imagined walking out of the woods and into that long-ago yard (which doesn't exist anymore) with an adult sensibility.

I wrote the story in my head while standing in the woods, imagining how it would end, and by the time I did that and walked out of the trees, the actual sunset itself was going. I'm not sure why an image never seen before melded itself so seamlessly to an actual memory, but it did, and that was how I came to be writing a short story in my head, in the park, on the Fourth of July, instead of barbecuing or celebrating in some other more expected way. But after all, it was Independence Day, a holiday in the spirit of defying tradition if there ever was one.

As the sun went down, I got a glimpse of some far-off fireworks exploding on the horizon, and on the way home, I paused briefly to watch a more modest fireworks celebration being conducted by a family or two on a court behind the student housing complex. So, in the end, my low-key Fourth, unambitious as it was, was not devoid of either inspiration or firecrackers--as no Independence Day should ever be.

Taking Posthumous Advice

The other night I was reading a book by a man with lifelong interests in science and literature. He mentioned Henry David Thoreau's incandescent opening chapter of Walden, with its powerful statement on man's relationship with nature. This led to my having to go find Walden, pull it off the shelf, and dip into the first chapter, which is titled "Economy." I remembered having a strong reaction of my own to Thoreau's opening pages the first time I read the book almost 30 years ago.

I should say "the first time I read the book all the way through," because I'm pretty sure I had tried to read it before, probably while I was in college, without getting very far. It was another example of a book whose time hadn't yet come for me. I'm not sure what prompted me to pick it up again that particular autumn, when I was struggling not so much to find the meaning of life as to find an employer who required the skills of an English M.A. It was a rather discouraging juncture, which was probably what put me in the mood for philosophy.

Something Thoreau said stopped me in my tracks, so applicable did it seem, almost as if he had reached out across time to say something I needed to hear. The experience was similar to the one I had in seeing Joseph Campbell for the first time on public television (which hadn't happened yet when I was reading Thoreau). It's safe to say I wasn't used to those types of peak experiences, and the force of it was almost as if Thoreau had clapped me on the shoulder.

In after years, I went back to locate this statement that had affected me so strongly, and--guess what? I couldn't find it! So much of what Thoreau says in the first chapter is memorable, and I kept reading one beautifully observed statement after another without recognizing the one. What! How could this be? I was left to consider the possibility that in all the living I had done post-Thoreau my experience might have expanded to encompass a few more of his observations. The one that had struck me so forcibly in the beginning was now one of many.

When I was leafing through the book the other night, I decided to try once again to locate the statement I'd once taken as a motto. Reading at leisure, late at night, by lamplight, I suddenly recognized it and remembered why it had moved me so much when I was in my 20s, out of tune with my surroundings and wondering when life would start falling into place. "But man's capacities have never been measured," wrote Thoreau, "nor are we to judge of what he can do by any precedents, so little has been tried. Whatever have been thy failures hitherto, 'be not afflicted, my child, for who shall assign to thee what thou has left undone?' "

I now see that the last part of Thoreau's quote is from the Vishnu Purana, a Hindu scripture, so that in effect Thoreau was speaking along with the Hindu sages of long ago, speaking with them in unison. No wonder the statement had seemed like a revelation. These words greatly encouraged me then and helped me believe that, no matter how disappointing the present was, there was so much more life ahead, and some of it was bound to be better.

Thoreau had been dead for 125 years when his words moved me; Joseph Campbell died right around the time I was reading Walden, perhaps the very week, and the following year I heard him say "Follow your bliss" on PBS. Dead white males, both, and father figures. Mentors come in all sizes and shapes, living and dead, and I say, never ignore a good piece of advice.

Obama and the White Bull

I saw a description for a course someone is offering on learning to recognize myths and archetypes in current events. What a good idea for a course--because how challenging is it to separate the real story from the apparently real in the news we see every day? Separating the false from the true is both an art and a science, and familiarity with myths can be a great help in discernment.

It helps, as I've said before, to view the political stage as just that--a stage. It's the practiced performance you see, not actors standing around being themselves (with a few exceptions). Unrehearsed events are so rare that it makes me wonder how often reporters even ask the right questions. I get the feeling sometimes that press events, talk shows, and public appearances of all kinds are predicated from the word "go" on certain things not being asked, so that it's not a matter of an official parrying a tough question or refusing to comment on something. The conversation never even gets to that point.

I've read reports in the news media that President Obama has been showing more emotion lately, as if to imply that he's "loosening up" and revealing a more human side. I view those reports with some skepticism, based on my observation that almost everything that happens in politics happens for a stone cold reason. I'm not saying that the President doesn't have any of the emotions he might be displaying, but I am saying that if he's letting you see them, that's a calculated decision on his part (the same goes for other warm and fuzzy Washington people).

Was there a time when being presidential carried more gravitas and less of the aura of carnival side show, or am I just imagining that? President Obama seems to want us to think that he's a great guy with feelings just like ours, a sense of humor, lovable foibles, etc., and that he's not even above appearing in someone's garage to record a podcast. I know this folksiness is meant to be disarming, but what I find interesting (and disconcerting) is the fact that Mr. Obama works so hard at projecting this image.

I try to read events--whether they're press conferences, speeches, interviews, or news items--a little like advertisements and a little like poems. If it's an ad, what are they trying to sell me? What's the motive? What's the gain? Reading an event like a poem means reading intuitively or slantwise--literal understanding is just the beginning. The more elusive truths only appear if you don't stare at them head-on but listen instead to your gut feelings.

Here's a Greek myth that surfaced for me this afternoon, in thinking about our President: Poseidon sent King Minos a beautiful white bull, a magnificent animal that, because it was sacred, was meant to be sacrificed to the gods. Minos coveted this bull, and instead of offering it up, decided to keep it for himself, substituting a lesser animal in its place. Much havoc ensued from this self-serving act; Minos' wife even fell in love with the bull, which led to the birth of a monster, the insatiable Minotaur, and the need for an elaborate labyrinth in which to hide it.

The currency in this myth concerns the bait-and-switch, which in our day is the slick appearance and trappings of power as a substitute for the true working of democracy. In matters of personal rights, trade, and economic justice for ordinary citizens, the President, as I see it, is too often on the side of the moneyed and the powerful (a true son of Zeus, like Minos)--but he doesn't want it to look that way. So in place of that just, self-sacrificing, and courageous leader of the free world that we need but don't have, he gladly offers up a shiny, photogenic, and urbane substitute. We'd like to believe it's the real thing, but the truth is, you know, it's just some old bull. And you're not fooled, because you know your mythology.

Buddy Holly's Glasses

I checked out two library books a couple of weeks ago and read them back to back. Both were novels, one by an American and one by a Briton. I was deep into the second one when I came across a character described as having Buddy Holly glasses. This was an interesting coincidence because the first novel also had a character with Buddy Holly glasses. Synchronicity or accident?

It's not an earth-shattering coincidence, but it was odd enough. What are the chances of bringing home two unrelated novels and finding that same descriptor? Not great, I would guess. There was no obvious connection between the books, but it got me thinking about possible reasons for the use of the same image by different authors.

In David Guterson's The Other, the glasses belong to Rand Barry, the wealthy father of John William, a dropout, rebel, philosopher, and Gnostic. Neil Countryman, who narrates the story, is John William's best friend, aiding and abetting him in dropping out of society and out of sight to a precarious backwoods existence. Rand Barry's glasses are described this way: "This style of glasses . . . has waxed and waned, but mostly they've functioned as a comic prop or as a prosthetic for the elderly urbane, sometimes appearing on the faces of mods or dissonantly on generals hauled before the press."

In Ian McEwan's On Chesil Beach, the glasses belong to a minor character named Harold Mather, who has them broken by a street punk as he and the story's protagonist, Edward Mayhew, are walking down a London street in early 1961. His glasses seem less likely to be an affectation (Mr. Barry sports his in 1974), and in any case, suit his character, a hip but nerdy university student who has "an important jazz record collection . . . [and] was hilarious in formal student union debates."

While Guterson describes Barry as a somewhat anxious and uncomfortable figure, despite his wealth, and McEwan's Mather is in his element as a successful and well-regarded intellectual, both scenes describe the removal of the glasses, in one case by the wearer himself and in the other by a violent act. In different ways, both characters are hapless. Barry thinks he's about to be attacked by his son's friend, whom he does not at first recognize, and removes his glasses in a sort of nervous gesture. Mather has them knocked from his head but brushes the incident off, becoming upset with Edward for coming to his defense.

Is there any larger theme in the novels that might connect these seemingly minor incidents? Both novels deal with loneliness, alienation, and the tension between societal norms and the individual. Mr. Barry, as John William's father, is the focus of much of what John William rebels against, and he's not unaware of the role he plays, at least to some degree. Nervously removing his glasses in Neil's presence almost comes across as an unconscious attempt to unmask himself, a futile but poignant gesture in light of his estrangement from his son. 

In the case of Harold Mather, it's Edward who takes the damage to the glasses seriously. While Harold takes the incident in stride, Edward enacts a macho revenge, seeing the matter as a point of pride. The lack of respect for his friend "justifies" his violent reprisal. When I first read this scene, I was surprised that Harold grew upset with (and dropped) his friend over the episode, which seemed to express little more than Edward's instinct to protect. By the end of the novel, I was seeing the incident as evidence of an unfortunate impetuosity, an adherence to a macho code that precludes a more nuanced approach to situations. It was Harold who lost his glasses, but Edward who lacked the ability to "see."

The glasses are in both cases part of a persona relatively easily dropped, in one case deliberately, and the other by accident. Authenticity is achieved to different degrees by Barry and Mather and their counterpoints, Neil and Edward. Mr. Barry seems to realize that his son's friend knows more about his son than he does, even if the realization does him little good. To what extent does he "see" that his son rejects everything he stands for? Harold, on the other hand, sees enough, even without his glasses, to make him reassess his friendship with Edward.

More than aids to vision, more than parts of a mask, the glasses act also as reflectors, as mirrors in which the other character sees himself. For Neil, as he recounts the scene years later, complicated questions of love, loyalty, complicity, and guilt are reflected back. For Edward, an image of who he is as a young man, not yet deepened by experience, chastens him but fails to foster inner change. In one case, the reflection reveals greater depths, while in the other, what shows is mostly an image shaped by social norms.

Why Buddy Holly's glasses? Because of Holly's untimely death, they carry associations with tragedy and early loss that seem to foreshadow later events in both novels. Certainly, the image of Buddy Holly, in conjunction with the character of Rand Barry, an aerospace executive, is both incongruous and apt. For Mather, who seems comfortable with himself as a man despite some physical drawbacks, the glasses are more of a mirror cracked, in which Edward sees, but does not recognize, himself.

Stollen's Clock Repair, Toy & Magic Shop

Once upon a time, there was a woman who lived alone on a long, leafy street with old-fashioned houses. She was a fairly young woman, with no husband or children to think of, and she liked to spend her spare time (she was a teacher) reading, taking walks, drinking long cups of tea, and (on Saturdays) occasionally rummaging in antique shops. 

Rummaging was how she found it, the jewelry box. She wanted someplace besides a candy box to store her earrings and necklaces. She wasn't actually thinking of it that Saturday as she poked around in Stollen's Clock Repair, Toy & Magic shop, but when her eye fell on the lacquered box, a midnight blue affair spangled with faint stars and crescent moons, it came to her mind how perfect it would be for her jewelry and how snugly it would fit on top of her dresser. Mr. Stollen thought the box had originally been used for papers but, unusually for him, was vague on its provenance. He mumbled something about objects of beauty with troubled pasts and frowned as he wrapped it in tissue and put it in a bag for her. She did not think much of this as Mr. Stollen was old and--though kindly--could, on occasion, be crotchety.

The box did indeed fit snugly on her dresser, and her jewelry fit neatly into the partitions she created for them. She casually mentioned her find to several of the other teachers at her college in the break room one morning. They agreed that Stollen's was the place to go when you didn't know what you wanted because you were bound to find it. It was a small town, and everyone knew Stollen's.

By and by, the young woman, whose name was Clare, began to notice something odd happening among her colleagues. It began with whispers and hurried looks and was never more than a faint rumor at first. She eventually discovered that the rumors had to do with her jewelry box, which some said had belonged to a wealthy governor of a far-off place, some to a captain of industry, and some to a potentate. It was said to have a hidden compartment housing a secret document, a document that had been left by mistake in the box, which by some roundabout and uncertain way had ended up at last in a dusty corner of Stollen's shop.

Clare did not believe the rumors at first, knowing how little of import happened in her small town and how exciting the slightest hint of the exotic always was (when the circus came, it was the major topic of conversation for weeks). But gradually, rumors turned into a coolness in the air, and there were frightened looks and hushed voices. She was never sure who started the stories, or if anyone really knew anything for sure about the box. When she asked Mr. Stollen one day, after running into him on the street, he merely shook his head.

Whether Clare believed the rumors or not, it was evident that other people did. One autumn evening, when Clare was returning home from school, she encountered a well-dressed gentleman at the end of her street. He was idling there with an air of purpose, and when she turned in front of him, he bowed slightly. "My name is Mars," he said, handing her a card on which the name P. T. Mars appeared in elegant black lettering, followed by the word "Antiquities." "I understand you purchased a box from old Stollen some time ago. I wonder if you'd be interested in selling it to me. I'm a collector, and I believe it may have some value."

"Really?" said Clare. "Mr. Stollen said nothing about value to me, and he always knows these things. I didn't pay very much for it. It's only lacquered wood."

"Ah, but you see, the look of a thing can be deceiving. Who would think that a tarnished old lamp could hide a genie, for instance? Yet one hears of these things."

Clare did not like the look of this smooth gentleman, with his black hair and pale skin, and said nothing about the rumors she'd heard. A feeling came to her that whatever happened, he should not have her box. "Well, I'm rather fond of the box, as it is," she said carefully. "And I've never done business with someone I met in the street. It may be that I will want to give the box away one day, as a gift."

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," said Mars. "That box contains something very important, not worth much to you, but worth a great deal to those willing to pay for it. Why not save yourself a great deal of trouble and sell it to me? You will make a lot of money from it."

"I'm sorry," said Clare politely, looking at Mars directly. "But I don't feel as if I want to sell it. And it's getting late, so I must be getting on."

"Not today, perhaps," said Mars, with a dismissive wave. "But keep my card. You can reach me at that number anytime." And he laughed and turned away. As he did, Clare caught sight of his fine leather shoes. His feet were small and goat-like, and he moved on them lightly. When he was a short distance away, he turned and smiled again. "And don't think of destroying that box," he said. "To do so would be quite dangerous, as it is well-protected against any type of tampering. You cannot destroy it without destroying yourself, believe me." Then he was gone.

When Clare got home, she stared at the card with distaste for a long while before burning it in the grate. She looked at the jewelry box, sitting quietly and unassumingly on the left side of her dresser, glowing softly in the lamplight. She would have liked to believe that the entire episode was a case of mistaken identity, but as she gazed at the box, she feared it was not.

Of course, that was not the end of the affair of the box, as it seemed everyone had now heard the story of its hidden treasure, whether from Mars or by some other means. Clare no longer felt carefree as she walked down her street, from home to school and back again. The neighbors behaved oddly, and the formerly friendly shopkeepers on Main Street all seemed troubled and disinclined to be social. Clare wondered what could possibly be in the box to turn everyone's heads so completely. She didn't want to know but thought it best to draw conclusions so she could decide what to do. Perhaps it contained a map to a treasure, a list of names, or the plans for an invention that would make its owner rich beyond imagining. There were many possibilities, but no one of them seemed more likely than the rest. In the end, she decided, it wasn't so much the contents, but the greed that mattered.

Clare began to dread the ordeal of her daily walk to school, which she had formerly enjoyed. The loud talk and furtive glances of her neighbors troubled her; she sometimes heard strange laughter coming from behind the curtains of the houses. It was now November, and the air was getting chilly. Clare looked forward every day to turning the key in her latch, putting the kettle on to boil, and settling into the window seat of the turret (she lived in a Victorian cottage) to read the evening away. She worked her way slowly through all of Henry James, Dickens, and then Trollope as the months went by, watching from her solitary seat as the seasons wheeled around. 

The months turned into years. Even her old friends seemed to have gotten wind of the story of the box, and few of them came around any more. She sometimes heard rustling outside her window at night, and once she even heard footsteps on her porch, a hand on the latch. When she opened the curtain, she saw a dark shape retreating. 

She couldn't help but notice the altered appearance of her neighbors; the doctor in the Queen Anne down the street, always pale from late shifts at the hospital, now looked almost vampire-ish as he turned his grin toward her. The minister two doors down, with his red hair and sharp eyes, had grown vulpine and watchful, and bearded Mr. Brown, who lived across the street and published the local newspaper ("The Intelligencer"), had somehow grown to resemble Lon Chaney Jr. in his hairier stages. Mrs. Carmine, who had moved in next door a year ago, had the crooked teeth and pointed nose of a hag and swept her porch furiously as she watched Clare with speculative eyes. When Clare was awakened one night by noises on the roof, she instantly pictured Mrs. Carmine poking about the chimney, though how she could have gotten up there, with all her two hundred pounds, was a mystery Clare preferred not to consider. She decided instead that it must be bats.

Ownership of the box had made Clare a prisoner in her home and had taken most of the sweetness out of life. "One thing I know," she said to herself, "is that I can't let anyone else get this box. Whatever's in it is bad, to make people act the way they do. I suppose I must just guard it. I wish this were a fairy tale so that I might have a godmother to tell me what to do, but since it isn't, I'll have to do the best I can."

Do you think someone was listening? That night, Clare dreamed of her grandmother, who had been dead for many years. She was a small Southern woman with a lively expression, and in the dream she gave off a decided radiance. She looked very pleased as she smiled at Clare, who felt, at the sight of that smile, a lifting of the dread that followed her in waking life. "You see," she said to her grandmother. "This box has changed everything."

"Yep," her grandmother replied. "What are you gonna do about it?"

"I don't know," said Clare. "I've been watching this box for almost five years now, and it's getting old."

"What do you want to do?" her grandmother persisted.

"Smash it to pieces."

"Good idea," the grandmother said.

"Someone told me that I'd end up hurting myself if I tried to get rid of the box," Clare said. "There was a man, Mr.--"

"Oh, him," said her grandmother. Then she laughed. "That don't make no never mind. If that box would've hurt you, it would have done it by now. What do you think happened to them neighbors of yours, studying all the time on that box and how to get their hands on it? It's ruined their looks, sure enough, and I'll tell you what--them changes are permanent. There's no going back. But not you, honey. You watched over that box, and never asked nothing for yourself out of it. That's kept you going."

"You mean, he lied to me about the box, and I could have destroyed it all this time?"

"Well, lied, honey--of course he lied, but in a way of twisting the truth. You had to show that box it was not the boss of you before it would let you go, and now you have. Getting rid of an old tricksy sumpen like that is no small matter till you show it what's what. If you want to smash it, smash it. And honey," she said, pressing her granddaughter's hand, "get yourself out of this mess here," and she gestured broadly and inclusively. "It'll sap the life right out of you, sitting in a nasty place like this. And you still with a husband to get."

Clare woke up. It was only midnight, and she hadn't been asleep long. She got up and went to the dresser. Without a second thought, she removed all of her earrings and necklaces and put them in an empty Whitman Sampler box. She took the jewelry box and a hammer into the living room, where she smashed the box into tiny pieces inside a large bucket. Once she was finished, she took the bucket outside. Next to the fence was a canister of acid the landlord had left after treating a swimming pool. She dumped the splinters in and watched them disintegrate with a satisfying fizz. Then she went inside and washed her hands. 

"There may have been another way to do that," she said to herself. "But anyway, it's done. It's a shame to lose a pretty box, but no sense taking any chances on pulling out one paper and leaving something else behind. Anyway, I could probably lacquer a box myself." While in the kitchen, she thought she heard a long wail in the side yard followed by a howl from somewhere down the street. Then all was still, and she listened as the silent neighborhood seemed to rearrange itself around the fact of the now dead-as-a-doornail box.

She felt her arms and legs, and touched her head and heart. "Well, it looks like I'm still here," she said. Then she went to bed.

She woke up early the next morning, a sunny May Saturday, and began to pack her clothes, her books, and her personal things. She was not teaching this summer and had not yet renewed her contract for next year, so there was nothing more to be said about that. She took down her pictures and wrapped them up. She packed up her kitchen and her bathroom; she tied a ribbon around the Whitman Sampler box. All this took a few hours. By that time, the rental agency was open, so she went over and hired a small trailer. Backing it up to the front porch, she piled in her boxes, pictures, roll-top desk, and her small kitchen table. She left the futon (which had never been comfortable) and the odds and ends that had come furnished with the place. 

In the mailbox on the corner, she dropped a note to the landlord with half a month's rent (he had neglected for months to repair a leaking roof, so she subtracted two weeks for that), her key, and her month's notice. As she got into her car, she saw that her neighbor, Mr. Brown, had emerged from his house and was trimming the hedge desultorily with his clippers. He looked, she thought, quite depressed. The heavy hair on his face, neck, and arms and his hollow expression were all visible in the rear view mirror as she drove away. At the end of the street, she turned onto the main road without looking back. At the edge of town, she rolled a window down and called, "Don't let the screen door hit you, folks!" Then she was on her way.

(The inspiration for this story was a drive down a street of old houses not far from where I live. I pictured it on a windy night and knew I wanted to write a story about it. I imagined the residents as werewolves and vampires, and it took off from there. I made up the jewelry box.)