Ichabod Ebenezer's Blog, page 9

Jizo

Image by Jordy Meow from Pixabay



We found the first Jizo statue just as the skies opened up.

Torrents of rain washed away the muddy bank of the dig, revealing more and more of the small, Buddha-like stone figures.

“Get them under the tarp!” I yelled, and my grad students ran
back and forth, carrying thirty pounds of stone with them to the only dry spot
for miles, and the long plastic tables underneath.

After several trips of my own, I began the count. “Forty-three,”
I said under my breath in the end.

“Forty-three dead children,” Soma said.

“Don’t draw conclusions yet,” I say. The other six students stood
just behind him, and this was a teachable moment. “The Jizo at Kyoto represent
children who died before their parents, but those are cared for, fed, even
clothed. These statues were buried, and the town abandoned. They may have a
different meaning.”

I noticed Akari shaking in her cold, clinging clothes. “Alright,
students. Go home. Return tomorrow after the rains pass.”

I stayed to catalog the statues, arranging them by type. Smiling,
praying, meditating Buddhas, and maybe a dozen other figures.

Once arranged, I grabbed my camera, and turned back—

One Buddha stood with arms raised among all the others.

I took off my glasses and rubbed the rain from my eyes. No, clearly,
I overlooked it.

Bringing the camera up to my eye, I wondered again, why were
they buried?

I snapped a shot, but the flash didn’t go off, so I checked
the photo.

The odd one had moved again. His hands were at the corners
of his mouth pulling them wide. He looked ready to swallow a watermelon.

When I looked back up, all the other statues were turned
toward me with their arms raised.

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Spirit Bowl

Image by Sasin Tipchai from Pixabay



“The magic isn’t in the water, you know,”

the stranger said, leaning in to whisper in Hank’s ear.

“Excuse me?” Hank said, sparing a look at the tall man in
the Panama hat and devilish goatee before returning his attention to the young monk
pouring the spring water over the bowl.

“The bowl is different after the ceremony; that much
is proven. There have been analyses of the sound profile just before and after,
and the harmonic range is day and night different.”

“I see,” Hank said. While the detail was rather interesting,
he’d rather enjoy the solemnity of the ceremony than have it explained to him.

“But it’s just water,” the stranger went on. “They only perform the ritual at the source of this river because it makes the purest conduit. The magic comes from the monk. The water is just how he gets it into the bowl.”

Hank had had enough. “Listen, Mr…”

“Josephus Harnswaggle,” the man said, taking Hank’s hand in
his own frigid hand and shaking it.

Hank lost everything he’d been about to say. “Really?”

“Most assuredly. Now, do you know the purpose of this
ceremony?”

“I’m familiar with singing bowls. Now if you don’t—”

“Oh, these aren’t just singing bowls. They’re spirit bowls.
Each is dedicated to the memory of a particular loved one. Playing it apparently
brings memories of them to life. This one is mine.”

Applause broke out, and Hank returned his attention to the
monk, afraid he’d missed something. The monk bowed. Apparently, the ceremony
was over.

Oh well, perhaps he’d catch the next one, better informed.

“Who did you have it made for?” Hank asked, turning back to Mr. Harnswaggle.

Only, the man was nowhere to be seen.

“For you, Mrs. Harnswaggle,” the monk said, handing the bowl
to an elderly woman.

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First Fight

Image by Dewald Van Rensburg from Pixabay



Lynn stormed down the beach, sandals clutched in one hand.

“Come on, Lynn, please come back to the restaurant. You can
order something else!” Greg said. He stopped at the sidewalk’s edge, not
wanting to get sand in his shoes if he didn’t have to.

Lynn whipped around and pointed her sandals at Greg
accusingly. “No! This is a sign from God!”

Greg cocked his head to the side and shaded his eyes to see
her better against the setting sun. “Aren’t you being a tad overdramatic?”

“No, Greg. That tentacle moved. You saw it. And I swear to God
it winked at me.”

“It’s the citric acid in the ceviche. It can cause twitches
sometimes. Anyway, octopuses don’t even have eyelids, Lynn. Octopi. Octopuses?”

“Three days, Greg! Three days we’ve been married, and they
have been the worst three days of my life!”

“Honey,” he said. “Look around you. We’re in paradise.” He
demonstrated by turning around, taking in the crystal blue ocean, the mesa
across the strait, the long stretch of virgin sand, and the luxury hotels that
catered to their every need. “No one could hate this place without trying.”

“Oh. So, it’s my fault. Was I trying to get attacked by that
shark while we were snorkeling?”

“That was a nurse shark, and it wasn’t within—”

“And getting sunburned?” She took off her sunglasses. The
bright white circles were clearly visible, even in silhouette.

“I did offer you sunscr—”

“And what about our bed?”

Greg’s eyebrows knitted in confusion. “What’s wrong with our
bed?”

“It’s so comfortable, we both fall right asleep! This is not
how I imagined our honeymoon.”

His shoulders sank. “I’m sorry, Honey. What do you want to do?”

Her anger softened. “Well, this was our first fight. So…
make-up sex?”

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Tree

Image by My pictures are CC0. When doing composings: from Pixabay



“Captain!” Daniel called from the wheelhouse. “A tree!”

The other five remaining members of the crew rushed to the
starboard bow where Daniel was pointing. It was unmistakable against the harsh
glow of the setting sun—the first tree they’d seen in over three years.

“A tree means seeds, right?” Andre said, nearly hyperventilating in his excitement. “It means soil! Right?”

The captain just squinted. His ever-present toothpick migrated
from one corner of his mouth to the other.

“Could be high tide,” Han said. “Possible that low tide will
expose dry land.”

“Won’t make the tree spring to life. Do you see any leaves?
Because I can’t,” Jodie said.

“We should at least go see, right?” Andre said. “It’s not
like we’re heading anywhere better!”

“Lower sails,” the captain finally said. “I need to think.”

Jodie, Han, and Sven leapt into action, but Andre grabbed
the captain’s arm. “What’s to think about? We’re dying here, Captain! That tree
could be life!”

The captain stared at his arm until Andre let go. The clank
of pulleys against the mast filled the still air. “Something rubs me wrong
about it,” he finally said.

Sven came to join them as stars appeared and the tree’s
silhouette grew faint. “What’s bugging you, Chief?”

“Did you feel any breeze, Sven?”

Sven paused before speaking. “No.”

“But the branches were swaying.”

“What does that mean?” Andre asked.

“Don’t know. But it will wait until morning. Take a
sounding, Sven.”

“Aye, Chief.” Sven left the captain and Andre peering into
the darkness.

After several minutes, Andre leaned forward, squinting. “Captain…
I think it’s—”

“It’s glowing.” Tiny orbs danced on the tips of branches
like will-o-the-wisps. “Raise sails! Hard about! That’s no tree.”

Andre kept looking while the rest of the crew worked. “Captain!
It’s getting closer!”

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Little One

Image by ayoub wardin from Pixabay



“Wake up, little one. It is time to keep moving,” the wolf
said, nuzzling Molly.

“Do we have to? I’m still tired.” The little girl lifted her
head. Road gravel stuck to her pink cheek.

“Yes, little one. The fog is growing close, and the things
that come with it.”

Molly stood, and stretched, and picked up her lantern. The
two traveling companions began walking.

The road stretched on into the distance, the grasslands on
both sides eerily silent. Molly rubbed the gooseflesh of her arms. “I’m cold,”
she said.

“Keep moving. Walking will make you warm,” the wolf said.

“And I’m hungry.”

The wolf said nothing.

“And my feet hurt.”

The wolf rolled her eyes.

They continued, hearing only the sound of their own footsteps
echoing off the encroaching fog. Molly looked back. It was farther away than
when she woke, but she spotted one of the shadows that haunted her nightmares.

She walked a little faster and almost immediately stubbed
her little toe. She didn’t cry out, but tears did come, blurring her vision.
She swiped at them with the back of a dirty hand and sniffed.

“Can’t I just ride on your back? You’re so much bigger and faster,” Molly said.

“Little one, remember what I told you about the importance
of maintaining your dignity. I have my dignity too, and riding on my back would
make me your beast of burden. Protecting others’ dignity is called respect.”

“We-spect,” Molly said, sounding out the word. “And wespect
is important too?”

“Nothing is more important than respect. Except perhaps,
survival. Now, hush. Save your energy for the long walk. We can make it to the
settlement by nightfall.”

“And my new mommy will be at the seddlement?”

The wolf’s own eyes began to water. “Yes, little one.”

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Pāo De Açucar

Image by David Mark from Pixabay

Clifton Johns stood by the large window overlooking the city and the Pāo De Açucar in the distance.

The drop was a hundred sheer feet. There would be no escape that way.

“Nice view,” he said.

“Thank you, Mr. Johns,” Trivolo said, joining him. “The view
had better be nice given what it costs me. Whisky? Yamazaki thirty-five year
single malt. That is your drink, Mr. Johns?”

“Thank you, Mr. Trivolo,” Johns said, accepting the glass.
He watched Trivolo take a drink before lifting the glass to his own lips. “Your
assistant said you were interested in selling your Rembrandt.”

“My assistant has shown a disturbing trend toward disloyalty
lately. I’m afraid I’ve had to terminate her with prejudice.” Trivolo indicated
the window again, and Johns turned to see the young woman, her arms tied behind
her back, go sailing past.

“You bastard! She was innocent!”

“Please, Mr. Johns. None of us are innocent.” Trivolo took
another drink. “I’ve had you looked into. I was surprised to find you were
really an art historian. That is, before you were recruited by MI6. Just to be
sporting, I’ll give you thirty seconds to determine if this painting is a
forgery.”

“Or what?”

“Or I won’t give you the antidote for the poison you just
drank. Tip of your tongue beginning to numb? It was on the glass, not in the
whiskey. Eighteen seconds.”

Mr. Johns rushed to the painting, scanning every inch of it.
The signature was perfect, the brushstrokes were impeccable. He breathed deeply
the unique scents of ancient pigments, the cadmium, the mercury, the egg-wash.
He flipped the painting and smiled.

“Forgery. The original was on a tight-weave linen. This is
close, but clearly hemp.”

“Hmm. Another termination for my forger. Goodbye Mr. Johns
You’ve been most helpful.”

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Moonsitting

Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay



“Okay, I realize I messed up, but moonsitting?” Nalie said.

“Who’s ever heard of babysitting the moon?”

Talia giggled like the ring of a bell. “Not just any old
moon, yesterday he was a new moon. He’s only a day old—just a little
baby. And someone’s got to take care of him for the next four days, or he won’t
have the energy to stay up all night.”

“But I’m a pixie! I already have a job to do. I sprinkle dew
drops on flowers so they’ll look their best for the bees! I don’t know the
first thing about taking care of a baby moon!”

“Pish-posh. Nothing could be simpler. You sing him lullabies
and rock him to sleep. If he wakes up hungry, you feed him. If he wets himself
or whatever… you clean it up.”

Nalie wrinkled her nose. “What does the moon eat?”

“Come on, you know the old saying. ‘You are what you eat.’
Just feed him cheese. I have the basket right here.”

“So that’s the smell. I suppose you have diapers in there
too.”

“Diapers?”

“For changing your little moonling?”

Talia laughed. “Oh, you’re adorable. Didn’t you ever wonder
where moonpies come from? No Nalie, you collect them in the empty basket over
there.”

“I don’t think I can eat moonpies anymore.”

“But you’re okay with how honey is made? Like I said.
Adorable. Okay, I’ve got to fly. I’ll see you in four days. Oh, fly! I just
remembered; I’m going to have to take your wings.”

“My wings! No, you can’t do that.” Nalie said, backing away.

“Silly pixie. This is what it means to be grounded.”

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A Splash of Red

Image by thatsphotography from Pixabay



The water beneath Fiona was a clear blue reflection of the sky above.

Tiny fish followed along in the wake of her kayak, flashing silver in swaths. On, off, on, off, like some indecipherable version of Morse code.

Fiona paddled farther toward the center of the glacial lake.
Despite the climb to reach its shore, despite the solitude since arriving at
the trailhead with her folding kayak strapped to her back, she felt compelled to
reach the center.

This was the first time she had gotten away in ten years.
Fiona MacIntosh, CEO of IQ, the most accurate political think tank in history.
Predictor of the last three US Presidents, the past four British PMs and French
Presidents, the consecutive wins of the current Israeli PM. What Fiona knew,
however, was that once you had the reputation of IQ, predicting the win was the
same as deciding the win.

If there was a center of the Earth, a place where people felt
compelled to congregate when they sought human companionship, this was its antipode.
A place of unmatched clarity Fiona believed to exist in the very center of this
lake, its deepest point.

That would be the greatest solitude available on the surface
of the Earth. Finally, when she reached this spot, she could unburden herself
without risk.

She carried no GPS, she followed intuition. She would know
which way to turn, where to stop, because it would feel right. And when it did,
she stowed her paddle under the bungee and took a moment to compose herself.

Fiona took her cap off, shook out her hair, then cupped the bowl of the cap around her face.

“I know nothing about politics,” she said.

She lowered the cap into the water and watched as it sank to
the bottom.

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Conjunction

Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay



“Major Bronkowitz, is the hazmat suit really necessary?”

Montenegro Coduri said as they zipped him in. “I really don’t deal well with small spaces.”

“Doctor Coduri, you’ve studied the photos from the past conjunctions. Earth 2 is blanketed in an unknown fog, and until we know what it is, we need to be careful.”

“Full conjunction in forty-five seconds,” said an assistant.

“Yes, but only the first eight meters, and we’ll be entering from the top of the Transit Tower. Besides, it will be another year before we make contact again, and we have air for thirty minutes. At some point we’ll be taking these off. Right?”

“Only when I’m satisfied conditions are safe will we remove the suits.”

“Major, fifteen seconds. You have to get aboard.”

“Understood, Private.”

The private pushed the button, and the elevator dinged. The doors open and the stepped inside, pushing the button for the top floor.

“Besides, these aren’t just hazmat suits, as you put it. They’re covered in cameras and telemetry devices, and sensors inside will track our condition.”

“And do what with that info?” Doctor Coduri asked as the elevator left the fiftieth floor.

“Broadcast it back to Earth 1, of course. Well, for the duration of the conjunction anyway.”

“So for two minutes fifteen seconds.” He looked out the glass back of the elevator. “Then it’s a full year before we see home again.”

A feeling of weightlessness came over them, then the distorted image of a second elevator, and a second Coduri and Bronkowitz passed through in the opposite direction.

“That was freaky,” Coduri said.

“Get ready for Earth 2 gravity,” Bronkowitz said, looking at the carpeted ceiling, but Coduri was staring outside.

“A hot air balloon,” he said, then fell upward.

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The Mill

Image by Hermann Schmider from Pixabay



“There! Before he sees us!” Penelope said, pointing.

“The mill? That’s the first place he’ll look!” Agatha said. She turned toward it anyway and continued running.

“But we can barricade the door. Maybe he’ll lose interest.
Or do you have a better idea?”

“Fine.” Agatha splashed across the shallow brook and ducked
under the mill race, looking for the door. Penelope came around the other way and
got there first.

She turned the knob and pushed. It scraped a bit and stuck,
so they put their shoulders to it and fell inside.

“Quick, find something to brace the door with,” Penelope
said, getting to her feet.

But there wasn’t much of anything to move. The shaft from
the water wheel went directly into a generator that was way too heavy. A couple
lengths of corroded wire lay against one wall next to an aging toolbox, while a
pair of jumper cables ran from the generator to the transmission line in the
ceiling.

The only thing worth moving was a large bundle of wooden
shingles. “Bring that here!” Penelope said. Agatha tried to lift the stack but
only managed to slide it about a foot. “No, pull out a couple shingles and toss
them to me. Hurry!”

Through the window, she could see the man with the shotgun
heading straight for the mill.

“Here.”

Penelope caught the shingles and wedged them under the
already sticking door. It wasn’t going to be enough. “What else can we use?”

Then she saw it. “The diverter!” she pointed to the wooden
bolt that would open the channel and send the water down the race. Agatha threw
the bolt, and Penelope jumped, pulling the jumper cables from the transmission
line.

The doorknob rattled.

The water turned the wheel.

The door banged.

Sparks jumped across the cable terminals.

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