Forbidden Graces, Book One: Beginnings. Carol Inc. Bridges

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      Forbidden Graces

      Book One: Beginnings

      by Carol Bridges

      Copyright © 2012 Carol Bridges,

      All rights reserved.

      Earth Nation Publishing

      Nashville, Indiana

      Published in eBook format by Earth Nation Publishing

      Converted by http://www.eBookIt.com

      ISBN-13: 978-0-9451-1106-1

      No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

      Cover Art: Fabric Quilt by Carol Bridges

      The Setup

      In the end, they began to recognize each other. Long had they wearied under the weight of the mask, each his own making from the broken shards of Paradise. There was Yaro, quite handsome with a lean, limber showing, eyes that wondered and a voice set sure. There was Reuban, wrapped in a dancing whirl, red-haired and bearded, balanced on the edge of ecstasy. Flutes laughed and sang when he touched them.

      There was Roan, princely by stature, rosy-cheeked and kind. There was Wren, finely-tuned and purposeful. Each one worthy of kisses and nearly worship. Except, of course, they had come to take on a plague, to taste a poison, and to dissolve it in their heart chalice where it would have to be mixed with an elixir of woman's love.

      They had been given few instructions, for they were bold and sure of their talents or knew they could learn. They set off with the sketchiest of maps, comfortable shoes and some songs. It took a long time for them to meet, and still upon meeting, they were uncertain but behaved with dignity and carelessness, as if the meetings were ordinary and happened all the time.

      Each allowed themselves certain passageways back to their land of origin, at least some glimpse of it, and they often found each other on these paths. Sometimes, it was a sound that took them there, sometimes a potion, occasionally an outburst of philosophy always followed by a hearty laugh.

      Women were drawn to them, to their mystery. It was as if inside the woman, there was a gong, a large brass plate, engraved with secret symbols, hanging from its holder, the striker resting below. If the woman was not quiet inside, and few were in that time, the gong remained silent and unnoticed. But, if she was a listener, when a man such as these came into her presence, some mystical force picked up the striker and struck the gong with one, hard, resounding whack, and she was instantly tuned to the deeper harmonics of the man.

      With some, it would start out as a close breath, a light touch, no meaning to it, only a magnetism that called a greater force into play. Nothing interferes with such a force. Entire life plans have been known to fall away, jobs abandoned, furniture moved aside, clothing hastily removed, all that could have been termed “once was” left behind.

      The heart chalice begged to be filled. It was not a kind of begging like that of an impoverished soul, someone in rags and torn shoes. No, it was a fierce, open call, like a curious flutter in the dark night, inviting, frightening, compelling. The sound of the gong floated away and deep into this opening, seeking and knowing its way in the dark.

      The heart chalice could feel the sound gliding closer, closer, the tongue ready to taste, the eyes closing to savor, the body ready for whatever nourishment might come. Neither man nor woman thought exactly in this way; in fact, each gave themselves many other reasons, excuses and persuasions for what was to come. Minds always try to fill the silence, to tame the intensity and keep the body, the form, contained. The mind loves boxes and limits and organizational labels like “right,” “wrong,” “not yet,” “too soon” and, when given the go-ahead, will elaborate endlessly on its “whys’ and “why nots.”

      The poisons, the mind would explain, are terrible, causing all manner of illness, creating obstacles to success in every endeavor and capable of eliciting vile emotions of all kinds. Beware. But, somehow, the men knew they were to endure the poisons, to at least accept a smattering of poison in their lives, to stand fast and hold their places in calmness while the poison tried to overtake them. Only then would they become worthy of the wondrous.

      There were many poisons. A cruel relative. A physical beating. An unfortunate crisis. The bad start. The intoxicating substance which fails to continue its pleasures. An accident. A betrayal. The list is exceedingly long. Each man had to taste at least one of these. It served to purify the heart chalice, like a sterilization to remove the contamination of dirty fingerprints on the gold. The chalice had to be washed in the blood of pain. Only then could it radiate its otherworldly excellence.

      The Tent

      The women were thirsty. They had each traveled a long, dry road. Dust covered their beautiful hair and soiled their clothes. They had to spend hours bathing, brushing, combing, applying sweet scents, practicing words that would not parch their throats, soft, soothing words. The desert had made them dry, and they were willing to do anything to be wet again. To feel moisture all over their bodies.

      They wanted to dance and sing and write poetry as well as ride horses, play ball and sweat. They wanted to have babies and feel blood run down their legs. They could hardly wait to cook soup, to give milk, to sweeten life all around them.

      They felt like camels. They had endured. They had followed stars, looked for redeemers, made do. Now, upon being summoned by the pristine, glowing chalice in the man’s heart, they responded to the note of the gong as it trailed off into the infinite openness.

      There was Saffi. Knowledgeable about all things, now ready to close the books. There was Kate-Amee. Serving. Serving. Serving. Done. Hands washed and ready to embrace. There was Shae. Having reached the land of the Gods only to be turned back, mission not yet completed. There was Keara. Passionate. Devoted. Fed up. She had heard the gong, knew of the chalice, but had not yet found its carrier.

      The women met in the great tent. They were attracted to the ribbons blowing, colors everywhere, bells, the bleats of sheep, the cackle of chickens, the splash of children’s laughter. Inside, they could toss the soiled garments, bathe in the clear pool and say the forbidden words about their lives. For no one listened with an ear to judgment, only understanding.

      “Yes, yes, we have also endured these things. Yes, we know.” Thus, they emptied themselves of the desert’s dryness. They spit out the grit and cleaned their teeth, drank peppermint tea and melted chocolate with their warm lips. They blessed themselves with ablutions, forgiving all things in a world such as it was. They rested then. Whole again.

      The Meeting

      The men wandered down avenues they had heard of, looking up addresses of those in-the-know, finding a friend here, a mentor there, some only following signs. Keep Going. As they walked or rode or ran, the poisons sloshed inside their heart chalices, washing, splashing, making clean. The poison itself was made other-than-itself as they journeyed. As it mixed with blood and bone it became strength and courage. As it reached the tips of fingers and toes it made them dance and skip. Coughs and cries became chants and the СКАЧАТЬ