A different dawn

This is one of twenty-four short stories
in a book I am crafting called Limora Gate.
14 down -- 10 to go.
(24 stones required -- you will understand),
Sally and Limora are two sides of the personality
of a young girl caught between the demanding
world of now, and whispers of ancient memories.

enjoy, papa faucon
................................................

THE SIGNAL

She saw the signal first when just eight years old, though no one would believe her now, but she was certain. After all, it had been just two days before her birthday, and she had been counting carefully -- remembering the promise that something special would happen when she was seven -- but it hadn't yet -- nearly gone -- never happened. Her age wasn't important anyway, but that was a third of her life ago -- and she hadn't gone to see. In another couple of years it would be half of her life spent not knowing, then … "well, today I am going to find out what it is."

Actually, almost eight was important because she was just tall enough to see out of the upstairs bathroom window -- looking east at the sunrise. A different view most certainly -- woven tree branches instead of gnarled trunks -- swirling flocks of starlings instead of marauding dogs -- distant rural lights protected from the city glare. Then "ping!" It was just a single flash of light at the corner of her view, special only because every other bright object was washed in pastel oranges and muffled reds. Just one incredibly white sparkle -- then gone. Sally didn't really care and was a little afraid of the teetering stool beneath her slippers. Limora was intrigued by anything unique and out of place and took charge enough that the next sunrise found her there again -- precarious, but expectantly happy. She knew it would happen again! Her rumpled dreams of the night before had been of secret messages between ships of war, a spyglass caught unawares and betraying a nefarious plot, a cry for help from a plane crash survivor. "Probably just a chance reflection from a speeding car," she mused. But she knew better -- the signal was meant for her!

Again! Same place, just left of the broken sycamore snag -- high enough to be out of town, close enough to touch. Flash! She glanced at the alarm clock next to the guest bed -- 7:14 AM. Six minutes after sunrise, about the same as yesterday. Just one blink -- not much of a message, but anything regular might be a sign of life. Limora read a lot -- even science fiction. She had also taught herself Morse Code. She would be ready if more signal messages ever came.

I could tell you that she saw that flash every morning, but you already know that. You don't have to guess that the signal always came at six minutes after sunrise -- different clock times, of course, though the sun is certainly a clock itself. This took dedication. Each night this little girl, just after her prayers, set the alarm clock for sunrise. It didn't take Limora six minutes to get to the window, but an almanac readily gave up these precise settings whereas any other setting would have required some math - yuk! Now she had more than a thousand blinks recorded -- a thousand dreams of danger -- a thousand perfect messages from a friend. I'll bet right now you are thinking of possibilities for that signal flash. It couldn't be a bus or train or truck, as these kept to human time. It couldn't be a glass window, for then the moving sun would reflect somewhere else than her tiny window. No Sundays off either. Did miss on rainy days, though -- but perhaps it was there and she just couldn't see it for the drizzle. No -- she was certain it was connected to the sun -- yet some person had to make it happen too. Someone chose to do the necessary things to send that flash to her -- to her alone. Limora planned to meet this person -- no matter what -- sorcerer, angel, witch, mad scientist -- praying monk. Limora did not care, and was equally excited about learning that the signal was magick, or a miracle, or a trick of nature -- or even that she was going mad! Twelve year olds have a great capacity for the unknown, somewhere between gullible kid and stodgy adult, but unafraid and unencumbered by "what ain't so."

Limora had a plan! She had researched a number of maps -- recent street maps, some very old and some quite strange, with wavy lines and no streets at all. She carefully examined the area that seemed to be the physical source of the 'blink'. Instinct guided her to focus on structures that had been there a while, and endured. There were three: and old farm, perhaps a dairy; a cabin, added on in the fifties, then returned to a single structure; and a rectangular patch, unique only in that it was unchanged for more than 112 years! She could bicycle that far -- to check them out. Of course to be there at sunrise was another problem.

The farm was easy to eliminate from serious contention. It had new owners who were completely renovating it into some imagined original state. It had been purchase just last year, yet the flash signals had been consistent. She did check the country records -- difficult for a twelve year old, just in case a relative was carrying on the mysterious tradition. Nada!

The cabin looked hopeless, with little signs of life at all. The picket fence had collapsed in places, defeated by blackberry vines long dead. Only a meager wisp of chimney smoke indicated a lonely presence. One window box held some cheery flowers, though; and Sally thought to walk up the weed defiled gravel path to say hello. Instead, she just waved and sent a little mental Valentine, though it was close on June. Perhaps this person just wished to be alone.

The garden was strange, even at a time when isolated gardens were rare -- here I mean, for down by the river Viet Nam refugees always had a garden growing. This was different. The fence was tall and modern, and designed so that no view was possible inside except from a distant hill. It followed the contour of the slopes as if tracing a watershed -- everything within the barricade running to the center -- everything outside escaping to another place. From a slight distance she could make out the perfectly rectangular patch of green -- rows on rows of carefully tended plants of undefined grace and symmetry. In the center was a fountain, though even with binoculars, Limora was unable to see any water movement. In the center of the circular font rose a slender column of copper. She chuckled because she knew what 'verdigris' was, though she had never seen it. There should have been a stature on to, but there was only an echoing absence there. Yet there was no hint of any person caring for this shrine -- no tool shed, no upturned wheelbarrow -- nothing -- not even a gate! Impossible! Sally was quite late getting home that evening as she had decided to walk the entire parameter for clues and 'evidence'. "Lost track of time," was a true excuse in this case, but hardly accepted. No matter -- Limora had discovered what she wanted -- a trail led from the cabin -- but then you knew that already, didn't you? What a contrast! A perfect garden and a cabin at the point of collapse -- good thing the wolf of 'three pigs' notoriety didn't happen by! Yet the cabin was beautiful in its own simplicity -- alone, yet somehow not lonely. The special garden was lonely, but not alone, as it had everything! The two belonged together yet had to be separate. Limora laughed again as the phrase 'star crossed lovers' came to mind -- surly a carry-over from too many romance novels. Limora read everything!

Anyway, this tale is getting to be rather long without going anywhere -- but it had taken her four years to get this far, so you will have to glide along. Limora sat in her garden, on that forceful iron bench, and pondered. "Do I really want to know? Are there some mysteries left best unsolved? Should I just accept and act on faith alone -- privileged that I have seen the signal? Should that not be enough? Suddenly, she was back in catechism class, coloring pictures of the baby Jesus holding butterflies on his fingers. She had though of what his laughter must have sounded like -- but that was long ago. "I am called and I shall go!", she challenged. And she did.

I won't go into detail of how she cajoled her father into getting up at 4:00 AM to drive her there, or why he was willing to leave her -- alone in the dark, with a commitment to return at 'just past sunrise and an hour'. Maybe because it was her birthday. Perhaps because fathers do these things. Perhaps they always have! They fear of many things for their daughters, but not their 'knowing'. She stood there by the well worn path and prayed a bit, not for courage, but just to say, "you're gonna want to be here for this!" Silly -- but she was not alone!

The woman walked with some difficulty, assisted by a twisted staff of strangle-wood -- a simple shawl like her grandmother wore -- a basket and a flask. No. not a flask -- but an ancient thing with two handles and a pointed base -- Limora had seen one someplace, perhaps in Alexandria. The weight of these burdens pressed deeply into the dew kissed grass, but they returned with her passing to simple scattered pebbles and withered grass. And a section of the fence swung open with a whisper of her breath, and the two of them entered to the center of it all! From the woolen satchel the crone removed a globe -- silver and more -- polished yet enhanced with smudges of song -- silly thing to say. -- and placed it in its proper place atop the spindle of today.

The sun was approaching, called to be here and now, and blasted its fury into the fountain, answering an ancient call. The crone poured the water from the vessel and the fountain came alive! Each pulsing wave spilling over the lip and nurtured the life below -- pulse -- pulse. The rays of dawn's rebirth danced upon the cycled ripples and careened off the silent globe in bolts of enlightenment. There was no direction to the signal as the Light echoed with each pulse and wave a new thought and prayer and direction -- even to a single window waiting there. And God reached out and said, "Good morning, little one."
Sally chided herself for ignoring the alarm. "well, I missed it this morning," she said and turned over in the bed, and never went there that morning. So it never happened, you see -- unless you are Limora.

And the stone -- what of the stone? As Limora watched the one on whom all life depends, a woman -- only a woman -- a single tear drop fell. It caught upon a leave, and with the passing of the sunrise became an opal star -- and this is in the box, midst the sands of everbe.

"WOW!" said Sally. "What will this birthday bring?"