When the pair got outside, Goldie headed for the creek in a run, looking back over her shoulder as if urging Les to hurry. Les, Joe, and Goldie had spent many hours fishing, hunting, and playing along the creek. A profound sense of loss once again clutched at Les's soul. "He's not there, girl," he whispered, "He's not there."
****
Goldie felt Grandpa's sadness grow. She hoped he would follow her to the end of the creek. That was where she would help him. Somehow she knew that the clear wall would be thinnest there. She picked up a stick and made him throw it.
****
Les was nearly trotting trying to keep up with the bounding dog. The scamp was running a little further along the creek each time she made him throw the stick. Finally they ran out of creek at the edge of the Ring.
****
Goldie could see the clear wall shining at the edge of the Ring. And Joe and his family were there, looking sad. She barked her happy bark to let them know she was there. She decided to point like the spotted dog Rebel did to show Grandpa where Joe and his family were. He sees, they see, they are all waving. Love answered as she knew it would. Thank Love. The giant hole in Grandpa's spirit was much smaller. Now let's go fix Khaki.
****
Les was amazed at Goldie's loud happy barks as she went on point as if there was a bird in front of her. Goldie was not a pointing breed, so Les was surprised by the dog's stance.
All he could see was a shimmering near the ring wall that he had never seen before. Is there movement behind the shimmer?
Les rubbed his eyes. Either his imagination was running away with him, or he had gone crazy with grief. That looks like Joe and everyone else, and they are smiling and waving.
Les glanced at Goldie who stared back at him with what could only be called love in her eyes. He felt God surrounding him. When he glanced back the shimmer between them and the wall was gone. It was as if the glow that he had seen was now in and around him. The empty place in his soul was still there but it was somehow diminished. No, he had not gone crazy. He had found God again through the actions of a dog.
Les was deep in thought during the walk back to the clinic.
Thank you, Lord. I still don't know what I saw at the ring wall, but I know I saw it. Thank you for Goldie. If a dog can have a servant's heart, she surely has one. I'm sorry I haven't been the servant to others that you called me to be so long ago. The losses made such a huge empty spot in me that I lost most of my connections to other people and to you.
His reconnection with life made Les want to sing, so he did. First choosing what he remembered of the Dan Schutte song that Emma loved so much. "Here I am, Lord. Is it I, Lord? I have heard you calling in the night. I will go Lord, if you lead me. I will hold your people in my heart."
He was still singing when he got to the clinic, which startled the injured cavalry horse, Dr Alexander, Sergeant MacGregor, and a visitor. The visitor was just the man he wanted to see next, Dr. Jeff Adams, the physician his daughter worked for.
****
Goldie looked at people doctor Jeff. He had one of the biggest spirit holes she had ever seen. I will help Khaki and maybe Khaki can help him. She scratched at the kennel door. She was in a hurry. There were holes to fix and now she knew a way. Dogs can see holes and walls and bridges that people can't. Grandpa let her through the door. She sat quietly as she watched Grandpa hold Jeff and shrink the man's spirit hole. Grandpa's spirit hole got smaller too. Then, she went to Khaki's cage and barked. It was her "pay attention" bark. She barked and scratched until Khaki got up and looked at her with his sad eyes. She scratched and barked until Grandpa and Jeff were looking at her.
****
Les smiled and held out his hand to Jeff who was watching the horse doctoring. "I was fixing to come see you. I'm glad you came by."
Jeff returned the handshake and asked "Medical problems?"
Les motioned to the clinic as he shook his head. "Nope, personal problems. Let's get out of these gentlemen's way and I'll explain."
Goldie was barking and scratching at the kennel door. Les said, "I believe I'm summoned. We can talk inside if that suits you. "
Jeff nodded and followed Les inside the building.
Les leaned against the kennel sink. "I've been so caught up in my own grief on leaving part of my family behind that I didn't think I would be much use to you. I can't imagine how you feel, leaving all your family behind."
There were tears forming in the corner of Jeff's eyes. "Didn't want to burden anyone," he said. "Leslie said you're good to talk to. Said you would know just what to say. Today, everything became too much. It's our anniversary. . . ."
Les wrapped his arms around the sobbing man and hugged him close. "Sometimes there are no words. No words that work anyway. I'm sorry for your loss. Anything I can do for you, just ask. In fact, I promise to do things before you ask. Anytime you need to talk, I'm available." He held his friend until the tears were spent for both of them.
Goldie's insistent barking caught their attention. Jeff and Les walked over and looked in Khaki's cage.
"What's this guy's problem?" asked Jeff.
Les said, "Khaki lost all of his family too. He was boarding with us when the Ring of Fire hit. His family was out of town on vacation."
"Poor guy," said Jeff to the dog. "You are a very handsome khaki poodle. I bet you are lonely. No one can even explain it to you."
Les opened the cage door. "You can get him out. This is the perkiest I've seen him. I wonder if Goldie told him a secret in dog talk. Let's take the dogs for a walk. I have something to show you and tell you about. "
****
Goldie knew Grandpa was smart. But now she knew he was very smart. He was taking them down the creek to where the clear wall was the thinnest. Khaki was getting happier and happier as they walked. Goldie knew Khaki liked Jeff. Jeff liked Khaki. Khaki was starting to see the clear wall and what was behind it. Goldie thought that since Khaki was older that he couldn't see the wall as easy as she could see it. Goldie knew when Khaki saw his people on the other side of the clear wall. He was so happy that he raced around and around barking happily. He even climbed a few feet up a tree. Goldie was very glad for Khaki. His spirit hole was little now. When Khaki looked at laughing Jeff, the hole got smaller as a connection formed. Goldie was happy for Jeff. Jeff looked at the clear wall and waved and cried and smiled. He looked at Khaki romping and laughed. Jeff's spirit hole was smaller now and not so ragged. Goldie saw Love smiling in the dappled sunlight coming through the trees.
The End
Raven looked up at Les. "I want my Granddaddy."
Les hugged the sobbing girl close. "I know you do, I know you do." Goldie laid her head in the girl's lap, while Tracy joined the two crying people on the pew.
Her tears spent, Raven asked, "Does Goldie really see holes and walls and bridges?"
Les said, "I don't know what she sees, but I believe that somehow animals see and know things that people don't. I always felt that she could see the hole in my spirit. She sat at my feet as I typed the story of our experience. Her part seemed to just flow from her to my fingers. "
Raven's brow furrowed. "Can we walk down the creek to the wall? Can Goldie come? Can Mom come too? "
"Goldie and I will be glad to walk with you and your mom to the wall." He could see the tension easing on the little forehead.
Raven said, "Don't worry about Joe, Doctor Les, I bet Granddaddy is taking care of him."
Les had always been amazed at how quickly a child's thoughts could change. And how loving they were. He said, "I know he will. And I'll take care of you. Now let's go for that walk. I'll call Jeff to see if he and Khaki can join us."
At the end of the creek Les watched the dogs romp and play. Goldie pointed and fetched sticks. Khaki climbed up a tree. Sunlight shimmered as it was reflected from the cliff. Raven and Tracy laughed and waved. The Light shined through the water droplets on the leaves making tiny rainbows on the woodland floor. And in their hearts.
br />
Several years later
Goldie felt sick, sick. Every breath came hard. She didn't want to eat or drink. Grandpa was very kind. She knew he was going help her cross the beautiful bridge as he had done for so many others, including her dog friend Khaki.
****
Les was crying as he pulled the last of his up-time euthanasia solution into the syringe. He had saved it for Goldie. Les turned to his teenaged female assistant. "It's Goldie's time. I won't let her waste away and suffer from kidney failure. This is the last good thing we can do for her."
With tears in her eyes, the girl said, " I know it is, Grandpa Les. It's just so hard. She's been my friend for so long."
Les hugged the crying girl, remembering the first time he hugged her years ago. "It never gets any easier. When you're a vet, you'll find the pain gets sharper as you remember other animal friends. But you get more certain you are doing the right thing. The last good thing."
He steeled himself and turned to Goldie who was lying quietly on the table. "Goodbye, my life-saving friend," he said. "I'll see you across the rainbow bridge."
Raven took her place and held her childhood companion's leg. "Across the rainbow bridge," she echoed. "In the sweet by and by, we will meet on that beautiful shore."
****
Goldie wasn't sick anymore. She felt like a young dog. She ran across the beautiful bridge. She could see Milo, Fluffy, Khaki, little-bitty young girl animal doctor Jo Ann, great huge young animal doctor Shemp, and pretty girl Emma rushing to greet her. Everyone was connected to everyone here. Love filled all the holes.
"I like that story. I'm glad you tell it to me every time I visit. I bet Goldie met Grandpa Les on the rainbow bridge," the little boy said.
Dr. Raven Wight smiled at her grandson. "I know she did, James. I know she did. Love made sure of that."
Author's Note:
The RainbowBridge
authorship as yet unclaimed. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rainbow_Bridge_(pets) . From http://rainbowsbridge.com/poem.htm
****
Franklin's Monsters, Act I, Fine Arts and Crafts
Written by Terry Howard and Esther Merriken
January 15th, 1635, Grantville
A sharp slap to the face woke Samuel Franklin, who immediately scrambled for the weapons that were not to hand. He came to himself quickly and quieted down without getting very far. His new wife, of three days, wisely got on top of him to hold him down before slapping him.
"Safwyl, darlin'," Melle said, "Sorry to slap you, but you wouldn't wake up."
"Oh God." The words sounded like they were dragged kicking and clawing from the depths of the man's soul, half prayer, half oath. "I thought I was through with that one. Will I never be free of it?"
She rolled off the top of him and snuggled into his side. "Good Lord, you're covered in a cold sweat! That must have been some dream."
"I told you I had nightmares before we got married."
This was a simple fact. The greater truth was he hadn't said much of anything about his past. He'd been a mercenary. And she knew there were things best forgotten. After all, she'd been a camp follower. But then she was a friend. Now she was a wife. Being married changes things. "Tell me about it and it will go away."
"They won't go away. It's been years now and they keep coming. Always the same dreams, this one was the dream of the day Master Rodrigo died. I don't know which is worse, the memory of what really happened or the dreams which have plagued me ever since."
"Tell me about it," she insisted and then waited, snuggled up. In the end he complied.
"When Master Rodrigo left England one step ahead of getting his balls cut off by his patron—"
"Couldn't he keep his pants on?" she asked.
"No, he couldn't," Samuel answered. "And worse still, to him 'no' just meant, 'try harder.' He once told me it was a good thing he wasn't in Nazareth, or there would have been no Virgin."
"Surely he was joking?" she asked.
"Probably," he replied. "Although he was absolutely serious when he told me I could never be a great painter if I was not a great lover."
Melle giggled. "Well, if that's all it takes, then you are the greatest artist in the world. But, you had best be satisfied with just my opinion or I'll put every drawing you've ever made in the wrong drawer!"
Samuel gasped. "You wouldn't dare!" It was too dark to see her face, but he still knew she was smirking.
"Would you rather lose your balls?"
"Um . . . how about I settle for your opinion and we never have to face that choice?"
Now that the mood was lighter, she asked, "So what happened after you fled England?"
"Rodrigo had an old invitation he hoped would be his next patron. We headed that way . . ."
Somewhere in Europe, 1628
The innkeeper sat near the fire, surrounded by candles. Samuel looked past the easel then glanced at his palette and frowned. He didn't have the right color. He knew how to make exactly what he wanted, but couldn't afford the ingredients. Master Rodrigo was broke, so his apprentice was painting an innkeeper for room, board and enough money to move on.
A party of loud, belligerent men entered and stopped to look over Samuel's shoulder and comment on the work in progress. Samuel Franklin didn't understand a word they were saying. The boy spoke English well, Welsh like a native, and sufficient Spanish to understand everything Master Rodrigo muttered under his breath. Languages were easy. After only a couple weeks in Europe, he now had a few words of Dutch and a few more of whatever it was the locals in the inn spoke. Not content with a glance and a comment like everyone else, the three mercenaries gathered behind Samuel, talking first softly and then ever more loudly, gesturing emphatically at the innkeeper and the painting in turns. It was making Samuel nervous.
One of the mercenaries tapped him on the shoulder when his brush was on the way back to the palette. When Samuel shook his head and tried to keep painting, the soldier got louder and tapped harder. Finally he grabbed Samuel's shoulder and squeezed.
Samuel feared for his life.
In response to the ever louder and increasingly angry questions, Master Rodrigo hurried into the common room, adjusting his rumpled clothing. A less-than-dressed lass stood watching from the doorway.
"Why are you bothering my apprentice?" Rodrigo demanded.
"And just who are you?" the mercenary retorted.
****
"I am Rodrigo, the finest painter to ever leave Iberia, and therefore the greatest painter you will ever meet!"
The commander raised an eloquently sarcastic eyebrow. "Since when has Iberia been famous for its painters?" His tone sparked a chilling chuckle from his companions.
Master Rodrigo dismissed this minor quibble with an airy wave. "This is only because most Iberian painters are content to stay in Iberia, where they are appreciated. But I decided to make the sacrifice and bring truly great art to the rest of the world."
The tallest mercenary adjusted the hang of his sword. "I've never heard of you." This time the tone was clearly insulting.
Rodrigo remained supremely unflustered. The tone of voice of an uncouth, uncultured, barbarian was of no account. "True. When I left Spain I made the mistake of letting myself be buried in the cultural graveyard called England. But now I have escaped back into the light of day and soon the whole world will know the greatness of Rodrigo.
"And," Rodrigo continued, "you have not answered my question. Why are you bothering my apprentice?"
"I'm trying to ask him a question. But he won't answer me. Is he deaf?"
"To any tongue but his own? Yes. English peons are blockheads. For that matter, all English are blockheads. Still, for an Englishman, the boy shows promise and I could not leave him to wither in darkness."
"Yes, he is promising," the lead mercenary acknowledged. "His likeness is good, his perspective and depth are excellent . . . but is there some reason why his colors are off?"
Rodrigo snorted. "Don't look at the
painting. Look at the palette."
The mercenary did and grunted. "I see. I'll look at it again when he's finished."
"That will be sometime tomorrow, the lad is past being finished for the day."
"No, it will be later tonight. You won't be here tomorrow, and I presume your apprentice will be leaving with you."
"I am going nowhere until the painting is done and that will be sometime tomorrow," Rodrigo insisted.
"Rodrigo, we are leaving in the morning. Our captain needs a portrait painted. You are going with us. So the old man is sitting right where he is until the painting is done, if he has to sit there all night."
"No," the artist shook his head. "I have somewhere to go. A commission is waiting. When I leave here—"
"Rodrigo, I thought you wanted to be famous," the mercenary interrupted with a predatory smile. "Well, let me explain something to you about fame. If you want to be famous you will leave here, in the morning, with us. If your apprentice can't afford pigments, he certainly can't afford a gravestone. Nothing is as soon forgotten as something left in an unmarked grave in a potter's field."
Rodrigo touched his apprentice on the shoulder. "Samuel, take a break, I'll paint for a while."
****
The captain wanted a portrait for his wife. When it was on its way, the captain decided he wanted another one for his mother. But first there was a battle to be fought. The conscripted painters set up their easels on a hillside at the command post, just far enough not to be in the way. Rodrigo told Samuel to paint the general and his staff. To fill his own canvas, the master turned to the heat of the battlefield in the valley below.
As if to mock any slur on his talent the Iberian master sketched quickly and gracefully, and just as quickly fed his palette. The canvas became ever more crowded as he worked to capture the fleeting chaos. It was a frantic undertaking. Rodrigo, captivated and absorbed by the changing scene below, did not see what Samuel saw. He did not notice the changing atmosphere surrounding the general. He was unaware of the often repeated, furtive glances by the general's staff towards where the horses were picketed. He ignored the battle cries of the cavalry cresting the hill from behind the command group. He did not pay any attention to Samuel's panicked screaming or helter-skelter mad dash to the cover of the woods. By the time he broke his concentration and glanced over his shoulder, it was far too late.