~}~~~{~
The snow globe sat in a place of honor on my nightstand. The dragon figurine William had put inside it was such a deep purple it appeared black. Until the sun hit it just right, then it burst into iridescent swirls.
I picked up the globe and shook it, then leaned in and watched the tiny flakes settle.
“I’ll be thirteen tomorrow,” I said to the dragon. “Almost a woman.” My throat closed up and I buried my face in my pillow. A woman with no Talent.
My sobbing had barely subsided when my mom stepped into the room.
“Honey,” she said as she laid her hand on my back, “William’s here.”
“Tell him I’ll be right out.” My voice croaked, and my mom squeezed my shoulder.
“Take your time, sweetie. We’ll be downstairs when you’re ready.”
I listened to her soft footsteps as she left my room, and then sat up. Get a grip, Caryn. Who needed a Talent when I had Mom and Dad? And…William. My gaze fell on my latest painting. It hung over my dresser and nearly filled the wall. Being an artist would have to do. Not a magical Talent, but talent nonetheless. The corners of my mouth quivered, but I managed a smile and headed downstairs.
My mood lifted when I saw William. He held out a huge, wrapped package, but I ran past it and threw my arms around his neck.
“Whoa,” he said, returning the hug, and then stepped back. His smile crinkled his eyes as always, and my neck grew warm. “Come on, I can’t wait another second for you to open your present.”
I laughed as I ripped the paper, and then gasped when I saw what he’d made for me. The picture frame looked like no wood I’d ever seen before. Different grains and shades of brown swirled together as though made from liquid.
William cleared his throat, and looked down. “I, um, Transformed several different kinds of wood into oil, poured it into a mold, and Transformed them back again. I had no idea if it’d even work, but…”
“It’s beautiful!” I cried. “And I know just the picture I want to hang in it.” I grabbed his hand and led him up to my room. He laid the frame on my bed while I pulled out my largest sketchbook.
“This is the one.”
I watched him scrutinize the drawing.
“That’s the lily we saw in the forest. I can’t believe you drew that from memory. It looks totally real.”
“Well, I had no choice.” Butterflies flitted around in my stomach and I tried to hide how nervous his gaze made me. I walked over and laid the picture in the middle of the frame. “I could never pick one from the forest. They’re too rare. But I’ve always wanted one.” I adjusted the paper, and looked closely at my drawing.
I squinted. What is that?
“There’s a smudge,” I said, reaching toward the paper. When my hand brushed the picture, my palm tingled and I pulled back. My eyes widened and my ribcage tightened around my lungs.
“What’s wrong,” William said. He sounded distant. The room tilted.
“N-nothing.”
I reached back down and touched the picture again with the tips of my fingers, and the tingling traveled up to my wrist. I forced air into my lungs and pushed against the paper. There was no resistance. I inched my hand forward until I felt the silky softness of flower petals. It took all my strength to hold my hand in place. I trembled from head to foot.
“Keep going,” William whispered from over my shoulder. The sound of his voice calmed my trembling.
My hand seemed to move forward on its own, as if obeying William’s mind and not mine. I held my breath as my fingers wrapped around the lily.
When I pulled my hand from the picture, the lily remained in my grasp.
“Happy Birthday, Caryn,” William said. He grabbed my shoulders and turned me to face him. His eyes held all the sunshine in the world, and his smile made me tremble all over again even as he cupped my hands with his. “I told you, didn’t I? That someday you’d figure out how to pull your Talent out.”
~}~~~{~
Gizile’s heart drummed in her chest. She rubbed the ring on her left finger with the tip of her thumb. Could she actually learn to use it? Could she follow in her mother’s footsteps after all? Maybe she wasn’t really a failure. Perhaps she would find love as well.
Maybe she just needed more time. She felt the ring warm as the power began to awaken, for the first time beyond the mere tingle of activation. She held her breath, feeling the warmth engulf her hand.
“Don’t summon the power ’til you have need of it, girl.” Tok’s sepulcher-toned voice was quiet and unsurprised.
“But I’ve never before—”
“Just because you can…doesn’t mean you should.”
She quickly opened her hand, the cold returning as the power waned. Another wave had washed in. She leaned closer, wondering what the crystalline ice would show her next. An older lady appeared that reminded Gizile of her own grannie. And a young boy who could have been her brother. She leaned closer. Could it be? Surely not…
~}~~~{~
A Stretch of Time—Grace Bridges
“Kuia, how come you’ve always got more time than anyone else?”
I smiled. My youngest mokopuna was entering the age of reason. “You wanna know why, boy? I’m retired.”
Rawiri screwed up his face. “No, Kuia, not that. The real reason. How you wrote all those books before you retired.”
“Yes, there were many things to do, and I did them all.”
“Did you write them at work?”
I frowned. “No! That’s a wrong thing to do, son of my son. I worked a full day.”
“Well then, how’d ya do it? I know you’re fast. I see you walk into the kitchen and next minute you’re telling us the grub’s up.”
We both looked up as Rawiri’s mother poked her head out the porch door. “I’m just here for a minute—have to go and sort out your sister’s netball uniform. Will you be all right with your Nan a bit longer, Rawiri?” She shot a pleading glance at me, and I smiled at her. She sighed. “When I’m finished I’ll come sit with you for a bit too, Kuia. I need some of that peacefulness of yours.”
She vanished, and we heard her run through the house and out to the car before driving away.
I turned my attention back to the boy. “If I tell you how I did all these things without rushing, will you promise to keep it secret? Just between you and me?”
Rawiri’s eyes grew wide. “Aw, yeah!”
“All right. Listen to this story…”
~}~~~{~
Once upon a time there was a young girl, and as you have rightly guessed, that young girl was me. She juggled her job and her husband and children, and tried to find still more time for things she liked to do, such as reading books and telling stories. But there were never enough hours in the day. Night after night she fell asleep exhausted, without accomplishing any of the things she wanted to. There was only time for what must be done, and nothing extra.
My kuia observed all this for a while, and heard my complaining. Now this kuia was a very wise kaimatua, an elder among the people. She took me aside one day to speak to her. I brought her a mug of coffee and we sat in the creaky swing chair on the back porch, looking out over the tangled bush at the bottom of the section.
“Moko, you cannot go on like this. The great god Io gives the same twenty-four hours to each one of us. He must think it is sufficient, so why is it too little for us?”
“But Kuia, when Io created the world there was no thought of modern life. Nowadays we have many more demands on our time.”
“Would you have Io extend the length of each day? Would you have him place extra hours in it?”
“I would. And surely he can.” I controlled my frustration with an effort.
Kuia’s jaw dropped just a little, but her eyes took on an even deeper tinge, if that were possible. “Such faith in a young one. Yet to them that believe, nothing shall be impossible.” She took a careful sip of her coffee and made a face. “Bah. Too hot.”
&
nbsp; I looked up into her beloved, wrinkled face. “Mother of my mother, what is this you say? Io is willing to stretch the hours of my days?”
“Are you willing to receive the gift?”
“You play games with me, old woman.”
“Riddles, maybe, but never games.”
I struggled with myself, for I did not want to appear silly if indeed she was joking with me. But I was still a child at heart, and curious to match. What did it matter if my pride should take a tumble?
She caught my eye as I looked up, and I let a smile curl my lips. “All right, Kuia, I am willing. What is this gift?”
“Ka pai, little one. Now listen.” She closed her eyes, raised a hand, and let forth a stream of Maori which I did not wholly understand, though I picked up words like gift and time and spirit. In essence, she was bestowing a spiritual gift of time upon me.
If it was real, that is. I blinked myself to attention.
“There,” said Kuia, “that’s it.”
Something flashed by, so quick it was at the edge of my vision before it registered. The whole world turned purple for an instant. I caught myself thinking something really happened, and shook my head to clear it.
“Just what is ‘it’? How does it work?”
Kuia laughed. “I don’t know, hon. That’s the mystery the Good Lord’s keeping to himself. Maybe you’ll figure it out and let me know.”
I gave her an unconvinced smile and was about to turn away. There were things to do, after all.
But she caught my arm. “One thing. It only works when no one’s looking. When you’re alone.”
I nodded and went about my chores. I cleaned up the children’s lunch mess—dishes, table and floor. I dried the dishes and put them away, then glanced at the clock over the mantelpiece. My hand reached to shake it. I’d only just changed the battery.
Turning, I sought the window and was relieved to see Kuia’s head and shoulders where she sat on the porch. She held the coffee mug, unmoving.
Wait. Was that…a wisp of steam? Hanging in the air above the mug?
I shook my head and went to get the vacuum cleaner and carried it upstairs to begin the weekly round.
Much later, I finished and put the machine away, then jammed my fists in the small of my back and stretched my aching muscles. I walked with slow paces through the kitchen, not looking at the clock, to the laundry and dragged a load of wet washing into the basket. I heaved it outside and down to the line near the porch. I turned to peg up the heavy sheets and covers, and caught Kuia staring at me.
But she didn’t say anything, so I finished quickly and went back inside.
Funny. The clock hand had moved a couple of minutes. I looked at the door, then back at the clock. Well, I’d take the clock apart later maybe. Right now there was work to do. I was lucky the baby was still sleeping.
So I ran a scrubbing brush over the bathroomware and dried it off again, then got the mop and bucket out and washed the downstairs floors. By now I was about ready to drop, but everything was done and the baby was still quiet. I tiptoed into his room and watched his sleeping angel face for a while. I didn’t know what time it was because of that silly clock not working, but it felt late in the day. The older kids would soon return from school and fill the house with their chatter and play.
But the little one—your father, Rawiri—slept on in his bliss, so I slipped out again to get myself a coffee. I was about to pour away the last batch and make a new one, but then I realised it was still steaming, and I hadn’t left the element on.
I whirled and caught the clock in both hands. It had moved maybe eight minutes since I’d first come in from talking to Kuia. That’s how long I’d have taken to hang up the sheets and check on the baby. Only when you’re alone?
I rushed outside to the porch, where Kuia sat exactly as I’d left her. Steam still rose from her coffee mug, and she hadn’t been inside for a refill.
She peered around at me, a twinkle in her eye. “You got something done, then?”
“I—I did!” Gulp. “How long did that take me?”
“Not quite ten minutes. Coffee’s just right now, babe.”
So the clock wasn’t wrong? “There’s still hours till the kids come home from school!”
“Why not take a nap?”
My mind raced with the consequences. Overnight I’d not be alone, so I couldn’t make up for the extra hours then. I’d have to take a snooze during the day, and hope the gift of time extended to sleep.
~}~~~{~
“It did, right?” Rawiri leaned forward, eyes bright. “Cause you never nap for very long.”
“You have seen the truth of it, boy.” I leaned back in the wicker chair and closed my eyes.
Some time later I was woken by a touch on my arm and the smell of coffee. Rawiri pushed the mug into my hands and sat down on the step. “So are you able to pass on this gift as well?”
My, the child was onto it. “I’ve never tried. But just in case I would need to, I learned our people’s language.”
“Won’t it work in English?”
“I thought it best to cover all the possibilities. I had plenty of time, after all.”
Rawiri nodded, then scrambled to his feet. “I have plenty of time too, Kuia. When I am old enough to run out of it sometimes, I will ask you for this gift.” He ran off down the garden and vanished between the trees.
I blinked. He was wiser than his years. But when the time came, I would pray the words over my grandson and he would bear the gift of time for the next generation.
~}~~~{~
Gizile thought of her own two grannies. For Gizile’s sake, they observed an undeclared armed truce so as to teach her the things grannies teach—the only time of peace between them. Thinking of them brought her mind to her parents. Her heart ached. Fire and ice, drawn together only over her. If only she could have stretched time while they were here…
Time! She looked at the length of her shadow on the beach. To turn and look at the location of the afternoon sun would draw a sharp rebuke from Tok. She guessed two hours more before sunset. Her eyes returned for the approaching wave.
A classroom formed, and Gizile smiled. Students. Like her.
~}~~~{~
One Smile at a Time—Fred Warren
The air-conditioning is broken again. Even with the windows open, the classroom is hot, relentless Southern humidity lending an unwelcome heaviness to the air. The children labor on at their exercises without complaint, the murmur of calculations masking the drone of a red-legged wasp blundering its way among the light fixtures. My students are accustomed to the heat, though the more timid among them would be mightily distracted by the wasp.
I walk between the neat rows of desks, offering encouragement here, a gentle correction there, a firm tap on a drowsy shoulder toward the back of the room. A furtive memory tiptoes through an idle corner of my mind…iced lemonade and cool ocean breezes. I hear the cheerful clamor of the second-graders charging onto the playground outside, and the memory strengthens, perhaps emboldened by their call to twenty minutes of liberty and anarchy.
A few heads turn longingly toward the sound for a moment, but they know better than to linger. Their turn will come, but only if their assignments are finished on time. I move toward the window, watching children leap onto the swings, slides, and sundry other bits of weather-worn equipment in a chaotic scramble of arms and legs. The lemonade tastes sweeter, the breezes grow cooler, and I remember Penny.
~}~~~{~
Fifteen years ago, a naïve kid fresh out of college, I came to this sleepy little town ready to change the world.
It wasn’t much to look at then. A bank, Woolworth’s, Standard Oil station (full service), mom-and-pop grocery, two stoplights, a fabric mill, and half a dozen churches of various flavors.
Three thousand people, give or take a dozen. About two-thirds white, Scottish-Irish stock, mostly. One-third black. A handful of more recent immigrants pretty much kept to themselve
s. A couple of Cuban families relocated from Florida, a small clan of Hmong, a few Chinese. Old Chen Lee ran a little take-out restaurant on Forest Avenue favored by the State Troopers.
The turmoil of the sixties was still remembered, but fading, and folks were largely civil to one another, though the railroad tracks that bisected the town reflected a quiet segregation that persisted in its private affairs. An old scar that itched every once in a while, just to let you know it was still there. Us on this side, you on that side, everyone minds their own business, and we all get by.
I applied for and was accepted to fill a third-grade teaching position at Tubman Elementary, unofficially known as “the black school,” though a few of the poorer white families zoned for it who couldn’t afford private school sent their children there. I was a novelty. They’d never had a white man on the faculty. Certainly they’d never had a man teaching third-graders.
The other teachers were wary at first, though as the days wore on, the shared tribulations of teaching young children broke down most barriers. People smiled, commiserated, and offered to share a table at lunch. There was still a reserve, though, an invisible boundary that couldn’t be crossed. This far, but no farther. I like you, but there are some things you can never understand, some things we can’t discuss. It stung a little. I’d grown up believing that no differences were insurmountable, if your heart was pure and you reached out in honest friendship.
The children, however, were wonderful from the beginning, their acceptance of me, once they’d overcome the awkwardness of this strange anomaly in their classroom, complete. They studied hard, and they followed directions. I was having a wonderful time at my chosen vocation. Life was good—suspiciously good.
I said as much at lunchtime one day, and my companions at the table smiled and nodded knowingly at one another.
“Boy’s a little slow on the uptake.”
“Now, you be sweet to Mister Joseph. This is his first year teaching. How’s he supposed to know?”