Connections – Books and Journeys

 Many years ago, I read a novel about treasure found in a cave on Crete; there was a connection with World War II and spies as far as I can remember. I have no idea of the title of the book or the name of the author, but it led me on a journey.

I learned of John Devitt Stringfellow Pendlebury, a British archaeologist who worked in Crete at Knossos, and wrote a handbook called ‘The Palace of Minos Knossos.’ Because Pendlebury explored all over Crete and knew it so well, he worked for British Intelligence in World War II, and was shot as a spy by German soldiers on Crete in 1941.

Pendlebury had worked at Knossos with Arthur Evans, another British archaeologist. The first digs at the site occurred in 1878, carried out by a resident of the nearby city of Heraklion, Minos Kalokairinos. Evans saw Knossos for the first time in 1894. He purchased a tract of land that included the site of Knossos, in 1899. His work there became controversial because he not only excavated, but rebuilt parts that he feared would disintegrate if he didn’t preserve them in some way. Evans build the Villa Ariadne in 1906, near the palace at Knossos, and it became a home for archaeologists who worked at the site. Pendlebury was for a time, curator at Knossos and he and his wife lived on the Villa site.

Bust of Arthur Evans at Knossos.

I read as much as I could about Evans and the work at Knossos. Someday, I thought I would go there.

In 2013 this dream came true. I travelled to Greece, staying in Athens briefly to do some sightseeing, and then moving on to Loutro, Crete, to take a writing workshop. When that concluded, I took a bus to Heraklion to stay for a few days. From there I took a day trip to Knossos. I loved the place, and despite the hordes of tourists, I found peaceful places to sit and think about the site.

“Knossos is 5 kilometers southeast of Heraklion, on the hill of Kephala, and west of the river Kairatos. This advantageous location, which controlled one of the most fertile regions in Crete, was to become the heart of the Minoan civilization, considered to be the first in Europe. … The terms Minoan and Minoans were coined by the founder of Minoan archaeology, Sir Arthur Evans, from the name of Minos, who according to ancient myths was the king of Crete. … The palace of Knossos was the largest and most splendid in the Minoan world. It was nearly square in plan and had over 1,500 rooms arranged on 3 or 4 floors. Its intricate plan probably gave rise to the later myth about the Labyrinth at Knossos.” – from ‘Knossos, A New Guide to the Palace of Knossos’ by George Tzorakis, archaeologist.

Photo of Queen's Megatron at Knossos.

My father had been briefly stationed on Crete as a young German soldier before being shipped on to North Africa. He told of later meeting, while a prisoner of war in Canada, a German General who had been captured in Crete, and lived at the Villa Ariadne. While in Crete, I bought a book about this exploit, described by some as one of the most daring exploits of WWII.

As a footnote, the reason the Germans decided to capture Crete, which seems a small and insignificant island in terms of strategic importance, was that the British had airfields there, and planes could reach and bomb the valuable oilfields of Romania.

I will never forget that journey to Athens, Crete and Knossos, which began with one book.

I was able to share my experiences with my father, who at the time was still alive and hale.

Books related to this quest:

Rick Stevens Pocket Athens

A Handbook to the Palace of Minos Knossos by J.D.S. Pendlebury

The Villa Ariadne by Dilys Powell

Knossos, A New Guide to the Palace of Knossos by George Tzorakis

Crete on the Half Shell, A Story About an Island, Good Friends, and Food by Byron Ayanoglu

After the Storm

 I read, work on revising a novel, stream tv series, do Canadian crossword puzzles and Sudoku, bake and eat, do household chores, do yoga, and every day go out and clear more snow. There’s plenty of time for occasional contact with friends and family. Every two weeks I buy groceries.

What I haven’t done for over a week is go for a walk. Others I know have been diligent in walking nearly every day, and at other times I would have been, too. In the past, I’ve maneuvered the riverbank trails up to my knees in snow because the paths hadn’t been cleared yet. I’ve attended classes, in fact, walked to them and back in extremely cold temperatures.

So far this November is different. Perhaps it’s partly because of the added stress of Covid 19 – I’m tired of the extra planning needed to go out. Remembering to take a mask and hand sanitizer, remembering to put on the mask, remembering to keep my distance from others. I’m not an anti-masker, believe in the necessity for them to keep all of us safe. I’m older, too, and have less mental and physical energy to deal with it all, including a major snow dump on top of everything else.

I haven’t seen my son in person since March, though I saw my grandson in person twice this summer. I’m warm, housed and fed, still healthy. I’m luckier than a lot of people.

I’m in hermit and hibernation mode. It happens to me now and then. I probably need to do this I tell myself. Maybe my mind and body need the withdrawal time for recovery and recuperation, for building inner strength for whatever comes next.

From past experience, I know that these sorts of feeling don’t last forever. I will go out walking again. The sun will shine, the skies will not always be grey.

As one of my neighbours said to me, “We’re one day closer to summer.”

The Earth Our Mother – Back to the Garden

 Recently a friend recommended a documentary film: Kiss the Ground. Apparently, it’s available on Netflix. I watched the trailer - https://kissthegroundmovie.com/ It’s about how we can affect the earth in positive ways by how we grow things.

It made me think about my experience with gardens.

Although we lived in an apartment in Kiel, Germany, my parents rented a garden plot on the edge of the city, as did my grandfather. There’s a long tradition of this in many cities in Germany. Sometimes people own the land and pass it down through the family; in other cases they rent a plot. In large cities like Berlin, which has grown every larger, there are garden plot sections within the city scattered here and there from when the edge of the city was different than it is now.

My father trained to become a Gärtner – literal translation gardener – he worked as a landscaper in cities.

My parents had no car, so they used to bike out into the country. I have clear memories of riding on my father’s bike with him (a front side saddle) out to the garden. I’m sure he grew cabbages and potatoes – those were staples in our household – but I mainly remember the sweet yellow plums that grew in the neighbouring plot and leaned over a little into ours. Sometimes I was allowed to eat a couple of those plums.

Years later in Canada, my father worked on farms and the farmers always had gardens. We probably had plots, too, but I don’t remember them. Once we moved into town, into our own house, we definitely had a garden that grew through the years – raspberries, flowers, bushes and trees. We must have had vegetables, too, but I can’t recall.

After university, marriage and a bit of wandering, I settled in Saskatoon and almost always had a garden except for the brief periods when I lived in an apartment.

At times creating a garden meant digging up a dirt driveway and adding compost every year. Now and then the garden was huge. I was always adding plants – got raspberry canes from my father, bought strawberry plants. Moved plants, too, and got some from friends, gave some away. I love perennials because they are so easy care – many of them require little water, which is an advantage in a prairies landscape.

I’ve lived in my current house since 1993 – a lot of years in which to develop a yard and garden. I make adjustments of some kind or another every year. I’ve gradually removed grass and have more perennials. I have only one Saskatoon bush now (used to have two), but also raspberries and strawberries. My gooseberries haven’t done well for a while so this fall I pruned the bush significantly. If that doesn’t help, I may take the bush out entirely. I have perennial herbs like tarragon and chives. Lots of flowering plants including bush roses, peonies, globe flowers, monkshood, lilies, and so on.

My garden is pretty much organic. I compost.

This fall I put in some paving stones in a shady area where not much grows well. I’ll put in a few more paving stones next spring and make a seating area. Take out more grass in another spot. Plant some tomatoes among the flowers. Plant onions and garlic again (which I haven’t done for a while), and more herbs. Always carrots and peas. I’m thinking of creating a mini green house with some old windows that I’ve been saving for years.

I put in more bird feeders and an extra bird bath late this summer and every morning I enjoy the avian socialization that goes on around those.

“A garden is a lovesome thing,” wrote Thomas Edward Brown, and I agree.

What Inspires Me … or … What I Live For

 A few days ago, starting my day with yoga as I often do, I suddenly had several ideas about new ways to approach a couple of my writing projects. I’d had several low days, melancholic, thinking about the state of the world and all the negativity of it, as well as my own struggles with missing seeing family members, and just plugging along with writing.

However, the excitement of inspiration lifted me off the yoga mat and to my handwritten notebook. I wrote for a while before going back to the yoga. This kind of thing doesn’t happen all that often. I write whether I’m inspired or not, that’s what writer do. The work comes from being disciplined and writing, writing, writing, and then revising, revising, revising.

But I do live for those moments of pure inspiration when ideas jump into my head as fast as I can scribble them down and I’m high on the excitement, the sheer exhilaration that such a thing has happened again.

I hope some day to write a magical book or story.

Oh, I’m quite happy with a lot of what I’ve written, but I’m also constantly trying to get better, to improve my plots, conflict, character, etc. etc. Learning doesn’t have to end, and that’s a good thing.

There’s always a great deal of satisfaction for me in finishing a writing project, having a short story accepted in a magazine, or getting a book published, doing a reading, having someone tell me they’ve enjoyed a book or story of mine.

I think that most writers have many reasons for writing. I’ve heard some say, “It’s the only thing I know how to do.” Others say that they began writing as a way to make a living, and it continues to be one of their motivations. I can definitely say that this is not one of mine. I’ve always had to work at other jobs and do my writing in whatever time I could carve out of the rest of my life. I’ve never made much money writing.

A press release from The Writers’ Union of Canada in October 2018 states:

“The Writers’ Union of Canada (TWUC) today released the results of its 2018 income survey report. Entitled Diminishing Returns: Creative Culture at Risk, the report documents a 27% decrease in writing income over the past three years and a 78% decrease over the last twenty years (taking inflation into account). Despite book publishing being a nearly $2 billion industry in Canada, it is now almost impossible for professional writers to make a living solely from their writing.”

From the report itself: “Taking inflation into account, writers are making 78% less than they were making in 1998. In fact, writers are making significantly less from their writing than they did just three years ago: $9,380 in 2017 vs. $12,879 in 2014. That’s a 27% drop over a short period — the same period that has seen a massive increase in uncompensated educational copying. At the same time, 30% of writers say they must do more to earn a living than they did three years ago.”

So, certainly I’ve not been alone in not making a living from my writing. And with the changes wrought by the Covid 19 Pandemic, things could be a lot worse for writers.

But I love creation, finding stories and characters, and following them, hoping for that magic, that inspiration to hit, the pleasure gained from making a book.

At times, my inspiration appears mysterious. It may come out of a mishmash of chaos – a late night, disrupted sleep, strange dreams, too much chocolate, reading magical books.

Other times I know exactly what inspired a story or collection of them. In the case of my short story collection ‘The Other Place,’ all of the stories, which are linked, are based on my family’s experiences coming to Saskatchewan from Germany in the 1950’s. I took particular incidents and embellished them to try to get at the truth of them, the underlying emotions, motivations, and so on.

Or stories can come unbidden and I may or may not know exactly what inspired them – a dream, sitting by a window listening to snow melt off a roof, an actual incident, a song, an object.

Stories don’t always work. I’m sure that I’m not alone among writers in having reams of stuff in various files that so far hasn’t made it to any kind of publication. Some of it may never reach that stage.

I have a thick file of stuff for a fantasy series about sea people that I still hope will jell is some way so that it can make its way out of the filing cabinet or off the computer, and go out into the world.

I have all kinds of scraps of ideas, bits and pieces, chunks of writing. I have titles, and plans for some of them.

And one day, perhaps the write/right concatenation of events and mixings will occur, and inspiration will strike for one of those undeveloped pieces.

It’s what I live for!

Companion of Eagles - Chapter II (excerpt)

SaskBooks is excited to present its first Book Week Summer Book Club! Support local, Saskatchewan-based publishers and their authors by joining a Book Club and reading the best our prairie publishing industry has to offer!

The Summer Book Club will run from August 1-31 and features fiction, non-fiction, and poetry books published right here in Saskatchewan.

Link to the Summer Book Club Reading List: https://bookweek.skbooks.com/book-club/book-club-summer-reading-list/

Link to register: https://mailchi.mp/saskbooks/saskbooks-summer-book-club

My book, Companion of Eagles book 3 in the fantasy series The Leather Book Tales is on the above list!

©copyright Regine Haensel

Conversations

It’s nearly mid-day when Ali and I have time to talk again. We sit tailor fashion on the riverbank near the old barracks. A slight breeze rustles the grasses and the leaves of the trees hinting at a tune I can almost catch. We haven’t had to work too hard this morning. I raked grass and twigs and dumped loads in carts to be taken away. Helped clear an area that’s going to be used as a garden.

Other than saying, “Finally, you’re here!” Papa hasn’t talked to me at all.

Ali bends forward stretching, her long fingers stained with green. They had her painting window frames. It’s not until she touches me that I realize I’ve been bouncing my leg up and down. I pull away from her and lean against the trunk of the tree that’s shading us.

“Why so jittery, Samel?”

Out of the corner of my left eye I see that she’s flipped her brown hair over her shoulder and is twisting it. I don’t answer right away, watch the dappled light under the alder tree play shadows across her face. She keeps looking at me.

“What do you mean?”

            “Bouncing your leg, tapping your fingers. And on the way here you kept cracking your knuckles.”

            I want to deny it, but realize I’ve just flicked my thumb across a clump of grass. “Music in my head, wind in the tree,” I excuse myself. Start clapping my hands gently, drum on my knees just to show her what I mean.

We’ve been best friends most of our lives, living across the street from each other, sharing our skills. My first memory of Ali is both of us scratching in dirt beside our houses. She paints, sketches, creates all kinds of art. I play flute and drums and compose a bit. We understand each other. And best friends know when you’re not telling the whole truth.

“No,” she shakes her head, sending hair flying out in dark crescendos. “This is different. It’s more like twitches than music in your body.”

I turn my back to her, pretend I’m watching the work not far from us. The renovations have been going on for weeks. In the beginning I was curious about everything, wanted to know how earth is cleared and dug, how mortar holds stones, how planks dovetail. Just because I’m a musician it doesn’t mean that I’m not interested in other things, too. But Papa rarely answers my questions these days. Says he doesn’t know or is too busy to talk. So, I’ve lost my enthusiasm. And right now I’d rather be anywhere else. I don’t say that to Ali, though.

“Samel?”

“What!” I turn to my friend and she moves away from me. Maybe I spoke too loudly, and I guess my face isn’t very friendly.

A grouchy face doesn’t stop Ali for long. “You haven’t been yourself for a while. Maybe since your sister left. Even when we walk, you’re glancing here, there and everywhere. And you forget things.” She pauses a moment, then continues in a rush of words. “Did that old sorcerer do something to you?”

 I wrap my arms around my knees and try to sit as still as a rock. I don’t want to remember the old man or the time in the castle. The way it ended.

But Ali won’t let it go. “Could he um, have cast a spell on you and um, for some reason it’s just coming out now?”

I sigh, and stop trying to hold back the memories. Papa, my sister Rowan and I were held prisoner in the mountains for several days over a year ago. We tried to reason with the old sorcerer who held us, but nothing worked. I think he was crazy. He wanted power and he thought my sister and I could help him get it. It was all about the silver bracelets we’d found. In the end Rowan used the magic of the bracelets to kill him and we escaped.

“Did you think I was different when we came back?” I can hear the challenge in my voice, but I don’t care.

Ali ignores my tone and shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not. Lots was going on. Your sister upset and maybe sick. My sister’s wedding. You’d been through an awful time, of course it affected you. But I wasn’t with you at the castle and I never met the old man, so how can I know what he was like, what he might have done? I don’t have any ideas about how spells work. I just see you’re not like yourself.”

Over near the main barracks people are yelling, running here and there. Some problem again, always problems, small or large – a wall crumbling, an axe needing sharpening. The bang of hammers and the screech of saws adds to the discord. If I concentrate, could I find a tune in it?

But Ali’s words echo in my mind, whirling like a sandstorm, shutting out other sounds and thoughts. I’m not who I was. Does anyone stay the same? I’ve been realizing a lot of things lately that maybe I ignored before.

The silver bracelet on my left wrist glints as a stray sunbeam penetrates the leafy canopy of the tree. I focus on the circlet, trying to calm my thoughts. Usually I wear the bracelet in a soft leather pouch around my neck hidden under my tunic because Papa doesn’t like to see it, doesn’t want to be reminded of its magic.

My sister was really upset when the old sorcerer died, which only partly makes sense to me. I understand that she didn’t want to be a killer, but when someone threatens you and won’t listen to reason, sometimes you have no choice. Besides, he boasted he was responsible for our mother’s death. Rowan lost her temper, sure, but she did what she had to. Afterwards she stopped wearing her bracelet, though I’m pretty sure she took it on her journey. I haven’t found it anywhere in the house.

I put my bracelet on my wrist after I finished working a little while ago. I was looking for a quiet place to try again to connect with Rowan. But then Ali joined me. She noticed the silver circlet and asked if I was going to practise making breezes using it and Papa’s soprano wooden flute. The two of us did that once not long after I first found the bracelet. I could always make wind blow, but Ali couldn’t do it at all. I run a finger along the linked ivy leaves. The silver feels slightly warm. Everything started to change after I found it, some good, some not so good. I take the bracelet off and tuck it into its pouch.

Ali has given up trying to get me to talk. She’s watching one of the great guardian eagles of Aquila soar over the river. The Captain of Eagles had to negotiate with the birds so that they’d let the construction go ahead here. This is one of the birds’ nesting and fishing areas after all.

Ali picks up a stick and starts scratching in the dirt, leaning over so I can’t see what she’s drawing. Probably sketching the eagle or something else that’s got her attention, could be anything. Alizarine is her full name. The rise and fall and flow of it is like a fragment of song that keeps nudging at me. I haven’t been able to find the rest of the notes to complete the music. Her parents, Mère and Père, named all three of their daughters after colours. Lots of people think Ali was named after a shade of crimson that comes from the madder plant. Actually, Ali’s mother picked the name because she’d been given a quilt in shades of navy, also known as alizarin blue. They make that colour from madder as well, though I don’t understand the process. It fascinates me that one plant can be used to produce two different colours.

Ali turns back to me. “Her name’s Kasma.”

“Who?” But then I remember. “Tamtan’s new apprentice. How’d you find out?”

“Asked one of the other apprentices working near me earlier. Is Kasma good? On the drums I mean. And why did you forget her name?”

I shrug. “She just started. I didn’t pay much attention to her. She was so giggly.”

“Girls like you,” Ali says.

“What?!”
            “Come on, you must have noticed! The baker’s helper in the market is always making eyes at you. And one of the fruit seller’s daughters gives you a cut rate. Kasma’s probably sweet on you.”

“I don’t have time for girls.”

Ali shrugs, closing her mouth on whatever she was going to say next. I lean back and gaze up into the rustling leaves. Don’t want to think about Ali talking to one of the apprentices or Kasma giggling with another one. The apprentices have never been my friends, or not for a long time. They change periodically, one or two dropping out, new ones starting, but the new ones always join the group that hates Samel. I never thought about it much, just accepted it. After all I had Ali and her sisters as friends, and lots of other people like the drum master, the camel seller, the harpist, and people at the market where I shop. After Rowan left, though it hit me that I didn’t have many friends my own age. And I don’t want girls giggling at me. Ali and her sisters don’t giggle.

Green leaves and dappled sunlight, clouds drifting above.  I glimpse a speck in the blue, another eagle. Wish I could be way up there away from all my problems, soaring on the wind, listening to the music of clouds. What do they whisper to each other up there?

“Samel, tell me what’s really wrong.”

Ali’s voice brings me back to the ground and I sigh because I hoped she’d forget about questioning me, but Ali is stubborn. I turn the corners of my lips up in a smile to suggest that everything’s fine, but it’s not real and Ali knows that because she thumps me in the left shoulder with a fist. I rub my arm and take a deep breath, trying to decide what to tell her.

She starts talking before I can. “You seemed so happy when you first got back from the castle. You found your sister and escaped. Remember all of us in our garden? Cooking the meal, eating, laughing.”

I shake my head. “Except Rowan was so quiet. Too quiet probably.” My voice rises and squeaks the way it does now and again. Embarrassing. Papa says it happens as boys grow. Dismissed it, didn’t ask how I felt. Typical these days. I take a breath to settle my voice. “Papa and I should have paid more attention to how Rowan felt. Maybe that’s why she took off again.”

Ali taps my knee. “Maybe your sister is just a quieter person. Some people are like that. She and her mother did live alone in the forest for most of her life. Rowan’s probably not used to a lot of people around.”

A lump forms in my throat. “That was my mother, too, who died.” I turn my head away so that Ali won’t see the wetness in my eyes. “I never knew her.” I clamp my lips to stop them quivering. I’m too old to cry over something that’s been over and done with for a year or more.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s been really hard for you.” She clears her throat. “Maybe you haven’t had enough time to get over it.”

A few workers are cutting grass and brush near the old guard tower. Papa is somewhere there. I was really hoping that today he’d find work we could share, make time to talk. I’m not sure what he’s doing – not cutting grass. I saw him chatting to a couple of men I didn’t recognize. They were pointing here and there and waving their arms. Maybe discussing the building of an addition.

I don’t know why Papa insists that he needs me here. Maybe he just wants me under his eyes. Yes, I can haul rocks or run errands, but there’s enough other people to do those things. Am I just a chore boy to him? If he really wants me here, why can’t he let me have more responsibility? He could show me the plans for the school, talk over problems, ask for suggestions. Once he would have.

Ali lets out a huge sigh and I realize I’m ignoring her. I’m as bad as Papa. At least Ali talks to me and listens.

“Papa just goes on every day as if nothing has changed even though Rowan’s gone,” I say as a sort of apology. “I miss her. He must miss her, too, but he doesn’t say anything about it.”

“Parents get like that at times,” Ali offers. “I said before that it’s not the first time your Papa got absorbed in his work.”

“Yes, but you’ve got two parents and two sisters. It’s always been different with Papa and me. I grew up without a mother. I thought it was no one’s fault, and it seemed normal. I still had my Papa and we were close, understood each other. But he’s different now. Since Rowan came? Or maybe it’s me. I really wanted to go with Rowan and he wouldn’t even consider it. I’m fourteen! Old enough to know what I want. Doesn’t he see that? Some days I can hardly stand to be in the same room with him. Can’t he see how angry I am that he wouldn’t let me go and does he even care?”

Light and shadows dance across Ali’s blue tunic like notes made visible. I can almost hear the tune. She leans through the music and grasps my left wrist. “If you don’t like what’s happening, why don’t you change it?” she snaps. The music stops with the clash of her voice. “Explain to your father or do something else. It isn’t like you to be so unhappy all the time. And it’s hard on your friends.”

I glare at her. “Rowan’s had two journeys and I’ve had none. Well, I did come with Papa to Aquila, but that’s when I was a baby and too young to remember.”

Ali stands, puts her hands on her hips and frowns down at me. “Aquila is an amazing city – music and art, crafts and traders, the palace, the river, the desert, the eagles.”

“I know that!”

She interrupts, “But if you really want to get away that badly, just do it.”

“Why don’t you go?” I shout, my voice cracking. I leap up to face her head on.

She takes a step away. “I’m not the one with the travelling itch!” she yells.

“No, you’re an old tree, roots curling around rocks deep in the ground.”

“Even trees change with the seasons.”

“Oh, I can’t talk to you anymore.”

I’ve turned my back when she says, “Fine.” And I hear her steps thumping off. I don’t try to stop her, fling myself to the ground under the tree.

For a chapter I excerpt from this novel, see the January 2020 post on this blog.

My books are available through SaskBooks, Amazon, local bookstores (McNally Robinson, Indigo) and booksserimuse@gmail.com as well as the Saskatchewan Library System.

Queen of Fire - Chapter III (excerpt)

©copyright Regine Haensel

Rowan

The pale light of dawn spills through the windows as a raven calls. When I answer a thump at the door, a woman hunches there, hugging a cloak around herself. She was at the burial and I’ve seen her previously in the village, though I’m fairly certain she lives on a farm. I must look the way I feel – rumpled, hair tangled, wild-eyed – because she takes a step back.

            “Oh,” she whispers, “forgive, it’s so early. I didn’t think.” She turns to walk away.

            I clamp a hand on her arm knowing she wouldn’t have come if there isn’t a remedy she desperately needs for a sick child, a husband, or herself. Her startled eyes turn back to my face. She shakes her head.

            “I can come again.”

            “Tell me what you need.”

            I guess I’m persuasive, because she tells me that she hasn’t been able to sleep for several nights, and this evening went for a walk in hopes of wearing herself out. But it only made her wider awake, so she kept walking and decided to come to me. I almost burst out laughing; it’s so ludicrous. One woman who can’t sleep asking for help from a woman who’s been awake all night.

            I beckon her into the cottage and seat her in the armchair; pull up another chair and ask a few questions. She’s of the age when women go through what people call ‘the change.’ I know the herbs to use for that. Four of her children are living, two dead in infancy. Her eldest son is married and lives with his parents in a small addition to the house. His wife is with child and can’t help much around the farm. The woman’s eldest daughter is to be married soon to a neighbour’s son and spends all her time with him or planning her wedding. The woman’s husband cleared more land this spring and that makes more work for everyone. It’s not surprising she’s worn out. She doesn’t understand why she can’t sleep, then. I try to explain as I heard Mother do many times.

            “Remember when your children were babies?” I ask. “Sometimes they wouldn’t want to go to bed thought they were tired, and the struggle made things worse. So when they finally were put to bed, all they could do was lie awake and cry. It’s like that. You have years of tiredness behind you. Women get to a certain age when they can no longer bear children, and sometimes their bodies crave rest, but can’t seem to get it.”

            She stares at me. “So what do I do?”

            I’m amazed that she looks to me for answers. At a third or less of her age, I’ve never experienced the symptoms she’s described to me, can only pass on the wisdom my mother gave to me and hope that it’s sufficient. At the same time I know that what I’m about to tell and give her will indeed make her feel better. Self-confidence or Mother’s persuasive abilities? No time to sort this out, she’s waiting.

            “There are herbs that will help. I’ll make you a tisane first and while you’re drinking that, I’ll put together a couple of mixtures for you to take home.”

            I put the stool under her feet and get her settled with the pot of chamomile and a cup. She smiles in thanks and leans back against the chair. As I move quietly around the cottage gathering the ingredients I need, I glance at her now and then. As often happens, when a person believes help is on its way, she can relax. I slip over to her and take the cup out of her hands just before it falls. Her eyes are closed and she’s breathing evenly.

            I go back to mixing the tonic to help build up her strength. If only there were herbs to give courage, which is what I need now, because I know that I must find my brother. As I heat wild honey and berry juice, adding ground poppy seeds for sleep, as well as a few other ingredients, I think of herbs I should take on a journey in case of aches and pains, wounds, insect bites. I fill a jar, set it and a package of herbs on the table. The woman still sleeps peacefully so I put a pot of water on to heat and get out the makings for gruel. When that’s cooked, I touch her shoulder.

            She wakes with a smile on her face, immediately frowns and wants to rush home, saying her family will be needing breakfast. I persuade her to eat a few spoonfuls. She leaves with her packages, believing in miracles. I sit at the table staring into space realizing how dependent on my mother and me the people in the area have become. What will they do if I leave? The day continues as it began – more people with various ailments or complaints. I’m kept busy, and I suppose that’s a good thing, because it doesn’t allow me to brood. At the same time, I know that I won’t be doing this sort of thing for much longer.

            That evening Thea comes to me again as a woman, her proper shape. I’m sitting at the table sorting through clothes. She glances at the things I’ve laid out – bunches of herbs, a knife and a wooden bowl, a small cooking pot, Mother’s bracelet, a loaf of bread, carrots, cheese, and a leather satchel.

            “Where were you all day?” I ask before she can comment on what I’m doing. “I didn’t see you.”

            “I wandered the forest looking for anything unusual. Saw a few broken branches, some flattened plants, but otherwise nothing untoward. The branches and plants could have been from animals.”

            “Thank you for keeping watch,” I say.

            She sits across from me. “I’ll come with you.”

For other excerpts from this novel, see the following posts on this blog:

Chapter I - 2014, July

Chapter II - 2015, September

My books are available through SaskBooks, Amazon, local bookstores and booksserimuse@gmail.com

The Jacket

The following story is found in the collection of short stories 'The Other Place' ©copyright Regine Haensel 2012

Susie and I sat on opposite sides of the old garden swing. It was hot, hotter than it had ever been in Germany, and nothing moved in the farmyard. Mrs. Bradley was washing clothes at the big house and we could hear the putt-putt-putt of the gasoline washer. Mutti was in our house cleaning a dozen chickens that Mrs. Bradley had brought over.  Mrs. Bradley said that we could keep one and the rest would be sold.  I could tell that Mutti was angry by the way she pressed her lips together, but she didn’t say anything to Mrs. Bradley.

Mr. Bradley had gone to the city so Papa and Dave, another hired man, were hauling bales in the old diesel truck. Susie and I didn’t talk, there was nothing to talk about. I stared at a wisp of cloud and wished for rain. The swing creaked, Susie's foot swung idly.

          “Let’s go pick some peas,” I said.

          “We did that yesterday, Greta.”

          I sighed. “You think of something then.”

          Silence. Finally she said, “We could play in the hay loft.”

          I shook my head. The last time we’d been up there hay had got into my clothes and I’d itched for days.

          “How about teaching me some German, then?”

          “I don't feel like it.”

          Susie sighed this time and then we just swung back and forth, back and forth. There was nothing left to do. We’d used up our list of ideas already and the summer was only half over. It wasn’t any better on the days I’d visited Susie in town.

          I lay back and stared at the sky. The motion of the swing lulled me and I closed my eyes. The chugging of Mrs. Bradley’s washing machine made a lullaby sound and my thoughts drifted the way they did just before I fell asleep at night. In a half dream I saw Mrs. Bradley bending over something, the washing machine? Her face looked different, her nose longer, her fingers crooked and scary. I jerked suddenly and realized I had been asleep.

          “Susie,” I said.

          She lay on the other side of the swing, eyes partly closed. “What?”

          “Why is Mrs. Bradley so, so . . .”

          “Grouchy?” Susie sat up.

          I nodded.

          “I’m not sure. There’s something that happened long ago, but I don’t know what.”

          “Is she from the city?” I thought that maybe Mrs. Bradley didn’t like living on a farm.

          “Oh no.” Susie gave a kick to make the swing move. “She grew up on that other farm. Her family owned it.”

          I sat up so quickly that the swing creaked. “You mean the other place?”

          “Yeah, when her Dad died it came to her. She didn’t have any brothers. I mean, she did have one, but he died in the war.”

          We sat some more without talking, our hair ruffled by a little breeze. I could smell the leather of my new shoes. I wasn’t really supposed to wear them till the first day of school -- Susie and I were going to be in grade five -- but I had promised I would be careful. They smelled like Papa’s old leather jacket, the one he had brought back from the war.

I wondered if Mrs. Bradley was angry because Papa had fought on the other side to her brother. I wished Papa were here to tell me a story. Wished something would happen.  A sudden jerk from Susie set the swing bouncing. I opened my eyes. She was sitting up looking into the distance.

          “What is it?” I asked, not moving yet in case it was nothing.

          “A cloud,” she said uncertainly. “No, smoke.”

          I sat up fast and the swing twisted sideways, springs groaning. Across the fields thick billows of smoke rose into the sky. We couldn’t see any flames.

          “What do you suppose it is?”

          Susie shrugged. “There’s nothing over there. Maybe it’s a prairie fire.”

          We leaped off the swing, running in different directions, Susie to tell Mrs. Bradley and I to tell Mutti.  The four of us gathered together. After a while when the smoke just continued to billow and nothing else happened, Mutti and Mrs. Bradley went back to their work and we returned to swinging. Now at least we had something to talk about.

          I wanted to walk over and see what it was, but Susie said it might be a long way to walk and besides if it was a prairie fire it could be dangerous. She told me stories she’d heard of fire surrounding farms, leaping fire breaks and burning buildings. We decided we’d better keep an eye on the smoke. I wondered if Papa and Dave were anywhere near it. The smoke didn’t appear to be moving closer and eventually Mutti called us for lunch.

          In the middle of lunch Papa walked in. I hadn’t heard the truck. He had a strange look on his face and I could smell smoke as soon as he came in.

          “Did you see the fire?” I asked excitedly. “We saw the smoke. Was it a prairie fire?”

          He looked at me for a long moment, but didn’t seem to be seeing me at all. “Ein Unfall,” he said at last. Mutti and I both stopped eating, sandwiches half-way to our mouths. An accident?

          “It was the truck.” He seemed to have difficulty speaking.

          Mutti put her sandwich down. “Was it the truck you were driving?”

          Papa nodded.

          “Was anyone hurt? Is Dave . . .”

          “Nein. We got out in time.” He paused again and brushed a hand over his eyes. “But I have my leather jacket lost.”

          Mutti got up and touched his arm. “Come and sit down, Franz,” she said. “You must be hungry.”

          I started to speak, but Mutti looked at me sternly and shook her head. Papa would eat first. I wolfed down the rest of my lunch and waited for Papa. First he took a bite out of his sandwich and began to chew, oh so slowly. Now and then he stopped and stared at his plate. Susie and I watched every move, but he didn’t seem to notice. Gradually the dazed look left his eyes. Finally he pushed back his chair.

          “What happened?” It burst out of me in a rush.

          “The bales catch fire,” he said slowly. “You know the old diesel has the exhaust pipe up behind the cab, Annelise?”

          My mother nodded.

          “Well, we had such a load of bales on. I think some sparks must have come out of the pipe.” He stopped and just stared at nothing.

          “Yes, Franz?”

          “Dave is driving. I look back just to make sure no bales are falling. And you know I cannot believe my eyes. I just look at the flames on top of the stack. The whole top of the stack is on fire.”  Papa shook his head as if he still couldn’t believe it.

          “Then I shout to Dave. Shout even though he is sitting right there beside me. ‘The stack! The stack is on fire!’ Dave takes one look and he swears.”

          I knew Papa wouldn’t tell what Dave had said. Mutti didn’t like swear words. Papa emptied his cup and Mutti got up to pour him some more.

          I couldn't wait. “What did you do then?”

          “We must do something quick. We drive along at 40 and the wind whips those flames up higher and higher.” Papa talked faster. “We could lose the whole load. We put a lot of work into stacking those bales, never mind the cutting and baling. Dave does the first thing that comes into his head. He tries to dump the burning bales.”  

          I held my breath, seeing in my mind the flames leaping higher and higher, hearing the men yell.

          “Dave jerks the wheel hard right, steering for the ditch. I hope the top row of bales will slide off. But we have them stacked too well. The truck swerves. The wheels catch, we tip.”   Papa swallowed some more coffee.

          “The next thing I am pressed hard against the door handle with Dave on top of me. I can hear the roar of the fire, feel the heat.” He wiped his forehead. “Dave pushes and kicks. I try to help from underneath. He gets the door open and pulls himself out. I follow. By this time the whole load is on fire.”

          He stopped talking for such a long time that I wondered if he was finished. Then he sighed.

          “We cannot save anything. Not even the truck. We just stand there and watch it burn.” He shook his head. “All we can do is throw dirt on the flames that spread to the grass. Lucky for us we are beside a field of summer fallow. At last the whole thing dies down to a smolder and we decide to come home.” Another pause. “Then I realize . . . my leather jacket is gone. I leave it in the truck. Because it was cold this morning when we started.”

          Papa’s voice sounded funny. Like mine did when I was going to cry. But Papa never cried.

          As I grabbed Susie and pulled her outside, I heard Papa say, “It was my brother’s Annelise, the only thing I had left from him.”

          “Wow,” Susie said. “I wish I could have seen the fire.”

          I nodded abstractedly. Papa’s brother had died in the war.  We had a picture of him in his uniform, but I didn’t know much about him.  I remembered the smell of the jacket, how it felt as I snuggled against it when Papa carried me when I was younger. What would Papa do without his jacket? It was the only one he had for working. His black overcoat he wore only on Sundays.

          We went back to the swing and Susie chattered about the fire. After a while I saw Papa go up to the big house. He would have to tell Mrs. Bradley. Would she be angry that the truck was burnt? It seemed a long time before Papa came out again and went to the barn. Then Mrs. Bradley came out and walked over to her car.

          Susie jumped up. “Maybe she’s going to the truck. I’m going to ask her if we can go.”

          She came racing back to say we could. Suddenly I was excited again. I ran to ask Mutti if she wanted to go, but she shook her head.

          “I know what a burned thing looks like,” she said. “I don’t need to see it again.”

          I felt a little strange when she said that and wondered what she was remembering. For a moment, I just stood there, but she turned away to dry the dishes. I rushed out to the car.

          The ride didn’t take long, but Susie and I jiggled impatiently in the back seat the whole way. Mrs. Bradley said nothing. We stuck our heads out of the window. What would the truck look like? When we got closer I wrinkled my nose. What a horrible smell. Like the dump when they burned off the garbage.

          We got out of the car. I felt the heat. The truck just lay in the ditch, a skeleton of blackened paint, blistered metal. I held my nose.

          “A total loss,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Well at least it was insured.”

          Ashes lay scattered in the ditch and up on the road. A heap of refuse smoked where the bales had been. I walked over to look down into the cab. Grey dust puffed up around my feet and coated my new shoes.   

          I had some crazy idea of finding Papa’s jacket, pulling it out and taking it back to him. But there was no sign of the jacket anywhere. Would it have burned right up?

          Beside me Susie spit, the moisture hit the truck and sizzled.

          “Hey,” she laughed, “let's do it again.”

          I paid no attention. Suppose Dave and Papa hadn’t been able to get the door open. What would I see then? I shivered and turned back to the car.

          “I want to go home,” I said. I bent and scrubbed at the ashes on my shoes. Now I knew what a burned thing looked like.