A bunch of not quite Christmas Thoughts 2020 - 2021 -- New Year's Eve

 

The Ghost of an Idea

“This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased.”

Dickens

“Sovereignty” Boris’s beloved buzz-word, is never for the people. Sovereignty, by definition, makes people subject to their so-called betters.

In terms of Brexit, it was always about the ability of the rich to exploit workers without having European laws hold them back and crucially whilst squirrelling away money in off-shore tax havens, which Europe was going to make them declare.

With Brexit, deal or no deal, British people have lost all the recourse to European Law and the protections it offered us in terms of education, fairness in the workplace, the safety net of social services, equitable medical care, housing, pensions, insurance, travel and much more. For ordinary people this is a disaster.

Everywhere we see disparity. In every way our society is becoming more and more divided. The ruling class thrives on division. One only has to look at the privileged in Eton. Whilst other schools struggle for funding from local businesses, which are now often in difficulty themselves, Eton offers a head start and a clear run to those wealthy enough to pay for privilege. The under-qualified are promoted to the top whilst the intelligent poor are kept in their place by underfunding. The last thing privilege wants is an educated electorate.

But the dead and displaced of Grenfell Tower cry out for justice. The Windrush generation cry out for justice. The elderly and disabled have had benefits stripped away. Many have died because of it. You may applaud Key Workers but still Nurses pay does not reflect the value this lying government said it put of their work. We have lengthening food bank queues. Unicef is having to feed British children whilst politicians eat and drink on expenses and at discount. All about us we see the contempt with which the Tories hold the working people of Britain.

The North South divide is widening and united kingdom seems now a loose term of ridicule. Scotland, Wales, Northern Ireland – everyone has been abused by Westminster and even in other parts of England there is discontent. Now young people will no longer be able to afford to spend time abroad expanding their horizons – well unless they have a rich daddy. The Brexit lie duped half the people into voting against their own interests. Buzz-words like ‘Sovereignty’ and ‘Empire’ sound fine indeed but they have at their dark heart the spectres of power and avarice. Fine words are the weapons of subjugation.

Everything that divides us in these times of pandemic and global upheaval, when co-operation is more vital than ever for the good of the humanity, is utterly reprehensible and at this very time in history we have the most divisive government imaginable in charge.

Brexit will surely bring ignorance and want. Now the upper classes really do have the upper hand once more and all I can say is

God help us every one!

A bunch of not quite Christmas Thoughts 2020 - 2021

I really did wake up with all this in my head! On Christmas Day!! Had Santa put it there or am I really MAD as a pantomime frog? 

I kept thinking though -- it's all really convenient, isn't it? Or is that just me? France suddenly decides to throw a wee fit because of Covid variant? Lorries stranded? Threats of no veg? Perhaps medicine shortages? Fisheries a HUGE stumbling block? Really? REALLY? Then suddenly and at the 11th hour Boris comes home, waving his arms about, grinning -- and BEHOLD the deal is done: just on time for a champagne and turkey Dinner with his little son AW!

What have we been sold this time? A turkey? Red herrings? 

The message at least is clear! You can put all this behind you now. Boris is Best for Britain! Aye, and he will be king thereof.

Sing-Along-Brexmas

Hark you Angels never fear.

Upstaged Jesus twice this year.

Easter Day rose from the dead

Christmas Eve put Brexit to bed.

Always something up his sleeve...

Big Ben Chimes on New Year’s Eve?

What will Boris think up next

under some other neat pretext?

Hark you media ever sing:

Boris really should be King!

***

Ding-dong merrily on the sly

the deal’s done. It’s a good’un.

Ding-dong never asking why

cos this will save the union.

Cool as ever it’s a great endeavour and we’ll doubt him never may he live forever our great Brexit Giver and on Christmas Day!

A veritable snowman.

All historians will tell the story and it’s death or glory and we’ll all vote Tory and there’s great euphoria ‘nd on Christmas Day!

Oh Boris the great showman.

***

Look at the cuts!

Throw us a line.

Things will be absolutely FINE!

Says he we’re in this all together

and all together his all together

is all together preposterous.

Oh he’s quite the drama queen!

Says he we’re in this all together

let’s be together and stay together

but all together we feel we’ve all

been sold some red herrings.

***

Should old divisions be forgot

make it look like nothing’s changed

Should auld acquaintance be renewed

in case Scotland is estranged.

Oh let’s pretend we’re friends again

oh please oh please oh pleeeeeeeze

It really was a jolly game

a jest, a romp, a wheeeeeze.

But now it’s all okay again

the deal signed and Brexit done.

All reunited just in time

for 2021!

A bunch of Christmas Thoughts 2020 Dec 24th -- Happy Christmas

There's only one Father Christmas.

P I T  S T O P

Eve’s Bar wasn’t in the middle of nowhere, it was somewhere close to the edge. Only two vehicles were parked this late on Christmas Eve and their owners were the only customers. One was elderly and obese. The other, a swarthy middle aged man with white stubble, spoke.

‘Nice suit.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Looks like we’re in the same game… Stopped for a break?’

‘A quick breather, yes.’

The conversation fizzled out and he tried again ‘Come far?’

‘You could say… You?’

‘Been to Alpha Geldera and back.’

‘Really? What for?’

‘Deliveries, you know…’

‘That far, eh?’

‘Oh, it’s a regular trip. Ever been there?’

‘Alpha… Geldera?’

‘Yes.’

‘No.’

‘Oh. You want to get in on that. It’s like bloody Christmas all year round.’

‘You don’t say?’

‘Oh, yeah! The Gelderans are great folk. One long party! Plenty of everything, you know?’

He winked but the older man just nibbled a mince pie.

‘Nice looking rig you got there.’

‘It’s vintage but I’m fond of it.’

‘I like… the livery.’

‘Thank you. Your’s is the silver?’

‘Yes, that’s my beauty.’

‘It’s very… shiny.’

‘Brand spankin’ new, mate. Cost me eighty thousand Geldera Spondools and a case or two of Protilieal Sherbognac.’

‘That’s… a lot.’

‘Well you get what you pay for. It goes nine tenths light speed. That’s how come I’m at the top of my tree.’

‘I see. Nice view from there, is there?’

‘Hohoho! Good one, mate! Nice view I like that. Name’s Kris, by the way.’ The two shook hands amicably. ‘Say old timer, can I get you a drink?’

‘A small dry sherry perhaps.’

‘Whatever you say… Barman?’

The old man thought a drink worth an ounce of civility. ‘What’s she run on then, your silver machine?’

‘Plasma fusion reaction with solar sail backup and organics composite converter cells. Yours?’

‘Reindeer.’

‘Reindeer?’

‘It’s traditional.’

‘Not very efficient though, surely. No wonder you don’t do the Galdera run. I didn’t think anybody used reindeer any more.’

‘I do.’

‘Why?’

‘’Cos they’re the real thing - like me.’

‘Where are they now, these reindeer?’

‘I always set them loose grazing while I snack. Rudy will come when I whistle.’

‘Mmmm…Well, it was real nice talking to you but it’s time I was on my way, Santa…?’

‘Claus. Mind how you go, son.’

Outside the forecourt was empty but for one shiny silver, streamlined vehicle, a sleek, bright sleigh and a uniformed figure busy trying to find registration marks on either.

‘Say, you in the uniform, you a law enforcer?’

‘I am.’

‘Better get yourself in there… That old guy thinks he’s really Santa Claus!’

Kris got into his silver bullet and sped off into the night sky and just afterwards the old man left the Bar.

‘I say, officer did you see that man who just left?’

‘Don’t say he took off with your wallet?’

‘No, but I am a bit worried. He seemed to think he was capable of space travel.’

The old gent gave a low whistle. In the twinkling of an eye a team of reindeer appeared from nowhere and the whole shebang disappeared way faster than light speed, sending a magical trail of sparks cascading to the ground.

Published in Short Humour  Follow that link for more stories.

Happy Christmas and God Bless us Every one.

A bunch of Christmas Thoughts 2020 Dec 23rd -- Colder Pencils

The thought behind this story really began way back when I was little and trying to colour in  a snowy picture. We had some of those colouring pencils that changed colour in the middle. You sharpened both ends. There was a very light blue and a very light mauve, pale pink and even white -- because we used to sometimes draw on grey paper. I don't know whether I ever said it, but I remember having the thought that for a Winter scene I needed colder pencils. I was too young to know about highlighting and I'm not a very good artist anyway. As my mother used to point out -- a bad workman always blames his tools. But there you go -- I just needed to put down the pencils and use Words.

T h e  F r o s t  L a d y

Celia stood with the key in her hand, beaming in front of, literally, her dream home. “Ian, it’s exact!” She crouched down. “Emma, do you like our new house?” But she could tell by the look of excitement on her daughter’s face that it was time to use that key.

As a child, Celia had done a dozen pictures of her dream house but never got it quite perfect. She’d kept them all. Maybe she'd get them framed now. Always mixed woodland to the left, tall conifers marching down to meet it, to the right a five bar gate and dry stone wall, the countryside falling away towards a sleepy river valley. She’d shown Ian the sketches – shared the dream but how he’d found this place, a sheer fluke, a wrong turning that led him miles out of his way. The cottage itself with its leaded windowpanes, roof criss-crossed with grey slate, white-washed stonework and fir-green door looked so much like her drawings, it was unnerving, but not quite the same, not quite. Of course it was still autumn and all of her pictures were snowy.

By winter they’d settled in. Emma liked drawing too. She used to draw Mummy, Daddy and Emma. Then she’d started putting a bump where David was – Celia was sure it was a boy this time. Recently Emma had become obsessed with drawing the house. But Celia could understand that.

“I need colder pencils, Mummy,” she said one day.

“Colder pencils?”

“Yes. The Frost Lady said.”

“Well, if the Frost Lady says so…” Celia played along.

All shades of blue, lavender, mauve, cream, grey were deployed, sparkle was added, Emma was never quite satisfied with the result. “I want to draw it like the Frost Lady,” she said.

“Who's this Frost Lady?” asked Ian.

“Every child has an imaginary friend–or a dream house. She’ll grow out of it.”

Christmas Eve the first snow was lying thick. Emma had been so excited about Santa coming but in the morning she was not in her bed. She wasn’t in the house or garden. There was no sign of her – no footprints in the vicinity, no tire tracks, nothing. Celia felt cold grip her heart. Rescuers joined the search. Day after day it continued and so did the cold spell.

Celia was due and she wanted Ian to stay with her. Why had she gone out? Where? “I know she’s out there, Ian kept saying,” as if the affirmation could work a miracle. He kept going into her room to check – looking out the window. That was what he was doing when he saw the finger draw, in frost, a perfect picture of the cottage. Suddenly Emma was outside. He'd seen her through the window, as if she was part of the picture, holding the hand of a tall woman dressed in white.

“Please, Ian.”

“I swear, Celia! Would I make up a thing like that?”

“Nobody’s saying you made it up, Ian. We’re both under a lot of strain. Maybe you saw what you wanted to see.”

“I know what I bloody saw, Cecelia!”

He stormed out to search the woods one more time. He didn't return.

Celia had no idea how long she’d been lying there. There was an icy pain inside of her, cold where the baby’s warmth should be. She’d tried to call for help but there was no signal and the lines were down too. The snow lay ever thicker outside. The fire had long extinguished. The place was freezing.

Night turned to day. In the thin dawn light, she thought she saw – no, she was sure of it, her picture of the house – or Emma’s picture of it, as if through a misted mirror -- a reflection of the house. That was it! That was why it had never been quite right. It was a reflection of the house, etched in frost. And now she saw there were three figures in the picture. One was Ian. The second was Emma. And the third – it must surely be the Frost Lady. Celia saw she was holding something -- a baby.

“No!” Celia screamed. She gathered all her strength and as she ran straight through the window, an icicle pierced her heart.

Copyright: © 2009 Oonah V Joslin: Published in MicroHorror

A bunch of Christmas Thoughts 2020 Dec 22nd -- Picture Book

I once received a very large, it seemed to me to be very large, and beautifully illustrated picture book of Hans Christian Andersen's fairy tales. I imagine that it was age specific and that I was meant to be able to read it but I was a very poor, and thus reluctant, reader and I managed to hide it very well. I loved making up stories though.

Picture Book

There was once a little girl called Paige whose most prized possession was a very large picture book full of fairy tales. She had to be careful that her little brother didn’t get hold of her new book for he would surely rip the pages and cover the pretty pictures in crayon.

 

Every night Mother would read to them and Paige would follow with her fingers as best she could, the words of each sentence, and look at the delicately colored pictures with awe. Chapter by chapter she learned about the Brave Tin Soldier, The Ugly Duckling that became a swan and The Emperor in his Birthday Suit. But the story that moved her most was the plight of the Little Match Girl.

 

Then one day her brother was taken ill. He cried and cried with pain and when the pain lessened he looked limp and tired. A fire was lit in the bedroom and the doctor was called out. He pronounced that the little boy needed urgent treatment and that until transport came, he must not be allowed to go to sleep. There was great commotion about the house. Paige felt she was just in the way.

 

“What shall I do?” she asked.

 “Petey mustn’t go to sleep,” said her mother. “You can sit with him and make sure he stays awake.”

 Paige sat by her brother feeling helpless and small. It was close to bedtime. The firelight played on the walls and ceiling so, she could barely stay awake herself. Suddenly she remembered her book. She would read him a story to keep them both awake.

Paige fetched the book. “Now, I want you to listen to me Petey,” she said. “Are you listening?”

“Yes.”

“Once upon a time…” she began and she got to the end of the first sentence but she couldn’t remember where to go from there. Did your finger go down and across or across and then down? Oh, if only she could remember the story!

 She tried reading from left to right: “ Th-gi-at-rs de-kool d-na sm-ra de-red…” then from right to left: “They s - sh – ood – ow - shold-e-red arms and look - ed s – st – st – r”

 She didn’t know half these words.

 

“Petey, are you still awake?” she asked and shook him to make sure he was. “You’re not to go to sleep, hear?”

Paige leafed through the book until she came to a story she knew well. “The Little Match Girl,” she started. “Once upon a time…” then she looked at Petey’s little body lying beneath the covers in the flickering firelight and he looked so white and pale, she wondered whether his star would fall that night?

“I don’t like this story,” she said. “Would you like to look at the pictures, Petey?” and she began to make up wonderful stories of her own to go with the pictures and every now and then to keep his attention she asked, “What do you call this Swan, Petey?” or “Do you know what color this is?” “How many ducks are on the pond, Petey? Petey?” She shook him gently. “Petey?” she urged.

“What?” he murmured sleepily.

“When you’re better, you can have my picture book if you want.”

 

An ambulance came and they whisked him away.

Petey’s star did not fall that night -- but neither of them ever forgot the story.

A bunch of Christmas Thoughts 2020 Dec 21st -- An Alignment in Poetry

Tonight's the night! A rare planetary alignment of Saturn and Jupiter is set to give us a spectacular Star of Bethlehem event. Some people are saying this -- but they are two dots in the sky and they aren't stars but planets and it'll probably be peeing down in Northumberland and we won't see them anyway. It doesn't mean a thing that, from the point of view of our tiny 'blue dot', two of the larger planets in our insignificant solar system appear in line. 

I am not saying that the awe we feel in viewing the night sky is misplaced. It deserves our attention and our study. The great array makes us feel like small creatures, and we are small creatures, but our brains allow us to think -- and if only we would. If only we would let go of superstitions, predjudices, animosity, cruelty and war. If only we would become creators, not destroyers, maybe we could be greater.

On this Solstice, Yuletide, mid-Winter's Day I've aligned two poems for you. I hope you enjoy the juxtaposition.

Wise Men don't do it that way

Three idiots set out one day
to find a baby so they say
and followed a comet or some star or other
to find this newborn and his mother.
They didn’t bring them Christmas hampers
booze or chocolates, flowers or Pampers,
but embalming fluid, incense and gold.
At least that’s how the story’s told.
Apparently they found King Herod instead
and some other babies ended up dead.
That’s what you get if you follow astrology
instead of using Sat Nav technology.
You end up in entirely the wrong place
with all the eggs in history on your face!

Every Child

There are the Winter stars

strung out like Christmas lights

across the night's expanse.

There's Mars red as firelight glow.

It must once have seen it's own snow

its memories preserved in permafrost.

There's the Plough – the Big Dipper

looking much like a sleigh.

We name non-existent patterns far away

so they seem real to us. Each child of Earth

looks towards the skies

in wonder, anticipation or despair.

It isn't Christmas everywhere.

Christmas is not for all. If only

we considered every child as special.

A bunch of Christmas Thoughts 2020 Dec 20th -- Wish I'd written that!

Continuing this weekend's theme of starry stuff, I am posting a slightly revised appreciation of a poem by Ron Lavalette.

Why I love “Outside the Inn” by Ron Lavalette

An editorial by Oonah V Joslin Winter 2014: revised 2020

Outside the Inn

by Ron. Lavalette

There would, of course, have to be a star
—as there always is— but
only a single star, luminous

beckoning above the merest shelter.
Around the meager dwelling,
its wattle daubed with ordinary

midnight, there would of course be
shepherds, nodding, and music of
sheep bells a softly ringing lullaby.

There would have to be an angel.
The sky, a clear intoxicant, would
open and the angel would sing

and the shepherds, keeping their sheep
would have to spread the word
and be certain.

Ron. Lavalette lives on the Canadian border in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom. His debut chapbook, Fallen Away, from Finishing Line Press, is now available at all standard outlets. In addition, more than 200 of his creations (poetry and short prose) have appeared in journals, reviews, and anthologies ranging alphabetically from Able Muse and the Anthology of New England Poets through the World Haiku Review. A reasonable sample of his published work can be viewed at EGGS OVER TOKYO: http://eggsovertokyo.blogspot.com

Outside the Inn by Ron Lavalette, remains one of my favourite poems. We published it at Every Day Poets, on Christmas Day 2008 and included it in our first anthology. I have read it every Christmas since and today I have come back to it again. Why? Because it is not just about Christmas. It is about history, art, tradition, scepticism and magic. It's about not throwing the baby out with the bathwater!

First of all the title tells us Ron is going to turn Christmas inside out and outside in: he is going to examine this tale that began long ago with a guiding star.

“There would, of course, have to be a star”

That is a great hook line. So matter of fact. We all accept that, don’t we? But why would there ‘have to be a star’? Because it’s traditional as Ron points out. Only this star is unique. It is not just a star among many in the night sky. It is a guiding star.

Now ask yourself: which of us nowadays would follow a star? We may read the occasional horoscope for fun but to believe in it is a different matter – to let it guide your life. But that is what religion is about – guiding your life. And to physically follow a star is not part of our modern mindset at all. Or is it? There's a bit of a hooha just now about the conjuntion of two planets and plenty of people reading into it all manner opf spurious meassages! But we are not ancient astronomers. We are not medieval sailors. We live in a world where stars surely are understood?

When I first read the poem, I immediately thought of my favourite part of The Voyage of the Dawn Treader by C S Lewis:

“In our world,” said Eustace, “a star is a huge ball of flaming gas.”

“Even in your world, my son, that is not what a star is but only what it is made of.”

replies Ramandu, who is a fallen star. I have always loved the thought that mythology goes beyond our physical universe and in a way Lewis was saying that religion and science are two different ways of looking at and understanding the universe.

Ron also takes advantage here of tapping into the whole mythology of stars and of all the stories we heard as children. We didn’t literally believe all of those but they give us reference. Thay are part of who we are. This poem is challenging the complacency of our beliefs and our sense of logic.

This particular star turns its spotlight on;

“the merest shelter.”

“its wattle daubed with ordinary

midnight”

I love the way he describes the scene as painted – daubed. This is the ordinary, the humble made into a tableau, instantly recognisable by millions: recreated for two millennia in art and nativity backdrops, painted scenery, miracle plays, make-believe with carols. And in Ron’s poem the music begins as:

“sheep bells a softly ringing lullaby.”

Again that simplicity shines through here and it also reminds us of sleigh bells and those other good old myths we used to believe but discard in adulthood along with Santa Claus. On the other hand, C S Lewis didn't dismiss Santa Claus... Should we not do the same with this is a tale of a baby and of shepherds? In a way it’s a story about ordinary folk. 

All at once in stanza 4, the supernatural takes over.

“There would have to be an angel.”

There would?

“The sky, a clear intoxicant, would
open and the angel would sing”

Really? “an intoxicant” Well yes. What are these guys on? Appealing to our logic, perhaps they’d taken a wee nip of something against the chill. That would explain things. But in truth we seldom see the night sky as they used to see it. The awe. The wonder! I would love just once to see the night sky in that way.

So far Ron has challenged our belief but in the final stanza, he turns that inside out, a play on the title, and challenges our scepticism, and he does it through the medium of language used in a traditional Christmas Carol, The First Nowell, which people have been singing for two hundred years now – not two thousand. You probably know how it goes and it tells the same story:

“The first Nowell the angels did say

Was to certain poor shepherds in fields as they lay;

In fields where they lay a keeping their sheep”

“certain poor shepherds” doesn’t mean they were certain about anything. It is an old fashioned way of saying ‘some’, or maybe even, ‘a chosen few’. Whatever the case, those shepherds were impressed enough to leave their flock and go down to see this new baby. Shepherds do not neglect their duties lightly. Sheep were their livelihood. Why would they do that? And why would they take the risk of talking about it all over the place; spreading the word? Well they’d have to be pretty certain it was real, wouldn’t they? They’re so certain they’re going to tell people about this. They are going to risk being thought mad. So maybe they were utterly convinced of the supernatural. At least of their own experience of awe.

He here he brings us full circle. And there Ron ends the poem – on the word ‘certain.’ And with that phrase;

“and be certain.”

Or to be precise

“spread the word
and be certain.”

This is a very short poem, succinct, complex in its apparent simplicity and beautifully written. As befits the topic, it is traditionally set out, making use of subtle rhymes and assonance, tapping into allusions from our collective memory, literature and song and turning Christmas inside out and back again.

I love it and will always love it because it speaks to me of what Christmas is really about – that sense of mystery. That magic. Our need to tell a story and the one thing we all long for -- the gift of certainty that the truth is not always in what is said but rather in the traditions behind what is said. It’s the structures that matter – the scaffolding of faith.

‘wattle daubed with ordinary’

Like Christmas itself, like with everything, you have to look behind the words, behind what its made of to see what this poem is. 

To me, it's simply glorious! And once more I thank Ron for allowing me to share it with you.

A bunch of Christmas Thoughts 2020 Dec 19th -- Looking up Looking out

We're looking to the skies this weekend. People have always looked to the skies. I suppose, in the past, they could actually see them! Astronomy and astrology used to be one and the same. We looked at the skies and to the skies, for information on seasons, agriculture, fishing, origins, stories, portents of doom, signs of hope. It's a natural thing to look up and to look out. I'm a huge fan of space. I love that I live in a time when we know so much about the universe. I would love to see a day when our moral stature lived up ot that knowledge. We've gone so far and we've looked back in awe at the tiny 'Blue Dot' that is our own planet, and that should teach us just how special humankind is and that we should be working together to preserve this home of ours.

But I've always found poetic inspiration in the skies too. That too is our nature; to make of things more than the sum of their parts, to paint pictures, make up stories, represent what we experience to the gaze of others. We look up and out and say: Hey -- this is what I made of that! And we look at what others have made of it and together we gain more understanding, not of the thing itself, but of our collective consciousness. This for me is what it's all about. That is the worth and purpose of art and science; and they are not separate for me. They are one and the same.

So I give you some space stuff today. One of my favourite stories that I ever wrote: Closer to the Truth, first published in Every Day Fuction in 2008. I love it because it says all I have just said above -- only better -- and because it is a tribute to all the Mental Health professionals (some of whom my husband trained) who this year are needed more than ever.

 And a series of poems written to go with NASA pictures of the day in Bewildering Stories where there's a huge archive of space stuff! Youll have to click on the links for the poems though the first poem should lead you to the rest. I've done this because the pictures need to be seen too! 

Enjoy my Armchair Observatory by just clicking on this link and then using the drop down arrow v and 'GO' to the right of each poem to get to the next. You can also follow the link to each NASA picture.

CLOSER to the TRUTH

With the caution of a hunter, Brian approached the diminutive figure standing by the dark tree-line of firs. No need to startle her. She might run for cover. He was close enough now to see her back to him, to hear her whisperings and see the soft, white vapour of her breath rise like a spirit released. She was looking up steadily into the October sky, holding her thin cardigan stretched over her fast at the neck with both hands.   Like a saint at prayer she looked. Like an angel on the grave of a child, her gaze fixed on heaven. She was little more than a child herself.

Brian stepped on a twig.

“Have you come to take me back?” she said without turning.

“Is it me you’re talking to, Mary?”

“Aye, it’s you.” She didn’t move at all–just kept staring up at the cold stars. The wildness had gone from her eyes. She seemed calm now but her face was stained with tears.

“What are you looking at, Mary?”

She pointed to the equatorial plane.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Shooting stars. The Orionids. They happen every year. And that’s Orion, Mary.” He closed a bit on her, crouched and pointed. “Those three bright stars are his belt.”

“It’s a he?”

“Yes. The Hunter. He was a bit of a womanizer, Orion–always out to impress the girls–not a bit like me…”

Mary sniffed and giggled and looked at him.

Eye contact. That was a start, he thought. “So anyway, Orion bragged he could kill any animal, thinking this would get him a wife, but all his tearing about didn’t sit well with the women and their fathers only thought he was a big-head. But he was irrepressible, Mary, and do you know what he did?” With one hand Brian gestured to the other two with him that they could retreat. “He threatened to kill every wild animal on the earth. The earth goddess wasn’t happy about that and she sent a scorpion to bite him on the foot and…”

“He killed it?”

“No. It killed him. But the gods felt sorry for the shortness of his life and put him high in the sky with his two dogs to hunt the bull forever and they put the scorpion far away from him so that it couldn’t harm him ever again and he couldn’t harm it.”
 
Mary wiped her face with a fistful of cardigan. “It’s not true,” she said.

“No. Orion is really a vast region of space covering light years and full of stars and places where stars are born and if you approached it, it would look nothing like it does from here. You would be past some bits of it before you got anywhere near the others–they’re that far apart. It would be like you were inside a giant snow storm frozen in time all around you, above and below, and different from every point of view. But to us he’s the hunter. And it’s a good story, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

He stood up. She wasn’t going to run. “The way I see it, there are as many stories as there are people, Mary. Same star field, different points of view.”

“Do you think we need all those stories?”

“I don’t know, Mary. What do you think? Maybe it takes all the perspectives together to make up the truth, and the more stories we know, the closer we get to it.” He took off his white coat and slipped it over her shoulders. “Shall we go in now? And tomorrow if you like we can come out and look at Orion again and maybe you’ll tell me your story, Mary. Deal?”
 
He placed one hand on her shoulder directing her away from the woods across the frosty grass in her bare feet, towards the well-lit buildings and the warmth and safety of the ward and tomorrow.