Chapter Seventeen

THE ANDERCHRONICLES

By Me, Ellee

[WARNING: The following story has been rated FNF*]
*Fiction NOT Fact

"Planting My Little Christmas Secret"
Part III

[ANOTHER WARNING: If you see anyone you know here, you’re probably just delusional, because that’s NOT them. ALL characters in my stories are fictitious—well, sort of . . . I mean DEFINITELY they are just fictitious people who don't exist. Sheesh! You don't really believe these people are real, do you?]



When the sun splotched the sky with splatters of orange and pea yellow, the seagulls winged their way out over the sea to dump their cargo, as the hungry waves lapped it up and came again for more. This sky would soon be diluted by the gray clouds of the approaching storm, and as I sat there in the forest alone, arms wrapped around my knees, like seaweed wrapped around a pier piling, I kept rewinding the scene of Andy picking up Sissy and the two of them whirling around and around, smiling and laughing, like the rest of the world didn’t even exist at that moment. I hated that scene and wanted it to stop, but for some reason I kept playing it over and over, again and again, maybe in hopes of discovering something—anything—I had missed the first eighty times through which might somehow change the meaning of it, and stop my torment. And those forlorn Silver Tails in the branches overhead didn’t like it either because they kept "caaaaaarking." They wouldn’t stop—even when I threw stones at them.

I lost track of time and didn’t know how long I had been there when I saw Andy on a path leading straight to me. When he stopped, just inches from me, he looked down at me and asked,

"Ellee . . . what are you doing out here?"

As he said this, he crossed his legs and lowered himself to the forest floor, sitting cross-legged, mirroring my crossed legs at that moment, our knees touching, sending waves of electric shock to sense receptors everywhere. I knew my answer had to be nonchalant and definitely not showing what I was feeling.

"I came out here to see your forest, Andy. It’s a lovely forest."

He looked around and said, "This isn’t my forest . . . well it IS my forest, but not the one I planted." His eyes were piercing right through mine. He knew I was lying. "It’s over there further." His hand indicated the direction. "I’ll show it to you later. Aren’t you cold sitting on the ground?"

"No, not really," I lied, but up until then I hadn’t noticed it, my mind being so consumed with that video playing in my head. "All these pine needles make good insulation." I patted the ground around me.

He continued studying me for a few minutes, then looked around the forest as if organizing his thoughts. He took a long, deep breath.

"I want to tell you a story, Ellee, about this land under these pine needles we’re sitting on. When I first bought this house and the land surrounding it, I knew it was centuries old and therefore must have a history, hopefully a written history. I really wanted to know everything about it, so I went to the town library and obtained many written family histories in connection with this land. I also visited the Natural History Museum and county recorder’s office, which gave me access to a large number of historical documents like land deeds, and foreclosures, abstracts, liens, mortgages, etc. It was all there.

I then spent many hours sifting through all these records to piece together an history as complete as possible. This land was originally populated by Algonkian Indians some 5000 years ago. When white man came here these Indians were one of thirteen tribes living in the Long Island area. All these records down through the years, including archeological evidences, when pieced together, bit by bit, tell of an ancient Indian legend which has persisted through all these centuries—one which has yet to be resolved.

"It seems," he went on, as the Silver Tails continued their forsaken cries, "there was an Indian princess named, Gentle Lily, who was born on this very land where we are sitting. She was so named for the gentle lilies—beautiful, little flowers the color of bee’s golden honey—growing all over this area.

"I was curious about this little flower, so I spent some time researching it in the archeological section of the Long Island Botanical Society, where I was able to find verification that it indeed existed—same classification as the lily, only much smaller than the lilies of today, and they were called ‘gentle lilies.’

"Also raised on this same land, and born into this same tribe was an Indian brave, named Running Deer. He earned this name because he could run with the deer, as fast as they ran, which meant he was also the best hunter in the village. As children, Gentle Lily and Running Deer played together in the surrounding forests and in the fields and fields of these glorious lilies. Often Running Deer would weave crowns of these flowers for Gentle Lily and place them on her head, because she was a princess. And in return she would fashion strands of these flowers into a necklace that she would place around his neck, to protect him as he hunted food for the whole village. As the years passed and they grew older, they discovered their great love for each other. A love so strong, the legend assures, it could never be broken, even by the centuries to follow—the legend continuing even to our day."

His eyes were so full of emotion as he told this story of Gentle Lily and Running Deer, he was obviously very involved with it. He continued,

"When they reached the age of marriage, it was planned by the tribal elders to perform their customary ‘uniting as one’ ceremony, in which Gentle Lily and Running Deer would be bound together forever, never to be separated, not only in this life but in next life, death having no power over their love.

"Of the many different tribes living on Long Island at that time, most were peaceful, but some from upper state New York were warring tribes. Often Running Deer would be gone for weeks, and sometimes months at a time defending his tribe in battle with the other braves in his village. Gentle Lily would always wait for him and be there when he returned. In the late summer of one year, he was called away to fight once again, but this time he would be gone longer than usual—many, many moons longer—they were fighting the dreaded Iroquois Indians.

"Although Running Deer was mighty and strong in battle, this one, lasting longer than any of the others, had taxed him to his limits, and the only thing which kept him running was knowing that when he returned, he and his darling Gentle Lily would at last be ‘united as one’ in a ceremony which would last for seven moons, sealing the two of them in their love with a bond which could not be broken, and would go with them into the Great Spirit World beyond.

"Finally, with most of his Indian brothers having been slaughtered in battle, Running Deer returned to the village—alone, exhausted, wounded. Entering the outskirts of the village he could smell the familiar, earthy aroma of smouldering pitch pine as the stoves were firing the round loaves of bread to a rich golden brown, but something did not feel as it should. It was now late spring. The earth spirit here was out of alignment somehow, and he sensed it right away as he surveyed the surrounding land.

But he didn’t make the awful discovery until he rounded a bend and started across the lily field where he and Gentle Lily had played so often making crowns and necklaces. At that moment, his cosmos shifted out of arrayment, and all his stars crashed to earth—there was nothing growing in his beloved fields but weeds—no gentle lily could be seen as far as his keen eyes could see. He went running through those fields searching every little nook and cranny, but found nothing. They were all, every one—GONE!

His heart began beating wildly as he called out the name of his own beloved . . . ‘Gentle Lily! . . . Gentle Lily!’ His gaze then turned to the village, and his cries were heard by everyone that day, as his strong legs, now receiving needed strength, ran faster and faster, even exceeding the speed of a deer running for his life. He ran straight to Gentle Lily’s hogan. But the fear which had already seized his thumping heart was now confirmed—she was not there! And as he searched every hogan in the entire village, his cries became more and more frantic—more and more insistent, continuing all through the day and into the night as he scoured every possible place."

Andy, then noticing a little tear slipping silently down the middle of my cheek, reached up and wiped it gently away with the thumb of his left hand. And I, noticing a similar tear making its way down his cheek, did likewise. But more tears took their place. This was one sad story!

By now the significance of the video that had been playing in my head before, paled in comparison to the video now playing of Running Deer and Gentle Lily.

"Please, go on, Andy," I urged.

" It took a long time to piece this story together from all the historical accounts I read, but it is apparent that no one in the village knew exactly what had happened to Gentle Lily. She had simply vanished one day, and as spring approached it also became apparent that no lilies were going to grow that year, or any other year. In fact, although that genus of lily is indigenous to this region, it has never been seen since that time. They vanished along with Gentle Lily."

"That’s really strange," I commented. "I wonder if they ever did any soil analyses? You know, like for soil acidity, nitrogen, phosphorus and potassium contents and their ratios. Also, Andy, you certainly must consider ground water microbiology and geochemistry any time you have an ongoing problem like this one. And what about the use of permeable reactive barriers to remediate radionuclide, trace metal and nutrient contamination of soils? And what of particle density and—"

"Ellee, not now—" he cut me off, laying his finger across my lips. "We can talk soil analysis later. Let me finish the story."

I nodded my head in agreement and he continued.

"Days passed, weeks came and went. Months dissolved into years, but there was no Gentle Lily and no wedding. Finally the village elders told Running Deer it was time to choose another to whom he could be ‘united as one.’ But Running Deer loved no other. None was so fair and so dear as Gentle Lily. He could not love again—He would not! His heart belonged only to her. However, he made several attempts. But every maiden he brought to this land was not happy here, nor was he. None stayed and there never was any wedding.

"He would cry himself to sleep each night, and as he cried, so did the birds. Maybe you have noticed them—the Silver Tails? Their forlorn cries speak of Running Deer’s sadness. They still cry with him, even to this very day.

"Then, as one season of his life passed into another, he became more and more saddened. Life had no meaning for him. Running Deer knew in his heart that until the gentle lily returned to this land again, there could be no true, unending love on this soil.

The seasons of his life passed slowly from him, and eventually he died a lonely and heart-broken man. And if the historical records are correct and can be believed, no one since that time has ever known lasting true love here on this land, because the gentle lily has never returned."

There was silence in the forest as Andy finished this forlorn tale—not even the birds disturbed the reverence we were feeling for this land and the sorrow which had transpired here so long ago. Neither of us moved. As we looked into each other’s eyes, we were carried away to another time—a time when gentle lilies were blooming in all their glorious splendor along the paths and under the trees and in the nearby fields. A time when two children laughed and played in the warm sun of their youth. A time when two young people discovered an everlasting love for each other. A time of joy. A time so long ago.

"I HAVE noticed the forlorn cries of those birds," I whispered, not wanting to disturb the hushed reverence.

Just then one of them landed right beside Andy and me. He looked first at Andy and then at me. He didn’t seem to be frightened by us. Then he let out his, "Caaaaaark, carrrk, carrrk," only this time the sound was different; it didn’t sound so forsaken. The notes seemed lighter somehow, not so heavy.

"Did you hear thaaaat?" Andy exclaimed, looking at the Silver Tail, who had now inched a little closer to us both. "Their ‘cark’ has never sounded quite like that before."

"Yes," I answered, "I wasn’t sure it was really the same bird. Earlier, it seemed so . . . so . . . disheartened."

Then the bird flew away, caaaaarking as he ascended to the canopy, only now his ‘cark’ seemed almost like a song.

Andy stood up, lifting me with him, our eyes still focused on each other, and then I felt his hands slip around my waist pulling us close. As our gazes held, I noticed that ever so slowly, almost imperceptibly, the distance between our lips was becoming less and less, until finally, when only a breath separated us, and we were about to experience the warm exhilaration of lips pressing together, a gust of wind blew up, signaling the approaching storm, and we heard Sissy calling,

"Yooooo-hoooo, Annnnnndy . . . dinner’s ready!"

Being jerked back to reality in such an abrupt manner, Andy immediately pulled away . . . and became embarrassed. He spun around and headed straightway for Sissy’s house. But I couldn't move. My knees had turned to rubber and were about to let me slump to the forest floor once again. Andy turned and motioned me on saying,

"Hurry, Sissy has prepared dinner for us. We shouldn’t be late!"

But, I was protesting inside, I don’t WANT to eat dinner with . . . with Sissy—that was the very last thing I wanted at that moment! Taking a long, deep breath, as if to summon strength, I willed myself to walk to the house, following Andy. When we neared the porch, he stopped, waiting for the distance to close between us. He then opened the door for me and we went in.


Bye for now,
Love,
Ellee