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Laurel-Ann perched herself on a large granite stone under the dying oak tree. Pale brown leaves, dried and curling, fell around her like a papery snowfall. Waves of heat shimmered from the ground. She grimaced as she fingered the brass tubing of the divining rods she held in her hands. I never should have come up here, she thought. Her great-aunt Maybelle had called and nagged her so much that she found herself jumping the next flight to SeaTac and renting a car for the long drive up to Badger Creek Valley. The Road was winding and the driving slow. Laurel-Ann had plenty of time to think.
Her ancestors in the old country, she had been told, received the Gift of dowsing and used it serve their communities. It was an honored profession and, presumably, it had been passed down the generations, first to the farming New Englanders and then on to the NorthWesterners when they came to the mining camps.
Great-Grandpa Horace had helped the miners find their veins of gold but when the mines played out, Horace settled on farming and used his dowsing skills to sink wells into an ever-changing water table. The Gift had been passed to his daughter Bernice and then to Aunt Sally. Both had been dead for several years.
It was said that Laurel-Ann was the One with the Gift. She did not want it. The Gift was no longer the honored profession of her ancestors. As a child she had endured the whispers and the side-ways glances. Once, she flattened a classmate, Lewis, who had called her “Water-Witch” and had beaned her with a loaded water balloon. As soon as she was old enough, she left Badger Creek Valley to make her way in the big city down south.
But now drought had come again to the Valley and Badger Creek was no more than trickle. The farmsteads of the Valley were drying up. The community leaders, some of whom as children had taunted her in school, had come to Great-Aunt Maybelle and pleaded for her to help them. Maybelle could not. She did not have the Gift. Cousin Rodney tried his hand at it until, unfortunately, he dowsed the septic line at the Mayor’s farmstead and filled the entire lower Valley with noxious odors when they drilled the well.
It was then that Maybelle called her.
“Honey, we need you– they need you. You must put aside your feelings and help these people. You have the Gift. You are the One. “
Maybelle pleaded and then argued with Laurel-Ann for nearly an hour and then finally ended the call with “Mind you, ‘For of those to whom much is given, much is required’”.
“Oh, all right, I’ll come!” Laurel-Ann always caved in whenever Aunt-Maybelle quoted the Book.
When Laurel-Ann arrived at the farm, she was quickly whisked away by Rodney and Maybelle. They rattled up the Road in Rodney’s old pick-up towards to the Mayor’s place.
“He’s worst off,” said Rodney. “If we can make him happy, I figure we’ll get clients lined up from all over the Valley.”
“Rodney, we do NOT charge for our services”, said Maybelle. “Never have, never will” she warned. “And don’t make that face, Rodney…..Here we are. Laurel-Ann, honey, you just go have a seat under the tree and compose yourself. You remember how Aunt Sally taught you, right now?”
“Yes. I remember.”
“Good, here are Aunt Sally’s rods.” Laurel-Ann took the rods and slid out of the pickup. She crunched through the dead leaves to the tree and sat down on the rock.
A few minutes later, Laurel-Ann heard the sound of voices. They were coming. A lot of them. It seems half the Valley had shown up to watch, including Lewis who had never quite forgiven her for beating the daylights out of him up when they were kids.
Laurel-Ann sighed and lifted the rods. She felt the thin rods resting lightly in her hands. She stood up, shifted one way and then another, taking a few steps forward and swinging around. She heard murmuring from the crowd. She glanced up and glared at the crowd.
“It’s alright, honey, just relax. You can do it,” urged Maybelle.
Laurel-Anne refocused and tried to remember what Sally had taught her. She felt the rods begin to vibrate. She felt compelled to turn to the left and head away from the tree.
The Mayor shouted, “Hey, where’s she going? I need that well sunk here, not way over there. It’ll cost a fortune to pipe that water from way out there.”
“Ah, don’t worry Harold”, chimed Lewis, “she’s not going to find a thing.”
“Yes, she can!” Rodney turned to Lewis and the Mayor and began to argue with them.
Laurel-Ann tuned out the exchange. Her attention was fully focused on the divining rods in her hands. They were crossing and un-crossing. She turned and stopped. They crossed again. Then the rods pulled downward. She felt the power coming up from the earth through her feet, through her body, down her arms and to the rods. The rods began to get warm. She had found water.
“Hey, look at her. She doesn’t know diddly-squat.” shouted Lewis.
“Shut up!”
“Losers– all of you!!” With that Rodney rushed towards Lewis and shoved him in the chest. “I said, Shut up!”
Laurel-Ann’s attention was drawn back to the group. The momentary glow of her success faded away as she saw the two men struggling with each other. She threw the rods to the ground and stomped towards the Road.
Maybelle called to her: “Laurel-Ann, where are you going?”
“Home. I don’t need this. It’s exactly what I said it would be.”
“You can’t leave. They need you!”
“They don’t deserve anything! They deserve to rot!”
Lewis gave Rodney a huge shove that sent him sprawling to the ground, and then shouted after Laurel-Ann. “See? Look at her run away. WITCH!”
Laurel-Anne broke into a run and headed down the Road, the jeers of the crowd in her ears. The last thing she heard was Maybelle yelling: “You can’t leave! Much is required. You are the One!” Laurel-Anne covered her ears and continued running.
When she was out of ear-shot, Laurel-Ann slowed down. Breathing heavily she finally stopped. She was at a low point in the Road, where a dry gully cut across it. In the rainy season, the Road was often washed out at this point. She sat down on a large boulder on the side of the Road.
Maybelle’s words echoed in her mind: “To whom much is given, much is required.”
“No! Not from me!”
A rumble from the mountain echoed through the Valley and large drops began to spatter on the hot pavement. Good, they don’t need me afterall. They’ll get a good soaker and that’ll be that.
The wind picked up and the rumbling grew louder and more constant. That’s not thunder she thought. The leaves swirled around her as the wind turned into a gale. The rain began blowing sideways, stinging her face and arms, and the rumbling grew louder. Laurel-Ann got up from the boulder and turned around, looking for some sort of cover.
That’s when she saw the enormous wall of raging water come crashing down the gully towards her.
No one ever knew what became of Laurel-Ann– not that they gave her much thought. Their water problems were over, it seemed, at least for a while. The rains returned, the water table rose, and Badger Creek flowed.
But Maybelle knew: to whom much is given, much is required– one way or another.
Lori Gloyd (c) 2007, revised. Original version first published Sept. 11, 2006 at the Soul Food Cafe.
Image: Lori Gloyd (c) 2007
To read more short stories by me, please visit “Duende, the short stories of Lori Gloyd.”
“Garden Jewel”
Digital Construction
Lori Gloyd (c) 2007
On Saturday morning I felt compelled to go to my local botanical garden. I say compelled because I had so many chores to do Saturday that I really didn’t have the time. Yet, I went.
To continue reading this essay, click HERE…..
Lori Gloyd (c) 2007
The time I dread has now come. It’s time to thin my seedlings. This is where I have usually fallen down in past attempts at growing plants. I find it very hard to take young healthy seedlings, green and seemingly innocent, and yank them up by the roots. It seems so heartless.……………..
To continue reading this essay, click HERE.
Lori Gloyd (c) 2007
In memory of the victims
and their families
September 11, 2001
World Trade Center, late 80’s
Lori Gloyd (c) 2006, 2007
“Tree of Life”
Digital Construction
Lori Gloyd (c) 2007
The church I attend meets in a wooden building that is about 60 years old. By the standards of the area, this is an ancient structure. It is a pleasant building in the day time— well-kept and conservative. When it is full of people, it is a cheerful place, as it should be.
However, at night, after the congregation has gone home and the lights are extinguished, the building sits in darkness, its bell tower and spire looming over the neighborhood. Several people have told me that they have seen the lights flipping on and off as they’ve driven by at night. Of course, this could simply be our pastor who comes and goes at all hours. Also, lots of people have keys to the place and being volunteers they work on their various projects and ministries whenever they can, including after dark. So it wouldn’t seem strange for lights to be flipping on and off at night.
Several people have told me they have heard all sorts of odd sounds in the building. Well, wooden structures creak, pop and thump with the temperature changes. Also, in the winter, when the steam is turned on, the pipes rattle and shimmy. Finally, the noises could be raccoons, possums and pigeons banging around in the walls of the church.
So you see, everything can be explained.
I’m one of those volunteers who sometimes works alone in the building, and for some reason I avoid going up to the sanctuary by myself. For reasons I can’t explain, I always have an odd feeling that I’m being watched, particularly from the balcony. I keep looking over my shoulder. Perhaps I’m just remembering the story I had heard of the homeless man who broke in a few years ago and slept in the pews at night. One night, this homeless man leaped up and scared the pants off the pastor when he was discovered. Maybe that’s what I’m remembering.
Oh, did I mention that I never, ever go up there alone at night. Ever.
One day, in late afternoon, just as darkness was falling, I was in the basement of the church, setting up for a meeting. I was alone. In the basement, I don’t get that same feeling of being watched–that feeling that someone else is there when they aren’t. So I was fine, happily setting out chairs and getting ready for the others who would be coming in another half hour.
A few minutes later, however, to my chagrin, I discovered that the laptop computer which I needed for the meeting was not downstairs. It was upstairs, in the sanctuary where I never, ever go alone at night.
I hesitated for a moment but then realized how incredibly stupid and silly I was acting. So I took a breath and charged upstairs. I hurried through the sanctuary, fumbled with my keys to open the appropriate doors as quickly as I could, grabbed the laptop and scampered back down to safety of the basement. See, silly, there’s no one up there, I told myself.
I placed the laptop on the table and continued to prepare for the meeting. I was there for just a little less than a minute when I heard a noise. I froze and caught my breath. Slowly I looked up at the ceiling. I heard the floor boards creaking above me as if someone was walking through the sanctuary. There were only a few steps, but they sounded like they were moving down the central aisle from the platform towards the narthex. Only a few steps. Then, nothing.
I felt my skin goose and the hair on my arms stand up. I had just been up there in the sanctuary. There had been no one up there! There were no other cars in the lot, and even if there were, no one would be coming in the upstairs doors-they would come in the downstairs entrance for the meeting. There should be no one up there.
Just as I was about ready to leave and wait in the parking lot, I heard a car door slam. To my relief, another committee member had arrived. When he came in I asked him if he had seen anyone leaving through the upstairs exits. He hadn’t. I was going to mention the noise but suddenly I began to feel silly and embarrassed again, and decided I wouldn’t mention it.
It’s just the physics of an old building I told myself.
But to this day, I will not go upstairs by myself. Never, ever, and certainly not at night.
Lori Gloyd (c) 2006, 2007
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Post Script: A couple of weeks ago, a bunch of us were chatting in the parking lot. One of our group pointed to a window on the top floor of the main building and noted that the light was on in storage room where the Easter and Advent decorations were kept. No one ever goes into that room except in Spring and December. This was August. I quipped that it might be the ghost. Funny, no one laughed.
Many, many years ago, more than I am willing to say, there was a weed-choked, trash-strewn plot of land on the northwest corner of my high school campus.
To continue reading this essay, please click HERE.
Lori Gloyd (c) 2007
An update on the apartment garden project:
As I reported a few days ago, my lemon balm seeds have germinated. Since then I’ve been wondering when the parsley would follow suit. At first I thought I had ruined the process because I did not notice the instruction on the package that said to soak the seeds in water for 24 hours. I googled parsley seeds and discovered that they are one of the hardest herbs to germinate. So, for a few days I was convinced that once again I had proven to be the terror of the gardening realm…..
To finish this essay, please click HERE.
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Lori Gloyd © 2007
I took my camera with me this morning on my pre-dawn power-walk. Here’s what I saw:
“Dawn Series”
Lori Gloyd (c) 2007
September Sunset
Palos Verdes Peninsula
Southern California
Lori Gloyd (c) 2007
“Garden Meditation”
Lori Gloyd (c) 2007
Digital Construction
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