by River Jordan
And it is during this dancing, in the middle of such mania, that a strange truck slowly pulls into Shibboleth. A truck piled as high as it is wide. With a rocking chair on the very top and all manner of things beneath. It parks on the side of the road, just off on the dirt to the south of the diner. The driver’s door opens, and a small, round woman climbs out. Sonny Boy stands, tail wagging, ready for attention, as the woman approaches the diner door.
She stops, speaks soft words over Sonny and makes a friend for life. She walks through the open door and looks around. Kate is pushing wet hair back from her face. She is hot, and she is tired, and she is happy. A very freckled hand reaches out and takes the HELP WANTED sign down from the diner window. The woman smiles across the crowded room at Kate. Then she points to the sign, and Kate nods and waves her over to her. But not before she has noticed something. That Billy has sat up a little straighter. That Billy is rising to his feet, making his way toward them.
“Hi, I’m Kallie,” she says with a rich, rolling accent. And puts out her hand. “And I’ve come home to Alabama.” Kate takes her hand, round and firm, looks her in the eye, and smiles. And as Kallie reaches up and removes her hat and shakes out her hair, Kate turns her around and introduces her to her nephew. Billy runs his fingers through his newly manicured hair. And smiles. Yes, it is a great and historical party. A celebration that will wear long into the evening until, overflowing with happiness, the people will find their way back to their homes. Full of the good life and all that it contains this night.
All is quiet, all is still when God takes his evening walk through Shibboleth. His hands are in his pockets, and he is whistling a new tune. The tune is carried up on the wind, into the night, where it settles on the hearts of all the people as they lie sleeping. It is a different song. Something ages old and yet just now created.
The song brings old, dormant dreams to life again. It plants new dreams as yet unknown. And the old dreams and the new dreams will spring forth with great power and great fruition. Because the dream and the people will no longer be separate. The dream and the people will be one. And the dream will be the song that is played out through their living lives. Listen. It is a mesmerizing song, full of possibility and of purpose. Full of purity and of passion. It is the song of Shibboleth.
It is a song of peace.
The Everlasting End
DEAR READER,
You may be standing in a bookstore right now; perusing the pages of Messenger to see if the words speak to you, if they call you to carry them home. Or maybe you’ve just finished the novel and you’re lying in bed still thinking of Shibboleth and all that it holds and listening to a late night rain falling outside your window. Or maybe you’re a reader years from now, who inherited a peculiar box of life from your late great-aunt, and from that tangle of worldly goods, an aged and earmarked copy of Messenger falls into your hands.
Regardless, of how we’ve met or how much time lies between us, the important thing for you to know is this—I am grateful to you.
That wasn’t the end of my surprises because what began to pour forth was not the story I had planned or formerly written. The essence of it was the same but the “goings on” in Shibboleth began to undergo some bizarre developments. What was happening to my sleepy, southern town and the people I had come to love who lived there? What strange turn was this going to take for Nehemiah, Trice, and Billy? Where would Aunt Kate and Magnus be left in the midst of such dark clouds of turmoil? And so, I did what any writer might do with such odd turns, I stopped writing.
I had moved to Nashville, Tennessee during the writing of the novel and this is where I was as the story began to evolve, take shape, and shift out from under the borders that I had so carefully mapped out. I turned off the computer and circled my desk warily, like a wild animal, desiring the offering of words but not trusting the ones being offered.
These were gray days garnished with wind, ice, and sometimes snow. Darkness came early and it was cold outside, and I knew almost no one in the city. I sat in front of the fireplace asking myself one question over and over again. Would I write the story that I had planned or the one asking to be told? There was this and only this—the fire, the question, and the days of ensuing silence as I waited for the answer.
What you hold now in your hands was the determination that, come what may, regardless of all manner of strange symbolism and allegory, regardless of unknown reviews or the opinions of my peers—I would write the story that was asking to be told. Ultimately, it is you that I have trusted to unfold the mysteries layered within the pages of Messenger. Like biscuits and babies, friendships and forgiveness, mistakes and memories. And love.
You and I, we are the same. Flesh and blood and full of all the light there is in being human. Some seasons bring hardships impossible to understand. But there is within us, individually, collectively, this insane great spark that believes in right in spite of wrong, that prays for peace in spite of war. That loves life and all it holds and wants the best in us to continue. In this place, regardless of color, cultures, or countries, we find ourselves on common ground.
In this past year, as The Messenger of Magnolia Street took flight and my travels followed wherever those wings might lead, I discovered fountains holding shiny coins. No matter how small the space, how little the water, how inconsequential the fountain might be, the coins were there. I’ve never noticed them before but now, well, now I don’t just pass them by. I consider them. I pause and wonder whose hands cast them in the water.
A child, I often think, young enough to still believe. Or perhaps some shaking, aged hand, childlike once again in wishing.
These pools, for me, have become a symbol of some small thing that might just be important. Maybe, just maybe, if we continue wishing, continue dreaming, there is hope abiding in the earth. Not just in fancy words or speeches written for grand occasions, but a simple grafted-to-the-bone believing.
I consider the coins waiting patiently, silently, hopefully, and imagine the fingers that released them, the heart and face attached to that small grace, and like some gypsy priest of well-worn wishes, I bless them before I turn to go.
Wishing you a safe and peaceful journey full of light, grace, and giving.
—River Jordan
Acknowledgments
The Messenger of Magnolia Street was written in solitude. Some of these people protected the silence of that season. Some prayed for its completion. Some read the work in progress and fed me comments from time to time. Some fed me food and conversation so I wouldn’t get lost in the alone. And some of them bore the fruit forward that it might find its way into your hearts, into your lives.
Here they are. I applaud them every one.
Mom, thank you for teaching me to love the world of written words and for introducing me to sacred space. Dad, the work continues without you but never without your memory by my side. Sister, without you, without us, I couldn’t have written Nehemiah and Billy. They exist because we do. Cousin Deb, what a great adventure we are. Thank you for that late night magic when Messenger was discovered. Mother Nancy and the Hicks clan, your honest support means more than you realize. Sylvia Odenwald, you made these words shine and kept me moving forward. Marcia Pitts, you loved these words from their very inception, and fanned the wind beneath my wings. Shirley Holland, Anna Gee, Susan Benson, and Linda Sheffield Dykes, your prayers encircled me by day and by night. Look here, the blessing of your secret labors. Dorothy Padron, you are my unexpected angel in disguise. Fran Oppenheimer, I hope someday to possess your humor and your glorious, giving heart. Jill Grinberg, your savvy and passion continue to shape my life. Renee Sedliar, you invited me to the dance and kept me in perfect time. You bless my boots off, you do. Michael Maudlin, your guiding wisdom continues to shape this story by wonderful design. The team of HarperSanFrancisco, for every unique, incredible gift you’ve invested in this novel, a thousand good cheers. Owen Hicks, what can I say, my love, but thank you for everything and for alwa
ys. And for you, dear reader, for embracing The Messenger of Magnolia Street, cast forward now on the shores of time.
About the Author
RIVER JORDAN is a storyteller of the southern variety and spent ten years as a playwright with the Loblolly Theatre group. She now teaches and speaks on "The Power of Story" around the country. She is currently completing a new work of fiction and a collection of essays. Visit the author online at www.riverjordanink.com.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE MESSENGER OF MAGNOLIA STREET: A Novel. Copyright © 2006 by River Jordan. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub © Edition NOVEMBER 2008 ISBN: 9780061977749
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.
25 Ryde Road (PO Box 321)
Pymble, NSW 2073, Australia
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
2 Bloor Street East - 20th Floor
Toronto, ON, M4W 1A8, Canada
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.ca
New Zealand
HarperCollinsPublishers (New Zealand) Limited
P.O. Box 1
Auckland, New Zealand
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
77-85 Fulham Palace Road
London, W6 8JB, UK
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
10 East 53rd Street
New York, NY 10022
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.com
