by Mara Purl
She’d come to love the process above all else. There was the listening—first to silence, then to the million small sounds that emerged under it; there was the looking at the surface colors, then the waiting till the actual hues revealed themselves, when the true seeing would happen. While the layperson’s eye skipped over objects in an efficient and rapid series of identifications, the artist allowed things to resolve back into their component parts, where their individual elements could be seen, then chosen, then shared.
From Miranda’s perspective, humans didn’t live alone but in a rich sea of life, there to be cherished and understood, to teach grand lessons and inspire higher thoughts. She couldn’t fail to notice the hush that fell over birds when a human shouted across a garden or blasted leaves aside with a blower whose motor obliterated all other sound within its radius.
Suddenly, a vibrant burst of color flashed into the corner of Miranda’s eye. The couple who’d been talking behind her stepped into view right beside her art-table, the woman wearing lime polyester that shone unnaturally bright against the wooden tables and eucalyptus trees.
The man exclaimed, “Oh, look at those exquisite little paintings!”
“Well, if you like that sort of art.” The woman now addressed Miranda. “Young lady? I think you can do better with that ocean color, don’t you? It just isn’t quite right.”
The man blanched. “Henrietta!”
The woman’s face had taken on an aspect of Mighty Purpose. “Well, some days it is that dark, but not in summer.”
The husband’s hands lifted briefly, then plunged into his pockets where they rattled change.
The woman leaned in for another look at the unfinished piece. “No,” she confirmed, “never in summer.”
Interesting that she noticed the darker shade. Should I bother to explain? An entire lesson in painting began to play through Miranda’s mind: choosing the type of paint appropriate to the subject matter, using a practiced painter’s eye that could observe the deepest hue in a multi-patterned surface like water, the concept of transparent color-layering, the technique of matching and applying that deeper color first.
Miranda and the woman’s husband locked eyes for a moment. As though he’d received a full transmission of her thought, he grabbed his wife’s hand and tugged at it.
“What?” the woman snapped. “Hungry,” he managed. “Well, why didn’t you just say so?” The woman rolled her
eyes at Miranda. “These men and their stomachs!” She shook her head. “You keep painting, dear. Someday you might be real good.” Jerking slightly as her husband yanked again at her hand, the Lime Woman smiled conspiratorially, then toddled across the garden.
Relieved the intrusion was over, Miranda inhaled deeply, dipped her brush in water to moisten it, then scrutinized her work-in-progress. The deeper colors seemed complete now: sapphires and green tourmalines, garnets and amethysts. Time to study the lighter shades and mix new tones on my palette.
A hummingbird sped past her like a bright piece of jewelry shot from a toy gun. Something about the sound seemed familiar. Could that’ve been part of my dream? She smiled, delighted to be keeping company with such a magical creature.
Then, as she swirled ochre into cerulean, she heard the shrieking woman’s voice again. It wasn’t laughing this time. It erupted into a scream, followed by the sad “ahhs” of other voices.
“Too bad,” a man’s voice resonated. “Hate it when a bird hits a window. This time it’s a hummingbird, and it’s dead.”
The hummer tried to see, but couldn’t seem to open his eyes.
Open. Open.
He tried again, but his eyelids wouldn’t respond.
Now he tried to move.
Move. Move.
He tried again, but his wings wouldn’t respond either. Dimly, he heard the deep rumble of human-sound, its
incomprehensible waves and dips, like a dark ocean into which he’d fallen.
Must see. Must move. Babies in nest. North border protect. Food. Need food.
From high overhead he thought he could hear the familiar trill of his mate, but she sounded so very far away. Where is she? Where was he?
Here. Move.
If only he could get his wings to move, his eyes to open. He wanted to answer the high call of his mate, be about his daytime tasks with flowers and borders.
Light. Dark.
Everything had gone dark, though he knew it should still be day. Or had he somehow lost his way? Flown into a cave? No! Never. He knew his territory, stayed at his post dutifully. He knew, then, all was well, he’d done all things perfectly.
Trust. Know.
And now he floated. Not of his own power, but no longer adrift on that dark ocean of sound. Great Spirit had him.
Yield. Flow.
Miranda heard the murmur of voices across the garden as it seemed to crescendo, a combination of concern and sadness.
A man’s voice said “Pretty little thing. Too bad there’s nothing we can do.”
A younger man’s voice countered, “Maybe we should call someone.”
Miranda wondered if she should intervene on the bird’s behalf. Bet it’s a hummer, and it’s probably only stunned.
Across the garden, she saw the group of people—Mr. and Mrs. Lime, plus another couple her own age—a well-built man standing beside an attractive woman with frosted hair.
Lime Woman spoke next. “Oh, just throw it away.”
Miranda leapt from her bench. Hurrying over to the group gathered around the felled bird, she exclaimed, “No!”
Startled, the people turned to look at her.
“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” she stammered. “It’s just . . . leave it to me. Usually, they’re just stunned. I’ll take care of it.”
Lime Woman’s speaking voice cut the air like a buzz saw. “Well, I think I know when something’s dead.”
Paying no attention to that comment, Miranda knelt and studied the tiny creature. So delicate! Miranda held her breath and lifted him carefully—fearing even her gentle pinch between thumb and forefinger would crush him—then transferred him to her palm.
After giving the crowd her best reassuring smile, she walked with care back to her spot. Sitting at the bench by her art-table, she gazed at the creature in her hand.
She utterly rejected the notion that the bird was dead, though no physical evidence supported her claim. No movement; no heartbeat that I can detect; no respiration. Yet, with an innate certainty, she knew. He’s alive.
His inert body lay in perfect stillness while she admired his exquisite details. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I never thought I’d be allowed to get so close.”
Indeed, she felt she’d been given a rare gift, and her painter’s eye was going to take full advantage. “You’re holding still just for me, aren’t you?” she cooed. Though her diminutive model didn’t reply, she considered this to be a conversation.
Entranced by his colors and the fine definition of his feathers, she examined the multi-layered tonalities that produced his tourmaline iridescence. “This is so kind of you,” she said quietly. “What can I do to return the favor?”
He’s granting me a fervent wish. What would his be? Glancing around the garden, she surmised this must be close to an ideal spot to have as his domain. But perhaps he’d wish for a few changes: annuals and perennials all in perpetual bloom; fewer humans, and surely he’d wish for no clear plates of glass.
She took a plain white hankie from her bag and placed the tiny bird on it, then secured him on her lap. Setting aside the nearly completed five-by-eight portrait of the garden she’d done earlier, she pulled out a fresh Claybord of the same size.
I know exactly what to do for you, my little friend. I bet you’re dreaming now. I’ll paint your dream.
The hummer floated.
Float. Flow. Listen.
He tried to get an aural fix. The ocean should be west, but
he couldn’t hear it. Couldn’t hear wind through the trees,
water burbling in the fountain. But a gentle, cooing sound was reaching him.
Strange sound. Nice sound.
But maybe, he worried, he couldn’t hear the water because he was too close to it. That was it! He’d fallen into the fountain and was hearing everything from underwater!
Must fly!
With a tremendous surge of energy, he willed himself up and out of the water—out of the pond that sucked at him and tried to hold him under—aiming himself like a bullet for a blue sky.
Free! Air! Sky!
He soared, he plummeted, circled, spun, swooped, flipped, then hovered. But the aerodynamics seemed oddly different today: the air heavier—or himself lighter. Making one more circle, he tried to get his bearings.
Ocean? Gone. Mountain? Missing.
Panic raced through his heart. Hadn’t he fallen into the fountain? And hadn’t he raised himself through the water to reclaim his own piece of the air? But where was he? And where was his garden?
He looked down. What he saw nearly made him fall from the sky again. It was himself he saw! Asleep on a little white bed. Over him bent a human making sounds, holding a funny long stick in her hand.
Miranda swished her brush in water and spoke softly to the tiny patient in her lap. “Let’s see how you like this garden.”
I’ve painted the realistic garden, more or less. Now I need to create a dream-garden. I can use the same layout and perspective . . . that’ll save time. The new version should have every flower the hummer’d love, no matter whether it’d really grow here or not.
She started working as fast as she could, color flowing from the end of her brush. Using lavender, she painted hollyhocks, some with petals closed, some open, like ballerinas in jete ́ s and pirouettes across a backdrop of green.
She’d studied the docent’s pamphlet, never imagining she’d make such extensive use of it so quickly. But there seemed an urgency about this painting, as though her new little friend needed it and wouldn’t be whole until all the details of his dream garden were captured on the Claybord.
Miranda lost track of time, absorbed in her task. Then she leaned back to review the piece. It’s almost complete now. Just as a hummer would, she’d ignored scent and chosen flowers for their color and nectar. Spires of foxglove made a purple burst, and beyond it, she’d wanted something whimsical, and had chosen a strawberry tree with its look-alike red blossoms. In the distance shone the bright blue where she’d painted in the ocean.
The lower right burst with the cheery pink of an azalea bush, and behind it lurked some partially obscured, pale blue irises. In her mind she’d been working to coax them out from their hiding place, but they resisted shyly. Their petals fluttering, stems aquiver, they stood together like bridesmaids waiting to march down the aisle.
Mid-level on the right side sprouted a bottlebrush bush with its self-descriptive red blooms; wide, flat hot-pink petunias seemed ready to offer their nectar. Balancing them on the left she’d placed a lilac bush with towering blossoms as elaborate as fancy ladies’ hats.
The visionary garden had an arbor tucked into a corner, twined with honeysuckle, its flowers like handfuls of narrow white and pink satin ribbons tied intermittently to its vines. This is one flower that’ll please us both. The hummingbird would love the sweet nectar, and Miranda could almost inhale their intoxicating perfume.
A few minutes later, her eye traveled across the wildly vivid array that now spread across her Claybord. Red-orange butterfly weed stood like bunches of crepe paper tied to tall, feathery stalks; ultra-orange nasturtiums poked their heads above dense leaves, and yellow hibiscus blossoms looked ready to spin, busy as little propellers in the breeze.
As the centerpiece of the garden grew a fuchsia, its drooping pink blossoms resembling acrobat dancers who hung from ropes, skirts flying up, blouses plumped with air, long arms reaching down. Now I need to put the hummer in his garden, right in the
center. He’ll love the fuchsia. Hovering close, his beak ready to plunge, the small bejeweled bird began to appear brushstroke by brushstroke.
The hummer tried to understand.
Know. Think. Know.
Something stirred in his mind, urging him to make sense of things.
All is life. Life is good. I am life.
How could he be in two places at the same time? He
couldn’t be hovering somewhere above himself and still actually be himself and be where he belonged.
So that could only mean one of the two images of himself was a pretend-image.
He’d seen glimpses like this before. Darting near human- places, he’d see another hummer right in his own territory. But on closer inspection, the intruder would match his own movements exactly.
Mirage. Water was like that sometimes, offering a picture, bouncing it back.
The hummer looked down again, certain the false image would have disappeared by now.
He’s still there! He must be real, then. My garden! Must fight!
He dove, expecting his adversary to engage, spin and twirl, buzz and sing. Instead, he twirled through the thin air by himself, downward past the high branches, till he found himself lying on the soft white cloth.
Eyes closed, his chest constricted, his head throbbing, his feathers heavy. Then that familiar, comforting sound reached him.
Reply. Must reply so the nice sound wouldn’t stop.
Know. Think. Know.
He could feel his beak opening slightly.
More of the sound.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
Yes! Awake! But more. Everything was more! He remembered colors—but these were brighter, clearer.
With every ounce of strength he possessed, he spread his wings in ever-so-slight a gesture. The sound came again as if encouraging him.
Lift. Flap. Lift.
He felt his body lighten, saw the white cloth get smaller below him. His body was his own again—the air fresh, the sunlight warm. He wanted to trill and soar, swoop and dart.
But first, he must know the source of the sound. The human sat watching him as if light were coming out of her face, and still making the nice noises.
Kind. Soft. Strong.
Hovering close, he looked in her giant’s eye and saw his own reflection. Then he turned and saw the garden framed in front of her.
Different. Not his daytime garden. All contained in a kind of window, this was the garden he saw every night when he dreamed.
All here. His favorite flowers, bushes, trees, his most resonating colors; his most cherished nectars, enough to let him sip his way to heaven.
How here? He wondered how he could see his night-garden here in the daylight, and then he understood. This human was a dream-maker. Only Spirit could have shown her this. She’d made him his very own map of his heart’s desire.
How tell her? Though he wondered if her huge, slow eye could see his quick one, for a heartbeat he closed his in acknowledgment.
Miranda had been so sure it would happen, she couldn’t feign surprise when it did.
One moment he was moving his tiny beak, as though trying to tell her some important secret. She hadn’t let him stop at that, but had encouraged him to keep on.
Then he blinked. That startled little eye seemed to acquire such a knowing look, as though fresh inspiration infused his compact being.
How long they continued their intimate communion, she couldn’t say, losing track of time in proportion as she gained his trust.
The actual instant of lift-off, she missed, her human eye no match for his fleet body. But what she did see was his pausing mid-air to look first at her, then at her painting. Though for her it had been a matter of seconds, she calculated that in hummingbird-time, he’d probably spent several minutes studying the dream garden as though acknowledging its every bloom.
Then he turned back to look at her again. She held her breath, in awe of his apparent recognition. Did he wink at me? I could swear he did. And then he was gone.
Her communion with the sma
ll creature in the garden had wiped Miranda’s mind clean of her usual concerns. Almost in a trance, she capped her paint tubes and cleaned her brushes, closed her bag and folded her art-table.
Later she would assess the painting, checking it for balance and clarity, composition and tonality. But for today, it had served its purpose, and so had she. It was enough to feel the sense of grace settling around her heart.
“Thank you,” she murmured, making her way toward the exit. “Thank you for sharing your dream.”
Suddenly, the hummer whirred past Miranda’s head, louder than a bumble bee and close enough to touch. Then he sped to the far end of the garden and evanesced beyond her line of sight.
“No,” he seemed to say. “Thank you.”
Return so onto...
Milford-Haven!
Coming next month . . .
September 2011
Mara Purl’s
What the Heart Knows
Book One
in the exciting Milford-Haven saga
Enjoy the following Preview from the book...
Prologue
Broadcast journalist Christine Christian stepped down from her black car into an even blacker night. She extended her leg past the running board of the Ford Explorer, waiting till her shoe found the hardened dirt of the rutted road. Actually, I’m inside the gates, so this’ll be the driveway, she thought, barely able to see the ground since dousing her headlights.
Cool sea wind tumbled through the air, carrying with it the fresh tang of kelp. Her hair ruffling, she glanced overhead to look for the moon. I know it’s nearly full, and it rose early tonight. But the sky appeared moonless, and such stars as normally sparkled in the clear, windswept autumn air were obscured by dense cloud cover.
