She lay naked, face up, head to the north, feet to the south, arms outstretched, hands east and west, eyes full of stars. Beneath her back, the lumped clods of dirt and broken carcasses of last season’s grain, moist from the night’s dew, served well enough for pillow and mattress, meshed with her hair, pressed against her bare skin. The cloudless sky offered no protection. She needed none. She took in the universe until she found her place again in the solar system, in the galaxy, feeling the earth and all its round wholeness—the mountains, the oceans, the molten core—not beneath her but behind, between her body and the sun. She had worked to shift her perception until she experienced the earth’s sphere as it was, tilted, turning on its axis, her body held against its side by gravity alone, its surface curving down and away below her, leaving nothing beneath her feet but the great void. But she wouldn’t fall. She was as attracted to the earth as it was to her, and she was dazzled by the distances the stars had come that night, each and every one, to kiss her body with light.

She lay there until the earth began to chill. When she rose, she brushed the straw and dirt out of her hair, off of her body. She dressed and walked back to the limousine, shoes in hand. Her driver would follow the car’s tracks back out to the road. She might not return for another year, or for three, but she would return, as she always did. Why else, but for this, would she have bought the field?

*          *          *

Copyright 2016, Quent Cordair. All rights reserved.

 

 

She had gone from expecting too much and forgiving too long, to trusting too little and finding all wrong. She sat with her coffee, waiting for her next chance to walk through the door, determined to see him for what he was, appreciate him for what he might be, and should they dance, she would dance, lightly, with her feet on the ground.

 

*      *     *

© 2016, Quent Cordair. All rights reserved.

 

“Captain, I think you should come to the bridge, sir.”

“What is it, Mably?”

“Here, look through the glass, sir. At three o’clock. A ship, sir.”

“Where?”

“Closer in, sir.”

“I still don’t see it.”

“Closer, sir.”

“Oh—that. That’s not a ship, Mably. That’s a boat. A dugout canoe.”

“What could they be doing all the way out here, sir? They’re making straight for us. Do you think they need to be rescued?”

“If so, it won’t be by us.”

“But, why not, sir? Their little boat hardly looks seaworthy.”

“They’re attacking us.”

“Are you serious, sir?”

“Am I laughing, Mably?”

“Well, yes, sir. A little bit, sir. But—how can they attack us, sir?”

“See those little blowguns? When they get closer, they’ll try to hit us with poison darts.”

“Poison darts, sir?”

“Don’t fear, Mably. Unless they’ve found a new way to fire them, out of their arses or something, those darts won’t make it halfway up to the gunwales.”

“That’s—a relief, sir.”

“You’re laughing, Mably. Am I funny, Mably?”

“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. Sorry, sir. May I ask how you know their, ahem, strategy, sir?”

“It’s the same tribe that came out to us the last time we were by these islands. You can tell by their hair. You weren’t with us then. They’re the Moral Midgets of Microndria. Miserable little excuse of an island. But the inhabitants can be rather annoying if they get close enough that you have to hear them. Rather the opposite of Sirens.”

“Can we use them for target practice, sir? The boys could use some fun.”

“They’re not worth wasting ball and powder on. We have real enemies out there we’ll be meeting soon enough.”

“So, what should we do, sir?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Ignore them. They hate that.”

“But—if they get too annoying, sir?”

“You see that storm front out there to the east?”

“Ah, yes, sir. I apologize for not spotting it earlier.”

“Distracted by the wee ones, weren’t you? Don’t let it happen again.”

“Aye aye, sir. Should we warn them about the storm, sir? Their craft doesn’t look terribly seaworthy.”

“Perhaps you should ask Mr. Darwin, Mably. Anyway, invite him up to the bridge. He’ll want to see these.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“I’m going below to play the cello. Have the first mate get us underway after Mr. Darwin gets his sketch or two and has a quick gander at them. And tell him, no specimens. The one we took aboard last time was complaining about the food within an hour. We had to throw him over.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

*          *          *

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Readers love Genesis, Part I of Idolatry … In the twilight of the Roman Empire, a sculptor struggles to keep an 800-year dream alive while honoring the love of his life and raising his adoptive son. Part I of the epic five-part Idolatry series, in which a wealthy young heir and a devout Christian girl find themselves at the heart of a 2400-year struggle for the soul of Western Civilization.

“Beautifully written, on the order of Ken Follett’s Pillars of the Earth, with the historical insight of James Michener, it brings to life a time of great thought, great art, and its clash with religious fanaticism. Cordair writes with a poet’s sense of scene and nuance and gives us a great deal of insight into the mind of a sculptor; I found this an exciting and easy read.” ~ Alan Nitikman 

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Copyright 2016, Quent Cordair. All rights reserved.