The Name
The fire cracked sharply as the new log started to burn. The man slid the high-backed chair closer to the fire to capture more of its warmth. His old, thin frame was less resistant to the cold than it had been in his younger days. Reaching over to the small table beside the chair, he lifted a large volume.
“God willing, it’s in this one,” thought the old one. He fervently hoped this was the book with the revelation. For if this ancient volume did not hold the answer, he had no other place to look. It would be an appalling disappointment not to know.
He eased back into his favorite, comfortable chair and glanced about the room. The old stone walls, covered by faded tapestries of ages and heroes long gone, the mantel above the hearth with the baubles and trinkets of many years. He chuckled as he remembered the young thief that had given him the small blue glass ball that was the centerpiece of the display. Turning his head he admired the large map in the corner. All his favorite walks were outlined in red and marked with his wandering script.
Another snap of the fire, so like the sound his knees made these days, brought him out of his reverie. Again he looked down at the book resting on his lap. The symbol of the goddess Silistar could barely be discerned on the old, worn cover. Carefully, almost lovingly, the vulnerable man traced the glyphs proclaiming the contents of his record book. So as to not break the brittle parchment pages, he lifted the cover extremely gently.
At first, he wonders if the script has faded to nothingness, for he can see only blank parchment. With the additional light of a couple of candles and some squinting, however, the nearly invisible, dun colored squiggles are revealed. For a moment the ancient one tilts his head back, remembering lessons on this dead dialect. The sound of footsteps in the hall outside his door brought the memories back in a flood, and he begins to read.
As the oldster quickly devours page after page of his book, the footsteps get closer and louder. He pays little attention, though he knows young Katcha is long gone home. He only looks up from the musty, browned pages at the quiet clearing of a throat. He turns slowly to see a slight woman in a green robe standing next to the chair.
He looks up into the large, brown eyes and mutters in a paper-thin voice, “Is it time then?” She only nods with a sympathetic look to her face.
“I was hoping to have time to find it,” he mumbles, looking back at the tome in his lap. The young woman smiles and points gently at the line toward the middle of the page.
He looks, and slowly a smile spreads over his wrinkled features. “Ah, after all these years,” he whispers in awe. “Lawrence. After all these years, I’ve found it.” Tears of happiness brim up in his eyes. “Thank you. …” said Lawrence as he sagged, breathing his last.
The young woman smiled and placed the ancient registry of names back on the table. “That’s right Lawrence. It’s time to go,” she said in an almost musical voice. Her snow-white wings unfurled smoothly, and the young woman disappeared.
CREATIVE ENERGY MORE TOP ESSAYS We received more than 200 entries in the annual Our Generation Get Creative contest. Four student judges picked the top entries, which are being published in Our Generation over the next several weeks. Here are two of the top essays. Other entries can be found at www.spokane.net/sections/ourgen.