A very brief riff here, just to see us on our way. Not enough time for tea, just a quick dart in and out – as the Old Man might say.

I know this is of little interest, but I managed to run across some of the latest Covid variant, and so I have now officially joined the ranks of the infected. The first day was just miserable, but by the end of the day I had my Paxlovid in hand and started down that road. Next morning much improved, and by day five I almost felt sort of human again. At any rate, stay safe out there. The bug is still out there, patiently waiting to catch you unawares.

So of course for music let’s go back to Trevor Rabin and give a listen to his Big Mistakes again…in honor of my not properly keeping up with my Covid vaccination dates. Shame on me. Bad writer! Very bad! Or…more in keeping with the storyline today, you might listen to Zeppelin’s No Quarter, but maybe that’s just a little too over the top? So, perhaps Pink Floyd could come to the rescue with One Slip? So much music, so many ways to go…and time seems almost endless, doesn’t it?

First You Make a Stone of Your Heart, Part 4 – Fist of Fire

4.1 

San Francisco, California

An old green park bench in dappled shade, one of many that line the water’s edge along the Little Marina Green. Towering eucalyptus cast sentinel shadows across green grass spotted yellow here and there by passing dogs, and a lonely looking girl sits on the bench looking at the nearby St Francis Yacht Club, her auburn hair adrift on errant breezes in amber twilight. She is wearing a navy surplus peacoat and looks to have bundled up against the usual blustery winds passing through the Golden Gate; now she is watching passersby as they make their various ways to waiting homes; warm homes, she imagines, full of warm, smiling faces she will never know. She listens as a gaggle of teenagers scoffs by, as usual riffing on Joe Montana and Jerry Rice, and for a moment she watches them throwing their footballs on the green, proud forty-niner fans in their crimson and gold sweatshirts. Yet she is not really a watcher, and she does not want to know these people. She is waiting, waiting as patiently as any predator might. She is here to look at boats, sailboats mostly, as they return to their berths in the yacht club’s tidy little marina, and she sits up intently when the boat she is waiting for comes into view.

The yacht, a twenty year old Swan 41, is aswarm with people, deckhands in the lingua franca, some tidying up impossible piles of colored rope, others standing along the lifelines, readying mooring lines as the yacht’s helmsman makes for the Swan’s berth. The helmsman, she sees, is the young boy she seeks, and the older man standing behind the boy, pointing out hazards along the way ahead, is his father.

She studies the boy’s features, comparing them to the man behind, and even from this distance the similarities are striking. Movements and mannerisms are alike, let alone the nuanced, all-knowing nods to their place atop the local hierarchy; she looks at the boy and sees a man who will soon command destinies. A boy who, given the chance, will alter human evolution in ways few will ever comprehend. The boy is dangerous, a coiled viper readying to strike, yet those around him smile and joke as if all their futures are assured, as if the boy is poised to simply follow in his father’s footsteps. They bask in the man’s power, his money, as if the danger they court is a substance within their ability to control.

A stir around the yacht’s companionway. An auburn haired woman emerges from below, her scarlet sweater aflame in the low sunlight slanting in through the Gate. The boy smiles, his passion for her glowing for all to see – and, perhaps, to feel.

Even from this distance, set back among the towering eucalyptus, the Old Man in the cape  stands in the stillness of deep shade, and he studies the woman on the park bench. She has been careless, should have never exposed herself to the many dangerous forces gathering to strike anyone who might challenge the boy, or alter the destiny he alone conveys – and then he sees the woman on the boat. She is a twin of the woman on the bench, one of Richardson’s women. The dangerous ones, and he realizes he’d never expected to find them both here, so this was…something new. Something beyond the established timeline. And therefore something quite dangerous…

The woman on the boat stands tall and looks around – until her eyes land on the woman sitting on the bench in the park – and her eyes pause there, then they seem to drift on a moment…as if seeking communion…

…but then the woman on the bench suddenly stands and turns around; her predator’s eyes quickly penetrate the strangers obscure sanctuary. The Old Man can feel her eyes boring into his own, then he feels the woman on the boat reaching into his mind, probing his thoughts, and he retains just enough presence of mind to swing his cane and flee into the darker recesses of a future yet to be.

The woman on the park bench almost smiles at the opportunity she has just missed. But she knows this will not be the last time they try to stop her.

© 2024 adrian leverkühn | abw | adrianleverkuhnwrites. com | this is fiction, plain and simple.

Parting tune? Nothing like falling back on perfection, as in Watching and Waiting by the Moodys.