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By Jane Blanchard  The Cuthbert Window, Durham Cathedral (634/635–687) Before and after this good man Was active in his prime, The isle of Inner Farne was where He liked to bide his time. He tried to be a hermit there, But people still would come For counseling or healing when Life got too troublesome. Because he loved the many birds Which frequented the site, He instituted special laws To remedy their plight. Upon his death his body was Removed, then moved a lot, Until at Durham it received A final resting spot. Jane Blanchard lives and writes in Augusta, Georgia. Her latest collection is Metes and Bounds (Kelsay Books, 2023).
Jane's other work on Foreshadow: Liturgy (Poetry, November 2023) Continuum (Poetry, May 2024)
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By Chris Roe  Photo: Chris Roe I. Sanctuary Shafts of light Through cathedral windows. Dappled shade Upon the leaves Beneath my feet. Bird song In the branches above. In the distance Hind and fawn Cross the forest track. The sweet fragrance of autumn Fills the misty air. A gentle breeze Moving colours To the forest floor. So precious Such beauty, So hard to find Such peaceful sanctuary. II. To Dream of Spring Harvest is gathered Fields lay bare, Already turned to the plough, Colours, dancing in the autumn wind. The evening breeze, sharper, cooler, An early morning frost, A dusting of snow, Cold dark winter evenings, A glowing fire in the grate, Another log brightens the flame. Time to rest, To sleep, To dream of spring. III. Below The Winter Sky Below the grey, winter sky, A covering of snow Lay upon the distant hills. In the valley The familiar, but welcome sight Of the grey stone cottage, With smoke from the single chimney, Gently drifting away Upon the chilling winter breeze. Journey's end closer now, Footsteps quicken through the snow, Along the narrow lane, Leading to the path And the solid timber door At the front of the cottage. Already in my mind, Smells of the kitchen, A glowing fire in the grate, The warmth and comfort of home. As I close the door, Fresh snow covers my tracks Along the lane, As winter secures its hold Upon the cottage in the valley. Inside at last. Expectations of journey's end, Fulfilled, As I rest, by the fire, Of the cottage, in the valley, Below the grey, winter sky Chris Roe was born and still lives in Norfolk, England. Writing has been a hobby since he was in his mid-teens. Individual poems have been published in magazines and on websites around the world. In 2008, he self-published a collection of 45 poems entitled 'In Search of Silence'. Most of his working career has been spent within the agricultural industry, from which he is now retired.
Chris' other work on Foreshadow: Dawn Trilogy (Poetry, August 2022) The Painter (Poetry, August 2024) By Janina Aza Karpinska  From the artist: The Beginning: an early piece, on hardboard painted black. I have always been struck by Mary saying 'Yes' – not really knowing what she was letting herself in for (social humiliation; the running joke of her community; slurs against her 'modesty'; the mother of a troublesome run-away child, and a misunderstood, activist adult son). The divide between information, 'Good News', and living out its reality. How Heaven can enter the domain of the Earthly Life – what was Jesus letting Himself in for?! A maelstrom of colour and topsy-turviness! Janina Aza Karpinska is a multi-disciplinary artist–poet from the south coast of England. Poetry informs her collage-making with an eye for the 'chime' of pattern, motif and colour; the rhythm and flow of line. Working quickly and intuitively, with an innate sense of order, she re-configures chaos and brokenness to make a new, cohesive whole as an act of creative redemption. Her work has appeared in Bath House Journal; Young Ravens Literary Review; Grim & Gilded; The Empty Mirror; 3 Elements Review; Heart of Flesh and Antler Velvet, among others.
Janina's other work on Foreshadow: Abide in Me, as I Abide in You (Art, August 2024) By Kellie Brown A sharp thwack startles me from the chair, and my body instinctively readies to take cover from whatever ill besieges us. It only takes another second for my brain to process that a hickory nut has dropped onto the tin roof of my in-laws’ porch. My mother-in-law laughs at my response and then, to make me feel better, says, “I jump just as high every time even though I live here.” It isn’t true, but it’s a kindness, and not of the variety she has always been generous with during our 35-year relationship. But individual lives and relationships don’t stay static. They are always changing, sometimes for the better, other times not. What remains unchanged on this back porch is its mixture of rustic and modern décor—a primary-colored plastic whirligig, a rusted dinner bell, a rough-hewn bird house, a gas grill we enjoyed in better times. Mounted on the overhead beams, license plates stretching across many decades and states frame this patchwork porch. The backyard is still lush with greenery, a true suburban rainforest of trees, ferns, and blooming flora. A large round thermometer hangs underneath a Tennessee license plate and declares it 88 degrees Fahrenheit in the shade. Even with the high humidity, this is tolerable for a July afternoon in upstate South Carolina. What feels changed is that she and I have never been older than we are at this moment—me 53, she 81. And her husband, my father-in-law, has never been this frail and this close to eternity. My husband and I, along with our adult son, have driven from Tennessee to attend the slow death watch that is dementia. The jolt from the falling nut serves as a prescient starter pistol for the discussion she and I begin, first subtly in hints and in phrases that drop off at the end. We sit side by side looking out toward the yard, but as the conversation grows more earnest, we turn in our chairs to make eye contact and to confirm each for the other that he can no longer be cared for at home, that the time for a skilled nursing facility has arrived. Conversations about the necessity of this have been going on for over a year. Two times an opening at the Veterans Affairs facility came available, only for her to backpedal and say, “No, I’m not ready.” I understand it’s difficult. They have been married almost 60 years. This decision carries an immutability with it as a dress rehearsal for the more final exit. Day after day of tugging to move him in and out of beds and chairs has taken a toll on her physically. Answering the same question every 60 seconds and bargaining with him to eat or drink have taken their toll emotionally. He has always been a man who expected to get his way, whether at home, at work, or at church. It just presents now without any polish or camouflage. His disease-spawn confusion quickly leads to frustration, paranoia, and belligerence. But it has never been as bad as it is this weekend. The powder keg tension in the house is difficult for my empathic self to handle. Time drags on at a glacial pace even as I try to distract myself with crossword puzzles, social media, and kitchen snack excursions. I can’t imagine the slowness of the hours for him, recliner-bound during the day, wrestling to put words together in a way that means something to him and to us. “It’s just three o’clock?” he asks. Yes, three o’clock going on forever. The past few years have been my only experience with this disease’s insidious unraveling of the mind and body. Both my grandmothers became widows before this age, their husbands dying instantly of heart attacks on the eve or just following retirement. Plans for that anticipated time together were thwarted. It also meant that neither had to witness and try to stave off their spouse’s mental decline. But the shock kind of widowhood exacts a price as well. One grandmother seemed better suited to find contentment in her solitude; the other only found it in pills. On the second day of our South Carolina visit, I suggest that my husband and son be left to manage so my mother-in-law can have a break. As I’m walking out the door, my son calls, “Don’t be gone long.” His voice is tinged with the concern that comes from being ill-equipped to handle all the potential difficulties. Assuring him that “We won’t be long,” I drive her to a local thrift store she loved to browse before her spouse’s infirmity made her mostly homebound as well. We roam the aisles as she leans heavily on a shopping cart. The building is stuffy and reeks of unwashed armpits. Whatever air conditioning it has can’t compensate for the 95-degree day. We admire fluted crystal dishes and flip through former bestsellers. I’m excited to discover a vinyl record section, only to despair as it offers mostly Pat Boone or The Mantovani Orchestra. I walk through their perpetual Christmas display with Santa-themed clothing and décor, but I’ve never been able to get interested in Christmas till the calendar reads November. After 30 minutes, we have completed our slow circuit of the store, and she heads to the checkout with two novels that I put into her hands. I know that she would enjoy both and also that they will most likely sit unread in a stack collecting dust. Regrettably, I leave empty handed, having found nothing to spark joy. Back at the house, I retreat to the bedroom to rest for a few minutes. The living room television is blaring a baseball game, and I counter with a Mozart playlist on my phone. It’s all slow movements from his piano concertos, which have a centering and healing influence on me. I prop up on two pillows and open the book I’m reading. It’s Lorrie Moore’s Who Will Run the Frog Hospital?, a title that seems fitting given the situation, and her words do as well. She writes about “one’s own mournful horror.” She confesses that “the bad news of the world, like most bad news, has no place to go. You tack it to the bulletin board part of your heart. You say look, you say see that is all.” The next morning I’m up before anyone else, which is how it always is. I adore early morning vibes, and my back has a limit to what it will tolerate on unforgiving mattresses. I slip on my tennis shoes and pad through the house. Condensation trails down the French doors that lead to the porch, an indication that there will be no break in the humidity for today. I ease them open as quietly as I can and step out onto the brick floor. I’m prepared for the nuts this morning, but even so, I have small startles from their escapist plunges. Other than the occasional nut, it’s peaceful on the porch. The extended drought means that no one is up early cutting the grass “before it gets too hot,” and there is no breeze to cue the tubular wind chimes into their lonesome melodic peal. Only birdsong lofts up through the stillness— finches, sparrows, and cardinals singing in the dawn chorus and accompanied by the obligato chirping of frogs. The morning stiffness in my back persists, so I walk around the wide porch and examine its hodgepodge of items as if seeing them for the first time. I genuinely wonder where each came from and imagine them arranged with typed labels in a glass museum display. What I’m most curious about this moment is the old-fashioned wooden crutch, like you would expect Tiny Tim to use, that is nailed upside down on a wooden support beam near the “Welcome to the Porch” sign. I’ve always said this porch is a treasure trove for poets. I’m also interested in the face that has been arranged on the trunk of a large maple tree. Made from separate resin parts for eyes, nose, and mouth, it is like an arboreal Mr. Potato Head. The mouth is full and fixed somewhere between happiness and surprise. The hooded eyes are intense in their gazing, and the nose generous as if to inhale fully nature’s sacred incense. It could have just walked here from J.R.R. Tolkien’s Middle-earth. I think about Treebeard, a member of the treelike sentient species known as the Ent. He is described as “the oldest living thing that still walks beneath the Sun upon this Middle-earth.” Treebeard is wise, and his longevity has garnered much insight about time and providence, including the observation that “Things will go as they will; and there is no need to hurry to meet them.” There is acceptance in that proverb that feels necessary for our present family situation. As I stare into the dew-soaked yard, my mind replays some of the difficult scenes from the previous evening. We all sat together in the living room as we have for decades, a place for swapping stories, sharing updates, and making plans. But among the many shifts is the altered soundscape, its absence of ticking. The house is filled with old regulator clocks that my father-in-law collected and took great care in keeping wound and in good working order. Their persistent, slightly asynchronous ticking drove me crazy like an unsettling homage to composer György Ligeti’s Poème symphonique, a 1962 work for 100 mechanical metronomes. But now these clocks stand frozen in time, yet their faces stare as silent witnesses to the ravages of time. Last night my father-in-law’s dementia led him to hurl cruel words toward his wife, who has been a tireless caretaker. She tried a sigh and a shake of the head to disguise her true reaction, but it was obvious to me, a recipient of a lifetime of abusive words from my own mother, that this verbal barb lodged in that sore, wounded place that no amount of rationalizing about the speaker’s illness can assuage. The only respite we got last night was one moment of comic relief. Due to rheumatoid arthritis, my mother-in-law walks now with a prominent limp that makes it appear as if one leg is longer than the other. As she dutifully trudges back and forth to the kitchen, her effort is noticeable every time, but her husband only caught it once in a brief moment of clarity. “Are you walking that way natural?” he asked in a tone of earnest curiosity. She snorted and countered, “Well, I’m sure not walking like a duck on purpose!” The room erupted in laughter, the kind of cleansing guffaws that are genuine and long overdue. In her memoir The Little Bookstore of Big Stone Gap, Wendy Welch writes, “Where there is giggling, there is hope.” Those words feel like a sacred liturgy for times such as these, and so I add my unspoken Amen. Finished with my morning porch meander, I settle down in my usual chair and scoot its position so I’m not staring directly into the rising sun. Now I can get on with my real reason for being out here this morning—to enter into divine presence on behalf of my father-in-law. When reflecting on the loss of his wife to Parkinson’s disease, theologian Hugh Vernon White said, “Sometimes someone we love moves away from us even before they die, but they do not move out of the attention of God. God’s love is his attention.” I believe that “nothing can separate us from the love of God,” that our God “neither slumbers nor sleeps,” that God “will never leave us or forsake us.” And yet I’m carrying around that all too familiar feeling of being so burdened by my own health problems, family issues, unrelenting work demands, and our world’s suffering that it’s hard to connect with God’s promises or even form a prayer. How do any words suffice? A few days ago, I reread that passage in Romans 8 that promises that “the Spirit helps us in our weakness, for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with groanings too deep for words.” What a comfort to remember that not only does the Holy Spirit reside in me but also intercedes on my behalf in a mysterious divine language spoken only by the Triune God. Recently, I exchanged texts with a dear friend that included her saying, “I’m out of words.” I replied, “Me, too.” We were referring to prayer, although this conversation could have also applied to any news broadcast we’d seen. She and I are both drawn to contemplative prayer practices, which require us to surrender our need to talk at or to God and instead to sit in stillness so God can do all the speaking. It sounds easy, even relaxing, but it isn’t. Our human desire to control the dialogue clashes with this type of prayer even though scripture reminds us again and again of God’s preference for a relationship grounded in stillness—“Be still before the Lord” (Psalm 37:7); “Be still and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10). I am often drawn back to the story of Elijah’s personal encounter with God and what that teaches about our misguided expectations of the boisterous and dramatic. “But the Lord was not in the wind…not in the earthquake…not in the fire, and after the fire a sound of sheer silence.” I believe that a healthy prayer life is about balance, similar to how we provide nourishment for our physical bodies. Sometimes prayer is lighting a candle and waiting in silence. Sometimes it’s writing or walking in nature. When I’m seeking words as a traditional prayer practice, I often turn to the poets who know more about prayer than most theologians. Mary Oliver tells us to “pay attention, then patch/a few words together and don't try/to make them elaborate, this isn't/a contest but the doorway/into thanks.” I also find voice through the tried-and-true script of the Book of Common Prayer. So, this morning, I decide to start there. O God the Father, Creator of heaven and earth, Have mercy upon us. O God the Son, Redeemer of the world, Have mercy upon us. O God the Holy Ghost, Sanctifier of the faithful, Have mercy upon us. Dr. Kellie Brown is a violinist, conductor, music educator, poet and award-winning writer whose book, The Sound of Hope: Music as Solace, Resistance and Salvation during the Holocaust and World War II (McFarland Publishing, 2020), received one of the Choice Outstanding Academic Titles award. Her words have appeared in Earth & Altar, Ekstasis, Psaltery & Lyre, Still, Clayjar Review, and others. In addition to over 30 years of music ministry, she serves as a certified lay minister in the United Methodist Church. More information about her and her writing can be found at www.kelliedbrown.com.
Kellie's other work on Foreshadow: Refrain (Poetry, January 2024) By Sandro F. Piedrahita AMDG It was when he was around ten years old that Celestino realized that he and his family were all slaves, that they were owned by the Dominicans just like their horses and hogs. Before his father disclosed the truth to him, he would never have considered such a possibility. He was used to living on a thatched adobe dwelling adjacent to the monastery free to come and go as he pleased. And his parents certainly didn’t seem to be slaves. Celestino’s father Pedro Armendariz was the handyman at the monastery and he worked less hours than the Dominicans themselves, who were busy tending to their crops whenever they were not immersed in prayer. Celestino’s father only worked when his assistance was needed: fixing the plumbing, building a stone wall, clearing through some brush, certainly not the backbreaking work of a slave. Nor did Celestino’s mother seem to be enslaved. She worked as a cook at the monastery, but she was one of many, though she was the lone black woman among them. Most of them were Amerindian women from the Andean highlands. So when his father said not only that they were all slaves but that he – the boy’s father – was soon to be sold by the Dominicans, Celestino’s whole world turned upside down. “What does that mean?” Celestino asked. “That you’ll be sold…” “The Dominicans are in dire need of money, and a man who does business in Panama has offered them twenty-thousand pesos to buy me. They’re also selling all their horses and mules, and have auctioned various properties adjacent to the monastery to the highest bidder. The monks are kind and have never abused me, but given how much money they owe their creditors, they don’t see an alternative to selling me. I hope the man from Panama is kind. After all, he’s going to own me.” “Will we be able to visit you? How far away is Panama?” “I’m afraid not, my son. Panama is twenty-four-hundred kilometers away, and it is so very expensive to pay for the boat to take you there.” “Why don’t we all get sold to the man from Panama at the same time then? That way the family won’t be separated.” “I inquired about that possibility too, Celestino, but the buyer isn’t interested in buying the whole family. He needs a foreman for a quarry operated by Negroes but has no need for a woman or a boy.” “So all this time we’ve been the slaves of the Dominicans, and I didn’t know it?” “That’s because the priests didn’t treat you as if they owned you. The vast majority of slaveholders tyrannize their Africans like animals. We’ve been lucky – thus far – because the woman who owned us before the Dominicans was also kind. She gave all of us as a gift to the Dominicans, knowing we would be treated well. Who knows how this new owner will treat me… No, on second thought, I don’t want you to go with me. Some owners abuse their slaves, even resort to whipping them for the most minor offenses on a frequent basis. But don’t worry about me. I shouldn’t even be mentioning this. I’m sure I’ll be fine under the protection of the Christ and Mary His Mother.” Celestino started sobbing. Even at the age of ten, he understood the gravity of the situation. Not only would he never see his father again, but there was a realistic possibility that his new owner would treat his father with brutality. It was as if scales suddenly fell from Celestino’s eyes, though at his age it was still difficult for him to understand the deeper meaning of what he had just learned. In an hour, he had realized not only that he was not the equal of the Spaniard, but also that he would be doomed to slavery forever. Thus do certain children become men in an instant. * * * Celestino decided to speak with Friar Martin, also known as Friar Broom, for he spent much of the day sweeping the floors of the monastery. When he was not using his broom, he engaged in a myriad other tasks: collecting money for the poor, feeding the hungry, tending to the sick and dying, cutting hair, healing dental problems, bloodletting the ill, cleaning toilets… Friar Broom was not a physician, but he had the skill and knowledge to be an effective doctor if he were so permitted. Before Martin became Friar Broom he had been an assistant to a dentist–barber–surgeon and learned not only about dentistry but also how to heal various illnesses and maladies. Celestino decided to consult Friar Broom because he was a kind and wise man, also because he was the only black person in the entire monastery other than the young boy’s family. Celestino now suspected that Friar Broom might be a slave too given his color and race. At around three o’clock in the afternoon, Friar Broom was always busy praying in the chapel. There was a standing order at the monastery that nobody should disturb Friar Broom while he was praying, not the monks, not the nurses, certainly not Celestino. But given the state of his nerves, Celestino decided to breach the rules and entered the chapel in order to consult Friar Broom. What he saw shocked him to the core, made him think he was seeing things. He had heard about such miracles, but it was different to witness them himself. Friar Broom’s body was floating in the air fifteen feet above the ground. His face was next to the face of the Christ on His crucifix, so close to the Lord’s visage that he could kiss it. Celestino now understood why everyone was prohibited from entering the chapel during the prayers of Friar Broom. Apparently some of the other friars knew the black man had the gift of levitation and wanted to keep it a secret lest a popular cult develop with respect to the humble donado. The abbot had consented to the order prohibiting anyone from entering the chapel when Friar Broom was in prayer given the insistence of many of the other monks, but personally he thought the rumors of levitation were bunk. He had been in the chapel many times with Friar Broom and had never seen the man up in the air. Friar Broom was in a trancelike state when Celestino entered the chapel and initially did not hear Celestino’s insistent cries. Suddenly, however, he appeared next to Celestino on the pew where the boy was sitting as if nothing had happened. “Don’t tell anyone what you have seen,” Friar Broom whispered in a conspiratorial tone. “Don’t even let your parents know.” “How do you do it? It seemed that you were flying.” “It’s a miracle which comes from the Lord. I’m but a simple mulatto, no holier than any of the other friars. But our Lord Jesus has chosen to bestow this special favor on me to bring me closer to Him. In a strange way, He gives me this gift so I shall recognize my nothingness. Now, Celestino, what is so pressing that you disobeyed the rule forbidding entry into the chapel while I am praying?” “Are you a slave?” Celestino asked abruptly. “No, I’m not, Celestino, at least not in the way that term is usually understood. But I am a slave to God who is my Master. And I’ll always proudly be a mulatto. That is the way the Lord created His humble servant, the way he knitted me together in my mother’s womb.” “So you’re not owned by anyone then? Don’t the Dominicans own you?” “Neither of my parents were slaves. My father is a Spanish nobleman, my mother was a freed black woman from Panama. So I was never a slave, although I suspect some would call me a bastard. I’m not owned by the Dominicans in a legal sense, but I have pledged my life to them. Why do you ask that question all of a sudden?” “I just found out that I’m a slave and that the friars want to sell my father to a man from Panama. Can’t you help my father somehow? I think he’s afraid he’ll be owned by a bad man, and he doesn’t want to leave the family.” “Slavery is a bane in this country, indeed an evil on the whole continent. Human beings belong to God and to no one else. You didn’t realize you and your parents were slaves, did you, Celestino? What a wondrous innocence!” “Is there nothing we can do to keep the friars from selling my father? I don’t want him to be taken from us.” “I was wondering about that too, as soon as I heard the news. You should know that many of the priests at this monastery love your parents dearly and see this decision as an act of desperation. I’m sure all the monks with the exception of the abbot would prefer to set your parents completely free, but we are going through calamitous economic woes. If we don’t raise sufficient money, we could lose the monastery itself. But let me pray on it, Celestino. You do so too. Never doubt the Great Physician’s skill.” “Are you hoping for a miracle?” asked Celestino. “Yes, I am, Celestino. Miracles are commonplace.” * * * Celestino certainly believed that Friar Broom was a powerful intercessor. He had heard rumors not only that he levitated, but also that he could heal the desperately ill, that he could walk through walls, that he could multiply the loaves like Jesus, and – most incredibly – that he could bilocate. It was a secreto a voces – an open secret – that a Spaniard who had befriended Friar Broom in Lima had contracted a disease in Mexico City which nearly took his life. The Spaniard reported that Friar Broom had appeared to him on what the Spaniard thought would be his deathbed and had cured him merely by making the sign of the cross on his forehead. Nobody could explain how Friar Broom could have been seen in Mexico City when he had never left the monastery of El Rosario in Lima. There was also the Angolan slave who swore that Friar Broom had appeared to him in distant Africa when he was shackled on a ship about to depart for America. Friar Broom had encouraged him to trust in Jesus and not despair despite the horror of what was happening. Others claimed that he had appeared to certain Jesuit missionaries in Japan and that he had ministered to a group of Spanish captives off the Barbary Coast. Celestino had heard such rumors and was sure, especially after having seen Friar Broom levitate, that the donado could obtain whatever he requested from God. He hoped that would include the rescue of his father from the Panamanian slaveholder and from the grasp of the abbot who would willingly sell him. Two days after their conversation in the chapel, Celestino sought out Friar Broom once again. The boy was too anxious to wait any longer, as he had heard the Panamanian man who wanted to buy his father would be appearing in the monastery in less than a month. Celestino had been praying without ceasing as recommended by Friar Broom. Like every child, he believed in miracles and was sure the black friar would help him communicate with God. When the donado saw Celestino approach, Friar Broom beamed a smile as if he were full of a joy which Celestino could not understand. “I’ve had an idea about something we could do, Celestino, but you’ll have to cooperate. There are certain wealthy persons I know in Lima who could help us out. I’ve frequently begged for alms before and have been providentially aided in such efforts. Why don’t you and I go from house to house and explain about the dilemma faced by your father? I’m sure that seeing you, many will be moved to pity, and we’ll obtain the funds so your father won’t be sold.” “That sounds like a good idea,” responded Celestino. “A great idea!” By then, not only the blacks and the Indians sought out the aid of Friar Broom in desperate situations but also the privileged white limeños who lived in comfort in their mansions close to the Plaza de Armas. They all knew he had the gift of healing not because as an adolescent he had been trained by a barber–dentist–surgeon but because it was vox populi that he had miraculous powers. More than one member of the Spanish nobility had been cured of an incurable disease merely because Friar Broom had prayed over them on their deathbeds. So Friar Broom thought the beneficiaries of such miracles would be receptive to his pleas. Celestino put on his best Sunday clothes, and the two started making their rounds in the wealthiest neighborhoods of Lima, hoping to collect the great sum of money necessary to buy Celestino’s father, about the same amount necessary to buy a small house. “God writes straight through crooked lines,” Father Broom said to Celestino. “By getting the funds to purchase your father, we won’t be just saving him from being sold to a potentially abusive taskmaster. We’ll be purchasing his freedom. And then who knows? Maybe as a freeman, he’ll be able to work and save the money necessary to purchase you and your mother too. The whole family will be free and won’t be owned by anyone. I’m sure that is the will of God.” “I hope so,” responded the ten-year-old, not fully understanding everything Friar Broom had said. The first person to contribute was doña Margarita de Piedrasanta, niece of the Spanish viceroy. She was forever indebted to Friar Broom, for through his intercession she had been cured of an inoperable brain tumor that every physician claimed would take her life. After Celestino explained his father’s situation to her, she commented that after her healing by Friar Broom she had freed all her slaves and had actively lobbied against the institution of slavery in Peru. She handed Celestino a thousand-peso note and told him to come back for more if he did not collect the full amount from others. Friar Broom happily told her that a thousand pesos was a twentieth of the amount they needed and blessed her profusely, reminding her of the words of the Christ: “Whatever you did for the least of these, you did for me.” He assured her that she was storing riches in Heaven through her generosity. Little Celestino clutched Friar Broom firmly by the hand and exclaimed, “We’ll do it!” He was quite sure that with Friar Broom’s intercession nothing was impossible. The next person to contribute was a gruff old Spaniard by the name of Fruto Castelblanco, who owned a cacao plantation with many slaves. He told Friar Broom, “with all due respect,” that he believed it was the natural state of the African to be a slave to the white man. When Friar Broom gently reminded him of how he had obtained the cure of his daughter when she was dying of cholera, the hacendado reluctantly handed him a twenty peso banknote. “Don’t think I’m being niggardly,” he said, “but given how many miracles you’ve performed, I’m sure you’ll obtain the money to liberate a dozen slaves in a fortnight.” “I haven’t performed any miracles,” Friar Broom objected with a wave of the hand. “I was merely an intercessor – an unworthy conduit of God’s grace – asking the Lord to heal those who had sought my care if it was the will of Jesus that they be healed.” It took Friar Broom and Celestino three weeks to collect the money necessary for the purchase of Celestino’s father. The two immediately went to the abbot to announce their feat. Celestino could barely conceal his giddiness, smiling like he had never smiled before. However, the abbot left them both crestfallen as soon as he responded to their cries of joy. “We can use that money you’ve collected to pay down the monastery’s debt. In fact, I encourage you to keep asking for alms so that we may prevent foreclosure. The amount you’ve obtained is only a fraction of what we need, since we owe nearly three-hundred-thousand pesos on mortgage.” Friar Broom tried hard to contain his anger, knowing he had made a vow of obedience, so he tried to reason with the abbot. Here Friar Broom had come up with a solution to Celestino’s problem, and the abbot was unnecessarily throwing a monkey wrench into the works. “I can continue to beg for alms in order to pay off the monastery’s massive debt, esteemed abbot. And I can assure you that with the help of Jesus and Mary we shall receive all that we need. I promise to redouble my efforts to get all necessary funds. But don’t separate this beautiful family. Don’t sever everything that binds them. Instead, set them free. That is what the good Lord would want.” “The Catholic Church doesn’t forbid slavery. I’m sorry to disabuse you from such a notion. A century ago, Pope Alexander VI issued a bull explicitly allowing the Spaniard and the Portuguese to reduce ‘Africans into perpetual slavery wherever they may be.’ And that’s a direct quote. Slavery isn’t a punishment but a recognition that Africans fare best when guided by the white man. The Jesuits buy and sell thousands of slaves all over the continent and don’t think twice about it.” “It is inimical to everything the Church holds dear to separate a father from those to whom God has given him the obligation to protect. It is tantamount to leaving Mary without Joseph during the time of Herod. Who would have saved Jesus from Herod’s wrath and escaped with Him to Egypt if His earthly father had been taken from Him? As far as I know, the Jesuits rarely divide families.” “You are equating a penniless and unhygienic black man with Saint Joseph. Surely the comparison is fantastic and unreasonable, bordering on the blasphemous.” “Are you saying all men with African blood are doomed to slavery into perpetuity?” asked Friar Broom in an insistent voice, still trying to contain his anger. “I agree that I am your inferior, as you are a more faithful Catholic than I and God has given you a lofty position in the Church, but that inferiority has nothing to do with my color or race. There are many black men and women who are far more virtuous than the men who enslave them. It is unfortunately not uncommon for white slave masters to attack virginal African girls. And most white slave owners aren’t as gentle as you Dominicans. Many abuse and whip their slaves. Who knows what kind of man is purchasing Celestino’s father? You are throwing him into an uncertain fate. At a minimum, another owner will make him work to exhaustion. And you’re ending a marriage sanctified by God.” “That is rank speculation. For all you know the man buying Pedro is an upright and virtuous Catholic. I’ve heard nothing to the contrary. Why assume the worst?” “Celestino needs to have a complete family. Only his father can imbue him with the faith in God he needs to learn. By separating his father from his mother, you’re making a mockery of the Catholics’ insistence that all Africans live in unions blessed by God rather than concubinage. You’re putting Pedro in a position where he will virtually be forced to share a bed with a woman other than his wife.” “Pedro needs to be sold just like all our cattle and horses,” said the abbot. “I don’t want to discuss this issue any further. Be happy that we’re not selling Celestino and his mother too. Keep collecting alms for the monastery. I congratulate you for the amount you have already earned, but it is the slightest percentage of what we owe.” * * * Celestino spent all morning and most of the afternoon helping his father do some carpentry work. They were building a tool shed on the large yard behind the monastery where the friars were to keep all their equipment, their hammers, pickaxes and shovels, as well as everything they needed to till the fields. Celestino’s father was a taut, muscular man, no older than thirty-five. Unlike Celestino’s mother and Friar Broom, Pedro could not have been any blacker, with ebony skin which glistened in the sun, hair like black vicuñas’ wool and wide, intelligent eyes. He had a particular beauty, the beauty of the black man, so different from that of the white man, and Celestino thought no one was as handsome. He was also stronger than any of the white men at the monastery and towered above them in height. Despite being an African, born in Angola, he had learned to read and write Spanish, and the new novices laughed, thinking it was uproariously funny, when he asked to borrow some book or religious treatise from them. And Pedro had learned so much about the Catholic faith through his reading that the long-time monks marveled at the extent of his understanding of the most complex theological questions. At the right age, he had taught his son how to read and write, but he also decided to teach Celestino a trade, for he envisioned a different future for his son. At the time Celestino didn’t know that his father hoped that someday he would be a free black man and make a reasonably decent living as a carpenter like Saint Joseph. While they were working on the tool shed, Friar Broom suddenly appeared, dressed in the black and white habit of the Dominicans. His face was stern, and he looked as if he had just swallowed some bitter purgative. But he told them he brought good news. Pedro cleansed his sweaty face with a cloth rag and asked the friar what he meant. “I have decided to take your place and volunteer to be sold to Ramon Hijuelos instead of you. I was trained under a dentist–barber–surgeon and could fetch quite a price as a slave. In fact – and I say this without any pride – I have developed a popular reputation as something of a healing man. I’m worth a lot more than you, Pedro, and I’m sure Hijuelos would willingly take me instead of you for twenty-thousand pesos.” “I can’t force you to do that,” responded Pedro. “You have never been a slave and are the son of a Spaniard. I sincerely thank you for the gesture, but in good conscience I cannot allow it.” “You don’t have a choice, Pedro. My decision is firm. I intend to speak with the abbot this afternoon. After all, I’m used to hard work, and there is no task more humbling than my work sweeping the floors and cleaning the latrines of the monastery. And the fact some white blood courses through my veins doesn’t make me superior to any other black man. I want your whole family to be with me when I talk to him. I want him to realize this is not an abstract question, that we’re talking about a lovely young family which he means to destroy.” The next morning Friar Broom, accompanied by Celestino and his parents, knocked on the door of the abbot’s quarters. There was a sense of displeasure on the abbot’s face when he opened the door and saw them. “Why must you continue to pester me?” he asked. “My decision has been made.” “I’ve come with a different proposal,” said Friar Broom. “I want to be sold to Hijuelos instead of Pedro. After all, given my skills, I am worth a lot more than the twenty-thousand pesos for which you intend to sell Pedro.” “I’m not sure Hijuelos would want you. He needs a foreman to oversee men working in a quarry, not a dentist or a healing man.” “I can do that. With the help of God, there is nothing I can’t do.” “It’s just demented, Martin. Why would you want to be a slave working in a quarry?” “I don’t have a wife or a son, esteemed abbot. Nobody will miss me if I leave the monastery. Pedro, on the other hand, is desperately needed by his family. “Well, I won’t abide it. You’re nearly fifty years old, and Pedro is just another slave, strong and rugged. He can easily communicate with his wife and son through letters. And there’s no reason for him to be unable to live a life of chastity. Many of the peninsulares have come to the Indies without their wives and lead celibate lives.” “A few, perhaps, might lead chaste lives, but not the majority,” said Friar Broom. “At all events, my decision is irrevocable. Ask Hijuelos to take me instead of Pedro.” “You forget you’ve made a vow of obedience, don’t you? I hereby order you to stay put. You may foolishly want to be sold as a slave, but your abbot won’t allow it.” * * * It was nearly midnight when Friar Broom’s sister, Juana de Porres, arrived at the monastery bringing two horses with her. The friar mounted one of the horses with his sister while Celestino’s family rode on the other. Friar Broom had decided the family’s only option was to escape. He knew that certain priests claimed slavery was the will of God, that it was a sin of pride for the blacks to renege of their condition, and that slaves were justifiably flogged for attempting to flee, but he would have nothing of it. No man belongs to another in the eyes of God, and given the exigent circumstances, he felt it was his duty to help the family stay together. So they made the trek in the silent night to the port of Callao, ready to board a caravel to the coastal city of Guayaquil in Ecuador. Juana de Porres knew the captain of the ship well, for she traveled to Ecuador on a regular basis to visit her Spanish father, Don Juan de Porres. There were probably about another hundred passengers on the vessel, none of whom was black. Even Juana de Porres could pass for white, as she had taken after her father rather than her mother. “Thank you,” said Pedro to Friar Broom. “I know you’ve put yourself at risk of great punishment for bringing us here. Goodbye, my friend.” “Goodbye?” echoed Friar Broom. “Don’t you realize I’m going with you?” “Are you leaving the Dominicans?” asked the incredulous Pedro. “Let me worry about the Dominicans. I want to introduce you to my father. He was born in the Spanish city of Segovia, but since my birth, he has become very solicitous to the blacks. I mean to ask him to take care of your family and help you find a job as a freedman in Guayaquil.” “You don’t need to go with us, Friar Broom. I’m sure your sister will explain the situation to your father. I know how you love to serve God as a Dominican. You don’t have to sacrifice all of that just to help a luckless Negro and his family.” “Everything will be fine,” responded Friar Broom. “Just believe it. Walk by faith and not by sight. I am not going to be stripped of the habit of a Dominican nor be punished for liberating your family.” “I think you’re underestimating the gravity of the situation. The abbot is going to be incensed. You should hasten to the monastery before anybody realizes we’re missing. Otherwise with a snap of the abbot’s fingers you’ll be thrown out of the order of the Dominicans and will find yourself wandering the streets of Lima penniless and detested.” “Enough!” said Friar Broom. “You’re going on a trip to the lovely seaside city of Guayaquil, and this simple mulatto friar is going with you to introduce you to his father. The Lord will take care of everything else. Don’t worry about the abbot. He will not punish me.” Don Juan de Porres greeted his guests with open arms. When Friar Broom had been born, the Spanish nobleman had taken it hard. After all, his son had been born much blacker than his mulatto mother. For many years Don Juan had treated his son and his daughter differently, given that one looked like a black boy and the other as a white girl. Indeed, Don Juan had failed to appear at his son’s baptism or recognize him as his son, as was commonly done in Peru with respect to children born of extramarital relationships. But with the passage of the years, Don Juan had learned to love his son more and more and eventually had recognized him as his own, giving him the last name of Porres rather than his mother’s last name. And eventually the Spanish nobleman began to admire his half-caste son, for no one matched his humility or Christian virtue. When Friar Broom had first joined the Dominicans and the monks told him he could not become a priest given his color and his race, Don Juan de Porres had violently protested. But Friar Broom had stopped him in his tracks. “I want to be as little as possible,” Friar Broom had told his father. “I want to be as humble as possible, for that way I shall desire nothing other than to please the Lord. As I decrease, Jesus increases. I don’t need to be a priest to serve my God.” * * * Friar Broom was sweeping the refectory at the monastery when the abbot approached him and screamed at him with all his might. “The Negroes have escaped! I knocked on the door of their dwelling at eight in the morning, and they weren’t there. We’ve searched up and down the monastery, and they’re nowhere to be found. I should have anticipated something like this might happen and kept Pedro and his family in shackles until the day of Hijuelos’ arrival.” “It is to be expected that a man in Pedro’s position might become a fugitive,” Friar Broom said in a calm voice. “I’ve already told you it was his duty as a Christian to keep his family intact, to protect them like Saint Joseph protected his wife and Son.” “Well, I won’t have it. Does that wretched Negro mean to make a fool of me? I shall immediately alert the authorities that there are three escaped slaves on the loose. And I’ll hire the best private slave catchers to find the fugitives. It’s going to cost me a great deal of money to pay the posse, but a lot less than the value of those three slaves. And when I catch them, I shall sell all of them, the wife and son included. Celestino is ten years old and doesn’t need a nursemaid any more. Given that his father has taught him how to read and how to do carpentry, I could sell him for quite a bundle.” “I thought you said one should never teach a black man how to read.” “And I’m right. Pedro is an example. He lacks all Christian humility, thinking he is the equal of the white man because he’s managed to plod through some religious treatises.” “With all due respect, your lordship, it is not a lack of humility to want to improve yourself or to do what is best for your family. God did not create this wonderful world in order for men to be in chains into perpetuity. And God does not intend for men to live in darkness. Every man should be taught how to read, particularly books which speak of God.” “Where do you think they might have gone? Do you have any idea?” Friar Broom didn’t want to lie. Neither did he want to disclose the truth. “Latin America is vast,” responded Friar Broom as his heart beat hard. “They could be anywhere.” “So you’re saying they could have left the country?” “I think at this point it’s best for you to let it go. I say it in all humility. Pedro and his family aren’t going to have it easy trying to make their way in a white man’s world. If they’ve taken such a bold step because of the deep love they have for one another, why not just say a prayer for them and let them be?” “It’s you who have put such ideas in the Negro’s head,” the abbot blurted. “The black family was willing to accept their fate as the will of God, but then you interfered and told them God did not approve their state of servitude. You told them to forget the God-given requirement that they act with absolute obedience to their masters. When I find them, I shall flog them, each and every one of them. I’ve never whipped any of them in the past, but now I think I should have. La letra entra con sangre, as is commonly said. One learns by bleeding.” “Pray about it,” counseled Friar Broom. “Ask the Lord to enlighten you. You’ll soon learn that what was best for this family was to escape.” * * * Two months later, the abbot summoned Friar Broom into his private quarters. The two walked from the chapel to the abbot’s room without saying anything. Friar Broom sensed that the abbot was upset for some reason and that the purpose for the meeting was to discuss disciplinary matters, but he could not guess what they might be. “You are a very special person, aren’t you?” asked the abbot. Friar Broom was perplexed. “Not more special than any other friar,” he responded. “Did you help Pedro and his family to escape?” “Why do you ask this question after so many months?” “Is it true that you can walk through walls,” inquired the abbot, “that you can also levitate?” “Those are old rumors,” Friar Broom responded. “Do not pay any heed to them.” “During the quarantine of those who had fallen ill with the measles epidemic, the door to the infirmary was bolted shut so that no one could enter and potentially spread contagion. And yet many of the sick friars who survived swore that you had ministered to them in the special room for the ill. How did you enter the infirmary given that there was no way to enter it without a key? Tell me, Martin. Can your body somehow go across solid cement?” “It’s best to leave certain matters unanswered,” responded Friar Broom. “Whatever happened, happened with the will of God. Why such a question now? You’ve known about the rumors for years.” “Were you on the ship with Pedro and his family going to Guayaquil?” “You’ve seen me in the monastery all this time. You were with me on the day when the Armendariz family disappeared, and you have seen me at the monastery ever since.” “That is why I’m so shocked,” the abbot responded. “How could you have been in the monastery at the same time you were on a boat headed for Guayaquil? How could you have been here with me and also with your sister and the slaves in Ecuador thousands of kilometers away? Are those who claim you bilocate telling the truth? I need to know. Everything hangs in the balance, including my very soul.” “How did you come up with the idea that I went to Guayaquil?” “Remember that I hired three slave catchers to find out the whereabouts of Pedro and his family? Well, they’ve submitted their report. They’ve obtained the records listing the passengers on the Mirabella caravel going from Lima to Guayaquil on the day the fugitives disappeared. And the records do show that three black people – a man, a woman and a child – were on the ship on that fateful day. But that isn’t what’s astonishing. The incredible thing is, those records demonstrate that you and your sister Juana Porres were also on that boat headed for Guayaquil. And yet at the same time you were sweeping the floors of the monastery.” “I think you should just forget about it. I hope you’re not thinking of sending slave catchers to Guayaquil. If something miraculous happened, chalk it up to the will of God. Don’t become so full of a vengeful pride that you’ll hunt down the Armendariz family to the ends of the earth.” “You’re completely misinterpreting me,” said the abbot. “I now think that I’ve committed a grievous sin by visiting such pain upon a loving family. If God decided to use miracles to save the three slaves, it must be because He thought it was important for them to live in freedom. In retrospect, I can’t even believe I thought of dividing the family for a few thousand pesos. You were right when you told me that would not be pleasing to our Lord. Tell me how I can make things right in the eyes of Jesus, since it is quite obvious that you are an instrument of the will of God.” “We are all instruments in the will of God, but I’ll tell you what I think. Encourage all the Dominicans to stop trafficking in slaves. The Jesuits should do the same. But don’t just sell them to another owner. That might soothe priests’ consciences, but it wouldn’t result in any improvement for the slaves. No, dear abbot, what the Church must do is set all of its slaves free. It will come at a heavy financial price, especially to some Jesuits who own vast haciendas with hundreds of slaves. But it is the only Christian thing to do. To engage in the enslavement of black men and women is an open and manifest sin. After all, we are all made in the image and likeness of God.” Sandro Francisco Piedrahita is an American Catholic writer of Peruvian and Ecuadorian descent. Before he turned to writing, he practised law for a number of years. He is Jesuit-educated, and many of his stories have to do with the lives of saints, told through a modern lens. His wife Rosa is a schoolteacher, his son Joaquin teaches English in China and his daughter Sofia is a social worker. For many years, he was an agnostic, but he has returned to the faith. Mr. Piedrahita holds a degree in Comparative Literature from Yale College and a law degree from Harvard Law School.
Sandro's other work on Foreshadow: The Crucifixion of St. Peter (Part 1 of 2; Fiction, August 2022) The Crucifixion of St. Peter (Part 2 of 2; Fiction, August 2022) A World for Abimael Jones (Part 1 of 2); Fiction, March 2023) A World for Abimael Jones (Part 2 of 2); Fiction, March 2023) A Jew and Her Cross (Part 1 of 2; Fiction, April 2023) A Jew and Her Cross (Part 2 of 2; Fiction, April 2023) God Alone Suffices (Fiction, June 2023) Salvifici Dolores (Fiction, July 2023) That Person Whom You Know (Fiction, September 2023) The Slave and His Master (Fiction, September 2023) The Knight and Lady Poverty (Fiction, January 2024) The Crosses of Father Rutilio Grande (Fiction, April 2024) The Story of Prisoner 16670: A Radical Act of Love (Fiction, May 2024) By Brianne Holmes When Andrew got the news that his wife had been killed in the South Shore train wreck, the first thing he did was look for his keys. They were not on the hook by the door where she said he should keep them. They were not on the dresser or the kitchen table or between the couch cushions. He finally found them in his studio on a table near the commissioned painting of a poodle whose idiotic doggy smile had caused Meredith to die—in a way. He restrained himself from slashing the canvas with an X-Acto knife. He sped blindly toward the lake. He knew the streets of Michigan City like he knew the sound of Meredith’s voice. He could almost feel her gripping his thigh, begging him to slow down, saying, Please don’t kill us, Andrew. I like being alive. Washington Park was almost deserted. When he turned off the engine, everything was still, except for the gentle sloshing of waves on the beach. There was the lighthouse, white and red and friendly in the evening light. No one was fishing on the pier—wrong weather, wrong time of year. Andrew had forgotten his coat, and there was no shelter on the pier from the persistent November wind surging down from Canada. It needled through his flannel shirt and whipped his hair into a mane. Before boarding the train that morning, Meredith had buried her fingers in his hair. Your fur needs a trim, she had said. I’m growing a winter coat, he said. She said, You look like a Golden Retriever. Now as he gazed west, he could just make out Chicago’s gray skyline. He turned east and looked down at the short plunge from pier to rock buffer to water. Many times he had taken his rowboat out on this water, photographing the shoreline, the lighthouse, the pier, the gulls. Tonight, the wind stirred the lake, but it wasn’t truly rough. There were times he’d seen this water in full fury, waves surging over the pier. Once, about a year ago, a local teenager went out on the pier in a storm. He was swept away, dashed against the rocks, and drowned. When Meredith read the story online, she slapped her palm on the kitchen table and shouted, Idiot! Then she murmured: He probably would’ve been in my algebra class next year. If she had been standing there with him now, he might have said, The sea is calm tonight. The tide is full. Then Meredith would have said, Lake, Andrew, it’s a lake. And then he would have said, Poetry, Meredith, it’s poetry. Andrew leaned against a pylon and stared blankly at the familiar lighthouse. How many times had he photographed and painted that lighthouse? Dozens at least. People liked it, an icon, something familiar. The artwork sold. The setting sun cast a red glow on the Chicago skyline. In that city, her body lay in a morgue. Her brother had positively identified her. Now Andrew had to go, make arrangements, bring her back. He would have gone today or tomorrow, but they told him on the phone that they couldn’t release the victims until Monday. Get your bodies during regular business hours, apparently. The sun went down like a glowing sheet of metal. The lake became a darkling plain. The Sea of Faith Was once, too, at the full. At 3:00 a.m., Andrew was in his studio working on the commissioned portrait of the poodle. He hated that animal. He had been working on its nose that morning while Meredith got ready to leave for Chicago to visit her brother. She had wanted to take the 10:55 train, but Andrew, who had promised to drive her to the station, had been preoccupied with his work and was running late as usual. They pulled into the station just as the 10:55 left. He could tell she was annoyed, but all she said was, I’ll just catch the 11:25. Andrew could not look at the poodle any more. He crossed the room to a stack of blank canvases. Hidden behind them was a painting of Meredith that he had been working on for her 27th birthday. She was leaning against a water maple in a yellow spring dress that set off the richness of her tan. Her dark hair had caught just a hint of sunlight, and her mouth curved teasingly, as if she knew some private joke. Meredith had asked him once, What is the hardest thing to paint? People, he said. More specifically, she said. Is it the hands? No, he said, it’s the eyes. There’s a light in them that’s hard to catch. It’s the soul, Meredith said decisively. The soul, he said. Yes, she said, the soul. You catch a glimpse of it sometimes, in the eyes. She knew perfectly well that he didn’t believe in the soul. Andrew did not leave the studio that night. In the morning, the silence was appalling, not to hear her moving through the house, getting ready for church. He forced himself to finish the dog, then started on a commissioned bridal portrait. At 10:55, he put down his brush and called Meredith’s distant cousins in Greece. Then he called her brother to get the phone number for her aunt who lived in Rockford. Then he called the aunt, who sobbed into the phone. After that, he judged that church would be over and called Meredith’s minister. The minister was silent for so long, Andrew wondered if he had lost signal. Then the minister said, “Oh, Andrew. Andrew.” It wasn’t so much the words but the way he said it that choked Andrew. It was his turn not to speak. Then the minister said, “If you’d like, I can come over.” “No,” Andrew said. “No.” “Call me back, then,” he said. “We need to…discuss service times.” “Yes,” Andrew said and hung up. He rushed back to the bridal portrait and worked on it all day and into the night. Around midnight, he lay down on the hard studio floor, fell asleep, and dreamed he was marrying Meredith again. She was wearing the yellow dress, and they were standing on the lighthouse pier. At the foot of the pier, waves washed away boulders as if they were nothing but pebbles. Then the lake rolled back, a silent wall of water that disappeared over the horizon. The floor of the lake lay barren and dry. Andrew woke with an aching back and resumed work on the bridal portrait. By morning, his eyes burned, and his hand was cramped. He cleaned up and took the train to Chicago. He had to get her; he had to think, plan, call the minister back. He wished someone else could think for him. There was no visible evidence of the train derailment. The commuters rushed about in a soulless mass as if no one in the history of the world, let alone two days ago, had been crushed like paper in the bent metal teeth of a wrecked train. * * * Almost everyone at the funeral was a stranger. Most were from Meredith’s church, along with a handful of co-workers from the high school. Andrew sat in the front row near the closed casket, next to Meredith’s brother Sean, whose black hair was in wild disarray. The rims of his eyes were the color of a dying sun. Andrew stared at the casket. It was her body in there, twisted unnaturally at the neck—but it was not Meredith herself. She wasn’t there, which meant that she was either someplace else or nowhere else. He wondered why he used to enjoy the thought of nowhere. Sean nudged him and cast a questioning look at the leather-bound Bible in Andrew’s lap. Andrew pointed to Meredith’s name, embossed at the bottom. He had given it to her last Christmas. She went ecstatic over it as if it were proof that Andrew was on the verge of conversion. He had been planning to have it buried with her, but the minister had handed it back to him and said, “She doesn’t need it where she is.” They sang a hymn Andrew had never heard. The minister held forth on the resurrection of the dead. Beside Andrew, Sean began to weep quietly, face in his hands, tears dripping between his fingers. But Andrew couldn’t cry. He wanted to, but he couldn’t, and he wondered what her friends would say about that. From where he sat, Andrew could smell the sticky sweetness of the flowers surrounding the casket. They were dead, all these flowers, just waiting around to look as dead as they already were. He remembered Meredith, standing before him in the studio, hands on hips saying, How’d you get to be such a pessimist? You’re an artist. Exactly, Andrew said. But your paintings, she said, your pictures. You see beauty. Okay, look, he said, pointing to a photo he had taken of the sun setting behind the Michigan City lighthouse. He had rowed out on the lake on a brilliant summer evening for that shot. He said, How long a window of time do you think I had to take that? How should I know? she said. I teach algebra, not photography. He said, A second. Two seconds. I took the picture, and it was gone. But it was there, she said. But it didn’t last. That’s why I paint it. So we can keep it. After the service, Meredith’s friends offered tearful condolences. Sean hugged him and said, “She really, really loved you, you know.” “I—” Andrew said. He wanted to say, “I really, really loved her too,” but he found that he couldn’t speak. They all trooped out to the cemetery and put her body in the ground, and that ought to have seemed final, but it did not. The house was silent when he returned. He went to the studio and looked at her portrait. There she was, smiling at him, getting flecks of bark on her new yellow dress. He hadn’t gotten the eyes right. Absent was that gleam of life that Meredith called the soul. “Say something,” he murmured absurdly to the painting. Were she here now, he would gladly listen to anything she said. He wouldn’t even mind her evangelizing. He who has an ear, let him hear! she had said to him once when he let her read to him in bed. I have ears, he had mumbled, pulling the sheet up to his chin and glaring at the clock on their bedroom wall. He said, My ears and my eyes are telling me you’ve been reading for half an hour. She playfully flicked his ear and said, You sound like an old man. I have a dawn appointment with the dawn, Andrew said. He was going out to the dunes to paint. The forecast said winds would be relatively calm. He rolled over, his back to her. Meredith closed her Bible and smacked his shoulder with it irreverently. She said, He who has lips, let him kiss me! Andrew grinned, rolled over, and kissed her. These lips, Meredith said, touching them with her finger, These lips were made for praise. She had believed every feature of his face belonged to her God. When Andrew went to bed the night after the funeral, he placed Meredith’s Bible on her pillow. It seemed like an unreasonable thing to do, but he didn’t care. Perhaps it was alive in the same way she was. It still seemed to have power over people’s hearts. “You and your God,” he muttered, breathing in her scent on the pillows. He dreamed again that he was marrying her by the lighthouse. Waves rose and flooded the pier, but they could both breathe underwater. He could hear the spray echoing overhead, and Meredith said, Sweet is the night-air! And Andrew woke up thinking, That’s not very much like algebra. Rain drummed on the roof and the wind, a dull roar. He rolled over. The alarm clock was dark; the power was out. It was like the storm last October. They had been sitting on the couch watching TV when the screen and the lights blinked out. Dark! Meredith exclaimed cheerfully. They fumbled until they found each others’ hands and then they stumbled into the kitchen, looking for the flashlight. Meredith found it in a drawer and shone it on her face, lighting her nose an eerie red. They went back to the couch, and Meredith declared that these were the perfect circumstances in which to read. She grabbed her Bible from the coffee table. Andrew didn’t protest. He was comfortable with his head resting on the couch cushions, and Meredith leaned back against his shoulder and started reading from the Psalms. He let her go without comment until she came to the line, He rides on the wings of the wind; he makes his messengers winds, and then he couldn’t resist. Are you saying God is out there right now? he said, twisting around to look at her and pretending to be in awe. Meredith, did God come by and knock out our power? In a way, yes, she said. He said, God is flying by. Right. Now. Poetry, Andrew. It’s poetry. The next morning was hollow, wet, and cold, but he couldn’t stay in the house. He strapped his rowboat to the top of his Ford, packed up his camera, and drove slowly toward Washington Park. Meredith had said that he understood beauty. So. He would go catch some beauty. The water was choppy but not unmanageable. He slid the rowboat into the lake and struck out past the pier toward the “no swimming” signs. The wind was strong and cold, numbing his hands on the oars. Once he had rowed past the lighthouse, he let the oars rest and fumbled with the settings on his camera. From this angle, the lighthouse and the pier looked different, like a long and fragile arm, promising a safety it could not supply. With the heaving of the boat, it was difficult to get a clear shot. A gust of wind ripped over the lake. Cold water sloshed over the side of the boat, seeping into Andrew’s boots. He looked northwest and saw a dark bank of clouds rushing down from the horizon. Steadying his camera against the strengthening wind, he took several photos of the storm. Take. Take a picture. Such an odd phrase. As if, by preserving an image, he could really keep a part of the subject, maybe catch its essence or its spirit or its soul. He imagined Meredith saying triumphantly, Ah, so you admit there’s a soul! “No,” he said aloud, “but I want there to be.” Water was getting on his lens. He wiped the moisture off with his damp sleeve and put the camera in its case. Then he took up the oars and started to row toward shore. The wind roared across the lake and swept the quivering waves toward the lighthouse, the pier, and the buffer of boulders beneath the pier. He rowed hard but seemed to have no control over the direction of the boat as the wind pushed him toward the pier. Tightening his grip on the oars, he dug deep into the water. His hair blew into his eyes, stung his cold ears. Thirty yards to Andrew’s left, waves broke on the rocks and sprayed the concrete buttress of the pier. The black clouds that had massed on the horizon a few minutes ago were now almost overhead. Just to the north, a wall of rain met the lake. He struggled at the oars, hands red with cold. What had possessed him to come out on a day like this? But he knew. He had wanted the danger of the water so he wouldn’t know the danger of his mind. He had wanted the numbing wind, so he wouldn’t feel his body. Perhaps if all those things were out of the way, he would feel his soul, if indeed he had one. And had Meredith seen her soul, trembling, full of light, as the train jolted it from her body? A twist of metal and a white-hot light. Waves surged over the side of the rowboat. He stopped rowing and started bailing with his hands. His camera bag floated in the bottom of the boat. Another wave hit him in the face, and he felt the change in the boat, the weight of water tugging it down. The pier loomed close, its support columns barring the gray sky. Andrew pictured Meredith giving him a look of incredulity. She would say, You died that way, you idiot! Or would she say, I know, Andrew, I know. If you’d been rowing home to me, you would have made it. He opened his camera bag, chucked the camera, and tried to use the bag to bail water. It was too late, he knew, but he didn’t want Meredith to say he had given up. Then he saw the wave coming, broad and high. It heaved his boat aloft, a strong shoulder of water bearing him up. The boat nosed past the crest of the wave and tipped. Andrew clutched at the side of the boat, wet wood wrenching away from his fingertips, and he heard the crack of his own head hitting wood and saw the gray spray around him flicker in and out like electric lights in a power outage. He thought for a spinning moment that it was Meredith flicking the light switch up and down, as if to gather the attention of her students. She said, “Listen! You hear the grating roar of certitude, and peace, and help for pain,” and he opened his mouth to correct the quotation, but he choked on water. His vision cleared, and he saw far above the murky light filtering through the water like a last will and testament to the goodness of God, and he thought wearily, God. If I’ve even got a soul. Andrew’s back slammed against rock. He braced himself and kicked, trying to propel himself away from the rocks, but the lake shoved him back, harder. His shoulder blade throbbed, his lungs burned, and his body was going numb. One more time the waves sucked him back, heaved him forward, and when he hit the rock, he clung to it. He hauled himself up the face of the rock and broke the surface, coughing up lake water. Slowly, he crawled to the top of the rock and stood, bracing himself against the concrete pier. The rock buffer stretched out before him toward the shore, white spray leaping along its edge. The lake wind cut through him and hit the pier with a roar like many voices, like a host of souls singing one insistent poem. Ah, love, let us be true and together sail that Sea around earth’s shore. Brianne Holmes lives in Upstate South Carolina where she works in marketing and communications. In 2016, she earned a Master of Arts in English with a concentration in Creative Writing from East Carolina University. Her writing has appeared in several publications, including the North Carolina Literary Review, Relief, The Twisted Vine, the Journal of Microliterature, As Surely As the Sun Literary and Abandon Journal.
By Joe Bisicchia Wonder if God indeed would live out of a suitcase. Or be amenable to some kind of boxed package, one you can maybe suitably make. Here you are living in a house better than King David’s cedar, while the ark of God probably dwells in a tent city, cardboard, maybe just temporarily, or nightly, or just through gestation in a womb. Wonder if it’s all a miracle, seeing God, as if a genie in a bottle, or like the nuns say, in a tabernacle, thinking so much can fit in so little a room. Yes, maybe God doesn’t take up much space, can fit in every crammed little place, until infinity expandable, part by part ever whole. How precious if the nuns are right, thinking indeed so much can fit under even a tiny roof not worthy, but most especially snug in every soul. Including the one that is you. An Honourable Mention recipient for the Fernando Rielo XXXII World Prize for Mystical Poetry, Joe Bisicchia has written four published collections of poetry. He also has written over 250 individual works that have been published in over 100 publications. To see more of his work, visit www.JoeBisicchia.com.
Joe's other work on Foreshadow: Driving to Emmaus (Poetry, May 2024) Burning Bush (Poetry, June 2024) photographer of the broken (Poetry, July 2024) By Claudia Wysocky I thought that if I were a better person, then maybe things would go better for me. I thought that if I were a better person, then maybe I’d be happy. I don’t know what I want anymore. I saw that I had a test today. What’s the point? I saw you across the sea and wondered why someone was looking so sad. I am not brave, but I felt a lump in my throat. How to explain a broken heart? To even explain it at all? But words...I am empty and full. I did not know you, but I felt like I did. I wanted to tell you, "I want you to be happy." But all I could do was feel. I cannot think, though I do. I won't close my eyes if I'm awake—because sleep is not a problem anymore. The rest of the world is shapeless, though—I hoped you would fill it in some way. Claudia Wysocky, a Polish writer and poet based in New York, is known for her diverse literary creations, including fiction and poetry. She authored All Up in Smoke, published by Anxiety Press. With over five years of writing experience, Claudia's work has been featured in local newspapers, magazines and even literary journals like WordCityLit and Lothlorien Poetry Journal. Her writing is powered by her belief in art's potential to inspire positive change. Claudia also shares her personal journey and love for writing on her own blog, and she expresses her literary talent as an immigrant raised in post-communism Poland.
Claudia's other work on Foreshadow: The Seventh Column (Poetry, July 2024) By Janina Aza Karpinska  From the artist: Abide in Me, As I Abide in You is actually a teeny-tiny detail from a much, much larger piece, a reflection on how we are called to allow Christ to live in us – as seen in the figure of the knight, whose face is appears around the area of Christ's heart, looking up. There is some paper-weaving seen here, where two pictures are woven together to make a new cohesive whole – another reflection of our lives being woven together with Christ's. The incarnation of my icon-making came about when I was invited to participate in an exhibition, in 2004, held in a decommissioned church on the theme of Icons – other members of the Red Hen Collective chose to work with such things as icons of the silver screen, or computer icons; since I was the offspring of Polish Catholic and Russian Orthodox parents, I chose to focus on icons of devotion. I worked on panels of wood found in the street – I liked the idea of using 'rubbish', things that were rejected, deemed useless, in an act of creative redemption, mirroring the life of Faith. Similarly, I worked with torn discarded magazines, out-of-date auction catalogues – anything I could get my hands on! At first, I was surrounded by tiny scraps – like jigsaw pieces – yet somehow my hand would know where to place a tiny scrap – just so. I felt like a helpful, willing assistant watching the Master at work. So much so, that I found I could not stop admiring my work! Originally, the pieces I worked on were very big, taking weeks to complete. The process gradually became smaller and a lot quicker as I trusted my hands to do the work: instead of being surrounded by innumerable scraps, I would just tear-and-go! I marvelled at how it all came about; I really didn't know what I was doing when I began. Janina Aza Karpinska is a multi-disciplinary artist–poet from the south coast of England. Poetry informs her collage-making with an eye for the 'chime' of pattern, motif and colour; the rhythm and flow of line. Working quickly and intuitively, with an innate sense of order, she re-configures chaos and brokenness to make a new, cohesive whole as an act of creative redemption. Her work has appeared in Bath House Journal; Young Ravens Literary Review; Grim & Gilded; The Empty Mirror; 3 Elements Review; Heart of Flesh and Antler Velvet, among others.
By Chris Roe With each stroke of the brush, At each glance, A new horizon Is within my sight. As the light from a clear sky Pierces the stream, Then rises like a diamond And floats from my view, I am captured Upon the surface of the water. As the canvas Becomes more complete, As more power, More knowledge, More understanding Continue to colour my world, The painter shows a genius I can no longer ignore. In these valleys and glens, Beside rivers and streams, Below snow-capped mountains, Where eagles caress the air, I have walked with the wise man, The master of serene beauty, The musician of my soul, The prince of light: Colours in the canvas of life. Chris Roe was born and still lives in Norfolk, England. Writing has been a hobby since he was in his mid-teens. Individual poems have been published in magazines and on websites around the world. In 2008, he self-published a collection of 45 poems entitled 'In Search of Silence'. Most of his working career has been spent within the agricultural industry, from which he is now retired.
Chris' other work on Foreshadow: Dawn Trilogy (Poetry, August 2022) |
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