| THE LORELEI SIGNAL |
.
| Written by Paul Celmer / Artwork by Holly Eddy |
| Damsel in Distress |
As soon as he saw her he suspected she was
very different. Through the open window he
watched the young woman walking towards the
café. She moved with her whole body in
harmonic motion, with long lithe limbs and full
hips swinging in a kind of fearless grace.
Jonathan Cooper was an American college
student. Being thought a bit too bookish by his
parents and having just finished his sophomore
year at Middlebury, Cooper was given a trip to
old Europe so he could ‘see the world’. He sat in
the café Sirena overlooking the cobalt blue
waters of Lake Nemi, a shimmering crescent
beneath a green ring of volcanic hills in southern
Italy. There seemed to be some sort of festival
going on as he noticed numerous people
dressed in robes like those from ancient Rome.
Cooper opened his notebook. It felt good to
watch and think and write as the golden summer
evening sun tilted towards setting. He loved the
mingled music of birdsong and the laughter of
the revelers on the path to the lake below.
It must be nearly seven by now, he thought idly
sipping another cappuccino. As he pondered
which restaurant he would try for dinner,
church bells rang in deep booming echoes like
distant thunder—one, two, three, four, five,
six....
Before the last stroke the woman came through
the door with a movement so fluid it was like
she had poured herself in rather than walked.
She flashed him an alluring smile and took a seat
near his.
“Qui per il festival?” the woman asked.
“I am sorry, I don’t...,”
“Ah. No worry. Are you here for the festival?” She spoked with lilted accented English.
“No. I just happened to read in the guidebook that the view of the lake is not to be missed.”
“And how do you find it?”
“Spectacular.”
“But the festival is also not to be missed. This will be a special night. The roots of this festival reach beyond
antiquity.”
“How interesting. It didn’t seem to be mentioned in my guide.” Cooper was always wary of overly talkative
strangers, even one as attractive as the one before him now.
The woman wore a robe of some silver fabric that shimmered when she moved. In her long black hair was
woven a garland of crimson poppies. Cooper's first thought was that she was a dancer. But then she had
with her a large book with a brown leather cover that seemed very old. The book was carefully tied with a
purple ribbon. A scholar? Cooper wondered what her book contained. Virgil? His beloved Hesiod? She untied
the book. Surprisingly it was not a book at all, but a box. Inside were some kind of tiny wildflowers, which she
began to inspect quite slowly, one at a time, with great interest and delight.
Then he noticed her hands. Fine boned, long fingered, and supple. Her fingertips gently followed the soft
curves of the delicate petals. As he watched he saw the woman’s hands covered completely by a stark and
intricate network of dark lavender lines.
"You are wondering about my scars?" She spoke without any trace of self-consciousness.
"Well...Yes, I was," Cooper finally managed to mumble.
"These are from battle" she said. Her dark glittering eyes were those of a lone wolf in a deep forest.
"Battle?"
"Yes, battle. Is that so strange?"
"Who is it you battle?" Cooper felt an unsettling sensation in his chest.
"Chronus."
"And who’s Chronus?” Cooper asked the question like it tasted of lye. He was beginning to realize his caution
was well founded.
"The old one. The one before all the gods even. Chronus is the ruler of Time. Each night, I go alone to fight
him, to battle the onslaught of nights and days and keep open a place for humankind.”
"I’m sorry, I don't understand...." Cooper fumbled with his notebook, hoping she would go away.
"Of course not. You have not sailed the sunless rivers beyond the sphere of the world. You have not had to
leap from caverns measureless to man to dive into blazing chronodynamic whorls and eddies. You have not
climbed the primal mountain with nothing but a dulcimer slung on your back for the sole reason of looking out
upon the raging windswept roof of the world and singing to the stars a song of sheer joy for being alive. And
you take for granted that time passes so slowly. If it were not for my nightly contest, all of eternity would
flicker by in an instant. Will you join me as my consort in this most noble fight?"
Cooper gaped at her. Was she schizophrenic? But the voice seemed too earnest for mere madness. A player
then, some wandering actress in the town for the festival?
Then the woman suddenly laughed a wide symphonic sound, like rainstorm water tumbling over mossy
stream bed rocks.
“Don't be such a fool. Chronos is my cat. He clawed my hands while I played with her. Now quit staring like a
schoolboy and go back to your scribbling”.
Cooper felt his face go hot in embarrassment.
"Yes, of course. Your cat. Sorry for the bother, miss...? May I have your name?"
The woman put her flowers back into her book.
"Sorry I am late already. It was wonderful meeting you. But time will pass."
And before he could say another word she rose and slipped out the door.
Cooper watched her through the window as she wove amid the throngs now streaming through the
cobblestone street. Yet just before Cooper’s last glimpse of her dissolved in the multicolored sea of costumed
revelers, he heard an odd, truncated chime from the church.
He realized with a shock that would ring in his heart for the rest of his life that the sound was the last half of
the stroke marking seven o'clock.
very different. Through the open window he
watched the young woman walking towards the
café. She moved with her whole body in
harmonic motion, with long lithe limbs and full
hips swinging in a kind of fearless grace.
Jonathan Cooper was an American college
student. Being thought a bit too bookish by his
parents and having just finished his sophomore
year at Middlebury, Cooper was given a trip to
old Europe so he could ‘see the world’. He sat in
the café Sirena overlooking the cobalt blue
waters of Lake Nemi, a shimmering crescent
beneath a green ring of volcanic hills in southern
Italy. There seemed to be some sort of festival
going on as he noticed numerous people
dressed in robes like those from ancient Rome.
Cooper opened his notebook. It felt good to
watch and think and write as the golden summer
evening sun tilted towards setting. He loved the
mingled music of birdsong and the laughter of
the revelers on the path to the lake below.
It must be nearly seven by now, he thought idly
sipping another cappuccino. As he pondered
which restaurant he would try for dinner,
church bells rang in deep booming echoes like
distant thunder—one, two, three, four, five,
six....
Before the last stroke the woman came through
the door with a movement so fluid it was like
she had poured herself in rather than walked.
She flashed him an alluring smile and took a seat
near his.
“Qui per il festival?” the woman asked.
“I am sorry, I don’t...,”
“Ah. No worry. Are you here for the festival?” She spoked with lilted accented English.
“No. I just happened to read in the guidebook that the view of the lake is not to be missed.”
“And how do you find it?”
“Spectacular.”
“But the festival is also not to be missed. This will be a special night. The roots of this festival reach beyond
antiquity.”
“How interesting. It didn’t seem to be mentioned in my guide.” Cooper was always wary of overly talkative
strangers, even one as attractive as the one before him now.
The woman wore a robe of some silver fabric that shimmered when she moved. In her long black hair was
woven a garland of crimson poppies. Cooper's first thought was that she was a dancer. But then she had
with her a large book with a brown leather cover that seemed very old. The book was carefully tied with a
purple ribbon. A scholar? Cooper wondered what her book contained. Virgil? His beloved Hesiod? She untied
the book. Surprisingly it was not a book at all, but a box. Inside were some kind of tiny wildflowers, which she
began to inspect quite slowly, one at a time, with great interest and delight.
Then he noticed her hands. Fine boned, long fingered, and supple. Her fingertips gently followed the soft
curves of the delicate petals. As he watched he saw the woman’s hands covered completely by a stark and
intricate network of dark lavender lines.
"You are wondering about my scars?" She spoke without any trace of self-consciousness.
"Well...Yes, I was," Cooper finally managed to mumble.
"These are from battle" she said. Her dark glittering eyes were those of a lone wolf in a deep forest.
"Battle?"
"Yes, battle. Is that so strange?"
"Who is it you battle?" Cooper felt an unsettling sensation in his chest.
"Chronus."
"And who’s Chronus?” Cooper asked the question like it tasted of lye. He was beginning to realize his caution
was well founded.
"The old one. The one before all the gods even. Chronus is the ruler of Time. Each night, I go alone to fight
him, to battle the onslaught of nights and days and keep open a place for humankind.”
"I’m sorry, I don't understand...." Cooper fumbled with his notebook, hoping she would go away.
"Of course not. You have not sailed the sunless rivers beyond the sphere of the world. You have not had to
leap from caverns measureless to man to dive into blazing chronodynamic whorls and eddies. You have not
climbed the primal mountain with nothing but a dulcimer slung on your back for the sole reason of looking out
upon the raging windswept roof of the world and singing to the stars a song of sheer joy for being alive. And
you take for granted that time passes so slowly. If it were not for my nightly contest, all of eternity would
flicker by in an instant. Will you join me as my consort in this most noble fight?"
Cooper gaped at her. Was she schizophrenic? But the voice seemed too earnest for mere madness. A player
then, some wandering actress in the town for the festival?
Then the woman suddenly laughed a wide symphonic sound, like rainstorm water tumbling over mossy
stream bed rocks.
“Don't be such a fool. Chronos is my cat. He clawed my hands while I played with her. Now quit staring like a
schoolboy and go back to your scribbling”.
Cooper felt his face go hot in embarrassment.
"Yes, of course. Your cat. Sorry for the bother, miss...? May I have your name?"
The woman put her flowers back into her book.
"Sorry I am late already. It was wonderful meeting you. But time will pass."
And before he could say another word she rose and slipped out the door.
Cooper watched her through the window as she wove amid the throngs now streaming through the
cobblestone street. Yet just before Cooper’s last glimpse of her dissolved in the multicolored sea of costumed
revelers, he heard an odd, truncated chime from the church.
He realized with a shock that would ring in his heart for the rest of his life that the sound was the last half of
the stroke marking seven o'clock.
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Paul Celmer, an aspiring renaissance man, writes
whenever his muse rides her seahorse through the
incandescent waves.
He is a technical writer, a teacher of composition, and a
student of the ancient strategy game of Go. His short
story, "Fire and Ice," is due to appear in the Spring 2010
issue of Outer Reaches Magazine, and his story "The
World is Too Much With Us" will be published in the
Spring 2010 issue of Twisted Tongue.
He lives in Garner, North Carolina.
whenever his muse rides her seahorse through the
incandescent waves.
He is a technical writer, a teacher of composition, and a
student of the ancient strategy game of Go. His short
story, "Fire and Ice," is due to appear in the Spring 2010
issue of Outer Reaches Magazine, and his story "The
World is Too Much With Us" will be published in the
Spring 2010 issue of Twisted Tongue.
He lives in Garner, North Carolina.