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[Cezanne Abella]

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Snow always brought a far-reaching quiet to cities. Even Britain, Cezanne couldn’t help thinking as she made her way through the western outskirts of the city. It covered what was filthy and raw and bare. It hid the rust and wear caused by years of misuse and neglect, and made everything new.

“So be it,” Cezanne whispered to herself as she pushed open the door to the blacksmith guild. “If all else fails.”

“Sorry Miss?” The blacksmith turned at the sound of her hushed declaration. “Ahh, of course! I was just completing your order!”

“Thank you, Burton. You’re a paragon of dedication and a shining example for others of your trade.” Cezanne smiled cheerfully as she shut the door behind her, the cold draft catching her dark curls and tossing them carelessly.

“Yer mos’ kind, Miss Abella.” The blustering blacksmith stammered a moment, clearly humbled, and turned back to lift his project up for her inspection. He held up two blades for her approval. Each curved slightly at one end, though not nearly as much as a katana or any other blade she’d ever seen. “This work for ye? I still don’ know why ye won’t let me sharpen ‘em up or attach ‘em to handles for ye. They’re naught but useless as they are. I feel ashamed chargin’ ye for such work.”

She took one of the blades in her hand, examining his craftsmanship. It gleamed brightly in the radiant light from the forge. “Fine work, Burton. Excellent. It’s exactly what I needed!”

Burton looked at her, clearly confused, but smiled slightly. “Well yer the customer, Miss. Who am I to argue?”

Cezanne smiled warmly and handed Burton the blade. He busied himself wrapping the two in a soft piece of leather and binding the package with twine, as Cezanne slid a crinkled and worn note from her pack. Carefully she smoothed the wrinkled parchment and folded it in half.

“Here ye are, Miss Abella.” Burton turned and slid the parcel across the counter to her.

“This should cover it, Burton, thank you.” She handed him the folded note and turned, slipping out of the forge house before he could even respond.

Burton unfolded the slip of parchment. “I tol’ ye one thousand, not ten!” he shouted at the door as it shut behind her. Then, more quietly, “Gypsies. Weird folk, anyhow.” A boyish grin spread across his soot-smudged face as he folded the note and slid it into his shirt pocket.”

[Cezanne Abella]

---

“I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve called you here.” Cezanne slowly paced the length of the workshop, fingering the two curved blades as the two men sitting side by side on stools before her looked at one another, then back to her.

The first man eyed the two blades in Cezanne’s hand narrowly, his brow furrowed, then looked back up to her face as her gaze drifted to him. She paused in her pacing, watching him expectantly for some response.

“You’re going to kill us, aren’t you?”

Cezanne froze, the two metal blades falling to the floor in a loud clatter. Her mouth hung open for a second before she stumbled over her words. “No! NO!! I’m just…” she scrambled to retrieve the blades from the floor as the men sat in silence watching her.

“I just…NO!”

The two men couldn’t contain themselves any longer as they burst into laughter, and Cezanne’s face went red as she fumbled for one of the blades, which had tumbled under the edge of a workbench. The two laughed, one clapping the other on the shoulder as they exchanged a glance. But Cezanne thought she caught a hint of relief in their expressions.

“It’s on’y this, Miss,” the first man began. He raked his fingers through his coarse dirty blonde mop of hair and looked at the second man. “I’m a tinker. I don’ rightly know what business I have workin’ with a cobbler. Ye gettin' the whole town in on this scheme o' yourn?"

The cobbler, a large if quiet man with gentle hands, crossed his arms across his chest and waited for the explanation to come. Both looked at Cezanne as if she might be quite mad. She wasn’t sure whether they’d come for the promise of gold, or out of pure morbid curiosity. Either way, she was sure she wouldn’t disappoint.

“Gentlemen.” Cezanne steeled her resolve as she pulled out a rolled sheet of parchment and began to unfurl it on the workbench. “This…is what I need.”

[Cezanne Abella]

---

"Here and there among men, there are those who pause in the hurried rush to listen to the call of a life that is more real. He who sees too much is cursed for a dreamer, a fanatic, or a fool, by the mad mob, who having eyes, see not, ears and hear not, and refuse to understand." ~Harold Bell Wright

~*~

Cezanne stood looking across the lake in quiet awe of the frozen, still morning. Barren branches, glazed and glistening in the song of the dawn’s breeze reached up plaintively to the perfect peace the sky offered. Clear, and cloudless – a shade of blue she was sure she’d never seen before.

Carefully, she uncapped her silver flask and took a mouthful of the bitter elixir. The last, Amdiriel had said, that would be given her. Fumbling with frozen fingers, she capped and pocketed the flask. At her feet on the frozen ground sat a nondescript brown paper box, tied with twine. Painstakingly, she untied the knotted twine and opened the box. Her face brightened as she looked over the fruition of the project she had undertaken.

A pair of sturdy leather shoes lay nestled in the box, beset on the bottoms with tinkered brackets that secured a long-curved blade to the sole of each. They fit perfectly the description she’d been given. “Ice skates.” The words felt foreign to her tongue. Earth, she thought, must be a wondrous place.

Cezanne pulled up warm, woolen stockings beneath her skirts, and laced up each skate tightly. She tied the laces securely and sat with her feet out in front of her, marveling at the workmanship. With teetering ankles and a fickle sense of balance, she clambered to her feet and shuffled toward the lake’s edge, then paused where ice met land.

A thrill of excitement caught in her throat as she looked around cautiously to make sure no one was there to see. Then, without a hint of trepidation, she stepped onto the ice and glided the merest few inches to a stop. In amazement, she looked down at the blades and then breathlessly out across the wide expanse of frozen lake. The world, in this moment, was hers.

[Cezanne Abella]

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"Hope is faith holding out its hand in the dark." ~George Iles

~*~

No one came around the theatre these days. Not that she saw, anyway. But on this day, anyone who came ‘round out of curiosity, or pity, or disapproval – hoping to catch a glimpse of her failed and alone – would find Cezanne a radiant soul flying happily across a frozen lake.

Here, all was silver. The wind stirred through the barren choir of ice-glazed branches with a tangible whir, and time stood still in the frozen and forgotten cathedral as Cezanne drew a deep and expectant breath. With the greatest of ease, she pushed off from the shore toward the center of the frozen lake.

Within seconds, the tiniest ripple in the ice sent the steel blade askew. Her ankles wobbled as she flailed wildly, her black woolen shawl and skirts afly. By the time she crumpled, she was so hopelessly entangled in the raiments that she had no recourse to break her fall. She skidded across the ice in a heap of disheveled gypsy.

Flustered, Cezanne rolled onto her back and impatiently threw off the shawl as she tried to catch the breath that had been knocked out of her. Her chest constricted as she struggled to inhale. But, as with all things, in time the pain subsided, and she scrambled to her feet to try again. This time, she tossed her shawl toward the shore, sacrificing warmth for control. With a more measured and careful push, Cezanne tried for a long, smooth glide. This time she made it nearly a minute before she faltered and fell again.

Cezanne laughed hard as she fell flat of her behind, and looked around the banks of the frozen lake. Glazed spectres of Yew, Walnut, and Oak caught and absorbed the shining bubbles of laughter. Here in this place, there was no one to see her fall.

Battling against gravity for every inch that she glided, she fell again, and again. The ice, this frozen world, was proving as treacherous as it was beautiful. But with each tumble, she laughed with delight as a child, and scrambled to her feet again. Becoming perhaps a bit too confident, Cezanne pushed off hastily toward the very center of the lake. Beneath her, she felt and heard a squeaky crack, but she realized the error far too late. She lost her balance and fell, the ice splitting and water swallowing her as she jostled for a handhold on ice that was a hundred times more slippery when it was wet. Her skirts heavy and sodden, she grappled for finger-holds on cracks in the ice. She left pink fingerprints in each new crevice as she pulled herself from the hole. Frozen fingers, she found, didn’t hurt when the ice cut them, but they bled all the same.

Carefully, painstakingly, Cezanne pulled herself from the hole and onto thicker ice. She stood, finally, and though she knew better, her instinct to dash for safety kicked in. She pushed off quickly and glided swiftly toward the edge of the lake. She realized only too late that she didn’t know yet how to stop. She’d never managed to gather enough speed before that the thought should have even crossed her mind. She aimed her trajectory the best she could, and disappeared into a snowbank along the lake’s edge with a hasty fump.

Crawling from beneath the tiny avalanche that had showered down over her, Cezanne laughed in the cold air until she coughed, her eyes wet with tears. But when the laughter stopped, the tears didn’t. And it was some time before she knew the difference.

When she did, she reached into her pocket for the flask. Empty. She looked back frantically toward the hole in the center of the lake. It must have fallen out in the water when she fell. Leaning back against the snow, her wet clothes beginning to crust and freeze, Cezanne knew the meaning of emptiness.

A warmth began to spread within her, and it eased her panic. The roaring fire of the theatre seemed less and less appealing, as peace settled on her like a warm blanket. The cold of the ice was held at bay, and Cezanne found herself confused, trying to decide whether to rest here, or to try and make it home.

Drowsily, she reached her hand again into the now frozen dress pocket for the flask, and remembered it was gone. No worry, she thought hazily. Amdiriel can make some more after I've slept.

Cezanne’s head bobbed like a child's, fighting off slumber, until finally she ceased the battle and closed her eyes.

[Cezanne Abella]

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“Do you know how pale & wanton thrillful comes death on a strange hour - unannounced, unplanned for like a scaring over-friendly guest you've brought to bed? Death makes angels of us all & gives us wings where we had shoulders smooth as raven's claws." ~ Jim Morrison

~*~

One by one. The slow and steady steps toward darkness, turn upon turn of events - all were in place. One by one, she had completed the tasks. The blades, the shoes, the brackets - that first step onto the ice, and the promise of sun-splashed flight across the wild expanse of a perfectly treacherous and glistening world.

And now there was only the warmth, and darkness of a soul swallowed whole by the world.

Do you yet wait, Cezanne?

"Wait?" She couldn't feel anything but warmth. But softly, the darkness was punctuated by light. A pulse. Here and there, the faintest flash of fire and light.

And song.

The mockingbird had returned early. She heard its gentle warbling call in time with the pulse of fire, and there was no part of this dark and waiting world that was not touched by sound and light.

The song pulled her into, and through the darkness. Hope perched aloft to sing, and she with it. Lifting her voice, she was awestruck by the timbre of a voice laid bare. Disembodied, free of constraint. Free...

Isn't it better this way?

"It's better here. But I'm not."

Cezanne's song ceased. Her song. Had it been here all along?

Then where will you go?

"Home."

The heavens await, Cezanne. And within them, absolution and peace.

Cezanne paused. "Absolution?"

Want for nothing more, ever again. No shouting into the tempest. No dagger plunged into your heart. Just let go, and lay it all down.

The promise lulled her deeper into slumber. But the pulse went on, faint in the darkness, the flash of fire and song. Her song.

[Cezanne Abella]

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“Lady Finger dipped in moonlight
Writing ‘What for?’ across the morning sky.
Sunlight splatters dawn with answers.
Darkness shrugs, and bids the day goodbye.”
~Robert Hunter, Lyrics from “Saint Stephen” - Grateful Dead

~*~

Wake, Cezanne.

What for?

Morning has come, it’s time to rise.

But I was promised…

Tempted by…

…an end to the pain.

The end is here.

It’s finally over? The pulse went on, her song so faint that she could not have heard it at all if she did not know it beginning to end. No more cold. No more pain. Only darkness, and this song. The song she had sought all her life, only to find it in death.

Cezanne reached out in the darkness as the music diminished. Don’t fade away. It’s all I have left.

No, Cezanne. If you let go, you let go with both hands. Both, or not at all.

I can’t let it go.

Then don’t. Wake, Cezanne.

I’ve nothing left there. My song is here.

Your song is within.

A shrill note sounded, piercing the darkness with light that blinded her in comparison to the pulse of her song. Cezanne paused to listen. Again it sounded, flitting about her darkened world, confused and afraid, like a bird trapped in a house. And again. And again. Closer, farther away. Above her, beside her. Frantic and terrified the note sounded without relenting, never wavering, never giving up.

So this is the end…

It is.

The mournful note became a plaintive cry for dawn. It pushed, pulled, urged, shouted her forward, and Cezanne pressed against the edge of darkness until it shattered in a million shards of light.

Cezanne’s eyes fluttered open. She was heavy with slumber, her dress frozen. Her hands were numb and ached with cold. Near her feet sat a tiny black kitten, gone grey with frost. The whiskers drooped, heavy-laden with ice from exhaled vapor. The plaintive cry of the kitten was desperate for warmth, nourishment, and affection. For life, and all its promises.

“Poor thing!” Cezanne frantically fought the stiffness of her frozen raiment to loose herself from the snowbank, and she scooped up the kitten, cradling it to her chest. She quickly unlaced the ice skates and slipped into her boots, fighting the painful heaviness of her own half-frozen body every step of the way.

“I’m here, Sweet One. I’ll warm you. Don’t give up on me.” She whispered gently into the kitten’s fur as her breath melted the frost. “It’s the end, you know. So the dawn ends the night. And always…always with hope." With that, she pressed a soft kiss to the top of the tiny purring creature's head. "Good morning, Kitten.”

[Cezanne Abella]

---

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all.
~Emily Dickinson

~*~

She was running through feathers.

What are you running from?

Not from. Toward.

They tickled her face and shoulders as she ran full-tilt, never losing breath, never growing weary. She laughed in rapt, mad joy.

Have you forgotten your song?

Her lips, in response, burst forth in a rapturous song, the self-same that she heard on the other side of the veil. Her voice trilled and dipped like a bird in flight. Still, she pushed the plumed feathers aside as they enfolded and caressed her.

Then it has yet survived.

Cezanne paused her flight and considered the notion. No, I survived.

And your song...

Wrestled from the talons of death itself....Again her voice lifted and wove itself through the silence like some clandestine dream.

From the land of the midnight sun,
where the ice blue roses grow,
'long those roads of gold and silver and snow.**

A song never dies.

But the feathers threatened to suffocate.

And tremors shattered her silent, silver world of peace, and she woke with a start to the insistent purr of the tiny black kitten as it rubbed gently across her face, over and over again.

But the trembling did not cease. Two days hence, she still struggled with fevers. And her body was wracked for want of the elixir.

Cezanne rose from the bed and held the kitten against her cheek as it cried out in greeting. "Good morning, Althea."

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** Lyrics from "So Many Roads" - Grateful Dead