Yara

In the southernmost part of South, where the day shines bright and all sleep night and forests rest silent except morning and late.

In this land South of South, upon a time long past, lived a man young of age and a maiden unknown.

The maiden, local as temptation fruit brew, not ever had been to lands south, north, east, or west of where she lived.

Not local, the young man, born North of South, of different stock and of no distinction but need for work, moving from North to lush lands south to find labor.

Occasion after arrival, as days cooled and people slept more, a feast of great proportion was held at the village. Like prisoners without preference guided by chains, everyone in South Land flocked from thirty, forty or fifty miles or more to feast prepared. Some walked, some rode, some skipped and some more. They all had but two things alike. Common to all dress splendid of red, blue and white, flowers on hair.

First time it was that the man was present at such occasion, footing at boundaries, watching graceful dances and games by young. Noticed he did, girl dressed in scarlet and more.

That evening, young man home, his manners strange to all. No slumber as restless he was, and stride he did, yet again to forest river pool.

So it was his state of affairs until luck favored. This new day, in the vicinity of the maiden’s house, he found her beating her fan, protecting herself against a wild beast.

Alonzo, for such was his name, with fist closed, stretched the animal dead upon soil and then carried he did, the fainted girl. From that time he was welcomed as guest. Not long thereafter, making a promise of eternal love to Julia.

So it came to be, every day, work complete, Alonzo found his loved one waiting beneath stars. This day-end, however, was different. For rare it was that the wind blew from South to North and the maiden a question posed.

“Where did you last night go?” She asked.

“Where I always go”, responded he. “Hot it was, could not sleep, sauntered and bathed in deep pool at forest’s edge. There I went, and have gone for time uncounted.”

He paused and continued, “Unlike other nights, strange melody I heard, sweeter than honey. Left the water’s edge searching and yearning to discover a friend’s mockery, but no one found hidden in joyous affair. Sad I remained, moving from water to land to path to home, to lie next to my love.”
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Listen she did as her face deadly white grew. Her shivered body not from North’s wind cold embrace. Known from ages untold the legend of Yara, a beautiful mystical maiden, the creator of harmony and spells as her only recourse, luring young men never to return and never to be seen again.

“It is Yara” said she, “Enchanting you to the depths of the river, never to return. Will you promise, promise make me? Promise forever, and ever and never to bathe there, not ever”.

“Why my love? Have I not gone there before and now? Harmed I am not but bathed cool clean?”

A sad Julia responded, “Yara will sing and I fear today, tonight and the fall that you may fall under her spell, be engraved in a stone, be taken away for this time to unknown“.

With a brush of his hand to her lips, he challenged once more, standing straight, letting out a tone “Frightened you are. Please tell me why such a destiny you plight?”

“Did you not hear the song, song of songs?” Said Julia, “Spells entice now and ever, and time comes to pass you will be no more. You will die a death, or death will find, when Yara you find”.

And Alonzo burst out, laughter echoing trees, branches, home and village. Its harshness shrank Julia into a shudder. But now faint in manner and tone, Alonzo confessed he saw Yara near the edge of the water.

To the floor Julia wept, eyes salt to cheek. Grave Alonzo became, kneeling down, raised Julia’s head, and to ear whispered. “Do not cry my love as I promise anything you seek and more. I will not return to the water’s edge, nor bathe there no more. “

And then Julia’s lips softened emitting sound in silent surroundings. “Thank you must I, to agree to water bathe not, not later, not ever and not until marriage makes permanent our bond, as it is the sole remedy, for Yara seeks unmarried youth.”

And lighter she grew, not of weight but of soul. She feared the song will attract her beloved as for Yara’s spell holds them captive in rock.

“If promise break thee for reason whatever, promise me anew that with this you shall carry.”

With grief she opened a box, not the top, revealing a freshwater shell.

“When Yara makes her spell, place this shell in your right ear and you shall hear my song. This song will break the spell and make Yara vanish. Melody when heard will make it all well!’

And so these were the last words spoken that night. Days passed night until warm was no more. And as winter blew its North to South gale, relentless it was to maintain its routine.

So every night, the light of the moon invited the river. The trees and the forest and grasses and shrubs all danced to a tune not heard. The young man from North of South did not falter, steadily ignoring alluring temptations, ensuring fate to what mattered most.

But common to these, as time passed, Alonzo’s fascination grew with a Yara he once saw. So it came to be that one night it was, and then two nights, and then three nights or more, his weakened will. With each night, cool air and bright moon, so did grow the song he once heard as did visions of Yara.

One evening when the air was still, a night of cold, moon light revealed waters of old. In a moment of weakness, taken by lust, eleven time at night, plunged he did in warm waters. The vision of golden hair, eyes of blue, skin of silk and melody of worship. Yara was there.

How long he remained in this state he did not know, awaken by a soft, perfect tenor. His eyes fascinated, remained, but not alone. He tried in vain to alter his gaze, but could not change his view.

As moments of brightness lit circles in trees, try as he may contemplate a return to his beloved, his feet were frozen with a will of their own. Promises are made to be tested but not broken, not aware that he was already under her spell.

With arms extended to possess what he could not, towards Yara he pressed.

Placing hands in his pocket, out a closed fist appeared. A moment of will, trying to position the shell given to him by Julia to his ear. Late it was, as his body, now cold as stone, sunk into the river never to return.

Chromatically Insane

Tints define ambiguity. What about Beige? Few will disagree it contains slaps of yellow, touches of brown and some debilitating grey. Nondescript nevertheless. Yellow bruises it with its mere presence whilst red nearly damn slays it. A diplomat I’d say. Gentle, indirect and absent. At times it may take a ‘soiled whites’ pose however may just as well be accorded the title of affluent and weathered brown. It will certainly not catch one’s attention unless splattered with primes whereby it struggles to pick a side.

When contemplating a rose red is chosen for its lusty representation of love and passion. Beige would certainly raise eyebrows and attract passionate controversy, not least raise questions about sanity and future social lingering possibilities with the ‘Primes’. Indeed, contrary to its very nature beige may create powerful emotions when improperly chosen, this not due to its presence but rather a process of negative inference. Simply, consternation created by beige comes not from its use but from it having been chosen over another dye. Insane? Why was it not born red or yellow instead? Even pasty Pink surpasses it in popularity. It is for this simple reason that, sunniest of all the winter’s Mondays, Beige found itself within the confines of a well known local psychiatrist offices, patiently (as usual) waiting for its first appointment.

A busy Dr. Purple paced into a brightly lit, sterile white waiting room, nose tipping rimless spectacles.

‘Ahmm… Mr. Beige please?’ Instantly recognizable by its tint, Beige nodded towards the scholarly figure uttering no words, such was his consideration for other hues and tones nestled in the waiting area.

Dr. Purple’s studio was awash with Harvard credentials. Of mixed prime background himself, he offered firsthand knowledge and experience as a member of a much prosecuted creed of mixed-primes. He emanated an intellectually profound but uncannily comforting aura.

Nodding Mr. Beige towards the plush but severe maroon couch, Dr. Purple offered.

“Would you like something to drink?

“A glass of water, if you may”, was the mild response.

Pleasantries later, the bland conversation took a decidedly more colorful tone when Beige noticed a child’s painting atop Dr. Purple’s desk.

“Striking colors and palette” said Beige. “How many children do you have?”

“Two”, Replied Purple. “The painting is from my youngest, a gorgeous and bright little girl. Her name is Violet”.

With sadness inkling his eyes and out of character for his color, Mr. Beige’s demeanor changed. “I wish I was Red, Purple or Yellow. Even pale green or pink if I may add.”

The emotional outburst did not seem to impact Dr. Purple in any other way but re-enforce his initial postulation of Beige’s condition. “And why do you wish to be of any other color?”

“The affiliation I have with beige is catastrophic”, came a more sedate response.

“It’s a matter of identity. I am respectful of others, careful not to create disharmony.” Taking comfort from the lingering scent of dark leather originating from the large settee and adjusting his sitting position, Beige continued. “But it seems that in matters of love and passion, of rhetoric and power, of hope and goodwill... Well, these are quarters where I dismally fail!”

“And why do you say you fail these?” an increasingly engaging Dr. Purple questioned.

“Because despite my cautious and considerate ways, I often find I am obsolete, others wishing me replaced by primes, whether acrylic, oils or not. My mere presence seems to infuriate when meddling in matters where emotions are supreme.”

“I see. So you feel that, albeit your kind consideration of other’s circumstances and ills, you are not welcomed when emotional stakes are high?”

“Indeed Dr. Purple. My pastel shade takes me to the epicenter of many Prime Royal controversies. When balance is sought or when real opinions do not matter. “ Sinking further into emotional distress, Beige continued. “Astute as I am in balancing the fiercest of disagreements I fail to passionately exalt as reds, or purples for that matter, paralyzed in my insipidness, failing to meet the emotional needs of my closest of friends.”

“And you believe this is due to you being beige?”

Contemplating a reply, Beige considered his options. With expert dexterity and poise he replaced silence with a sip of ice cold water, robbing a few moments to compose the correct response.

“Yes. It is because I am beige, required for all that is menial and unimportant, the absence of which is hardly ever noticed, and for which presence may be fatally rewarded in expressive circumstances. No one notices me, and no one wants me. I am chosen last. I am longed as a prime when it comes to matters of the heart!”

Adjusting spectacles and mentally composing an initial summary of his patient’s circumstances, Dr. Purple persuaded his now cold cup of sugary milk and coffee to shatter against beige tiles, the mixture’s tint blending with such affinity to the surface of the floor that is was impossible to assess the extent the damage.

“I am so clumsy. Let me clean it up”. Attempting to hide intent or purpose, Dr. Purple found his way to a cabinet adjacent to him, retrieving an old pale cloth often used for such disasters.

With no hesitation, Beige lifted his smallish frame from the comfort of the Freudian upholstery, making his services available in bringing the floor surface to its previous pristine self.

“Thank you.” Poor sight compelled Dr. Purple to accept the patient’s assistance. It was no time until they were both back into dialogue.

“So, I gather from our session today that you feel unwanted, un-cherished and alone, incapable of fitting in, prosecuted by primes” said Dr. Purple. Looking down, sight clearly improved, he spots a patchy, sticky blemish. “It seems we missed a spot in our attempt to sanitize the spill. Difficult as the mixture and the tiles are beige.”

There was silence. Time and again there are occasions when simple events take precedence in our memories. When a specific sound remind us of a lost love or when a scent takes us back to childhood. It was clear to Beige that this was such an occasion, albeit he was unsure of its significance.

“Oh well, I will clean it up later.“ The words bringing Beige back from thought. Dr. Purple continued “I can sympathize to some of what you have shared with me here today. We the purples are regarded as different. There is much angst from reds and blues. I am the outcome of a history of slavery and prosecution by all the primes. In it, however, knowledgeable of my inherited blend, that I take stand for the vivacity which red gives me, make use of the blue which is contained within my soul, but more importantly am keenly aware, as my forefathers were, of the uniqueness of purple, providing me with a simple and unique set of skills and values, inimitable by any other color. What I ask of you as a matter of attitude is not to only see the differences and denials from the darkest of blacks to the whitest of whites, or anything in between, but to positively indulge in the uniqueness beige offers”.

With soft intent, Dr. Purple extends his hand to Beige. “I believe that this is the first and last session we will have.”

“Yes, I believe so” responded Beige. Last words spoken, they heartily shake hands, Beige exiting the room in self contemplation.