Zulu Warrior in Belgium

###

The 26 eclectic-genre short stories for my #AtoZChallenge are excerpts from travelogue notes by

novel character Gahlen, who first appeared in SHARDS OF MEMORY – Oral History in a Heartbeat.

Each A-to-Z daily post is a complete, stand-alone tale.

Zulu Warrior in Belgium

Genre: Shared Fantasy

(305 words)

Belgium demonstrates its humor in unusual ways. They honor a rather risqué, diminutive bronze sculpture, Manneken Pis, located on an obscure corner near the Grand Place in the heart of old Brussels.

Strangely enough, nobody seems to actually know why the manneken is there. He is believed to be nothing more than a decoration on top of a fountain, where people in the Middle-Ages came to get fresh water. Already in the 15th century, a fountain called 'manneken-pis' existed in the Stoffstraat/Rue de l'etuve. The official origin can be traced back to 13 August 1619 when the city ordered the sculptor Jerome Duquesnoy to make a new bronze statue of manneken-pis to replace an old and withered one.

As one of the stories goes, during the course of centuries, the little manneken has often been hidden to protect him against bombs of invading armies. According to a restaurant waiter most eager to refill my beer stein, the statue has been stolen several times by plundering soldiers and even by the citizens of Geraardsbergen, a city in Flanders that claims to possess the oldest statue of a peeing boy in Belgium.

The Brussels statue of a naked little boy, picturesquely doing just what the name implies, has over 654 costumes – donated from every country in the world. A Costume Committee reviews each new submission to assure that it meets the criteria of authenticity and proper structure. Costumes range from Santa Claus and a Swiss Soldier to a Zulu Warrior.

The waiter leaned close while refilling my stein once again, and said, “The little statue has become a national treasure.”

With no inclination to question the statement, I sipped my beer in silence. Another question I refrained from asking: “Why would any army want to bomb a little boy who is so desperately in need of relief?”

*****

*****

Oh, what a relief to have arrived at the letter Z in the #AtoZChallenge!

*******

Yeoman's Daughter

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The 26 eclectic-genre short stories for my #AtoZChallenge are excerpts from travelogue notes by

novel character Gahlen, who first appeared in SHARDS OF MEMORY – Oral History in a Heartbeat.

Each A-to-Z daily post is a complete, stand-alone tale.

Yeoman’s Daughter

Genre: Historical Romance

(386 words)

Katerina stared toward the aging castle looming over the Bohemian countryside. Its crumbling structure served as a backdrop to her life. Memories surfaced of her father’s return from the war, alive but crippled for life. Whether limbs or part of their minds were lost, most men who survived were left to struggle with farm life.

*

Her father, a yeoman, could no longer make simple decisions such as when to till the fields or how to plant and sow. He roamed the fields when left unattended. If he wandered into town, the feed mill owner escorted him home after shop closing. Sometimes the local priest walked him home and stayed for supper.

Katerina’s mother was a daughter of the yeoman who originally owned the farm. She had gradually stopped contending with the uncertainties of life and taken to her bed. If she spotted the priest strolling down the lane with her husband in tow, she barred her bedroom door.

“Evening Miss Kate,” Father Tam would say, doffing an imaginary hat. “Your father and I have been for a walk. We could both use a shot of brandy and a bowl of soup. If that is not too much bother.”

Katerina dutifully poured the brandy and heated the soup. Her poor father went along with Father Tam’s charade, never appearing to doubt that the priest spoke the absolute truth. Following the sparse meal, Katerina settled her father in a chair near the wood stove, wrapping a blanket tight around his legs.

Then she and Father Tam would step outside. With the abandoned castle at their back, they discussed her father’s condition, pointedly ignoring that her mother might be suffering with a different problem.

*

Katerina walked out to the lawn swing, adjusting her skirts to sit. As her gaze wandered up to the castle, a touch of melancholy filled her. The affair, as secret as it was forbidden, had lasted a year. She still blushed to think of how they inhaled the essence of each other’s souls and dreamed the intimacies of one another’s ambitions.

They never tarnished their love by consummating the relationship. When the parish choirmaster had recommended a transfer to a congregation in Prague for Father Tam, Katerina was devastated. But the week after the priest vacated their town, her mother left her bed.

*****

X-Mas Carol for Good King Wenceslas

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The 26 eclectic-genre short stories for my #AtoZChallenge are excerpts from travelogue notes by

novel character Gahlen, who first appeared in SHARDS OF MEMORY – Oral History in a Heartbeat.

Each A-to-Z daily post is a complete, stand-alone tale.

By engraving by Brothers Dalziel - 

http://www.hymnsandcarolsofchristmas.com/Hymns_and_Carols/good_king_wenceslas.htm, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=12404573

X-MAS CAROL for GOOD KING WENCESLAS

Genre: Musical History

(319 WORDS) + song lyrics

Singing carols on the eve of Christmas is a holiday tradition. Relatives who emigrated from Bohemia sing the Christmas Carol “Good King Wenceslas.” Ancestors christened Wenceslas were named for the man who ruled as duke of Bohemia from 921. After the duke was assassinated by his brother Boleslaw in 935, he was declared a saint within the Catholic Church.

Wenceslas, also known as Vaclav the Good, is the Patron Saint of the Czech Republic. His day is celebrated on September 28. But the Feast of St. Stephen, a martyr mentioned in the song Good King Wenceslas, is celebrated on December 26 so the carol is sung for the Christmas holiday.

Children of the era recited by heart the lyrics of John Mason Neale’s work, published in 1853. The song opens on St. Stephen’s Day, also known as The Feast of Stephen. This holy day is celebrated in most of the Germanic states of Europe, as well as in Ireland, and in Canada where it is known as Boxing Day.

Stephen, once a stable boy, became a deacon of the church and distributed alms from community funds to church widows. Dissatisfaction arose over alleged slights in distribution, and strong disagreement with Stephen’s teachings. This culminated in his death warrant, that of public stoning, around AD 34. Whether he died at the north end of Jerusalem or the east, St. Stephen’s Gate now honors his memory on the east side of the city.

According to the song’s lyrics:

King Wenceslas demonstrates to his page the act of giving by collecting food and wine and logs for burning. These he will deliver, in the dead of winter, to a needy family living in the woods. When the young page complains of his difficulty in navigating the deep snow, he is directed to walk in the footprints made by the king. The page perseveres and learns that helping others brings blessings upon himself.

*****

GOOD KING WENCESLAS

by John Mason Neale

Good King Wenceslas looked out,

On the feast of Stephen,

When the snow lay round about,

Deep and crisp and even.

Brightly shown the moon that night,

Though the frost was cruel,

When a poor man came in sight,

Gathering winter fuel.

Hither, page, and stand by me,

If thou know it telling:

Yonder peasant, who is he?

Where and what his dwelling?

Sire, he lives a good league hence,

Underneath the mountain,

Right against the forest fence,

By Saint Agnes fountain.

Bring me flesh, and bring me wine.

Bring me pine logs hither.

Thou and I will see him dine,

When we bear the thither.

Page and monarch, forth they went,

Forth they went together

Through the rude wind’s wild lament,

And the bitter weather.

Sire, the night is darker now,

And the wind blows stronger.

Fails my heart, I know not how.

I can go no longer.

Mark my footsteps my good page,

Tread thou in them boldly:

Thou shalt find the winter’s rage,

Freeze thy blood less coldly.

In his master’s step he trod,

Where the snow lay dented.

Heat was in the very sod,

Which the Saint had printed.

Therefore, Christian men, be sure,

Wealth or rank possessing,

Ye who now will bless the poor,

Shall yourselves find blessing

*****

No longer copyrighted, John Mason Neale's words

are now in the public domain

*****

*****

Wishing on the Blarney Stone

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The 26 eclectic-genre short stories for my #AtoZChallenge are excerpts from travelogue notes by

novel character Gahlen, who first appeared in SHARDS OF MEMORY – Oral History in a Heartbeat.

Each A-to-Z daily post is a complete, stand-alone tale.

By Gerd Eichmann - Own work, 

CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=77077363

Wishing on the Blarney Stone

Genre: Historical Recollections

(365 words)

During the self-guided tour, through enclosed areas and ramparts, we climbed the 127 steps to the top of the castle. We rested before approaching the Blarney Stone. Our cab driver Devlon offered practical details about the consistency of the stone, limestone of some sort. His wife Kerry focused more on the unlikelihood of any earthly gains through kisses and wishes.

In the spirit of tradition, we accepted the challenge of kissing the stone which required a bit of gymnastics. It involved lying down, bending slightly backwards while holding onto metal bars for support, and then stretching forward to kiss the stone. Half-jokingly, most wished for riches and fame. Others confessed to wishing for improved physique or heightened eloquence.

We descended slowly, stopping to view the countryside and winding river. Kerry wandered off on her own, overcome by reminders of Ireland’s history.

During a circuit of the gardens, we discovered an ancient cemetery. We roamed the grounds, touching headstones. We created imagined lives between recorded birth and death dates, the only biography allotted to most people as they crossed over to whatever awaits all of us.

Kerry caught up with us in the parking lot. Apparently, the Blarney Stone had kept its promise to her about eloquence. She had spoken little on the way to the castle but was unable to stop talking on the return trip. Devlon drove while Kerry shared her knowledge of Irish history based on stories handed down from ancestors.

Only months later, after translating the scribblings in my notebook, was I able to piece together the information Kerry shared on the return trip from Blarney Castle. Although the bitterness of her recollections bled through as she spoke, I had ignored the devastation such memories must wreak upon the soul. Back in Wisconsin, further research corroborated much of what she had related concerning the effects of famine on the Irish population.

Even the role England played in the spiraling conditions proved accurate. But the image of vile degradation imposed on her ancestors, as she described the slow wasting away of bodies, the inhumane burials of multitudes, and the stark fear devouring the living, is not something easily assimilated on a well-nourished belly.

*****

Villa Gracia and Battle of the Bulge

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The 26 eclectic-genre short stories for my #AtoZChallenge are excerpts from travelogue notes by

novel character Gahlen, who first appeared in SHARDS OF MEMORY – Oral History in a Heartbeat.

Each A-to-Z daily post is a complete, stand-alone tale.

Villa Gracia, located south of Namur in Wallonia

VILLA GRACIA and the BATTLE OF THE BULGE

(389 words)

My first morning on Belgian soil, I sat on the hotel veranda, enjoying the peaceful flow of the River Meuse. Rivers had played an important role in the lives of many ancestors and I took energy from the sight. Gisele, the hotel owner, slipped over with a small pot of coffee for me.

“My husband and I have often received offers to purchase this property,” she told me. “But we spent eighteen months lovingly remodeling the residence and do not plan to sell.”

I replied that the grounds of their beautiful hotel were very relaxing, but it was difficult for people to slow down and appreciate the calm. With that, Gisele took a moment to share with me a bit of history about the area and her life.

“It was a wintry December day in 1944,” she began, the words chilling, but her voice a soothing reminder of my grandparents’ tone as they shared stories with me. “German armies plunged into the semi-mountainous, heavily forested Ardennes region of eastern Belgium and northern Luxembourg. Their goal was to reach the sea, trap allied armies, and impel a negotiated peace on the Western front. The German Offensive achieved total surprise, but nowhere did the American troops give ground without a fight.

“For three days, the determined Americans took a stand. Then the arrival of powerful reinforcements ensured that the ambitious German goal was far beyond reach. In snow and sub-freezing temperatures, the Germans fell short of their objective of reaching the Meuse River on the fringe of the Ardennes. Their tactic created only a Bulge in the American line. They expended irreplaceable men, tanks, and material. Four weeks later, after grim fighting, with heavy losses on both side, the Bulge ceased to exist.”

Gisele halted her story for a moment, merely staring out the porch window. I took a sip of coffee to keep from breaking her silence. When she continued, it was to say something totally unexpected.

“During the fighting, a woman in the Ardennes gave birth to her baby. Unable to safely get the woman to a hospital, American soldiers aided in the delivery of baby Gisele.”

She stood then and returned to whatever had occupied her before she shared with me her personal story. Without a doubt, one of my grandparents had inherited storytelling abilities from Belgian ancestors.

 

*****

Unusual Vision at Court

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The 26 eclectic-genre short stories for my #AtoZChallenge are excerpts from travelogue notes by

novel character Gahlen, who first appeared in SHARDS OF MEMORY – Oral History in a Heartbeat.

Each A-to-Z daily post is a complete, stand-alone tale.

By Anonymous - http://digital.wlb-stuttgart.de/purl/bsz380291940, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=25677164

Unusual Vision at Court

Genre: Historical Gossip

(370 words)

The violinists’ notes blended flawlessly into the myriad concert arrangements. Beethoven was well-represented. But Bach’s Brandenburg concerto medley stole our hearts. One of our ancestors, Dorothea, had been a musician at court during the reign of King Frederick William IV. Had she played violin for him, or entertained his wife, Elizabeth of Bavaria and her entourage?

At intermission, Vondra sprang from her seat as though possessed. “I experienced the strangest fantasy during that final violin solo, emerging into a mid-19^th century castle of Ludwig, the fairy tale king. Dorothea was strolling the halls.”

Without prompting, she described the unusual vision.

Everyone seemed to know Dorothea, gowned in pale blue taffeta that matched her eyes. Several other female musicians surrounded her. One asked about a woman Dorothea encountered in the hallway. Why was the woman weeping? Dorothea said the poor woman revealed that her engagement was off. Her cruel father had insisted he could never accept such behavior in a future son-in-law, regardless of his title or financial status.

The weeping woman showed Dorothea a note from her former betrothed, placing blame away from her. But, she said, her heart already belonged to another.

Dorothea was pummeled with questions. Was the woman royalty? How close to the throne was she? Then a gasp silenced everyone. Was it she?

“Of course - Sophie,” came one remark, countered by, “You mean, Elsa.” Snickering accompanied the comments. But no one dared speak Ludwig’s name.

Not long after the doomed engagement, Dorothea immigrated to America with her family. Duchess Sophie Charlotte married and raised a family. But she later fell in love with her doctor, a married man, leading to more heartbreak. The court declared her “morally insane” and sent her to a sanitorium for treatment of “sexual perversions.”

Sophie was cured of her moral insanity within several months. Following her release from the sanitorium, she joined a religious group. A fire broke out in the residence and she died, burned beyond recognition.

The band had reassembled, their music making further conversation impossible. Vondra’s vision would fade along with any details left untold. Had our ancestor truly encountered the duchess? Or was Vondra’s vision induced by a violin solo rendition of a Richard Wagner tune?

*****

Tragedy in Andorra

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The 26 eclectic-genre short stories for my #AtoZChallenge are excerpts from travelogue notes by

novel character Gahlen, who first appeared in SHARDS OF MEMORY – Oral History in a Heartbeat.

Each A-to-Z daily post is a complete, stand-alone tale.

CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=664147

Tragedy in Andorra

Genre: Psychological Fiction

(390 words)

An unprecedented storm hit Andorra, in the heart of the Pyrenees, blanketing everything with ten feet of snow. Trails forged by animals and humans were obliterated. Winter supplies must suffice until the advent of spring.

By instinct, animals hibernated early to halt their metabolism. Humans could conserve energy only by slowing their bodily functions and sleeping through a cold spell. But they knew no precautions against wild animals foraging for food were necessary. All of nature slept.

When the sun emitted a dose of warmth, families escaped their habitats. Children and pets romped over hardened surfaces. Parents dried out damp possessions. A ringing bell signaled everyone to return home.

One late-season outing, clear skies offered promise of an early spring. People welcomed the fresh air. Flanks of white-capped mountains sprouted yellow and purple flowers.

When the bell rang, people grumbled that no danger existed in such glimmering light. Tanned hides protected their bodies from the brisk wind. Why not enjoy the outdoors until sunset?

A growl, followed by sharp snorts led to ear-splitting screams. A commotion followed as bears lumbered forward. The confused adults had been assured that bears hibernated all winter.

But one human alone in Andorra was steeped in matters of nature. Her mad rantings, as others often described the woman’s teachings, warned of such dangers. Bears did not hibernate, she said, but only took measures to conserve energy through cold spells. Their sustained body temperatures allowed them to forage on warm days. As spring approached, bears would move about more often, searching for early signs of food after an exceptionally long winter. Her words fell on deaf ears.

Panic intensified as the bears advanced. Mothers cradling children ran toward safety. Some fell, writhing in terror. Screams became whimpers. Bears retreated to their dens with bloody caches. Adults were forced to seek shelter emptyhanded. Winter dragged on.

Curses directed at the mad woman soon replaced anguished cries. Many proclaimed it “her fault” that their children were gone. She never explained the nature of bears in the Pyrenees. Having shirked her duty, she must pay.

After nine months of despair, spring arrived. Men scraped frozen doors open. Women inventoried available food. Dogs remained vigilant around children. From that day forward, no one discussed the Pyrenees winter incident.

But beside a deserted trail, each year a burial mound sunk lower.

*****

Salt Mining in Bavaria

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The 26 eclectic-genre short stories for my #AtoZChallenge are excerpts from travelogue notes by

novel character Gahlen, who first appeared in SHARDS OF MEMORY – Oral History in a Heartbeat.

Each A-to-Z daily post is a complete, stand-alone tale.

By Colin Smith, CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=9600537

Salt Mining in Bavaria

Genre: Fiction – Brotherly Love

(389 words)

Herman started at the mine in early spring. He had taken the old buckboard to check out job openings and got hired on the spot. I didn’t follow until after harvest season on the farm.

“With me starting earlier, Baldwin,” he told me, “you have to work hard to catch up.”

The mine that hired us wasn’t as large as Salzbergwerk Dürrnberg. But the job still took some getting used to. Before heading underground, we pulled on coveralls and adjusted helmets on our heads for safety. Someone made roll call before each shift.

The most fun was getting to the work area. We sailed on a saddlecloth cushion down a track, like a backyard slide. Once underground, we placed magnetic markers by our names to show accounting. We removed the markers at end of shift. Miners who forgot were docked pay.

Our shifts went Monday morning to noon Saturday. The job didn’t take much thought, just lots of muscle chiseling away at salt walls. The chiseled salt was hauled to the solution chamber where it got turned into brine. Finally, it was processed at the Sudhäuser, a salt house in town.

Forklifts and other machinery did much of the heavy work. Neither of us knew how to operate them, having used only work horses on the farm. Herman complained about not being allowed to run the machines but I was content chipping salt.

After three years, Herman grew bored and requested a change. Soon we were both promoted to the Sudhäuser. The job was still exhausting, but we received more pay. With most expenses covered, we sent half our money back to the farm.

A riveted-metal salt pan shaped like a horseshoe hung from the ceiling of the salt house, supported by brick columns. We heated brine in that pan until the water evaporated and the white salt turned to crystals. Every couple of hours, we emptied the salt into huge cone-shaped holders and packed it down to form plugs. Someone else dragged the plugs to baking ovens for drying.

We spent six years in the Sudhäuser before Herman declared Bavaria’s economy would never improve. He wanted to experience more from life. He always knew when to move on. Soon we were sailing the Atlantic toward the new world.

I sure was grateful Herman always let me tag along.

*****

Rainy Day in Ghent

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The 26 eclectic-genre short stories for my #AtoZChallenge are excerpts from travelogue notes by

novel character Gahlen, who first appeared in SHARDS OF MEMORY – Oral History in a Heartbeat.

Each A-to-Z daily post is a complete, stand-alone tale.

By Hubert van Eyck - The Yorck Project (2002) 10.000 Meisterwerke der Malerei (DVD-ROM), distributed by DIRECTMEDIA Publishing GmbH. ISBN: 3936122202., Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=150703

Rainy Day in Ghent

Genre: Christian Fiction

(391 words)

“I opened this place twenty-five years ago,” the elderly restaurant owner said. “Recently, I expanded but retained Ghent’s artistic ambiance. Were you up to St. Bavo’s?”

“I viewed ADORATION OF THE MYSTIC LAMB earlier.” My guide indicated the restaurant owner readily discussed van Eyck’s oaken panel ployptych on rainy days.

“Yes, yes, of course,” he said. “Such history – stolen panels once lost for a hundred years; then the ployptych sent to France for safekeeping until Germans swiped it. After yet another recovery, two panels stolen in a 1934 blackmail scheme. Only one panel was ever returned.”

He said only one panel was returned, I noticed, not that only one had been located.

“The Ghent Altarpiece is a world masterpiece,” he continued. “Whoever stole the panels knew what leverage they possessed.”

“Leverage for what?”

“A message was sent directly to Bishop Coppieters demanding money. But authorities refused to allow payment.”

“Why was the ransom note directed to the bishop?”

“Aha, you pounce upon an unusual circumstance that no one has publicly addressed over the years. Yes, yes, why did the bishop receive the note? The panels were stolen from his church, but was that the only reason? Also, what was the bishop’s role in the theft?”

“You believe Bishop Coppieters was involved?”

“Certainly. The exorbitant ransom request suggests the theft was not about money. Another motive was in play. Consider the bishop’s attempt to recuperate the panels. He borrowed from the church treasury to meet part of the ransom. How he arranged to pay is unknown.”

“Was the theft a warning of sorts?”

“My theory rests on the history of an Irish saint. He came to perform good deeds in Ghent and was killed. Anger grew against pagans suspected of the heinous act. Blaming the saint’s death on the work of the devil, an underground group performed exorcisms on those declared guilty. The cure was far worse than the crime. Relatives vowed revenge.”

The owner stood.

Hastily, I wrapped all my confusion into one question. “Do van Eyck paintings and exorcisms have something in common?”

“Yes, yes,” the owner said, sitting again. “The bishop was trained to perform exorcisms. Who better for descendants to enact vengeance upon than one who continued the practice of exorcisms? Stealing The Righteous Judges panel answers that question. Exorcists had acted as judges; thieves extracted righteous justice.”

*****

Quarantine Station Grosse Isle, Québec

###

The 26 eclectic-genre short stories for my #AtoZChallenge are excerpts from travelogue notes by

novel character Gahlen, who first appeared in SHARDS OF MEMORY – Oral History in a Heartbeat.

Each A-to-Z daily post is a complete, stand-alone tale.

Quarantine Station Grosse Isle, Québec

Genre: Horror – truth and fiction

(321 words)

The lazaretto and quarantine facilities here on Grosse Isle in the St. Lawrence River opened in 1832. That row of cannons on the beach faces approaching boats that carry staff. Immigrants are arriving by the thousands for inspection. Cholera and typhus are getting out of control.

Often we have to hold immigrants for unspecified amounts of time even if they do not test positive for disease or sickness. Parents with symptoms of cholera are placed in isolation.

In the disinfection building we have what is called decontamination equipment. We use it to destroy cholera germs on immigrants’ meager belongings. Curious, unsupervised children clamor for a look inside. Workers assigned to the tedious task of disinfecting property shoo them away.

My job is to guard the property. After one evening shutdown, a boy begged me to remove the bad bugs crawling around in him. On the spot, I concocted a plan. If the disinfecting process could destroy cholera on clothing, why not use it to wipe out diseases inside immigrants? The equipment was too compact for adults, but I could start with a small child. If it worked, I would be rewarded, maybe even become famous.

Calculating what I could buy with the reward money, I helped the boy crawl inside and shut the door. I adjusted the dials, compensating for the reduced timespan with a higher temperature. For a moment, I felt some uncertainty. But the machine kicked in and I figured it was too late to turn back. Once the door locked, the cycle began and ran its course.

A ticking sound indicated the process was complete. The lock deactivated and my doubts mounted. Had the boy actually been infected with cholera? Was the machine capable of destroying germs inside a body? How could I prove my plan had worked? As I opened the door, my questions were answered. The plan had not worked, or else had worked too well.

*****