Baltic Amber Tradition #AtoZChallenge

Aging Baltic Amber

By М. Порсина (M. Porsina) - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, 

https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=39314124

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

fictional character Gahlen, who first appears in SHARDS OF MEMORY – Oral History in a Heartbeat.

Each A-to-Z daily post is a stand-alone tale - partly true, partly fiction.

Baltic Amber Tradition

Genre: Historical Fiction-Genealogy

(371 words)

“Handing down the amber bracelet from mother to eldest daughter is tradition.” Tess, a vivacious waitress whose family owned the restaurant, continued, “With only male siblings, my inheritance ceremony was quite elaborate.”

“An admirable custom,” I said, eying the unpolished stones.

“Amber wards off witches. I am not bewitched, so it must work.”

Suppressing a laugh, I asked, “How old are they?”

“A Baltic Sea fisherman netted the stones in the 1700s. My ancestor, Jakup, purchased them to ease his wife’s labor so she would not miscarry again.”

Tess agreed her mother could speak with me further about the bracelet, then assisted other patrons.

Charlotte introduced herself and took a seat. “Your inquisitiveness has me curious.”

Motivated by my own interests, I asked, “Do you know who sold Jakup the amber?”

“No longer curiosity, but intrigue.” Charlotte raised a hand.

A waiter appeared. “Yes, mother?”

“Have your father bring a bottle of wine and five, no, six glasses.”

Her husband, Henri, arrived and filled five wine glasses. The sixth glass remained empty.

“The fisherman first denied knowledge of the stones,” Charlotte said. “His family’s safety was at risk after Prussia declared ownership of all Baltic amber.”

Anxiously I asked, “Do you recall his name?”

“Ah, that explains the sixth glass,” Henri said. “No surname, just a given name. Gottfried. He had a wife named Marta, a son Carl. Sound familiar?”

I smiled. “All are family.”

Henri raised a hand. When Tess appeared, Charlotte pointed to the sixth glass. Tess burst into tears and rushed from the restaurant, returning moments later carrying a small box. Henri handed her the sixth glass, filled with wine.

“Seven more of Gottfried’s stones were crafted into jewelry.” Tess laid each item on the table. “But after the baby’s birth, war came. Gottfried and Marta died. The son Carl emigrated.”

“Tess constantly shared her story,” Henri said, “hoping to meet someone who knew of Gottfried. We promised to toast her perseverance on that day.”

At Charlotte’s lead, we all raised our glasses.

Then Tess offered the box to me. “These were meant for Gottfried. As his descendant, they belong to you.” When I humbly accepted, Tess said, “May you enjoy a lifetime of good health, without witches.”

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Absorbing an Ancient Scene #AtoZChallenge

CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=81313

Shandon Belltower, Cork, Ireland Created by Kglavin

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

fictional character Gahlen, who first appears in SHARDS OF MEMORY – Oral History in a Heartbeat.

Each A-to-Z daily post is a stand-alone tale - partly true, partly fiction.

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Absorbing an Ancient Scene

Genre: Exploration with Comic Relief

(313 words)

Chiming bells sent us searching for an access to the steeple tower. We scrambled in typical sibling rivalry fashion toward a narrow stone staircase. Naturally, I came in last, but not due to my bum leg. I had stopped to dip my fingers into another holy water font. Carved in jagged lettering along its facade were words I assumed were of Irish dialect. While I recognized certain words as English, their meaning escaped me. I copied the letters, exactly as they appeared on the font, into my notebook for future research.

MAD  ETHIS  PANT

AT  THEIR  CHAR

GES

By the time I reached the stairwell, my sisters had begun their climb toward the bells. With each step, I felt the space between the staircase walls diminish. Though not one to suffer from claustrophobia, I experienced a heightening fear. Obviously, my overactive imagination was at work.

Fairy tales had been the path my grandparents chose to teach me the intricacies of my ancestry. Had this stairwell once witnessed a dastardly act that bled into the walls - my sensitive nature absorbing the ancient scene and translating the event into a current dread? Reluctant to analyze the surroundings further, I urged my legs to climb faster, adrenaline seeking to overpower . . .

Before that thought fully formed, my sisters called down to me. “Stop lingering, Gahlen. The sealant on the rock steps is potent enough to make you start hallucinating.”

With a shudder of relief, I rushed upward, the poetic rhythm of Shandon bells urging me on. The panoramic view from the tower made my efforts worthwhile. In silence, we surveyed the city. I snapped several photographs knowing I could never fully capture the tranquility of the River Lee rippling through the Irish countryside of Cork. My overactive imagination would have to suffice.

*Craftsmen MADE THIS PANT (font) AT THEIR CHARGES (for their patrons).

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