342. Penumbral Randomness

Rog looked at Von, “You’re going to need a load of tumbrels for that story."

Trev’s glabrous face belied concern.

Em, if she could see, would have smiled her earthly smile at the persistent umbral presence of Ariel.

Em's skin, a rare olivaster palette, looked deeper and richer in the dawn light. She missed the apple-hued verdure of home where simian critters small and agile hunted for nuts in the maculae light; and bumblebees hovered in the polite tones of after dinner reserve among the lace work of foliage, tonguing languidly from the penumbra of dark green ancients gently singing in the warm breeze.

With fingers soft, Em pensively rubbed her coppery butter lips with fingers educated in the arts of nautical knots. Stars winking in solemn nods, paid quiet respect upon eyes open but not seeing. Her roan mane, weaved as rope with tiny earnest hands, flirted on the nape of shoulders anxious.

From somewhere to her right, the nervous clatter of crystal bespoke of toasts raised and spirits imbibed in the glint of evening light bowing adieu before the warm flickering advance of surrendered wax and wick.

Breathing slow and deep the treasure of flower and foliage, the baritone of father clothed her bosom in the tones of home and hearth.

Lacing her fingers behind to match the lacing of fern before, Em blinked away the dreams of a little girl as whispers of plans and devices were traded on the waves of amber intoxication.

Her mother, a woman of measured wisdom and forgiving eyes, rested her warm hands on Em's shoulders. Her touch was light, and Em would say, inviting without intruding, as the scent of grain baked and pies prepared warmed heart and stomach alike.

Words were whispered and smiles exchanged as father looked with beam of eye upon mother and daughter. Breathing in the darkness as limpid night poured into forest deep, the air cool and crisp and fresh as pie made from love of heart as much as labor of hand, Em placed her hand on top of her mother's.

Endearing words of love and beauty flowed from mother to daughter as experienced fingers massaged young shoulders as if to marinate language within skin, to imbue soul with touch. Em felt the warmness of hand radiate from warmness of heart, her mothers lips speaking with the pure sweetness of spring roses; a truth without question, as eternal as the seasons.

Before the tender touch of unshod lips, a kiss of mother and daughter, the hearth crackled with aged wood, exhaling warmth with dancing flames of carmine and rust, casting shadows blue before the pale glow of rising moons.

Weaving her arms inside her daughter's, Em's mother pulled her tight, her eyes surveying the bounty of her bosom grown proud. Softness of chest cleaved with firmness of promise as the cloth of humble hands found comfort in the nip of night.

Among lights warm and soft, between sounds jovial and loud, the eyes of mother and daughter sparkled as if dusted with starlight in their own private lacuna. Reaching behind her daughter's head, mother held her child's head with fingers evenly spaced. Gently she massaged intent, her purpose beyond time, a moment to capture in eye and mind as clearly as a photograph of light and love, a private memento framed in the reveille of public discourse.

The captain, as Em's father was called by his friends, stood with glass uplifted, with eye raised to the sihouette of maternal love evinced in the hug of one poured into the vessel of the other such that where one began and the other ended mattered not for the two were as one.

"Em?" asked the little umbra known as Ariel. "What are you thinking?"

Without turning from the window of light she could not see, Em said, "Of what a lucky little girl you are to have such a wonderful mother and father. Do they tuck you in at night and read you stories?"

Ariel laughed. "Of course they do silly. Every night."

"Good," said Em. "Good."