Golden
Authors: Cameron Dokey
“Don't be afraid,” she said. “Nothing here will harm you.”
Melisande took a step forward, toward the open pane of glass. Almost before I realized what I was doing, I stopped her, clutching tightly at her arm. Suddenly I was dizzy standing at the top of that tower, made of the bones of the earth and topped by the light of only-a-wizard-knew-how-many stars. The air blew cold against my skin, and it seemed to me that it was a very, very long way down to the ground. A very long way from anything I knew or understood.
“What happens if I cannot help?” I panted. “If I try and fail? What happens to your daughter then?”
For the staff of Magnolia's Bookstore.
This one never would have happened without you.
And for lissa. Even when the world seems dark,
I see the way your heart shines, golden.
Contents
Prologue
It began with a theft and ended with a gift. And, if I were truly as impossible as it once pleased Rue to claim, I'd demonstrate it now. Stop right there, I'd tell you. That's really all you need to know about the story of my life. Thank you very much for coming, but you might as well go home now.
Except there is this problem:
A beginning and an ending, though satisfying in their own individual ways, are simply that. A start and a conclusion, nothing more. It's what comes in between that does the work, that builds the life and tells the story. Believing you can see the second while still busy with the first can be a dangerous mistake, a fact of life sometimes difficult for the young to grasp. When you are young, you think your eyesight is perfect, even as it fails you and you fail to notice. It's easy to get distracted, caught up in dilemmas and questions that eventually turn out to be less important than you originally thought.
For instance, here is a puzzle that many minds have pondered: If a tree falls in the forest, and there is no one there to hear it, does it still make a sound?
When, really, much more challenging puzzles sound a good deal simpler:
How do you recognize the face of love?
Can love happen in an instant, or can it only grow slowly, bolstered by the course of time? Is it possible that love might be both? A thing that takes forever to reach its true conclusion, made possible by what occurs in no more than the blink of an eye?
Yes, I think I know the answers, for myself, at least. But then, I am no longer young. I am old now. My life has been a long and happy one, but even the longest, happiest life will, one day, draw down to its close. Fold itself up and be put away, like a favorite sweater into a cedar chest, a garment that has served well for many, many years, but now has just plain too many holes to be worn.
Don't bother to suggest that I will be immortal because my tale will continue to be told. That sort of sentiment just makes me impatient and annoyed. In the first place, because the tale you know is hardly the whole story. And in the second, because it is the tale itself that will live on, not 1.1 will come to an end, as all living creatures must. And when I do, what I know will perish with me.
Perhaps that is why I have the urge to speak of it now.
More and more these days, I find myself thinking
back to the beginning, particularly when I am sitting in the garden. This is not surprising, I suppose. For it was in a garden that my tale began. It makes no difference that I hadn't been born yet at the time. I listen to the sound the first bees make in spring, so loud it always takes me by surprise. I sit on the bench my husband made me as a wedding gift, surrounded by the daffodils I planted with my own hands, so very long ago now. Their scent hangs around me like a curtain of silk.
I close my eyes, and I am young once more.
One
Here are the things I think you think you know about my story, for these are the ones that have often been told.