A present that was at least a hundred and fifty years old? Double sweet! I had visions of a priceless necklace, or some other family heirloom, and now I would be the one to receive it.
“So this gift doesn’t necessarily pass from father to son?” Dad asked.
“No, there is no set pattern, either in the one who gives it or the one who receives it. It may even skip a generation if there is no child worthy to become the caretaker of the gift.”
I looked up at him. “Can I open it, Grandpère?”
He extended the package to me. “Of course, my child.”
His words were said with such solemnity that the urge to snatch the box from him and rip it open was instantly gone. I was no longer a child, but a young woman, and therefore, I could no longer act like a child. I carefully took the package from him, bowed my head, and said, “Thank you, Grandpère.” I stood on my tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek, feeling his day-old stubble and smelling the trail dust on his goatee. “Thank you so much.”
Even as I did so, however, I realized that what I was holding in my hands was not some piece of jewelry, or even something heavy or bulky. Beneath the wrapping paper, the gift was soft and pliable, and weighed very little. Keen disappointment washed over me. It felt like a sweater, or maybe a blouse of some kind. It was definitely something made of cloth. An old sweater? Hardly what one longed for.
Trying hard not to let my face show what I was feeling, I slid my fingers beneath the tape. I opened the paper and let it drop to the ground, staring at what lay in my hands. It wasn’t a sweater. It wasn’t clothing of any kind. It was just a piece of heavy brown cloth, about nine inches square. I stared at it for several seconds, not sure if this was another of Grandpère’s little jokes or not.
I guess he sensed my puzzlement because he gave me a nudge. “Turn it over,” he suggested.
I did so, and saw that it was a medium-sized purse, made from a single piece of cloth which had been doubled over on itself three times. The first two squares were stitched together to create a pouch. The last square was folded over in a flap that covered the whole front of the pouch.
To my surprise, the flap was not plain like the rest of the pouch. A band of lighter-colored fabric ran horizontally across the flap. The flap was fastened with a wooden button that had obviously been carved by hand. There was a long braided rope handle folded across the front of the pouch. Both the rope and the button were worn smooth, and the fabric also looked quite old. It was different, no question about that. But I was managing to curb my enthusiasm. Whoopee! An old worn-out fabric purse.
Grandpère laughed, startling me. “You are containing your disappointment much better than I did when I got it, Danni. I thought for sure I was getting a dagger with a jewel-encrusted handle, or some priceless coat of arms—something totally awesome, as you would say. When I saw what it was—or rather, what it wasn’t—I think I pouted for a week.”
“Danni,” my father warned. “What do you say to your grandfather?”
I hugged him tightly. I wasn’t mad, just disappointed. Then I realized that Grandpère was in his seventies, and I was just three days into being a teenager. It was not a surprise that we valued different things. “Thank you, Grandpère. I will treasure it always.”
“I doubt that,” he said, still chuckling. “But that will come soon enough.”
I bent my head and examined the gift more closely. I saw something I hadn’t seen before. Across the lighter band of material on the flap, an intricate design had been embroidered in silk thread that matched the color of the fabric exactly.
But then something else caught my eye. There were four smaller images on the flap, also embroidered, all identical to one another, in each corner. They were placed diagonally so that each one pointed inward.
I leaned in. These images were much smaller, not even an inch long. I recognized what they were immediately. I had seen the image—the symbol—many times. It consisted of three parts. A central shaft, narrow at the bottom, but expanding gracefully out into an elongated diamond shape, like the blade of a two-edged sword. On either side of the shaft were two more delicate shapes. Thin at the bottom, they swelled outward, but then curled over and drooped downward like the petals of a flower. At the bottom, the three elements were bound together with a thick band.
“It’s a fleur-de-lis,” I exclaimed. I looked at Dad and Ricky. “Each one of them is a fleur-de-lis.”
Grandpère smiled. “Very good, Danni. Very good.” Then he cleared his throat as though embarrassed. “Though flur-de-leese is the American pronunciation of the word. The proper pronunciation is flur-de-lee.”
“What’s a fleur-de-lis?” Ricky asked.
Proud that I could answer, I said, “It’s French for the ‘lily flower,’ or ‘flower of the lily.’ It represents a lily, or what we call an iris. These here are stylized representation of the flower. It’s a very popular symbol in France.” I looked up at Grandpère. “Wasn’t it also a symbol of the French monarchy?”
“Oui. Indeed it was. And many other European royal houses. The fleur-de-lis can be found on countless shields and coat-of-arms.”
“Really,” Rick said, peering at them closely. “I’ve seen it before, but I didn’t know what it was.”
I turned back to Grandpère. “Are they on there because the pouch comes from France?”
“Perhaps. But the fleur-de-lis has many different connotations. It can represent royalty, purity, beauty, integrity, honor.” He looked down at the pouch. “Many times the central part of the fleur-de-lis is softer and more curved, like the lily petal it represents. But notice that these look more like spear points. That’s because sometimes the fleur-de-lis was attached to a long shaft to form a spear. The end was made of steel and sharpened to a deadly point. Often, such spears were used by royal guards as they stood watch outside the palace or at the city gates. So the fleur-de-lis is also a powerful symbol of protection or guardianship.”
“I remember,” I said eagerly. “You once showed Cody and me a picture of one of the guards at Versailles. We thought that was so cool we made our own spears with broomsticks and foil fleur-de-lises on the end of them.”
Grandpère laughed softly. “I’d forgotten that.” He nudged me a little. “Though the plural of fleur-de-lis is fleurs-de-lis, not fleur-de-leeses.”
I could tell he was teasing, so I ignored that. I held out the pouch so Dad and Ricky could look at it more closely.
Ricky took it with an almost reverential awe. “This is seriously awesome,” he said, almost in a whisper. “And it’s how old?”
“At least a hundred and fifty years,” I said.
“Probably more like two hundred, near as we can determine,” Grandpère added.
“Wow! Two hundred years. Crazy!” I shook my head in wonder.
Dad laid a hand on my shoulder. “This is a very special and wonderful gift, Danni.”
“I know.” I turned back to Grandpère and gave him a hug.
He kissed me on the top of the head, then held me at arm’s length. “So are you going to just look at the outside of it all day? Or are you going to see what’s inside?”
That surprised me. I had already felt the pouch with my hands, and I could tell there was nothing in it. But, eager to show my appreciation, I took it back from Ricky and undid the button. I lifted the flap and looked inside. Nothing! The bag was absolutely empty. I even ran my hand around inside it, but there was nothing there. I laughed. At him and at myself. “Good one, Grandpère. You got me on that one.”
With that same solemnity he said, “Remember the candle from yesterday, my dear?”
My head snapped up.
“Never assume the fire is out, just because it is not burning.”
It took a second or two for that to sink in. “It was you,” I cried. I noticed Ricky’s head had come up too.
It was like Grandpère hadn’t heard me. “And don’t assume that something is empty, just because there’s nothing there.”
r /> Not sure if he was still teasing me, I dutifully looked again, this time opening the pouch to the sunlight and peering inside. As soon as I did so, I yelped in surprise. There was a pocket on the back interior of the pouch. And to my total surprise—more like shock, actually—there was a single sheet of paper inside, about the size of a 5 x 7 picture. How could I have missed that before?
Feeling a tingling sensation sweep through my body, I stared at the paper.
I heard Grandpère chuckle, then felt him nudge my arm. “It’s all right to take it out,” he said.
So I did. When my fingers touched it, I realized it was more than just a piece of paper. It was heavier, like card stock. As I pulled it out, I also saw that it was not pure white but a light beige. I turned it over and saw that the front of it was filled with lines of elegant, hand-lettered script. I read them quickly, then marveling, turned around and held the card up for Dad and Ricky to see.
“What does it say?” Dad asked, leaning forward.
Stepping back, I slipped my arm around Grandpère’s waist. “It’s titled The Four Remembers of Life.” I felt Grandpère’s hand on my shoulder as I read the lines out loud.
“Number one: Remember, you are unique.
“Number two: Remember, there is purpose to your life.
“Number three: Remember, you are free to choose what you are and what you become.
“And number four: Remember, you are not alone.”
We all stood in silence for a moment or two. Suddenly and surprisingly, I felt a tightness in my throat. I carefully slipped the paper back into the pouch and buttoned the flap. Then I looked up at Grandpère. To my even greater surprise, his eyes were filled with tears.
“Happy birthday, ma chérie,” he said huskily. Then he kissed me on both cheeks in the French way.
I couldn’t have answered him if I wanted to, so I just threw my arms around him and held him as tightly as I could. We stood there, at the bottom of Horseshoe Canyon, at least fifty miles from the nearest sign of any habitation, with two men looking on. And we had a good cry together.
Part Two: Guardian
Chapter 8
Hanksville, Utah
Thursday, August 21, 2008
It’s hot! ☹
I mean seriously hot. Even for Hanksville. When I came out of the house, it was like stepping into a blast furnace. I almost turned right around and went back inside and stayed in my bedroom. But Cody and his buds are playing Wii football in the family room. With Mom gone to Grand Junction to some interior decorator’s show, and Dad in the mountains with a client, there’s no one to make them shut up—certainly not me—and I couldn’t stand it anymore. I checked the thermometer Dad keeps on the back of the garage—112 degrees! And that’s on the shady side of the garage.
I’m down here by the river in my special place. Last year I found this place about a quarter of a mile from our house. There’s this little clearing in a thick patch of willows and brush, with one large cottonwood tree nearby. By cutting back some of the brush, Dad helped me make a path, and he brought down the small wooden bench from the basement. There’s plenty of shade, and the temperature is always about ten degrees cooler here. Best of all, no one can see me from the house or the lane, so it’s my own little private place. Which I need right now.
School starts next Monday. I’m glad in a way. Except for our camping trip to Horseshoe Canyon in June, it’s been a long summer. Boring! Ricky works all the time with Dad now, so I don’t see him very much. And my other friends are driving me crazy.
Explanation. Last night, I had a sleepover with four of my friends—Lisa, Angie, Megan, and Brianne. I don’t know what came over me when I had the idea—boredom, I guess—but Mom agreed that I could have it at our house because it’s the last weekend before school starts. We had a lot of fun at first—we ordered pizza, and Dad fixed us root beer floats. Then we played games and watched a movie.
But as usual, when we finally went to bed, we started talking instead. I always feel like a third thumb when that happens. The other girls talk mostly about clothes and boys, and who’s hot, and who’s dating who, and who’s making out, and who just had their first kiss. UGH!!! I mostly listened, hoping that Lisa or Angie wouldn’t start talking about Ricky and me.
But they did, of course. Stupid little comments, snickering to each other when they thought I wasn’t looking. Teasing me about blushing whenever they talked about him. Blah blah blah.
I finally got so ticked off that I told them that first, Ricky and me were just friends and that there was nothing romantic about our relationship at all. (More sniggers and stupid giggles. Geez Louise!—that’s my Dad’s saying—you’d think they were a pack of three-year-olds.) Second, I told them that no matter what our relationship was, it was none of their business anyway.
Well, that shut them up, all right. But it also kind of threw a wet blanket on the party too. They all clammed up, and Lisa and Angie especially went into this huge freeze-out mode.
I guess to get even, Angie started in on the pouch.
See, when we got back home from our camping trip in June, I had Dad put up a nail in the wall next to my dressing mirror. I hung the pouch there, flap side out, where I would see it every day. I don’t have any other pictures or stuff up in my room, but I was really proud of Grandpère’s gift. And what he said that day—about the Four Remembers of Life—was kind of special too.
But I hadn’t thought about the fact that my friends hadn’t been in my bedroom for a long time. And I hadn’t said anything about the pouch to anyone but my family and Ricky. So when everyone came into my bedroom, they started peppering me with questions about what it was and about the Four Remembers of Life, which Mom had framed and hung on the other side of my mirror. I tried to explain, but it sounded pretty lame. Dumb, actually, to be honest. And I guess I have to admit I was embarrassed by it. So I shut up and changed the subject.
I guess Angie sensed how important the pouch and the Four Remembers were to me, so she started in. Oh, she was all polite and smiley, and she pretended like she was interested. But I knew better.
Megan: “Will you be taking it to school with you?”
Angie (snotty): “That would make for an interesting fashion statement.”
Lisa: “So, did your Grandfather write those remembers just for you? I mean, did he think you especially needed them or something?”
Angie (stupid smile): “Yeah, but I wouldn’t think he’d have to remind you that you’re unique.” (Translation: Unique—meaning “different,” “odd,” “strange,” “peculiar,” “geeky,” “weird.”)
Talk about catty! I started a slow burn, but vowed I wouldn’t let them get to me. What hurt the most was when Brianne, who had seemed uncomfortable with all of this up to that point, said—I’m sure with the best of intentions—“You really are unique, Danni. Your grandfather got that right.”
She meant well, and I appreciated it, but the look on the others’ faces said it all. It was all I could do not to cry, then all I could do not to tell them all to go home right then. Fortunately, after that nobody said very much and eventually we all went to sleep. This morning, nobody said much at breakfast either, and they all left as quickly as possible. Even Mom noticed it and asked me what was wrong.
I started to explain what had happened, but she cut me off. She was late leaving for Grand Junction, and she said we’d have to talk about it tonight.
I shut the journal, sticking my pen in my pocket. I didn’t feel like writing anymore. I felt rotten enough without putting it on paper. I leaned back, closing my eyes. After a few minutes, I reached down and picked up the pouch from the bench beside me. I placed it on my lap, faceup, and smoothed it out with my hand.
I wasn’t sure why I’d brought it with me. Grandpère had given me a pretty serious charge to always make sure it was safe, so I usually took it with me whenever I left the house for very long. But I didn’t consider this leaving the house. I guess I was worried a little that Cody and
his friends might go into my room. I could picture them playing catch with it or making fun of it. Whatever the reason, I had grabbed it and brought it with me.
I sighed. I could feel the heat seeping into my body, and I relaxed a little. I let my mind go back to that day two months ago in Horseshoe Canyon. Twice since then I had gone to Grandpère and tried to get him to tell me more about the pouch. What was it supposed to do? How did it work? Was there something I was supposed to be doing with it? Was it related to “the gift”? That kind of stuff. Both times he had gotten a mysterious little smile on his face and shook his head. “Some things you must discover for yourself” was all he would say. No surprise.
I wasn’t sure what to make of it anymore. Nothing strange or mysterious had happened since I had gotten it. I had even taken it to bed with me a couple of times. I would lay there for a long time, holding it close to my chest. I don’t know what I was expecting—tingling sensations? A vision, maybe? Some grand burst of enlightenment? Angelic choirs singing an anthem? But nothing happened. Except that I felt really stupid.
A few days after we were back from that camping trip, Mom told me a story about when Grandpère was six years old. One day a dive bomber came. When the pilot saw Grandpère’s father out in the field, he shot at him and nearly killed him. But Grandpère, instead of being scared, was so fascinated that he walked right out in the open and started to wave. The plane dove at him, but he just kept waving. And finally, the pilot waved back.
Mom told me that Grandpère’s mother—Monique LaRoche, my great-grandmother and my namesake—said that the pouch had protected him. Now wouldn’t that be nice? Only one problem: It wasn’t happening for me.
A few weeks ago I was showing off a little for Ricky on the four-wheeler and it flipped over, throwing me off. I banged up my knee and scraped a bunch of skin off my arm. So no protection there. And Cody and I nearly stepped on a rattlesnake out in the pasture a couple of days ago. Scared the heck out of me. I had the pouch with me that day, too. If it could turn a German pilot away, why didn’t it warn me about the snake?