Read The Sword of Ruth: The Story of Jesus' Little Sister Page 15
Sue was eight minutes late. Impatient and uneasy, the way I'd been since Jessie read in class earlier in the day, I leaned against the railing bordering the ramp outside the convention hall. A breeze fluttered leaves on eucalyptus trees next to the building. Across the dead-end road and down over the bank, freeway traffic whirred by. Beyond the laurel hedge, midway along the motel grounds a white limousine eased around the corner and stopped in front of the curb a few feet away. A man in a tuxedo climbed out, ambled around the end of the ramp and up to me.
"Raven Duval, it is you," he said, with the exquisite manners and slow drawl of a Southern gentleman.
"Zak? Zak McClintock?" I said, surprised. I felt like a bumpkin in my tee shirt and jeans.
"Sue said I'd find you here," he said.
"Are you Zippy's brother?"
"The very same. I even have a copy of your manuscript."
"How did that happen? I never thought I'd see you again."
"I told you I'd find a way to repay you. Today it appeared out of the air. When something is right, things have a way of working out."
"I, uh...."
"I've been talking to Jessie."
"Good grief." I gulped, embarrassing myself.
"He thinks it's connected."
"What is?"
"That's why he hunted me down. I was in the middle of a big shindig as you can see by these ridiculous duds. I didn't have time to change. I've always trusted the lad, so here I am. Too handsome for his own good, but it never went to his head. And honestly, that boy comes from the best stock. There's never any doubt with him."
The breeze whipped around the building, wrapping us in a webbing of my hair. By the time we untangled ourselves, Sue stood next to us.
"I see you've met Zak," she said.
"Good to see you, Suzy Que." He gave her a friendly squeeze. "Anyway, ladies, if we don't head in now, Zippy'll be full into his spiel. And you know how my little brother hates latecomers."
Zak took our arms and urged us through the doorway passed the tables of books for sale. Nodding to numerous people, stopping to talk to a few, he proceeded to the front row, center seats. With a sweep of his hand he invited us to sit on either side of him.
"Always did like having the most gorgeous women in the room on my arm," he said. "It's one of the benefits of this thing I do."
"What is it you do?" I asked. "I thought you were into real estate."
"That too," he said and winked.
Two men climbed the steps at the end of the stage. The slight, overly thin one took a cushioned chair behind the lectern. Barnaby, workshop leader and one of the Santa Barbara Writers Conference organizers, tested the mike.
Wondering what Zak, Sue and Jessie had cooked up, I tried not to squirm.
After Barnaby's introduction Zippy faced the group alone.
"We stand on the rim of a giant volcano. The mountain is about to blow." The voice of the small man boomed throughout the room. "The mountain has no grudge. It is but a mountain doing what mountains do. The question is, what do we do about it? How do we react? Whether or not we run, face it in superstition, throw ourselves in, go about our business or do what we agreed to do before we were born, this is before us, each of us, even if we refuse to acknowledge the mountain or the things we already know."
He unhooked the microphone and stepped away from the lectern.
"I once met a man, who shared his story with me. Afterwards, he wanted to know if enough had happened in his life to make it compelling enough to publish. I told him, maybe, maybe not.
"What makes a story interesting is not specific events. It's the way the characters interact with those events. It is not whether or not there are enough mountains, valleys or volcanoes. The question is, is the protagonist immersed in chaos because of what happens? By the end of the story has he or she grown or retreated into denial and what he/she thinks is safety.
"To be reborn after each eruption, to realize that the only safety comes from knowing we can become higher, better from everything that happens to us, this is key, the opening door to bliss."
He held up a manuscript. "This is it. This is what it's about. We are here to celebrate the written word, where it takes us, what insights it brings. A couple of days ago I was fortunate to come across an extraordinary story. I thought I'd read you the first few lines.
Demmy ran an index finger along the blade of the sword swaddled in the case next to him on the seat of the van. It was important he use this instrument this time. Grandpa Duval had given it to him, claiming it was of Roman origin forged at the time of Christ.
Blood left my face. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Zak watching me. He tightened his arm about my shoulder. The audience went graveyard quiet. Zippy read up to the point where Demmy was dead.
"The writer of this work is Demmy's little sister," Zippy said, "a fine young woman with a shattered heart. This is her story. These are her words. Each of us has a story. Each of us has the option to do something grand as a result of our stories. Each of us is born to make a difference. That is what Demmy's sister has chosen to do. The question is will you do the same, or will you argue for your excuses and make sure they stop you?"