Fra Keeler by Azareen Van der Vliet Oloomi

Author:Azareen Van der Vliet Oloomi [Oloomi, Azareen Van der Vliet]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-9844693-6-9
Publisher: Dorothy, a publishing project
Published: 2012-02-15T05:00:00+00:00

So much noise, I thought, Fra Keeler, even after the time and space of his death. And I thought, it’s senseless to stand here under the skylight contemplating her departure, her fanfare and contorted face. Who is she, in any event, to have left her clipboard beside the receiver that had shattered then recomposed itself? I felt as though my brain were being drawn up by a series of strings. Some things, I thought, are to think about later. The receiver, the clipboard. Everything comes in pairs. And here I am, I thought, standing under the skylight by the door when clearly I have thought it senseless to stand under the skylight by the door, contemplating her departure. Only not senseless altogether because every piece should be put in its proper place: the clipboard, the receiver. But there is a time and a place for everything, and then I thought, I must extract myself! So that I did, from under the skylight, and thought: I will come back to this, one pair and then the other, I will retrace. But so much noise after a death, so much sound to a death, and it was calling me, the noise of it all, drawing me out from under the skylight and into the kitchen, beyond the kitchen into the garden, beyond the garden through the trees, and there I was again: the yurt brave and stout as a horse in front of me. And the skylight was so far, the woman with the contorted face farther, and I could see them revolving around each other, sheets of paper in the wind. I thought, I should go in, I must—there is information to be gathered. Pal-ma, I heard myself say, Pal-ma de Mallorca, and then the Netherlands, those under-lands, low lands, lower lands, and the handwriting: a low squiggly line, a hill with a dark horse or two traversing them. Another pair, I thought, another square in its place: Palma de Mallorca, the Netherlands. And the yurt flashed like a cloud, a misty white cloud, it billowed and went through me.

I was standing inside, enveloped by the yurt. There was a strange light inside, the kind of light, I thought, that would come through the skylight if it were polished. A drained yellow bordering on soft white. I looked up. I looked around. There was nothing. I was entirely enclosed by the yurt. The light, I wondered, where could it be coming from? Infiltrating the walls as though they were not walls, but thin sheets of tracing paper exposed to a faint, comforting light. And I could see him: he was there, just beyond me, his two glassy eyes blue as ice: “Fra Keeler,” I said, “Fra Keeler,” he called back. And he was an old, frail man, all shriveled up, moving his wrist through the air. “Wars,” he said, and I thought to myself perhaps he is explaining the strange light in the yurt, or comparing the light in the yurt

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