The Secret of the Dragon Chair By M.M.Wake
The grieving had lasted for almost 5 weeks. The days since the funeral had crept around the edges of life, hanging off arms and unwashed hair, lying thick in columns of dust, caught in the decay of weak afternoon sun.
It had been the edge of winter when he died and now spring had erupted around earth’s lifeless corpse bringing birth and rebirth, but she could feel no joy.
Her mind had stopped, thoughts car crashed against a wall of emotional pain that she could not scale, only sit and watch each second shift its tiny arm, ticking towards the day when she would join him.
Yet even pain wears out the sufferer and although the emptiness continued her body grew restless for the usual routine of life, a betrayal to his memory.
The day started clear and bright, one single imprint of a star clung flatly against the blue curtain of the morning. She wrestled with the fastening on her watch, finding the catch awkward and fiddly. She hadn’t worn it for weeks. He had bought it for her. It dangled loosely on her thin wrist, glinting in the early light.
Today would be the beginning; she would try and carry on as best she could without him. She would venture into his room and make a start.
The door to his room was shut; she pushed gently opening the door, the stale, closed air rising to greet her. The curtains were closed, the room shadowy and just as he had left it. It had been his office but in the last months of his illness it had been his retreat, his place of quiet contemplation to try and understand if not accept his fate.
The floor was littered with books from Buddhism to Islam, Christianity to Atheism, a quest to know, a thirst for knowledge, a reassurance. She wondered if he had found it in the end.
His chair stood by the window and its emptiness made her sorrowful. In the last weeks she had often entered here quietly to find him asleep in the chair and she had tiptoed around him, hardly breathing in case she woke him from his untroubled slumber.
She opened the curtains. The view from the window was the best in the house, overlooking the large garden and the fields and woods beyond.
He had loved the outdoors; the cruelty of his final weeks came with the constraints of an invalid, confining him to spend his last days behind walls. And so he had sat in this chair and gazed longingly out onto his beloved countryside. She had tried to brighten the room, bringing the outside indoors, filling his room with flowers and greenery, but the shop bought plants were a pale imitation of the natural world.
And now it was spring, his favourite time of year. He would often have been awake and outdoors early, walking their dog to greet the sunrise rolling in over the great hills towards the East.
He would always be back just as she awoke with a cup of tea in one hand and a bunch of wild flowers in the other, a bouquet of buttercups, daisy, forget me not, wild primrose and early roses.
She sat in the chair and closed her eyes. How long would this pain last?
She sank into the chair. It was a beautiful chair, an antique, made from Japanese Oak. He had bought it on his travels to the East. The back of the chair was exquisitely carved in the shape of two dragons.
He had told her that The Dragon Chair was a mystical piece, made for a crown princess. It was over 400 years old from the Momoyama period of medieval Japan.
It had reminded her of an old Enid Blyton book she had read as a child - ‘The Wishing Chair’.
Maybe if she wished hard enough.
The sun had now risen and moved on its westward course across the sky, falling with full beam into the room. The dusty surfaces absorbed the light flatly, powdering the space like a pause in time.
Weary from weeks of grief she let her head begin to gently slip towards her chest and soon she was asleep.
She dreamt and he was with her.
Waking, her mouth was dry and her neck painful. Slowly lifting her head, she tilted it back and forward to relieve the stiffness. She looked at her watch. It was 12 noon. The sun had left the room and she was alone again. Her hands rubbed against the smooth surface of the chair arms.
So many lifetimes.
The golden hue of the ancient wood gleamed intact, its warmth and heart still alive, breathing.
Hope of the Resurrection?
But she could not believe. There was no hope, nothing remained.
Pressing down on the chair arms to help her stand, she felt a slight give beneath her left hand. Lifting her arm she noticed a slight indentation in the wood where her hand had been.
Sitting back down she let her fingers run over the smooth wood, and then she noticed it.
Underneath the curve of the dragon, just below the arm a small oblong shape had appeared. Her hand reached to it and she tried to pull it towards her but it remained intact.
She tried again, pulling more forcibly until in one bold move the tiny compartment pulled away, scattering its contents.
She watched as the tiny dried flower heads drifted gently across her lap and into the room.
Forget me not.
Copyright M.M.Wake 2011
http://www.feedbooks.com/userbook/22419/the-secret-of-the-dragon-chair Free download
It had been the edge of winter when he died and now spring had erupted around earth’s lifeless corpse bringing birth and rebirth, but she could feel no joy.
Her mind had stopped, thoughts car crashed against a wall of emotional pain that she could not scale, only sit and watch each second shift its tiny arm, ticking towards the day when she would join him.
Yet even pain wears out the sufferer and although the emptiness continued her body grew restless for the usual routine of life, a betrayal to his memory.
The day started clear and bright, one single imprint of a star clung flatly against the blue curtain of the morning. She wrestled with the fastening on her watch, finding the catch awkward and fiddly. She hadn’t worn it for weeks. He had bought it for her. It dangled loosely on her thin wrist, glinting in the early light.
Today would be the beginning; she would try and carry on as best she could without him. She would venture into his room and make a start.
The door to his room was shut; she pushed gently opening the door, the stale, closed air rising to greet her. The curtains were closed, the room shadowy and just as he had left it. It had been his office but in the last months of his illness it had been his retreat, his place of quiet contemplation to try and understand if not accept his fate.
The floor was littered with books from Buddhism to Islam, Christianity to Atheism, a quest to know, a thirst for knowledge, a reassurance. She wondered if he had found it in the end.
His chair stood by the window and its emptiness made her sorrowful. In the last weeks she had often entered here quietly to find him asleep in the chair and she had tiptoed around him, hardly breathing in case she woke him from his untroubled slumber.
She opened the curtains. The view from the window was the best in the house, overlooking the large garden and the fields and woods beyond.
He had loved the outdoors; the cruelty of his final weeks came with the constraints of an invalid, confining him to spend his last days behind walls. And so he had sat in this chair and gazed longingly out onto his beloved countryside. She had tried to brighten the room, bringing the outside indoors, filling his room with flowers and greenery, but the shop bought plants were a pale imitation of the natural world.
And now it was spring, his favourite time of year. He would often have been awake and outdoors early, walking their dog to greet the sunrise rolling in over the great hills towards the East.
He would always be back just as she awoke with a cup of tea in one hand and a bunch of wild flowers in the other, a bouquet of buttercups, daisy, forget me not, wild primrose and early roses.
She sat in the chair and closed her eyes. How long would this pain last?
She sank into the chair. It was a beautiful chair, an antique, made from Japanese Oak. He had bought it on his travels to the East. The back of the chair was exquisitely carved in the shape of two dragons.
He had told her that The Dragon Chair was a mystical piece, made for a crown princess. It was over 400 years old from the Momoyama period of medieval Japan.
It had reminded her of an old Enid Blyton book she had read as a child - ‘The Wishing Chair’.
Maybe if she wished hard enough.
The sun had now risen and moved on its westward course across the sky, falling with full beam into the room. The dusty surfaces absorbed the light flatly, powdering the space like a pause in time.
Weary from weeks of grief she let her head begin to gently slip towards her chest and soon she was asleep.
She dreamt and he was with her.
Waking, her mouth was dry and her neck painful. Slowly lifting her head, she tilted it back and forward to relieve the stiffness. She looked at her watch. It was 12 noon. The sun had left the room and she was alone again. Her hands rubbed against the smooth surface of the chair arms.
So many lifetimes.
The golden hue of the ancient wood gleamed intact, its warmth and heart still alive, breathing.
Hope of the Resurrection?
But she could not believe. There was no hope, nothing remained.
Pressing down on the chair arms to help her stand, she felt a slight give beneath her left hand. Lifting her arm she noticed a slight indentation in the wood where her hand had been.
Sitting back down she let her fingers run over the smooth wood, and then she noticed it.
Underneath the curve of the dragon, just below the arm a small oblong shape had appeared. Her hand reached to it and she tried to pull it towards her but it remained intact.
She tried again, pulling more forcibly until in one bold move the tiny compartment pulled away, scattering its contents.
She watched as the tiny dried flower heads drifted gently across her lap and into the room.
Forget me not.
Copyright M.M.Wake 2011
http://www.feedbooks.com/userbook/22419/the-secret-of-the-dragon-chair Free download