Carol GoldenEagle - Bone Black

Coffee is ready and Wren detects a hint of chicory among the freshly ground beans. It makes her smile to know that Lord likely picked up this special roast at the same specialty store where he found last night’s wine. As she pours herself a mug of the hot brew, Wren figures that if her husband is chopping wood outdoors, it will be a bit of time before he comes back in, so she decides to surprise him by making a nice breakfast.

As she sips, she reaches for a cookbook on a shelf that Lord constructed between two windows. Wren glances back towards the living room; it fills her with a deep sense of joy to have spent such time with her husband, joy Wren hasn’t felt for a long time because such worry and turmoil has surrounded them these last months.

Things Wren couldn’t tolerate. Lies, harm and mayhem all aimed at women just like her, brown women. It’s a poison that spreads and grows like alkali choking out the land. Now, however, Wren feels a sense of satisfaction knowing that she’s done what she can to stop it, secrets between her and God.

Wren smiles again as she looks at the afghan, now just a lump on the floor in front of the fireplace. Wren makes a mental note that she’ll tidy up in that room later. For now though, she’s decided that a quiche will be what greets her husband when he comes back in from chopping logs. The rose that Wren brought for Lord at the airport is already displayed in a vase and sunlight streams in through the kitchen window.

As the sweet aroma of caramelizing onions fills her kitchen, Wren runs her fingers across the amethyst pendant Lord attached around her neck last night before handing her a glass of wine. She’s always loved the purple stone, even more after reading that its healing properties include purifying the mind and clearing away negative thinking. That’s not the reason Lord purchased the gift, though. He’d just seen it in a shop window in downtown Winnipeg and thought it would look nice on his wife. He is also well aware that Wren loves gifts that come from Mother Earth.

One reason Lord decided to take a few days off this coming week is because he wants to help Wren get ready for a new show where her work will be featured. It’s a special time for any artist to have their own solo exhibit. He said he could see that the outdoor kiln was fired while he was away and says he’s proud of her for working again. Splitting logs this morning is his way of saying that he’ll be there for her, to help feed the fire and get her new pieces ready for the show.

“Wow, smells great in here,” Lord exclaims as he comes through the door.

Wren is popping the shrimp, cheese, asparagus and onion dish into the oven. Before taking off his boots, he grabs her from behind to give her a satisfying hug.

“But what smells even better, is the scent of you. You were wonderful last night,” he whispers into her hair.

Wren closes the oven door then turns to share in his embrace. “Oh, my love, you are all sweaty,” she says and giggles. “We have forty minutes before this properly bakes. Maybe you want to take a shower first,” she suggests, caressing his jaw.

“Maybe you want to come with me,” he says.

“Oh yes, you insatiable, handsome man. That can be done.”

Lord takes Wren by the hand and leads her up the stairs toward the master bathroom.

“You’re still wearing your coat. Here, let me get that,” Wren says as she seductively unzips his navy jacket.

“And you are still wearing your apron.” Lord runs his hand along the ponytail his wife always wears while cooking. “Let me get that.” Lord turns on the shower and the couple step in. They are naked, vulnerable, in love.

This is how it should be , Wren thinks. Trust and tenderness . She squeezes a dab of lavender-scented body wash in her palm, then caresses her husband. While sweat is rinsed away, their passion provides more heat than the cascading droplets of water. “You are so beautiful, Wren,” Lord whispers.

By the time they return to the kitchen, forty minutes has long passed, and the quiche is a little overcooked, but neither of them notice. They sit contentedly at the kitchen island where they have a view of sunlight gleaming off the fresh snow outside. A perfect start to a new day.

These past days have been good for Wren, allowing her to focus on her marriage, to focus on her art. Lord has been her constant and affectionate companion since he returned from his latest business trip. His idea for a stay-cation was a good one. They’ve spent more time in bed than even in their early days of courtship. He’s been with her in the studio each afternoon, even venturing into creating his own works, and feeding the fire for the outdoor kiln. They’ve been firing dozens of pieces, preparing for what will be an exciting show and pottery sale.

“I am digging this new style,” Lord says, studying a vase. He doesn’t know the piece has been finished with bone black ash, the very ash that used to be the skinny roofer. “This is different for you,” he continues, picking up another. “The designs you’ve painted remind me of the ancient Egyptian pottery that was used to adorn the facades of tower entryways.”

Lord is especially interested in a gargoyle image that Wren’s thrown together using the ash of Father Hector. “Kind of maudlin but I like it,” Lord says, running his fingers over the face of the wretched beast. “And, it’s interesting because this type of work is exactly what the market is demanding again.”

He talks about early architecture and how artists were as much a part of creation as the builders themselves. Wren already knows something about it because there was a similar discussion in one of her university classes. She doesn’t stop him, however, finding comfort in listening to the sound of his voice, no matter what the subject.

Wren ponders the history of what she knows about gargoyles. The Catholic Church believed the grotesque figures would ward off evil. The figures were often placed above doorways and gateways offering parishioners a sense of safety and protection within the sanctity of the church. But what safety did that church bring to those touched by the hand of Father Hector? Wren wonders, drawing the conclusion that a sense of safety comes from within the soul and not from within a building.

“Yes, I thought I would try something different,” Wren replies once Lord is finished with his history lesson. “But I think of this as more of a garden ornament to scare those aphids away from eating my lettuce,” she says and giggles.

Wren tells her husband that Kohkum used to place old, glass powerline insulators around her garden, explaining that the glass carried a memory and had the power to remind bugs to stay away. Her garden was always abundant, though she never figured out how to deal with the potato bugs underground.

It brings a warm smile to Wren’s face to think of the moment Kohkum started swearing in Cree one autumn when the potato harvest was ready to dig up. Wastakac is a word that means “damn it,” something Kohkum had never said before. It was the only profane word Wren ever remembers hearing in Cree. It’s a phrase that she’d repeat, as a girl, anytime anything bothered her. Like when a schoolyard bully would make fun of her brown skin. Wastakac!

“My mom used to put out a scarecrow in the garden,” Lord says. “She called it the Face of Doom and said that it would keep intruders away.”

Wren gasps and holds her breath for a moment in disbelief. She excuses the sound as a hiccup, not wanting her husband to know he’s upset her. Of course Lord would have no idea she has been having constant dreams about a scarecrow. His comment is surreal: does he somehow know her thoughts and fears?