Dancing In The Shadows of Love (31 page)

PANDITA:
Scoop-shaped head covering worn by the holy women

PETITIONS/PLEAS/APPEALS:
Prayers

PITHA:
The seating in a place of worship; usually made of teak wood

PRIOR:
A Holy Man

PRIORESS:
Leader of the Controllers

SIGN OF THE NOVA:
Any religious gesture or ritual action of worship

SPIRIT KING:
Any Supreme Being (e.g. God)

SUB-PRIORESS:
A Novice Holy Woman

WAR, THE:
Any War, for aggression has always existed in human memory

My husband, Beric John Croome, with his unfailing support, encouragement and patience, is my best friend, my anchor in a crazy world, the light that guides me home, and the love of my life. Thank you for all that you are and all that you allow me to be. I love you.

I also wish to express my heartfelt thanks to my parents, Naomi Dawn and the late Isaac Benjamin (Heinie) Heinemann, for their unwavering belief in me. Whenever I needed them, they were always there. Parents as wonderful as mine are a rich and rare blessing in the world. I’m deeply thankful to have these two special people as parents. The loss of my Dad on 26 February 2012 has left an immense gap in our lives and I miss him.

My sister Iona Cockerill, her husband Ian, and their children, Nikki, Bailey and Michael, have been a constant support and strength along my rocky writing road. They’ve already bought me a special pen for book signings! I have the best big sister in the world (and you should taste her
melktert
!)

My thanks also to my lovely in-laws, Vi and the late Keith Croome, and to my sister-in-law Karen McLennan and her husband David, for their continuous interest in and support of my writing.

My writing colleagues, Debs Valentyne, Leonie Anderson, Janet Chamberlain and LvW, have read draft after draft after draft of this novel. Without their dedication, moral support and invaluable advice this story would never have been told.

Michelle Davidson Argyle’s talent and artistic vision produced the beautiful cover design of this second edition. My thanks to Michelle for her hard work and patience with my vacillations.

The young and talented Weronika Janczuk copyedited my story while still a freelance editor. Her advice, guidance and encouragement gave me back my enthusiasm for this story and helped turn it from a draft into a novel.

I am also grateful to Rob Siders from
52Novels.com
for his hard work in converting the novel into eBook format and for his patience with my constant changes.

For my brave friends, Joan Harrison and Colleen Currin, who read the first, painful, draft of this novel and believed in it all the way: thank you. You went far beyond the call of friendship!

To my friends, Liz & Hugo Marcus, Brian & Bev Kalil, Dave & Maeve Kolitz, Robert & Shirley Bradnick, Jean Cockerill, Philip & Betty Guy, William Midgley, Noreen Kleu, Rose Jones, Norma Scott and Meyrick Kretschmer, who have, all too often, put up with unreturned emails, phone calls and no visits because I was writing: thanks for your enduring patience and your interest.

To Dr F A Fouche (for your guidance) and Dr Clyde Keevy (for your encouragement.)

To Sydney Tshuma and Dingaan Mdluli: thank you for all your help, which gave me the precious free time to write this story.

Judy Croome (2012)

Judy Croome lives in Johannesburg, the economic powerhouse of Africa, but her childhood playground was the Zimbabwean bush. With the beat of Africa in her blood, her writing is set in this continent, which has deep passion as its heart.

The driving motivation of her writing is the search for love in all its forms. Judy writes because she believes words have great power: they can bring comfort, joy and hope. They can reveal secrets and lies. And, while they may not change the world, they can—at their best—change people’s lives, even if only for a moment.

Judy is married to Beric Croome. A vegetarian, Judy loves her extended family and all cats, and she enjoys reading, writing, nature, old churches with their ancient graveyards, evolutionary astrology, meditation and silence.

Please join Judy on her social media network:

Goodreads:
Judy Croome

LibraryThing:
Judy Croome

Twitter:
@judy_croome

LinkedIn:
Judy Croome

Facebook:
Judy Croome

My blog:
www.judycroome.blogspot.com

Visit
http://dancingintheshadowsoflove.blogspot.com/
to read reviews and other interesting facts about
Dancing in the Shadows of Love

If you enjoyed this story, please consider posting a review on your favourite bookstore website. You can also blog, tweet or Facebook your review, to let others know you enjoyed reading it.

If you enjoyed
Dancing in the Shadows of Love
you may enjoy other books by this author:
A Lamp at Midday
, a volume of poetry exploring life, loss and love (2012, Aztar Press) and
The Weight of a Feather and Other Short Stories
(2012, Aztar Press.) Judy Croome’s next full-length novel
Watch for the Morning
will be released in 2013.

Here is a sample from
The Weight of a Feather
for you to enjoy:

The sight of the solitary figure, hunched warmly in tattered animal skins, stops the slow drag of my feet. The flickering flames draw me towards their heat, into the clearing where he sits, unhidden. I hadn’t seen him until the hiss of a falling log broke the stark silence surrounding me.

‘What do you want?’ He speaks rustily, a high-pitched squeak scrubbing the hairs of my neck into attention.

‘A drink.’ I take a step closer, exhaustion pushing me to ignore the creeping darkness. ‘Some food, if you can spare it.’

‘What else?’

‘A place to rest.’

‘Why here?’

Patiently I answer his questions. A stranger intruding in his domain, I need him. ‘There’s nowhere else for me to go.’ I gesture towards the thin sliver of moon, still low in the night sky. ‘There’s not enough light to go on.’

‘But you don’t want to go on, do you?’

An inescapable truth lies embedded in his words. I shake my head. ‘There’s no future for me here.’

A foot scrapes along a rock as he bends to pick up a stick. Poking the fire into a greater blaze, he says, ‘Sit.’

So I sit, stumbling over my weary feet in unseemly haste, my stomach grumbling loudly in protest. I’d begun my journey ill prepared; now I’m paying for my foolishness.

He holds out an old tin cup. I gratefully press my palms around the fading image of Spiderman. It reminds me of Marty.

I try not to think of Marty, but it’s easier to stop breathing than to stop remembering the last time I saw him.

‘You’ve been thinking of killing yourself. That’s why you came here.’

Coffee, hot and acrid, slops over my hands. ‘Suicide is for cowards,’ I whisper in denial.

‘Or desperate souls.’

Desperate? Am I desperate? A hollow cavern, musty, rotten and black as the Devil’s eyes, exists where other people have hearts.

Perhaps I am desperate, and it shows on my face. I haven’t looked in a mirror for days, so I’ve noticed no changes.

‘Is there nothing to live for?’

An eternity of love mellows the intrusive question. I lift my gaze from the flames and, until my eyes adjust, I think my companion is merely an illusion, another part of my madness.

I answer him anyway. ‘Nothing. No one.’ Hopelessness thrums through my answer and, so there can be no misunderstanding, I add, ‘I’m alone in a world gone mad.’

‘We’re alone all our lives.’ He chuckles, deepening the crevices lining his face with years of living. ‘And this world has always been mad.’

I look around. Despite the dimness of dusk, there is peace and beauty here. This is not the black void of petty sins, nor is it the chaos consuming my soul since Marty left me.

‘There’s no madness here.’

A malignant flicker escapes from his eyes, eating deep into my secret fears. ‘You’re wrong.’

I jerk upwards, needing only the tiniest excuse to flee once again. He knows what he’s done and smiles, revealing a row of yellowed teeth. ‘You’re in no danger from me,’ he soothes, and the warmth returns to his words, seeping into my loneliness.

Can I trust him?

I have no choice, and no energy, to do otherwise. ‘Where,’ I clear my throat, the dryness of fear clicking away the last taste of coffee, ‘is the madness here?’

He’s silent, staring into the smouldering embers for a long while. The faint swish as he twirls the coffee dregs in his mug—another dented superhero stares at me through his grubby fingers—breaks the intense silence of the night. Just when I think he won’t answer me, he says, ‘Close,’ and a shudder racks his slight frame, stirring the mangy fur slung around his shoulders. ‘Too close.’

A lonely jackal yip-yips in the distance and, in unison, we shift nearer the fire. His bony knee knocks against my denim-clad leg, and then he whispers invitingly, ‘Tell me of your madness.’

Does he ask because he wants to distract himself from his own insanity? Or does he want to know what brought me into his solitude?

‘There’s no reason to go on.’

‘Reason has so little to do with life.’ He takes my hand in a surprisingly feminine gesture of comfort, cupping it between his palms and gently rubbing it. ‘It’s in the heart that people find the strength to go on.’

‘I have no heart anymore.’ I don’t even try to hide the bitterness, or the anger. ‘I lost it a year ago.’

‘When Marty left.’

The pain is numbing; I don’t question how he knows.

‘Will you tell me what happened?’

I shake my head. I’ve told no one. For, if I open my jaws, still locked in agony—if I let one word spill out of me, the pus of despair will choke me.

‘Tell me.’ There’s an order in the sudden deepening of the stranger’s voice. Still I resist. I’ve held it in for so many months I don’t know how to speak of the emptiness that fills me.

‘Tell me… please.’

I loosen my tongue from the sticky flytrap that is my palate to say no. Somehow what I say is not what I intend.

‘It happened in the middle of the day,’ I begin, ‘a beautiful spring day, full of hope and happiness…’

…’Marty,’ I call. ‘Hurry up! You’ll be late again.’ I hear the careless clatter as he runs down the stairs, followed by the familiar thud of the heavy bag landing in the corner.

‘I’m here, Ma,’ and the whirlwind that is my son slumps into momentary quiet as he slurps his juice, Spiderman’s vapid face rapidly fading from orange to crystal clear as the tumbler empties. ‘Yum!’ Marty says. ‘Chocbitz!’ and begins to demolish his cereal. Already, he’s loosened his tie and his hair, neatly combed before he left the bathroom, is spiked and on end.

The familiar tightness expands my chest. I don’t often allow myself regrets, but today I can’t help thinking if only his father could see him now. Sighing, I turn back to the dishes piled high in the sink, knowing it’s too late for regrets. Jonathon is gone, long gone, the car crash that killed him almost forgotten. Only I am left to cherish the milestones marking our son’s journey to maturity.

Too soon, it’s time to leave for work. Dull as it is, it’s secure and pays the bills that keep my Marty safe. I drop him off at school on the way.

There’s nothing extraordinary about the start of this particular day—the morning passes with the usual office ho-hum. I clear two tapes of dictation quickly and even some long-outstanding filing. Soon the moment I wait for every day arrives. I must fetch Marty from school.

I’m slightly late today. A traffic snarl delays me, so I park across the road, half a block away from the school gates. Marty emerges from the pack of noisy children in a rush, his satchel on his back, his hands clutching a large poster.

Even from this distance, I pick up his eagerness, and I smile lovingly. He had his art class today. From experience, I know the poster is a gift for me. Perhaps another heart, roughly drawn and asymmetrical, but full of so much love the mother in me will somehow find an empty spot in our tiny apartment to pin it up.

He looks toward the spot where I normally park and frowns when I’m not there. Since Jonathon died, he hates it when I’m late.

‘Marty,’ I call, standing on tiptoe to wave at him. ‘I’m over here, Marty.’

‘Ma!’ He shouts delightedly, holding his drawing aloft, ‘Look what I’ve got for you!’

With his characteristic excess of energy, he charges towards me, all his focus on reaching me. Neither of us sees the car until it’s too late.

Far, far too late to do anything except watch, in silent, stunned horror, as my son’s small body flies up, over the festive red roof, to land crumpled and still at the side of the road.

Blood dribbles slowly towards the words he has written across his paper offering
. I love Mom
, I read.

Calmly, I scoop it up, folding it in two, before slipping it into my purse. Only then do I kneel next to my son. ‘I love you too, Marty,’ I say. I barely hear the screams around me, fading into the sounds of an approaching siren. Nor do I feel the hands gently unclenching my grip from Marty’s still warm fingers…

…In the distance, I hear someone sobbing, and I know it’s me. I haven’t cried once since Marty died, and my throat struggles to cope with the deluge pouring from my heart. The stranger lets me cry until I’m empty of all tears; limp and drained dry amidst the rubble of my life.

‘It’s not fair!’ I don’t bother to hide the acid quagmire consuming me. ‘Jonathon. Marty. Why take both of them? Why leave me alone?’

‘The madness doesn’t discriminate.’

‘I want to see Marty.’ The sobs rise in my chest once more but, ruthlessly, I crush them. Crying has made no difference. I am still alone. ‘I need to see my son again, before I go crazy.’