Soul Prints

by Norman Hines

Overview

Set within the backdrop of a mystical battle between good and evil, the lives of two young people unknowingly struggle to complete their soul prints on earth. The local high school has taken on the onerous task of mounting the musical MAN OF LA MANCHA. Infiltrating the lives of the members of the production is a force that threatens to exert a mind boggling influence on the cast. Nuri Lemuel, a girl with a sweet soprano voice, and chosen to play Aldonza, the tragic lead of the play, has always longed to touch the heart of her unavailable father. Nathaniel is a fellow student with whom she is ill-fated for involvement. Unknown to her, he is a lost soul from the world beyond. So much of his life and memory is an unsolved mystery. Their efforts to fulfill the demanding reason for existence take them into a fearful world of the unknown.

Soul Prints is a poetic tale of grief, enlightenment and an underlying hope for peace.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781475936599
Publisher:	iUniverse, Incorporated
Publication date:	07/18/2012
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	148
File size:	225 KB

Read an Excerpt

Soul Prints

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By Norman Hines

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 Norman Hines
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-3657-5

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Chapter One

Scene 1 Grace

Grace, the woman, was bent not with age, but with the burden of too many baskets of wet garments, too many days of bare knuckles scrubbing worn clothes on the glass ridges of washboards. Her eyes betrayed the tiredness within.

"The day is almost over," she said, more to herself. "Hopefully Nuri will come home from school without anguish or resentment." She loved her only child, yet, inwardly, she felt cheated by life itself. Years of loneliness within a loveless marriage had sapped her of any desire to seek and retrieve that spirited girl of her past. How had she not seen the effect on her daughter of the worthless man she called husband?

"Self-imposed blindness to the faults of others should never impinge on one's own search for happiness." Her father's words had always given her strength. He was a remarkable man, self-educated, with a gift for the spoken phrase. She had long forgiven her husband, Darcy, for his inability to physically provide for them. What she could not forgive was his lack of compassion toward her, a need so vital to reassure her in her constant struggle for self.

Her mind held the memories too well; no amount of effort could erase the uneasy feeling that echoed from her encounters with Darcy that had reached through to her soul, where time had no meaning. His words could still sting, stifling her love: "You don't need to be settin' my place at the table. I'll see you when I get back." She'd given no response, so as to avoid the assault that might or might not happen. Taking his cap from a large nail protruding from the wall behind him, he'd slapped it jauntily on his head and with a hearty laugh threw open the door. He glanced back at her, and, for a moment, it seemed as if there were second thoughts. She had made no attempt to prevent his leaving. The same scenario had replayed itself many times over. It would be days or even weeks until his return.

And now, the clock over the kitchen stove struck four, bringing her mind back to the present. She raised her head, rubbed her hand over her graying hair, and looked anxiously toward the small bird that sat motionless in its cage. "Birdie, birdie," she cooed to it. "Sing. Sing for me." She pressed her hand to her heart, a silent plea that Nuri would come through the door, running at once to the cage to sing with her sweet soprano voice an invocation to the little creature huddled within—a ball of yellow that would suddenly brighten and respond. The room would resound with their music. "Then, only then," she murmured, "will things be all right again."

She busied herself with removing the wooden pins from the several lines of clothes strung from wall to wall in the small kitchen. She concentrated on the task at hand to occupy her mind and speed up the plastic clock above the stove. As years of responsibility and labor had etched their passing on the once glowing face, she now found it more and more difficult to keep painful memories from creeping to the forefront of her thoughts. Slowly, the time went by. She refilled the aging iron kettle with water several times. A small giggle, almost infantile, escaped her lips. "The old machine," she fancied, "like myself, is constantly running out of steam."

An hour elapsed before the door opened. Grace, her hand still clasping the hot iron, reaching out as if to ward off some unseen malevolent force, turned anxiously toward her daughter.

Nuri did not go to the bird, but slumped down in the near-rungless chair close to the table so overburdened with the soiled garments of the well-to-do. Nuri's hair was long and black. Against her mother's demands, she was forever twisting a single lock of it around her finger. She was not considered beautiful, but her face had a particular attractiveness to it. Beneath its rather melancholy appearance, there was a radiance that held the promise of secret knowledge.

The woman said nothing. She looked at her daughter and was thankful for having birthed her. She is special, the mother was convinced. If only she could understand what rages within her. There was a continual ache for her. Grace busied herself with folding the mound of recently dried clothes and waited for her daughter to speak. Nuri said nothing, but her eyes were red and swollen with anger that threatened to erupt at the first provocation.

Her mother moved carefully, refilling the new-to-you washer with more of the unending supply of dirty clothes. When the machine finally sputtered into action, Grace eased herself into the chair opposite the girl's and said softly, "Nuri." She reached out her rough, calloused hand to touch her daughter's tears.

Nuri pulled back. "Don't," she warned, and would offer nothing more.

A look of despair answered Nuri's denial of her compassionate offer. "You've been to see your father," Grace said, condemnation not in words but in the tightness of her lips. And then she added, "Nuri. Acceptance is all we can do. Neither you, nor I, nor the bird's singing will change anything. He is not coming home—ever."

Grace rose quickly, for no apparent reason but to escape from the expected outburst of Nuri's anger, a fury she knew was not directed toward her, but which sprang from a deep-rooted resentment for a father who cared so little for his family.

"How can you say that, Mama?" Nuri cried out. "He's always come back before. And when he did, we had such wonderful times together."

Grace drew herself up, pushed back her shoulders, pondered for an instant, and then, pointing to her daughter, blurted, "Nuri!" She fought to hold back a cry, a cry that lived beneath a heart worn thin by a forever-threatening wave of angry despair. "You've got to understand—this time I don't want him back. He is without soul. He can do nothing for us but deliberately hurt us." Her voice softened. "I've given you all the understanding and love that I know how to give. You've grown up with only me to guide you. I have never put too many restrictions upon you. There was no need." Her hands reached out to caress those of her daughter. "But for your own sake and, in fact, for both our well-being, I ask you not to go again to the jail to see him!"

Nuri looked up at her. "Why? Why would I ever want to?" And then she said, "I've tried, Mama. I've tried so hard." Her voice was almost a whisper. She paused for a long moment. It was beginning again. Deep beneath that coveted space that contained so much of unspoken love, a specter of fear crept forward, stifling every breath. She withdrew from the rough tenderness of her mother's hands and, as if to protect her soul, covered her face. She screamed silently. "He turned his back on me, Mama. Shouted at me that he had no time for us." She struggled with the words and then in a very low, agonized voice, whispered, "I hated him then. I wanted him to disappear, to leave me forever." She saw her mother's anguished eyes.

Grace rose, reaching out for the expected embrace. Together they stood, each a haven to the other. It was then that the bird began to sing.

The notes floated sweetly on the air. They teased and fluttered around Nuri and her mother. With each sound, their worlds became one. The memories of the moment disappeared. The warmth of the bird's trilling filled them. And they swirled together, their dresses wrapping and unwrapping around them in a dance of forgetfulness and love.

The bird fluttered in his cage, his voice a crescendo of resonance responding to the timbre of Nuri's laughter. And then, as suddenly as it had begun, all movement ceased. The tiny form in the cage dropped from its swing and huddled quietly on its prison floor. Sensing its sudden melancholia, Nuri ran to it. She opened the cage door and gently lifted the throbbing form to her breast. Caressing the small body, she murmured, "You must never leave me, Birdie." Almost inaudibly she added, "You and I, we understand." Birdie lifted its head toward her as though aware of the commonality between them. Its eyes seem to reflect the emotional baggage that they shared.

Within her hands, Nuri felt the tremor of the small body. She remembered the chill air engulfing them both that day as she rushed home from the pet store; her heart racing as she realized the importance of this diminutive creature now so totally hers.

It was only later that she recalled the young man who had eyed her so intently through the grime of the store window. She had heard his name spoken once when he was introduced to Mr. Allard's drama class. She had then forgotten it, since it was of no import to her. Later, in the middle of the night, she had sat upright, perspiring from a dream in which Birdie was calling over and over the name Nathaniel. It was to be the first of many communiqués between Birdie, the young man, and herself.

Grace watched quietly as Nuri stroked the tiny breast of Birdie. She never felt so remote from her daughter as at times like this. She feared that the bird was both a blessing and a curse to Nuri.

Nuri replaced the small creature in its cage, and they sang together, the sweetness of Nuri's soprano voice matched by the ethereal sound of Birdie.

It was not so much the singing that resonated within Grace, but an overwhelming feeling that the lost spirit of her own girlhood was momentarily being rekindled.

She leaned on the ironing board with its worn cover and listened, allowing her memory to stray.

It was difficult for her to accept the fact that she was once in love with the man so often incarcerated in the local jail for a myriad of petty crimes. She never questioned his whereabouts. She feared his sudden mood changes and the times when his love could be altered without warning. In the beginning of her marriage, she had endured the blows because of her unfathomable need for him. The child she carried and lost, had taken with its lifeless body the tattered fragments of her heart. A few years later, Nuri was conceived and born without love. From that moment on, Grace gave up the struggle for her own dwindling spirit and added what was left of it to that of her daughter's. However, she could never give up memory of the tragic story of Darcy's violent confrontation with his selfish, psychotic brute of a father.

The singing stopped.

Nuri turned to her mother. "I'll do everything that's possible for Darcy," she said. Nuri could never imagine calling him dad. "I don't look for thanks, only the smallest trace of love. And, you know, I could never accept his pity." Grace laughed. "Good God, Nuri!" she exclaimed. "He's not capable of giving either."

Nuri sighed. "I know you're right, Mama. But I'll never give up trying."

She pondered for a moment and then asked, "Mama, were you happy when I was born? Did you always want me?" She paused and blurted out, "Did Darcy ever love you?" She saw the pain on her mother's face and quickly asked, "Why did Darcy never love me?"

To prevent her feelings pent up for so many years from spilling out, Grace ran to her, and together they twirled around the kitchen until, both exhausted, they collapsed at the overloaded table. Grace delved her hands into the pile of clothes and threw them jubilantly into the air. "Ah, this is my reality, Nuri," she moaned.

"It will not be forever," Nuri promised. "Trust me."

Grace was struck by the sincerity in her daughter's voice. She cupped Nuri's face gently with her hands and kissed her. "Oh, Nuri. You're my godsend. Don't ever leave me."

Nuri laughed, "Don't fret, Mama. I'm sure there's no place in heaven for me yet. God doesn't need a so-so soprano."

Grace shivered. "Don't be so sure. I'm sure that he's heard you singing. But, anyway, no need to worry. I'll be there to greet you. And, besides, Birdie will be there to greet us both." They hugged and glanced toward Birdie's cage. "Honest to God, Nuri. I believe he's listening."

"Oh, Mama!" Nuri exclaimed. She turned to Birdie. "You hear that, Birdie? Mama thinks you're listenin'?" To Grace, she giggled, "Thank God he's not jealous, Mama." But, inwardly, Nuri was not sure.

Chapter Two

Scene 2 A Bleak Landscape

Darcy Lemuel was a frightened youth of fourteen when, for the first time, he stood up to the threatening fists of his father. An accumulation of years of abuse had finally reached its zenith. Darcy knew that his body would tolerate no more. This man, who had nothing of human compassion nor love within him, cared little for this unwanted extension of himself. The many assaults Darcy had endured left him crippled in his mind and soul. And yet, every blow that fell upon him strengthened his resolve for recompense and revenge. At fourteen, the youth's unholy upbringing had prepared him, from early in his life, to enter now into the twisted landscape of his father.

He stood before the psychotic Goliath, only his fists and rage to protect him. A pilfered dollar bill lay crushed in his side pocket. Aware of nothing else but the tormentor towering over him, he commanded every vestige of his body to rally to his defense. This was no good-verses-evil encounter, but the union of two malignant forces violating the boundaries of separate—yet-similar life paths.

"Give me the goddamn dollar bill. I know you got it, you little bucket of shit."

Darcy saw the man advancing toward him. He shouted, "You put one hand on me, you bastard, and I swear I'll beat the hell out of you!"

The psychotic Goliath laughed. "You piss ant. I'll kick your ass up between your ears." He struck Darcy square in the face, knocking him to the floor.

All the years of persecution had pushed the youth to the point of derangement. He had only his fists and rage to defend him. In his madness, all reason was lost. Hatred spewed out from his fists, like slashing demons. There was no awareness of the here and now; time and place was suspended in a whirlwind of unfathomable strength.

Bloodied, he stood alone and looked unbelieving at the prone body of the man who was responsible for giving him life. He felt nothing. He simply and lucidly stepped back from the writhing body on the worn linoleum of the kitchen floor. The corruption and anger within him was now firmly implanted.

Darcy screamed every obscenity he could muster. Completely unaware of the consequences of his actions, his eyes fell on a red-tinted glass vase on the nearby table. He was driven to rid himself of this ungodly fiend who lay before him, semi-conscious and writhing in agony, his throat unable to deliver speech. With a force straight from hell itself, Darcy struck again and again, the vase smashing into a thousand pieces. He knew that the barely audible sounds that arose from deep within the bloody mass that lay struggling for life came from the very same dark despairing part of its own soul. His locked fists struck at the swirling pieces of red glass that encircled him.

It was only the sharp, horrified cry of the common-law wife arriving from the market that pierced through the insanity that possessed him.

Darcy shook his head in an effort to shuffle some reality into his fevered mind, and then he turned and walked out of his father's landscape and into what was left of his own. He ran, unaware of where he was going—only that he must escape from the unrelenting demons pursuing him.

Two days later, he was apprehended by the town police as he lay exhausted and hungry on the wet lawn of the town park. He gave no resistance, but he would not answer any of their questions. He trusted no one for he was self-possessed, all powerful. A day or two before, had he not struck down the prince of darkness himself and escaped from his army of devils? Yet he felt no peace within himself.

The trial before a judicial magistrate was short and very decisive. It was as if this man who ruled the world with his gavel was bereft of any human emotion.

Darcy stood still quietly, his head down.

"How do you plead?" demanded the harbinger of bad news. Guilty was the only answer that would be acceptable to the old judge.

Darcy mumbled the word.

"Speak up you sniffling coward," roared the man who considered himself somewhat of a referee.

Darcy shouted, "I said goddamn guilty."

The trial was short and to the point. The prosecuting attorney made much of Darcy's vicious attack upon his father. Little was said in support of the youthful offender. The verdict was pronounced as expeditiously as possible. Four years in an institution for "perverse and headstrong youth."

Darcy snorted. "It's strange how the law has transformed my father into a saint." He shrugged his shoulders. "My time will come," he told himself. "When I'm out, I'll deal with the whole damn pile of them."

Two officers roughly removed him from the court and into the waiting van for transport to the institution. He did not protest. The years of his life were now on their way to fulfilling what he believed to be his destiny. In fact he looked forward to serving his first jail term. Society had decreed that he had done a major crime. In Darcy's distorted thinking, the verdict was a reward for his alleged offence. At fourteen, for Christ's sake, he had fought and won his first major battle. Did not all wronged men, as well as the guilty, suffer incarceration? Did it not add to one's self-respect?

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Soul Prints by Norman Hines Copyright © 2012 by Norman Hines. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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