A Leap of Faith: The Triathlon of the Turkey (El Triatlon del Pavo) YEK

Starting the Triatlon del Pavo 2008 Cancun, Mexico

I believe that there are certain points in life that you have to pass by to find out, not so much how good you are at something and not even how much so, but only to see, live and breathe. 

 

 

I did my first triathlon ever. A great feat that carries with it the hardest of battles with one of the most assiduous enemies of my life: fear. And after nearly two years of hurting myself from falling off my bike, twisting my ankle, cramps in my calves that could have well been syndromes that required amputation, among other events, I arrived to that finish line.

 

This is how it went.

 

We arrived early with the wind blowing and the sun peeking between long strips of clouds. My friends and I were sitting on the sand, watching how beautiful the sunrise was. The ocean, like rumpled silk, tempted and taunted between whispers of the wind as the sun made its presence known before hiding behind clouds again. And after watching all the other categories start, it was finally our turn.

 

The squeal of the starting whistle.

 

Everyone ran to the ocean, splashing each other, dolphining, swimming, running. I slipped into the water and was rocked by the waves. My respiration started to peak and drop wildly. Panic slapped me in the face, making me stand on the sargasso. In the distance, I saw how the waves elevated all the other swimmers.

 

I froze.

 

It was in that brief moment that an ounce of doubt seeped in and said, “And if I tell my trainer that I’m not going to do this?”

 

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

 

I turned and saw one of the lifeguards who was watching over the swimmers. His question erased everything on my slate and before I knew it, I put my face back into the water.

 

At the first buoy, I was panicking again and I grabbed a lifeguard’s floater. Another swimmer was already there, on another floater.

 

“I’m going to throw up,” he said.

 

And it was only the first 100 meters.

 

And as the lifeguard towed the swimmer back, the one who had my floater asked me if I was going to continue. I looked towards the second buoy and saw how far away it looked. A wave passed by gently as if the sea was trying to claim me as its own.

 

I am, and nothing more.

 

Fernando from the Red Cross Starting His Second Lap

When I was finishing my first lap, the last couple of swimmers were finishing their second lap. When I stepped into the ocean again for my second lap, I was alone. Swimming 200 meters extra didn’t help the situation either. I was practically on my way to Cuba when lifeguards caught up with me and pulled at my leg on four separate occasions.

 

 

 

“You’re on your way back to Cancun,” said one. In my last 200 meters, he corralled me so that I wouldn’t swim so far off track again. And as I swam and saw how far I was from the course and from the buoy I was supposed to be swimming to, I vowed that if I ever got back to land, I would kiss the first person I see.

 

The only person who was on shore waiting was a friend I had no intention of ever kissing. He had waited for me.

 

Mental kisses, then.

 

The bike was the easiest part except for the first two kilometers. I saw something that wouldn’t easily erase from my mind: an athlete (who I clearly remembered seeing on the beach before the whistle) was lying on the middle of the road with a dark puddle under her head. Two road bikes were leaning on separate trees and the race organizers were indicating that the competitors continue the race.

 

I didn’t see a helmet anywhere.

 

As I passed her, I felt a numbness in the back of my head. In the following laps, I was repeating to myself a sort of prayer, hoping she wouldn’t die on me. In the second lap, the dark puddle seeped across the road in a thick path, crossing in front of me. I saw the wet spot on my tire as I race across.

 

Please don’t die on me. Please don’t die on me.

 

By the time I was on my third lap, she was sitting on the side of the road, her head bandaged.

 

In the fourth lap, the only ones who were still on the bike was a teenager who looked like he was suffering from cramps and a guy on an old skool double suspension Mongoose with a rack for school books on the back. The only thing he had there was a bottle of Gatorade strapped firmly onto its grill.

 

Getting off the bike, the balls of my feet felt hollow, as if they had holes from where I had been pressing against the pedals. And as blisters formed on my feet from the grains of sand that were still stuck to my skin from the swim, my face contorted and formed a smile. Even though I knew that at that point, I was the only one doing the triathlon (most everyone had left and the roads were opened to traffic again), I kept going.

 

Me, In the Final Stretch of the Triatlon del Pavo 2008

In the last 20 meters, I saw the finish line loom before me. Karla, Hector, Genaro, Odin, Vega and Rosana (friends from my mountain bike group) were shouting at me, urging me across. My heels kicked high and I sprinted, wondering if I was going to cry.

 

 

Crossing the finish line, I leapt as if I were in a tampon commercial.

 

I’m free.

 

Rosana grabbed me and hugged me hard (her specialty). And as I panted from that last sprint, I realized that I had just finished my first triathlon. An incredible wave of emotion came over me with a strength and elegance that only this grand moment could have given me:

 

I sobbed as I had never done in my whole entire life.  

 

When I arrived to Cancun, the first time I went to swim in open waters was with Genaro. I remembered the fear that came over me as I held on for dear life to the line of buoys. He dragged me along for the little bit that I could manage to swim and was a real trooper that day, showing incredible patience for this scaredy cat. And when I saw him at the finish line with his big brother smile, I saw how that circle closed right in front of me.

 

On the way, I carried my dead with me: Donna, the mother of one of my dearest friends, died of cancer. Her daughter and my friend, Gen, dedicated her first triathlon to her mother and that, later, became my reason for starting this journey as well. Esperanza, a very good friend who used to accompany her boyfriend in his marathons, passed away earlier this year. Neither had ever seen me in a competition.

 

Now they have.

 

And as I saw the word “FINISH” rise in front of me, I heard the shouts of the only people waiting there, waiting for me, come from friends. I realized then that the one thing that pushes us on when we compete in a race, regardless of what place we come in, was reduced to the following words:

 

“Close up shop. I’m here and I’m done.”

Un Salto de Fe: El Triatlon del Pavo del YEK 2008

Los Triatletas Regresando de la Nadada en el Triatlon del Pavo del YEK, Cancun, Mexico

Creo que hay ciertos puntos que uno tiene que pasar por la vida para comprobar, no tanto la destreza de cada quien, ni quien tiene mas sino nada mas para ver, vivir y respirar.

 

Hice mi primero triatlón. Un logro para mí que conlleva una fuerte batalla contra mi enemigo más asiduo que he tenido en mi vida: el miedo. Y después de casi dos años de estar lastimándome por caídas de bici, torceduras de tobillo, dolores de las pantorrillas que pudo haber sido síndromes serios, entre alguna que otra cosa, llegué.

 

Y fue así.

 

Llegamos muy temprano, el viento soplando fuerte y el sol, asomándose entre nubes largas. Mis amigos y yo estábamos sentados en la arena, viendo lo bello que era ver el amanecer. El mar, como seda arrugada, tentaba entre susurros del viento y el sol se animó a salir un rato antes de meterse de nuevo. Y después de ver todas las diferentes categorías salir, finalmente nos toco a nosotros.

 

El silbatazo.

 

Todos corrieron al mar, salpicando uno al otro, delfineando, nadando, corriendo. Me metí y el mar me meneaba. Mi respiración se disparaba. El pánico me cacheteo, haciéndome parar de repente. Veía el horizonte y como el mar levantaba a los demás nadadores.

 

Me quede pasmada.

 

En este momento tan breve, pensé, “¿Y si le digo a mi entrenador que no lo voy a hacer?”

 

“¿Que pasa? ¿Estas bien?”

 

Volteé para ver un salvavidas, custodiando la salida. Su pregunta me borró todo de mi cassette y de nuevo metí mi cara al mar.

 

En la primera boya, me estaba apaniqueando y agarré el flotador de uno de los salvavidas. Un chavo ya estaba allí, con otro flotador.

 

“Me voy a vomitar,” dijo.

 

Y eran los primeros 100 metros.

 

Y mientras el salvavidas jalaba al chavo de regreso, el otro de mi flotador me preguntó si me iba a seguir. Volteé la mirada hacia la otra boya y que tan lejos se veía. Pasó una ola suavemente como si el mar me estaba reclamando como suya.  

 

Soy, y nada más.

 

Ya cuando estaba terminando mi primera vuelta, los últimos nadadores estaban terminando su segunda vuelta. Cuando entré al mar de nuevo para mi segunda vuelta, ya estaba sola. Tampoco ayudaba que nadé como 200 metros de más por haber querido nadar hasta Cuba. En cuatro ocasiones, los salvavidas tuvieron que jalar mi pierna para que regresara.

 

“Vas de regreso a Cancún,” me dijo uno. En mis últimos 200 metros, un salvavidas me acorraleó para que no se abriera tanto. Y mientras nadaba y veía que tan adentro del mar me fui nadando y que tan lejos se veía la boya, pensé que si en caso que llegue a tierra, voy a besar al primero que me encuentro allí.

 

La única persona que estaba era un amigo a quién no tuve ningún intención (ni tendré) de besar. Se quedó a esperarme.

 

Besos mentales, entonces.

 

La bici era lo más fácil de todo salvo que en los primeros dos kilómetros, vi algo que no se me va a borrar: una chava (de quién me acuerdo claramente de haber visto antes del silbatazo) estaba tirada en medio de la carretera con un charco oscuro abajo de su cabeza. Dos bicis de ruta estaban apoyándose contra unos árboles y gente de la misma competencia estaban indicando a la gente que sigan la competencia.

 

No vi un casco en ningún lado.

 

Al pasar, sentí una sensación de escalofrío en la parte posterior de mi cabeza. En las subsecuentes vueltas, estaba repitiendo en mi cabeza que no se me muera. En mi segunda vuelta, el charco oscuro se atravesó mi camino y pasé encima.

 

Que no se me muera. Que no se me muera.

 

Para la tercera, ya estaba sentada con la cabeza vendada.

 

El ultimo para terminar el triatlon conmigo.

En la cuarta vuelta, éramos nada más un chavo que ya no le daba más y un hombre trepado sobre una Mongoose de año de la canica con doble suspensión y rack para sus libros de la escuela, lo cual traía un Gatorade.

 

 

 

 

Bajando de la bici, las plantas de mis pies se sentían como si tuvieran hoyos, por donde presionaban contra los pedales. Y mientras sentían como se formaban las ampollas sobre mis pies, mi cara se contorsionaba y se le quedó plasmada una sonrisa. Aún cuando supe que la única persona que estaba haciendo el triatlón era yo, que casi todos ya se han ido y que abrieron acceso al transito de nuevo, seguía.  

 

Los últimos 20 metros y ya veía la meta. Karla, Héctor, Genaro, Odin, Vega y Rosana me gritaban. Los talones se empezaron a brincar y cerré pensando si iba a llorar.

 

Yo en los ultimos 15 metros

Al cruzar la meta, di un salto como si estuviera en una comercial de tampones: ¡estoy libre!

 

 

 

Rosana me agarró y me abrazó fuerte (su especialidad). Y entre la respiración agitada de la llegada y el darme cuenta de que llegué, se apoderó de mí un sentimiento tan fuerte que se soltó con toda la fuerza e elegancia que nada más este gran momento me pudo haber brindado:

 

Sollozaba como nunca en mi vida lo había hecho.  

 

Cuando llegué a Cancún, la primera vez que salí a nadar en mar abierto fue con Genaro. Me acuerdo del pavor que tenía, agarrando la hilera de boyas, Genaro casi arrastrándome a nadar lo que pude nadar, con una paciencia monumental. Y cuando lo vi en la meta con su sonrisa de hermano mayor, vi también como cerró el círculo.

 

En el camino, llevaba mis muertos conmigo: Donna, la mama de una de mis mejores amigas, murió de cáncer. Su hija y mi amiga, Gen, le dedicó su primer triatlón y fue por ella que empecé. Esperanza, una muy buena amiga y alguien que siempre iba con su novio a sus maratones, se me fue a principios de este año. Ninguna de las dos me había visto en una competencia.

 

Ahora si.

 

Y mientras veía el letrero de “META” y escuchaba que las únicas personas quienes estaban allá eran amigos míos, pensé la cosa que creo que a todos nos impulsa cuando competimos, independientemente del lugar en que quedamos:

 

“Cierre el changarro; ya llegué.”

A Flat Tire: A Story from the 70.3 Cancun Ironman 2008

Flying by at the 70.3 Cancun Ironman

There is something amazing about the way things work. You can be doing your same old routine and something always manages to find its way into your life to make you realize that perhaps, you aren’t doing the same thing you always do.

I say this because today was a day like any other, except for the fact that it was the 2008 70.3 Ironman here in Cancun. I was going to wake up at the buttcrack of dawn to ride down to the track and sit out the race, watching friends who were competing. This would have happened had it not been for two tiny details:

1. I failed to wake at 3:30 to leave at 4:30 and 2. I woke at 6:20 to the ringing of my cell phone.

A Triathlete Zips by in the 2008 Cancun 70.3 Ironman, Turning a Head

It was a friend, the one who was supposed to ride with me. He was just getting back from a party and wanted to work off the hang over/sleepiness. I wasn’t sure if I wanted such a huge responsiblity as having the life of my friend (whose physical ability in this particular moment I doubted) on my conscience. But we agreed on meeting a my house and riding out from there.

I normally don’t take the highway to enter the Hotel Zone, where the competition was, but my friend insisted it was shorter. So we went along and entered the HZ from the other side, avoiding the 25 kms before the beginning of the race. We came precisely to where the athletes were just passing by on their bikes. Road blocks prevented cars to come in that side as bikes of all types zipped by. I stood in the sun, on the side of the plastic road blocks that had been set up while my friend (the smart one, as it turns out; my face is now a tonality of baked lobster), on the other side of the road, in the shade.

Returning from the 90 Kms in the 2008 70.3 Cancun Ironman

As the competitors zipped by, some with their full rims whirling, I heard a sound of something like a scratch. One man in a blue jersey looked down at his tire.

“Fuck!” he said.

He pulled over to my side of the road and in the grass, started to unscrew the axel set on his back tire. Once unscrewed and the brake undone, he pulled at the tire, which wouldn’t let go because the chain wasn’t free of the freewheel.

He looked angry. I watched, wanting to help but didn’t wanted to get screamed at so I stood aside. He looked up and around, maybe looking for salvation, a fully inflated wheel to fall out of the sky. But the tire slid off easily and he managed to slip out the popped culprit and slide in a new inner tube. And as he struggled with the tire, trying to get it on the frame, I decided the hell with getting yelled at.

I approached him.

“Do you want me to hold that straight for you?”

“That’d be great,” he said. “Thank you.”

And as I held the frame straight, I saw that he was having trouble with putting the wheel in the drop. I held the frame steady and tried to keep the situation calm and under control. The tire slipped into its place when he realized that he had lost the spring in his axel set.

“I don’t know what it does,” he said. I did. It keeps the screw tight so that the cap doesn’t fall off. My friends later told me that it really isn’t necessary for roadies. I believe since there aren’t tons of bumps in the road, there is less of a chance that the cap will fly off, ultimately ending in I what I originally believed was going to happen to this man: the wheel flying off. I was a bit scared but I decided that it wasn’t the smartest thing to do to put this worry in his head: I just prayed there were no bumps.

He stood up and said something that I never expected:

“Thank you for saving my life.”

I was a little shocked.

“I really didn’t do anything.”

“You did. You saved my life. What’s your name?”

“Fumiko.”

“Thank you very much, Fumiko.”

“Good luck,” I had said.

And with that, he streaked off.

I stood there for a bit, awe-striken. Had I come from the other direction, I would have never had experienced the above. The fact that he got a flat right in the area where we were (and there was no other civvie around, cheering on the competitors, for miles) was perhaps fate. I also write this to get rid of a nagging guilt on my conscience for not telling this athlete what I knew. I am well aware that I could have written this in the most favorable light but in the end, I know that wouldn’t go well with me.

I found out later that Mr. Axel Set zipped by on to to the finish line.

Nothing happened to him. Someone up there answered my prayer.

Abram Waving as He Runs the Last Leg of the 2008 70.3 Cancun Ironman

My friend says it was my bad vibes that caused him to get a flat right there.  He jokes and realizes that he has done so after I gave him a dirty look, which implied a subsequent ass kicking.

Whatever it was, I was left moved by the event.

And so starts my search: if anyone knows who this man is, one who competed in the bike leg of the 2008 70.3 Ironman on an orange Quintana Roo, tell him that he made my day.

Thanks.

UPDATE: I just found out what the spring in the axel set does: it just separates the drop from the wheel so it maintains a set space (and it’s easier) to put the wheel in. Whew…all that worry for nothing….

UPDATE No. 2: I’ve found out who Mr. Axel Set is but since it is against the rules for people outside the event to help out, I’ve opted to omit his name.

The First, Second and Third

It’s funny how sometimes some of the simplest of phrases can burn themselves onto your conscience forever.

People always say that the first time is something that you’ll always remember. Some remember it fondly. Most remember it with reluctance.

I consider myself pertaining to the latter.

More for habit rather than for respect, I will not mention the name of that unfortunate person who was propagator of said experience. He was someone who had lived in my hall in freshman year of college and coincidentally, four years later, we ended up living in the same apartment complex.

I was young, inexperienced, far from the savvy woman I imagined myself to be. He was not my ideal but I did not know that yet. I just decided that I was game. As a conservative student once told me, “If you’re hungry and he has food, why don’t you eat?”

Indeed.

And so I seduced him; it wasn’t hard.

But that phrase was soon to be understood in all senses of the word.

After having gone down on him, he got on top and started to jack off, seeing as that he still wasn’t hard enough to have sex. The lights were out in my room and I remembered looking at the analogue read-out on my clock blurt “2:01″ in a scandalous red. I lay there inert, he still on top, trying to bring something to life that probably wasn’t going to wake in a while. That did not apply to me.

I fell asleep.

When I woke, he was on top, pushing what little he had gotten up, to go in, as I formed the question in my mind: Are you in?

He was.

Pitiful. Especially for a virgin.

I broke up with said soul when he failed to call me on my birthday and when I presented him with the phone card bill (which he had stated that he would pay half of) he protested as to why I called him so much (I was living in another country by that time). That, added to the fact that his letters to me consisted of nothing more than box score cutouts and newspaper clippings and photos of Jerome Bettis from the Pittsburgh Steelers, was more than enough to help me realize that he was not apt for me.

The Second was a musician. Quite a bad choice. The condom had fallen onto the floor that night and it was my first time with a virgin. If I remember correctly, we did it twice: once on the floor and once in his parents’ bed (they were on vacation). That ended when I said that I liked to have something more serious with him. That scared him far enough away to find another girlfriend in a matter of weeks.

The Third was a friend of the Second’s. He turned out to be a dick and that also happens to be in all senses of the word. In comparison, he was much bigger and had certain fetishes I wasn’t sure of. Wearing my satin underwear was right up there in my list of uncertainties. I remember I had closed my eyes while the act was being consummated. Therefore, the surprise to see blood on his stomach took me off guard when it hit me: he broke my hymen.

Thinking about that now, I realize the magnitude of such a comment, especially for a man’s ego. The Second could assume that it was already broken but the First? I have learned much since those days and one is that if you want to hit a man where it hurts, size is the lowest blow you can probably throw.

In a way, I feel that writing this is revindication and on the other hand, a warning. We all remember and we all forget. My first times are now reduced to the relationship at hand, which means I’ve had many “first” times. Men, remember that we women never forget. What may have been a need one night, long ago, may end up being shouted to the four winds, bringing a shame that cannot easily be erased.

You decide.

Tri To Be

There is something to be said for trying hard. I’ve realized that I have a deficiency: I can’t stop thinking about getting a boyfriend. I call it a deficiency because I think there should be more to life than just that but my nature being what it is, I think about it subconsciously. People always say that it’ll hit you when you least expect it.

That being the case, I suppose it’ll never happen.

I’ve been deceived many a time by men, mainly because I’ve placed them on too high a pedastal and more often than not, I’m too stupid to see what I don’t allow myself to see from the beginning. But perhaps that is being a little too harsh on myself. I’ve also fallen into a rut of sorts and have not met anyone available who makes me walk into walls because I’m so distracted.

But somehow, I always find myself in the middle of making the biggest ass out of myself even before I can catch myself from falling.

Case in point: I have been wanting to do a triathlon for a while now and have been doing the swim part of my training at the Red Cross.

Enter Cristian, stage left. A handsome, bronzed man from Argentina who is a swim instructor and happens to be training for a tri as well. I start talking shop with him and find him accessible. He knows of another trainer who is an Ironman.

“Give me your number. I’ll put the two of you in contact.” No problem whatsoever. What normally would have been a struggle between ”what is this fool talking about?” and “I haven’t got time for this,” turned into a contest of rubber arm twisting. As easy as pie.

I had already given him my number before I could even think.

The days that followe, however, brought no call from his friend, leading me to believe that he, in fact, lead me on. So much for that.

That perception changed when he asked if his friend had called. We ended up talking shop until he was called away by a friend. I stood there, on my own, when a fellow lane mate called to me. Strange, I thought, we never talked in the pool… I crouched by her and she told me discreetly that I had toilet paper stuck to my ass. Immediately, I thought back to the guilty moment when I lined the seat with paper and forgot to peel the paper off.

We became fast friends after that.

Normally, before swim practice, we have warm ups. Cris sometimes gives the warm up and in one particular exercise, we do crunches which involve laying on the ground and holding out your legs straight. With the students in his class (he does advanced level), he normally takes off a shoe and stands on the stomach of the person, to make sure their stomach is tight. This day, he did it to everyone. I normally have a white suit on (and no, it’s not transparent) and when he got to me, he extra-, uber- cleaned his foot and said, “I don’t want to get your suit dirty.” He could’ve even dirtied my name and I still would not have minded. 

And for some reason, I keep getting plagued by embarrassing moments when I’m around this man. I don’t feel the butterflies in my stomach nor the flush of cheeks when I talk to him. Probably helps that I don’t.

So this plague continues when I am in warm ups a few days later. Cris arrives late and the exercises were taken over by another instructor. We normally face the pool when the warms up happen and a minute into the stretches, in strolls Cris. He sets down his bag, strips and kicks off his shoes. In he jumps while we are doing arm rolls.

“Okay! Spread your legs and bend to the front.”

I do as I’m told and to my horror I see that my bathing suit does not quite have the power to repress a certain growth of hair in a certain part. I look up and to complete my horror, Cris emerges from the water, right in front of me. I could have run wildly into the bathroom but I realized it was way too late. I couldn’t even look at him.

Today, as I spoke to him about training, we talked about the 70.3 he’s going to be doing. He suggested I do it too. I open my mouth to protest and what I was suffering all through swim practice of a a bit of gas stuck in my throat, croaks out as I say “no.”

 I don’t know why in particular so many embarrassing things happen to me while I talk to him. It isn’t all that normal but I think that there is no way around it now. Did he notice? Did he even care? I don’t know but I think my only option now is just to keep at it and “tri” to be me.

The Forest of the Keeper: Chapter 20 (Jorli’s Merit)

Inside, the shards were many and she looked for those memories with Oslin. She crept past memory after memory and was confused: where were those memories? Suddenly she saw a thick shard, black and without visible images. What’s this? she thought. It slid through the other memories, which sparkled brightly with colorful scenes. That must be it, she thought. But where is it… She almost screamed: the thick black shard was moving towards the ear. The memory was going to erase itself forever. Jorli sped through the shards, not bothering to dodge them. One by one, Saria remembered different parts of her life: her parents’ shouting, her solitary nights in the Forest, her training with the Keeper. The Black Shard was at the ear when Jorli grabbed it, wiped an opening through the soot and jumped inside.

What Jorli saw in those particular memories left her speechless. Out of shame for finding out about her closest friend’s most private and intimate moments, she reached for another memory. And then, another. All she was able to convince herself of after she went through them was that there was no doubt that Oslin and Saria enjoyed being in each other’s company. Finally she came to one memory that wasn’t so vividly explicit. She tapped it and was instantly inside.

“I’ll be in my quarters a little later if you have time to discuss tomorrow,” started Saria. Oslin beamed at her and held her close. He whispered into her ear. “I am yours forever, my flower, whether you remember so or not.” He kissed her on the cheek and she started to walk out of the room. Oslin sat back down with the King of the Drendhils.

Jorli ran after her.              

            “Saria!” she called out.

            “Jorli! What are you doing here? I thought we were supposed to meet in your quarters?”

            “I couldn’t wait,” she replied quickly. She had to keep this up long enough to keep the memory from vanishing. She motioned for Saria to follow her to a corner of the castle out of earshot. “I wanted to know now.” She took a deep breath.

“Are you in love with the Warlock of the Wind?” Saria’s face lit up.

“With Oslin? He is such a wonderful person; so caring and sensitive.”

And a lot of other things too, thought Jorli.

“I just want to make sure that he’s good for you. How do you know?”

“How?” Saria smiled shyly. “I like it when he holds me and treats me as if I were the most precious thing in the world. I like it when he kisses me and makes me feel like each part of me is sensual and…” she blushed heavily.

“What?” asked Jorli. Come on, just a little bit more.

“Delicious,” she said a little exasperated. “I cannot believe I just told you that.” She was now several shades of pink.

“What is the thing that most attracts you to him? His looks?” Remember Saria, remember…

“He knows how to listen and I really love the color of his eyes and how they seem to smile. I love his hands and how they caress my skin.It’s so strange that we even seem to understand each other better than I could have ever imagined. His hair, when it is wet, smelling of pine needles…”

“Keep going…,” prodded Jorli.

“I feel like we were made for each other and I don’t even know him…” She stopped. She stood up straight as her body shivered in a sudden spasm. Her eyes blinked several times before she could register that she was seeing. She looked at her hands, as if she could not believe that they were there. Then, slowly, she turned to Jorli.

“I remember…everything…” Jorli yelped with happiness. She closed the memory and now saw that the Shard had broken up into many fragments, releasing all the memories with Oslin as the soot fell as dust and trickled out of Saria’s ear. She jumped out after the soot.

The Warlocks jumped at the sight of Jorli as Oslin rushed up to her. The Fox held out a paw.

“Let’s just make sure,” she said and took out a small vial from her pouch. Uncorking it, she dropped one drop into Saria’s mouth. Momentarily, her eyes opened.

“Jorli, what happened?”

“Saria,” she said cautiously. “Do you know who that man is?” and pointed to Oslin. She blinked once, as if adjusting her sight and her eyes grew wide; it was with recognition.

“Oslin!” She stood up and ran to his waiting arms. They kissed as only two people could kiss when they are in love. Fenlin coughed loudly and cleared his throat twice before Oslin detached himself.

“My love, come and meet my brothers,” he said with a smirk.

And as Yorlin had mentioned, there was much to celebrate. Oslin and Saria waited before announcing their union so as to wait for Urlin, who went to rescue his love from the Anemone Beds. Once freed, Elizabeth went into the painful explanation of what she had done with Oslin and tearfully asked for forgiveness. She had realized that Oslin had only done what he had done for the sake of the act and really did not care at all. And upon comparing his behavior with Urlin’s, she understood the magnitude of her mistake and immediately went to search for him in high waters. She offered him her heart, if he be so considerate in taking it. His love could not help but overflow and he kissed her sweetly, after which he offered to show her how much he was in agreement with her proposal if she would be so kind as to follow him to private quarters in the Merlands where they could discuss the matter at length. She assented by saying that she had several things she would like to show him. The fact of the matter was that after several days of lengthy discourse, they finally agreed to prepare for the double wedding.     

Many came from far and wide to the celebration, which was held in the Land of the Tower where the Tower was adapted for living, although Saria and Oslin decided to keep the bier as an eternal reminder of their first meeting. As for Zjorn, he was completely healed by Saria’s blood for it was liquid given out of one human’s free will that was what he needed and now was conscious enough to understand his horrible greed for knowledge and power. When he finally was reunited with Saria and then later with the Keeper, it ended in a tearful meeting that left everyone feeling content with finding several additions to the family. On petition of the Keeper, Zjorn went to live in the Forest where he also helped in its protection. His physical body was still beset by the trials of time but he began to regain in strength and color. Sebastian and the Keeper were quite shocked when they received the notice from Perlen and Sinlar, who flew back with the news of Saria’s union to the Warlock of the Wind but upon meeting their future son-in-law, they realized that there really was nothing to fear.

Saria, Oslin, Elizabeth and Urlin were all wed and though they did not promise many children to their respective spouses and parents, they did promise love, respect, communication and many intents at children, however unsuccessful be the intent. With these four things, the two couples lived happily albeit with their occasional dispute, which would be followed by an escape and quickly closed by explanations and apologies. They continually renewed their passion in the most creative of ways, some of which, for Saria and Oslin, involved reenacting their first meeting whereas for Elizabeth and Urlin, it was playing shark and victim.

Urlin was the first to become a father, after which he and Elizabeth had ten more. It seemed that he had to make up for lost time. As for Saria, she and Oslin wanted to enjoy their couplehood before they had children. They found that as their love for each other grew, it also augmented their desire to unite for a product of their love for each other.

Now that they were free from their guard duties, Fenlin and Yorlin were also able to find mates, though they did not see the need to marry. Fenlin, a hard-to-please sort, took a bit longer to see that as an option in his life, was happy with living his life with liberty and not complicating himself too much. Yorlin was more sensitive but was not very lucky until he finally allowed himself to understand the wonders of tolerance and self appraisal. Once that was learned, a whole world of possibilities came knocking on his door: in other words, he was not so choosy. They both, in their own ways, lived the sensual bliss that marked Oslin’s rebirth with their own incursions into love.

 

Our heroes and heroines, however, did not always live that wonderfully false romantic happy ending. They fought like the fiercest of creatures and made others tremble in their shoes. They broke things, sometimes hearts, and cried a great deal but they did learn that their lives were dictated by the choices that only they themselves made. Creators of their own destinies, the power of choice distinguished their happiness from their loss of interest in life. And as the years trickled by, they would all reminisce about the past and however different were their experiences, they all had one thing in common: none ever regretted a single thing they did or did not do.

 

But that is another story to be told another day. Today, we live.

The Forest of the Keeper: Chapter 19 (Breaking the Curse)

The woman in his arms had a deathly pallor about her but he caught the slight rise of her chest. He watched as Oslin murmured softly into her ear and the fox sat on his shoulder, looking with concern at that deathly face. It was a strange vision to behold but somehow, it suited Oslin. Yorlin smiled inwardly: the first woman to win Oslin’s heart was the one who took him and not the other way around.

Presently, they arrived to the bottom of the pit. It was a large hall, in the middle of which there was a wide glass cylinder in the center. Underneath the top pane of thick glass was a young man lying with his limbs extended outwards. Circlets of light held his wrists and ankles. This was Urlin, the Warlock of the Sea.

He had his eyes closed as they approached. Yorlin and Jorli stayed back as Oslin drew closer to his brother.

“Urlin.” It was a command. And though his eyes were not open, he knew who it was.

“I was wondering if you were ever going to break the curse.” His eyes slowly opened, as if he were used to keeping them closed.

“I want to make peace.” Urlin looked impassively at Saria and studied her for a long while.

“You are in love with her.” Oslin could not answer. A tear rolled down his cheek.

“Then now you know how it feels.” Oslin looked at his brother with incredulity. He found his voice and spoke firmly.

“Yes, I love her and I want to spend the rest of my life with her.” He looked frustrated. “Nothing is perfect, Urlin. I am not perfect but I know that I did much to wrong you.” He looked at his brother sternly. “I know your heart has been colored by hate and I wish to the high heavens that I had never lain with her. I wish I had never lain with Elizabeth because the only person I want to be with is dying in my arms. And the only family I have hates me as his worst enemy.” He blinked back a tear.

“Please Urlin, forgive me. I cannot change the past. What is done, is done. All I want is for peace to be between us. And so I come with an offering.”

Urlin cocked an eyebrow.

“An offering?”

“As I was trying to eliminate the poison from Saria, I inadvertently drank water from the Forbidden Lake.” He looked at Jorli with a smile. “Upon drinking it, I found out how to save Saria and how to redeem myself in your eyes.” He had Urlin’s attention.

“How?” he asked skeptically.

“But first I shall explain Saria’s cure: the four of us, you, me, Yorlin and Fenlin must call on the powers of the elements. The strength of the elements will eliminate the poison still left in her body and close her wound. This would also break the curse placed on her.” His face fell a little. “There is a chance that she will fall out of love with me but it is a chance I need to take.”

“So what is this offering you spoke of?”

 “I found out where Elizabeth is.” Urlin gave a hoot of laughter, the most animated he had been during the entire conversation.

“If you haven’t noticed ‘dear’ brother, we have been under time-slowing spells. Elizabeth,” and his voice lowered to a whisper, as if in reverence of that woman, “is most likely a grandmother by now.” A grin cracked upon Oslin’s face.

“She would be save for one small fact.” Urlin was rapt with attention.

“It seems that she had been sailing in a small boat when she was sucked under into the whirlpool leading into the Merlands. Apparently, she landed in the Beds of Anemone, stung to sleep, and where she has lain sleeping ever since.” There was a look of shock on Urlin’s face.

“You know, brother, they say that in the Merlands, people age quite slowly. Would you like to take a guess as to why she was manning a boat? And that far from shore?” The shock had Urlin paralyzed.

“Elizabeth,” he whispered. Oslin came closer to the glass pane.

“Urlin, I am willing to give up the love of my life only to see her alive.” The two brothers looked at each other.

“Even if it means losing her forever?” Oslin nodded his head.

“Forgive me.”

Urlin stared hard at his brother, his flesh and blood. His eyes began to fill with emotion.

“I forgive you,” he said in a shaky voice. In a flash, the circle of glass lit up and glowed a bright red. With an explosion absent of sound, the glass disappeared as the light shot out, filling the hall as if it were pure daylight. When the light faded, Urlin stood there, freed of his bonds and cell.

“I did say that the place was cleverly enchanted,” said Yorlin approaching and taking Saria from him. The two brothers faced each other, pausing for a moment and embraced. Urlin stepped back from his brother and held him by the arms, smiling.

“I would love to stay and chat, dear brother, but we both have damsels in distress we should tend to.” They turned and found Fenlin there. He embraced both and apologized to Urlin.

“You really gave me no choice, Urlin,” said a shamefaced Fenlin.

The four knelt down and distributed themselves around Saria. Jorli watched as they held their hands over Saria’s wound. They mumbled words under their breath which turned into a rhythmic chant.  Light began to glow in their hands and as their chants grew stronger, it began to spill out through the spaces between their hands and fingers. The light shot out and reached every corner of the hall as the four figures were illuminated in a globe of radiance. Slowly, the brightness dimmed and they removed their hands. Saria’s wound was completely closed and color had returned to her face. Oslin held her hand and stroked her face lightly. There was movement beneath her eyelids as they gradually parted and blinked. Oslin broke into bright smile.

“My love,” he murmured as he drew her close to him. He leaned down to kiss her when she stopped him.

“What are you doing?” she asked, pushing away from him. “Do I know you?” Oslin looked as if he had taken a blow to the stomach.

“It is me, my love, Oslin,” he said, pulling towards her, his voice sounding a little unsteady.

“And what is this place?” she asked, surveying the hall. “How did I get here?” She saw the rest of the Warlocks. “Who are you?” Oslin started to look a little frantic.

“Don’t you remember who I am, Saria?” he said desperately, trying to hold her hand. She pulled it away quickly and started to look frightened.

“I do not know how you know my name but I want you to keep away from me,” she said, placing her hand on the hilt of her short sword. Oslin turned to Urlin.

“What is happening, brother?”

“I think when we cured her wound and drained the poison, it also quickened the enchantment. She does not remember.”

“What don’t I remember? What is going on?” Saria got to her feet and started to back away from them, unsheathing the sword. Yorlin was still kneeling when Jorli climbed to his shoulder. She whispered in his ear, “Let me handle this.” He nodded and she slid down and ran towards Saria.

“Jorli!” she cried. “How did you get here? And who are these people? What has happened to me?” She embraced the fox.

“I’ll tell you on the way and the only way to get out of this place is to take this transportation potion. It’ll take us to where we want to go. Just hold me tight,” said Jorli, holding out a small non-descript bottle.

“Anything to get away from this place,” she said, shooting looks of disgust at Oslin; his heart nearly crumpled. She drank the potion in a single gulp. For a moment, she stood there, waiting for something to happen when suddenly, the bottle slid out of her hand and she collapsed to the floor. Jorli jumped out of her arms before they hit.

“Sorry about that, Saria,” she said. She turned to the Warlocks. “So what is all this about this enchantment? What happened that I don’t know about?” Urlin stepped forward.

“I suppose, I better than anyone, should explain. When I cursed my brother, apart from all that Saria had to go through, she was also enchanted for the space of one moon—“

“Wait, I thought it was Oslin who was enchanted. I heard that he would be her faithful servant.” Oslin shook his head.

“No,” Urlin resumed. “The truth is that Saria was the enchanted one. She will be madly in love with Oslin for one moon, after which she will forget she had ever met him and see him as the most undesirable man alive.”

“So are you saying that she never really loved him at all?”

“If she does not remember all that has happened, no. You see, the curse will make her forget everything concerning Oslin if she does not remember on her own accord.” Oslin placed his head in his hands. Jorli looked at him and knew what she had to do.

“I’ll be right back,” and with that, she jumped into Saria’s ear.