A Bride Of The Stars

When I was a child, I spent a lot of time in the woods and bluffs in central Wisconsin. There was something, as a child, palpably magical about that area… a feeling born, perhaps, out of my awe for the indigenous cultures of the region. There was still a lot of wilderness out in that part of the state, then, and I believe there is a power in the unsettled land, a sort of natural magic that gets tamped down or suffocated wherever our mystically sterile civilization lays down its sewers and roads and power lines. In the middle of the woodlands, though, there was an energy not easily described, but simple to experience. It was an energy that filled your bones and muscles, lifted you above animal instinct and deposited you somewhere else entirely, a full step above the dirty ground we wander on for most of our lives. It was a realm of spirit, of nature beyond biology. I couldn’t put any of this into words, back then… but I knew it was different than where I came from. I knew that, while I was out amongst the wooded frontier, I was basically living in another world entirely.

I had my own small tent when we camped out, and it was a frightening and freeing experience, being unbound in the dark, wild nights. While my parents slept some distance away, I found myself freakishly attuned with the night, my senses heightened, my brain far more aware of my surroundings than I was necessarily comfortable with. I was listening for every cricket hiccup, every owl shriek, every twig snapping in our vicinity. I was on edge in a primal way, on guard, protecting something spiritually valuable from cruel and hungry flesh and blood. In this way, I would eventually fall into an approximation of sleep, a hypnosis or trance that rendered my five senses active and watchful even as an essential part of me drifted, no longer incarcerated in that base, bodily prison. Again, I didn’t know this at the time… but in retrospect, it’s clear that my soul walked free in those mystical woods. And when I would rise in the daytime, my arms and legs and lungs would be absolutely exhausted, but I would still feel refreshed in an entirely different manner. Even as the dark circles would form under my eyes, and I would be unable to stifle chest racking yawns, I would feel more alert, more cognizant, more alive than I ever felt after sleeping in my bed at home.

My travels, at night, were understandably remembered as dreams. They were, I suppose, a form of dream… the experiences I had, there, were not “real.” They never truly occurred in any physical way. And yet they happened, and I remembered them… in that way, those travels were no different than any other dream. But there was a much stronger clarity to them, a vividness that I do not come close to replicating in my normal dreaming. There was something intangible about them that, now, leads me to believe that these dreams were not manufactured by own imagination, but were, instead, moments that I lived. That delineation, I suppose, is moot. Either way, I have memories of my soul walks, and that’s all that matters.

By far, the most memorable of these events occurred when I was nine.

We had spent most of the day hiking through grassy, blunted hills under a gorgeous red rocky bluff. Eventually, we came to a river, a deep hewn ribbon of clear water that was wide and shallow and full of migrating schools of blackish fish. A golden eagle periodically dove into the water and retrieved one of the dark fish in its talons, its meal’s scales suddenly bursting with color and sparkle in the midday sunlight. There were, according to our guidebook, numerous Indian mounds nearby, and I would’ve sworn there was something almost holy about that place. It felt like a convergence of the magic I described earlier… as if it somehow pooled up and stagnated right there at the riverside. I felt strange being there, as if I were a trespasser or an interloper… as if I didn’t belong at all. But there was nothing unfriendly or unwelcoming about it. It was more, I suppose, that I was unworthy of being there. It felt, maybe, like I hadn’t earned the right to be in that sort of sanctuary. My parents may have felt the same way. None of us spoke for a long time. It wasn’t awkward or unpleasant… it was more reverential. I think my folks had similar experiences in these places, but we never talked about it. I’m sure we all felt a little bit crazy for feeling it.

We returned to our campsite, made dinner over the fire and watched as the dusk caressed the sky to sleep. There is a different sort of completeness to the day when you don’t have artificial light to eat into the nighttime. It feels as if living through the twilight is a sort of accomplishment, a notch to mark off or a box to check on your list of goals. The rhythm of night and day, in the wilderness, is more noticeable and more real than it is where I live. Our lives, in cities and towns, blur the definitions of the world in motion. We exert our control over darkness instead of letting it hold sway over us. And while it may make us feel as if we have a dominion over nature, there’s a different sort of satisfaction to be had by succumbing to the night and laying down to sleep when the fire burns out. Relinquishing that false authority we try to grab, here, has amazing effects. I may not have known, then, why it felt so good to sleep in the pitch black of those woods… but my guess, now, is that by falling back into our rightful place, into our role as subservient to the planet, we gain a measure of security and comfort that we lose when desperately clinging to power that isn’t ours. The anxiety that comes from feeling alone in a world of billions is all but erased when you remember you’re not isolated from the world in any way.

That night, again, my body stayed wide awake while my spirit fled.

And where I wandered, that night, was to the sanctuary at the riverside. I remember feeling called there, as if I heard someone summoning me to the grassy banks of the shallow water. It was serene, there, under the moonlight. Everything was white and deep blue, all washed in the color pallet of dreaming. My heart soared just being allowed there, again, and I sat amidst a thatch of cattails and reeds and dipped my bare, spirituous feet in the cold river.
I don’t know how long I sat there, breathing in the air of trees and flowers and rushes. It felt like mere minutes, but the moon’s movement overhead contradicted that assumption. Eventually I was joined by a chalk white man wearing the elaborate and beautiful costume of a medicine man. He sat next to me on the bank of the river, aged and gouged with kindly wrinkles. He was radiant and warm, and I was happy to see him, even without knowing who he was. He had a strong, weathered face, but he smiled with such sincerity that I had no choice but to feel at ease. He had a long staff, decorated with beads and feathers and tiny leather pouches, and he dipped it into the river water, rippling the reflection of the moon.

He spoke, then, in a language that seemed older than time, and although I shouldn’t have understood a word of it, it made perfect sense to me.

The shaman said, joyfully, that he had been called to that place, that night, to perform a wedding. He shook his staff as he spoke, letting loose a very primitive sounding rattle that reverberated through the river valley and was echoed in the throats of owls and raccoons and other nocturnal creatures. Soon, many of those animals had gathered themselves by the river, as guests, the shaman said, smiling, of the bride.

I asked, then, bolstered by the kind demeanor of the man, where the bride was.
And the old man looked at me with eyes darker than the sky and pointed upward. The Stars, he told me, were to be wed tonight.

And who is the groom, then, I wondered.

The old man closed his dark eyes and laughed. He told me that the groom had not shown himself, but would. He said that many suitors had been rivals for such an amazing lover, but only one would have the honor of making the Stars his bride. Those suitors, he told me, would arrive soon, and I, apparently, was there to greet them all.

It wasn’t long before the shaman's words proved true. A great bear, tall, regal and imposing and possessed of slick, black fur, made his way from the woods to the opposite side of the river.

“I am Bear,” he stated plainly, and in a strong and fearsome voice. “I have come to wed the Stars.”

From out of the tall grasses of the fields came bounding a dappled, brown stag. He stood next to Bear on the riverside, his coat and impressive rack of antlers gleaming in the moonlight.

“I am Deer,” the stag said, proud and arrogant in his beauty. “I have come to wed the Stars.”

Slinking from the rushes came a smaller figure, a gorgeous red fox with a thick tail and a sly, angled face. He stood between Bear and Deer, grinning with a cunning that sent a shiver down my vaporous spine.

“I am Fox,” he stated. “I have come to wed the Stars.”

Rising from the ground came a small whirl of bellowing breeze, strong enough to topple some of the long grasses and bend the stems of the wildflowers across the river. From it appeared a noble and cool looking warrior, blue and vaporous and impressive in his stature.

“I am Wind,” the man said with a ringing fury in his words. “I have come to wed the Stars.”

And finally, amassing like fog on the bank of the water, gray swirls of ether came together, clinging and heavy, eventually drizzling into the form of a young man, thin and sallow, and appearing very tired. He was far less than the other suitors in every respect. He carried himself with little power or confidence, and he certainly didn’t strike as startling of a figure as the great Bear or the beautiful Deer or the intelligent Fox or the stately Wind.

“I am Cloud,” he said, almost sadly. “I have come to wed the Stars.”

The shaman looked at the gathered suitors with a critical eye. "Only one among you," he said in his ancient language, "is worthy to make a bride of the Stars. Only one among you shall have such an honor to live with her in the sky." The old man punctuated his declaration with a rattle of his staff, and stretched his arms out toward the light spackled heavens. He stayed incredibly still for a moment, his beaten face beaming with a sort of barely contained joy. He was listening to something that none of the rest of us there seemed to hear. "The Stars," the old man said, finally, "demands a tribute of you! What would you offer for her hand in marriage?"

Bear spoke first. "I can offer my strength, dear Stars," Bear said loudly. "I am the strongest creature in the forest, bigger and bolder and braver than anything."

The shaman listened again. He shook his head, then. "The Stars has no need of a mate with strength," he said. "She is strong enough on her own. The Stars rejects you, Bear. I am sorry."

And Bear hung his great head low and sulked off back into the forest.

"And you, Deer?" the shaman asked. "What do you offer the Stars?"

Deer lifted his majestic head up with a definite arrogance. "I can offer my beauty, dear Stars," Deer said proudly. "You will be given the gift of my graceful form."

The shaman listened to the Stars and shook his head. "The Stars has no need of a mate with beauty," he said. "She is beautiful enough on her own. The Stars rejects you, too, Deer. I am sorry."

Deer's brown eyes filled with tears and it bounded away, wounded and sad.

"And you, Fox?" the shaman asked. "What do you offer the Stars?"

Fox grinned slyly. "I can offer my intellect, dear Stars," Fox said. "I am the smartest creature there is, full of cunning and wit."

The shaman listened to the Stars again and shook his head. "The Stars has no need of a mate with intellect," he said. "She is cunning enough on her own. The Stars rejects you, friend Fox. I am sorry."

Fox scowled, angrily, and slunk into the woods, offended.

"And what of you, Wind?" the shaman asked. "What do you offer the Stars?"

Wind took a deep breath. "I can offer my power, dear Stars," Wind said. "I am the most powerful thing there is, able to bend trees to will and bring up waves from the deepest lakes and rivers."
The shaman frowned. "The Stars has no need of a mate with power," he said. "She is powerful enough on her own. I am sorry, Wind. The Stars rejects you."

The Wind was crestfallen. He moped and wandered back into the woods.

"So it is up to you, Cloud. What do you have to offer the Stars?"

Cloud looked up the Stars with his big, wet eyes and said, meekly, "Privacy is all I have to offer you, dear Stars."

The shaman looked intrigued. "Privacy?"

Cloud smiled. "When the Stars are shy, I can be there to cover her. When she is modest, I can hide her from the prying eyes of all you, here, below her. I can blanket her, keep her safe from your watchful gazes. And when she is proud and boisterous in her beauty, I can step away and I can let you all bask in her twinkling glow. When The Stars wants to be seen, I can open myself up like some great curtain, letting her luminescence spill out upon the earth. And when she becomes shy again, I can be there to block her from view. I can offer her privacy. I can offer her control."
The shaman grinned widely, his mouth a locked cavern of yellow stalagmites and crooked stalactites. He was pleased with Cloud's response. Out of all of her impressive suitors, the humble Cloud had the most to offer the strong, and beautiful, and brilliant and powerful Stars.

"You have much to give, friend Cloud," the shaman said, happily. The Stars accepts your hand. She shall be your mate.

Cloud was beaming with happiness. A cheer went up from the gathered animals at the river, and the shaman opened his hands in dutiful benediction. There was a tremendous gladness that settled on the holy place, and I couldn't help but be warmed by it. The old medicine man began to speak his ancient language, but its secrets were hidden from my ears, now. The beautiful, timeless words spilled from his papery lips and filled the night air with a resonant sound that blurred into a droning, cicada-buzz chant. Soon all the creatures joined in and the scene was staggering in its alien beauty. There was a rattle in the old man's hands, and a shaker of beads that signaled the union of Cloud and the Stars. And when it had commenced, and when the gentle cacophony of the shaman's chants were finally complete, Cloud ascended from the river up into the sky to take the hand of his new bride. Another cheer burst forth from the throng of animals, and they returned, then, to their woodland homes.

The shaman smiled at me, then, and thanked me for my attendance, once again speaking a tongue I knew. He had a tear of joy running down his battered, leathery cheek. He put his spindly arms around me, and hugged me tight. I didn't feel I had much choice but to hug him back.

He gave me one final nod and then made his way back into the wilderness, leaving me alone, ghostly and content at the sanctuary river. I looked up into the sky and saw Cloud joyfully embracing his new love.

My body, then, awoke and my spirit was ripped from that place and was plunked, unceremoniously, back into my squishy, fleshy form. And I struggled, then, as the sun approached on the eastern horizon, to make myself believe I had really been there and that it hadn't been some mental fabrication. In the end, of course, it didn't matter. Daylight took up its reign in the sky, and The Stars were sent away for the time being, while Cloud remained behind, like a gentleman, protecting his new bride as she made her exit. And I watched, and I thrilled for them, happy in their happiness, smiling in their completeness. I spent the days that followed whistling the wedding chants I'd heard in my dreams and wondering who'd make a husband, someday, of the Wind.

Curio Number One: The Tempest Shell

Happened upon in a shallow, fetid tide pool on a small, nameless island off of the western coast of Iceland, the Tempest Shell is an incredible natural wonder, unique to this collection and absolutely priceless.

It was discovered in 1891 by a Captain Arnar Fjalarson, an Icelandic privateer and ex-missionary who used the nameless island as a supply hold for his ship, the Sigur. Captain Fjalarson routinely walked the beaches of his tiny island, amassing quite a large personal collection of shells, starfish and other marine curiosities. (Amongst the other items in his possession were the now lost Twin Trumpeter Oysters and Arnold Richter's famed Black Glass Sand Dollar.) Fjalarson originally housed the pieces in a small shanty museum in the tiny seaside of community of Reykhólar. After reportedly running afoul of a mysterious Norwegian expatriate, Fjalarson sold the Sigur and the bulk of his collection to an American collector named Harold Regis Price. Fjalarson took that money and relocated his family (his wife and two mute sons) to Oxford, England, where they all tragically perished in a nighttime house fire some months later. The Tempest Shell, the crown jewel of Fjalarson's museum was not one of the items the Captain had sold to Price, although Price did manage to acquire it through an agent that had purchased it at the Fjalarson estate sale.

Although Fjalarson's thoughts on the Shell are lost, Price's notes upon its acquisition are still intact. In 1899 he wrote of it, "This object, above all else, is what I had longed for in the Icelander's possessions. My disappointment in noting its absence, a fault of translation (but mostly my own ignorance) was nothing short of devastation. Still, in the demise of the good Captain and his family, a beacon of luck has shone upon me. And while I feel obliged to mourn his loss, and never wished the man a whit of ill fortune, I cannot help but take note of what blessing has been bestowed upon me. This item is of rare beauty, to be sure, but the quality of it rests not in that glorious, glassy pink and blue variegation of the conch, but instead in the power that resides in this nautical wonder. I have seen it work, time and time again, and there is no doubt that, however imbued with the power, it does in fact operate like a damned magical device."

Sadly, Price was never again able to write further about the Shell, and it is never further mentioned in his journals. Whatever magical properties the Shell seemed to be possessed of, Price never got around to articulate them. He suffered a severe stroke shortly after acquiring the Tempest Shell. He lingered for years as a virtual vegetable, although his nurse, Miss Cloris Ostram reported that he seemed to "perk up, or be agitated, in the presence of his beloved and overly expensive seashell." Miss Ostram inherited the Shell when Price passed away in 1906 but quickly sold it to Herschel Hart's Traveling Museum of Wonders based in Ohio.

The Tempest Shell, an iridescent pink and electric blue nautilus shell, emits a faint hum, only audible when its protective bell jar casing is removed. Many viewers have complained of muscle aches, blurred vision and migraines after seeing the Shell. Nearly everyone who encounters the Tempest Shell relates having a vague memory of a sort of music box chiming melody for weeks afterward. There is undoubtedly a strange aura surrounding the thing, but its particular powers are only visited upon a portion of those who come across it.

Herschel Hart and his wife, Eliza, were two of the unlucky ones affected by the Tempest Shell. Upon the Traveling Museum of Wonders' acquisition of the Shell, Eliza Hart was overtaken with waking dreams and hallucinations of horrible storms of thunder and lightning, especially when near her husband. Herschel had similar visions of tsunamis and hurricanes of increasing intensity when around his wife. These visions, initially recognizable to the Harts as fabrications, slowly began to seem more real to the couple. Herschel Hart, in a frantic, scratched handwriting says (in a letter postmarked December 3, 1906, approximately six weeks after he acquired the Shell), "I can't begin to decipher the truth of these damned storms. It continues, with the forest now fallen to the winds and the whole of the town ripped to its anchors... but I'm assured by my kin and my friends that the losses are all in my mind. But what are they trusting but their eyes? Are my eyes somehow more easily deceived? How can any of us be sure that it isn't I seeing the truth while the others turn blindly away from the deadly grip of blasted nature?" Eliza expresses similar frustrations in a letter to her mother sent that very same week. It was quite brief. "Mother, this lightning shall kill me," was all it said.

The constant howl of these hallucinatory winds and the ever-present threat of imaginary lightning was, understandably, very maddening. Herschel, eventually realizing that the storms were worse in the presence of his wife, sequestered himself in a small toolshed on the back of his property. Still, even diminished, the storms seemed to continue. He took to writing his thoughts in black paint on the walls of his new quarters. The toolshed, on the Harts' old property in Brook Park Ohio, is owned, now, by a young man named Edward Morris. Mister Morris took photographs of the black painted scrawl on the walls of the shed, but painted over the writing because it made him uneasy. The words in the Polaroid snapshots are not always clear, but much of it can be deciphered.

"Even moved I still am afraid the howl Far away has been [?] better but still afraid I must go but to [indecipherable] This worry anguish and loss of Eliza She worries and we just [unsure of word, but usually transcribed as "need" or "know"] time IS crawled... to KILL us. Where I must go but to hide cowards!!! to hide In it OH ELIZA, love, you knew all along."

Eliza Hart eventually starved to death in her own home. She ceased writing in her diary weeks before she passed away, but the indication is clear. She was so terrified of the "storms" outside that she was afraid to leave her home. When she was found, every scrap of food, every can, every jar had been consumed. Herschel Hart disappeared without a trace. The property and his Museum were both considered abandoned. Hart's items, including the Tempest Shell, was assumed by Hart's cousin, Glenn Myers, who sold it, piece by piece at a Chicago auction house, where it was purchased, for a large sum, for this collection.

Further research into the Tempest Shell's history revealed that the Harts were not alone in their hallucinated storms or their growing terror. A trip to Reykhólar revealed, through the kindness of the villagers, several near identical tales, involving, over the course of seven years, seven distinct couples falling under the spell of the same malady. The locals understandably assumed something in their environs had driven the couples insane, but nobody could pinpoint a cause. The names of all seven couples were, however, found in the guest book of Arnar Fjalarson's museum.

Nurse Ostram, too, makes passing references in her diaries to a Mister and Missus Ebenezer Dolan, who, after visiting Harold Regis Price (while in the possession of the Tempest Shell), complained of similar frightening visions. Records show that Ebenezer Dolan took his own life approximately a year after his encounter with the Tempest Shell. His wife, Clarissa Dolan, was admitted to the Whispering Woods Asylum in New York State in 1902, her complaints matching those of the Harts and the Icelandic couples' perfectly.

There may be more unrevealed victims of the Shell, and it is, in fact, recommended that couples do not view the piece. The specifics of how the Tempest Shell works are under investigation, but the circumstantial evidence is too voluminous to deny. The Shell obviously has a power to it, some sort of radiation that affects only particular people. Still, in that aspect, it is a much coveted curio, and a valued piece of the collection.