Inmost Cave

This week's homework, our sixth and last assignment, is to write our protagonist's "Approach to the Inmost Cave."
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Monday morning. Evie rolled over and buried her puffy eyes in her pillow. How could she possibly go through a normal workday after what had happened? Could she call in sick for smothering grief and violent waves of self-loathing?

She stood in the hot water of the shower for a long time trying to get control of her emotions. She rationalized that she wasn’t the one who chose the charges. She wasn’t responsible for those God chose not to save.

She made her way to work in a sorrowful daze. She stepped on her favorite red scarf at the top of the Metro escalator. It fell into the mud. She walked on.

Sitting at her desk, she sobbed. She rested her head on her tissue box as her computer hummed to life. She cried for the dead girl and she cried for herself. She’d never know if what she had done had added to the “greater good” she was supposedly working for. She questioned whether God was behind the stone’s power and whether he/she/it was “good” at all.

She looked up from the tissue box and wiped her eyes. In the corner of her desk, in the place where the tissue box had been, she saw a folded piece of paper with her name written on it in elegant script. Hastily, she grabbed and unfolded the page and read:

Evie, you will not be surprised, I think, to find my letter now, in your moment of need. I must say that my hiding place is enlightened. I am certain that it will not be long before you return from a journey in crisis, as I did. In my estimation one doesn’t move the box of tissue until they are shedding true and continuous tears. (I, of course, use a linen handkerchief, so am no expert, but I feel certain it is so).

I’m sorry to boast as you sit on the brink, but please believe me when I say that every Intercessor has been where you are. Here, my dear, in this letter, I must reveal what I can not tell in person today, at our first meeting. Only now, as you cry, will you be able to understand. (Won’t I feel silly if you are simply suffering from hayfever.)

Return with the Elixir

When we were asked to write the Resurrection Scene for class, I accidently wrote my Return with Elixir Scene. So this time I wrote my Resurrection Scene and tacked it onto my edited Elixir Scene.

RESURRECTION

Evie stepped forward, wishing acutely that she knew something about homeopathic medicine in the US Northeast. She motioned to Eren to stay put. He, for once, did as he was told and sat cross-legged on the ground. There were still muskets trained on them, but the fervor behind them had lessened.

Evie approached the Indian leader, who looked at her with barely veiled hostility. She asked for water and was brought a water pouch. She poured a small amount over her hands and rubbed them together.

“May I touch his head?” She asked, keeping her gaze on the leader but expecting an answer from the interpreter.

The interpreter asked and the leader nodded.

Evie pressed her cool, wet hand to his forehead. He was clearly burning with fever.

“How long has he been ill?”

The interpreter shrugged. “7 or 8 days.”

Evie decided to check his chest and back for any sores or spots that would suggest measles, plague or another more obvious disease, since he had no marks on his face.

She mimicked removing her own outer layer and the leader, taking her meaning, took off his shirt. She saw immediately that, though he had no spots or sores, he had been bled.

Call to Adventure

Evie’s eyes dilated as her gaze moved over the stone fragment and she shook her head to regain her focus. She picked up the stone and examined it closely. It was a triangular corner piece. She held it close to her eyes, feeling the smooth face and inexplicably wishing she could touch it without her gloves on.

Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, Evie perceived a watery shimmer like heat off of pavement. She watched in shocked disbelief as a man in a long wool coat and bowler hat materialized amid the waves. His face was deeply lined with age; gray hair peaked out under the brim of his hat. He leaned with one hand on a cane. The other hand touched the brim of his hat in an old-fashioned salutation. He seemed perplexed but he looked at Evie and smiled.

Her mind reeled to explain his sudden appearance. She was frozen in place, shocked but not afraid. He didn’t seem dangerous, just simply and inexplicably there. He looked like a turn-of-the-century gentleman whose harebrained time travel machine had just unexpectedly worked.

“Who are you?” seemed the most pertinent question.

Evie's Journey

ACT I
Ordinary World
Evie Wells is an administrative assistant (PC term for secretary) at the Freer Gallery of Art - Smithsonian Institution. Her ordinary world involves being spoken down to and asked to conduct menial administrative tasks. However, we learn that she graduated top of her class from one of the best history programs in the country and possesses more historical and archaeological knowledge in her brilliant mind than the museum' curators combined. She knows this deep down, but she is still young and not especially confident. She's not asking for more than her lot and pretends, and sometimes even believes, that she's content.

Resurrection

The pain reached such a pitch that Evie felt her body contract in an effort to dim the throbbing. But her brain could not ignore the irate signals that her nerves were screaming across each synapse.

She knew that she had taken the bullet. She saw the eye behind the muzzle, the flash. She felt the musket ball pierce her skin with all the grace of a ragged boulder entering water. It blasted a hole through her rib cage and entered her chest lodging deep in her lung. She tasted blood immediately, then lost her breath. She fell to her knees. Not wanting to die on her face, she leaned to her left and landed on her side.

Then she died. She was sure of it. She felt the black close in on her. She felt the pain disappear and the peace come. But now, now the black behind her eyes was red with agony. She was either alive or in the infernal hell that fire and brimstone preachers rage against. Damn them for being right.

Very slowly the searing pain downgraded to a more bearable burn. She felt her other senses, previously overcome, returning. She smelled vanilla and cat food. She felt fabric and plush beneath her. She urged her eyelids to raise in several tries like coaxing obstinate mini blinds. In between failures, she caught glimpses of her surroundings. She was clearly back in her apartment and, though she couldn't feel his touch, she recognized Eren standing over her, shaking her, terror contorting his face.