The Shield
Across the street from Ravenas
hotel sits a neighborhood of
historic homes renovated as
boutiques, art galleries, specialty
shops, and cafes. The homes
cluster around an old church
designed like an English cottage.
Round red tiles knit the roof,
while wood blackened with age
clothes the body of the church.
Inside, the air sways dark and
cool, laced with the special
fragrance old buildings wear
when they sign a mossy alliance
with the earth. Ravena walks
from room to room in the art
gallery next door, each floor
filled with pottery, paintings, art
prints, handmade furniture, and
jewelry. Shed like to buy a pair
of cat or pentacle earrings to
commemorate her trip, but nothing
whispers to her today. Outside,
the sun swims hot on her skin,
the temperature over eighty
degrees, a heat wave, they
say. She walks past a fine art
clothing boutique and a record
store, stopping to rest on a bench
in front of a mens shop, facing
a small garden six feet wide
and thirty feet long, each bush
pruned in an Oriental shape.
Large rocks add height to the
garden and support raised beds
awash with tulips. Blooming
herbs, lambs ears, and a small
pond entertain lazy bumblebees
and wasps. As a breeze from an
approaching thunderstorm turns
its cool fingers over her arms,
Ravena realizes shes sunburned.
After a while a young man with a
pleasant face sits on the far end of
the bench. He doesnt seem to be
a tourist, even though he appears
as hot and moist as everyone else
on the street. “I have a new son
born last night,” the man says
proudly. “Now I have two kids.”
Ravena smiles. “Congratulations,”
she says. “I hope your wife is
doing well.” He shakes his head.
“Im not married,” he replies.
“And shes tired, but fine.” He
looks at her hands folded in her
lap, her wedding ring. “How long
have you been married?” Ravena
lifts her hand, the diamond chips
in her gold band crackling beneath
the fiery wink of the sun. “Twenty-
four years,” she replies. “We lived
together for a while, but it didnt
work out, too much work,” he says.
“Things arent the same as when
you were married.” A bumblebee
hovers above the bench for a
moment and then returns to
a marigold. “People are different
now,” he says. “They change.”
The sun slips behind a cloud, kicking
up a breeze washed with the sweet
fragrance of rain. “I have a plan,”
he says. “Ive got a good job and
some money saved, so my kids
can go to college.” He shrugs.
“Ive got it all worked out.” He
stands and checks his watch.
“I need to get back to the hospital,”
he says, smiling. “Thanks for
letting me share your bench.”
He shakes her hand and hurries
away. Now the sky, blotched
with storm clouds, begins to spit
rain, each drop skipping along the
pavement like a quarter, as Ravena
hurries through the tiled doorway
of the record store to escape.
Later, as she walks past shops and
boutiques, Ravena wonders if we
all receive a glimpse when were
young of who we might become,
an image we flick away like a gnat,
as if it were a frivolous daydream.
Now she realizes the silent woman
resembles the one she dreamt of
as a teenager. Back then she
could only sustain this vision for
a day or two, hovering more like
a shadow than reality. Yet shes
never forgotten how happy and
calm she felt during those few
shining days when she thought
before she spoke, said little, and
smiled most of the time, a feeling
like no other, the way the right
hand rests in the left. A feeling
of power, a perfect fit. In one
series of Wiccan novels she reads
the Witches cast shields around
themselves for protection against
the destructive auras of others.
These shields rise up like the black
wings of a giant crow. As Odells
temper increases, she wishes she
could create a shield like that to
protect her heart from his frequent
fits and the torrent of angry words
flowing from his lips. Suddenly she
realizes the silence she experiences
could be such protection, her lack
of words shielding her from his.
“Thank you, Durga, for your gift,”
she says, awed by the power of
this realization, as she perceives
a pair of dark wings rising up above
her head, surrounding her. She
stops at a creek curling between
the hotel and church, shrouded in
trees and bushes and wild grass,
completely blocking the sun from
the water. Ravena can see only
deep shade when she stoops to
peer in, but she knows its a creek
and not a dry one, because she
hears the music the water makes
when it taps the rocks. Bumble-
bees drag heavy bodies in and out
of this spot, and although she can-
not find it, the air cartwheels with
the sweet syrup of honeysuckle,
and she knows pale yellow flowers
thrive there, blooming in the dark.
After dinner she walks to a nearby
organic soda shop for a fruity soy-
shake. The boy who takes her
order looks like a high school
student. He pours soymilk into
a metal cup, adds sliced bananas,
strawberries, pineapple, and blue-
berries, filling it almost to the top.
He holds it under the machine,
controlling the mixer with a foot
petal beneath the counter. Almost
finished, the soyshake begins to
tremble, spewing wildly from his
hands over the counter, across his
shirt, and onto the floor. He pours
the remains into a paper cup and
mops up his mess. Grinning, he
looks back at the machine and
then at Ravena as he hands the
sweet, creamy drink to her. “Do
you do that very often?” she asks.
“All the time,” he replies. “I thought
this might be my first day without
an accident, but I guess not.” He
shrugs his shoulders, takes her
money, and walks over to a mother
and daughter who ask if they can
pay for their desert with a credit
card. His attitude toward the soy-
shake machine reminds Ravena
of a Wiccan friend who allows
stress to roll from her shoulders
like rain from a magnolia leaf.
Naturally impatient as a child, she
began to practice patience and
soon perfected the art of serenity.
So its no surprise to Ravena, as
she walks back to her room, sip-
ping her drink, that this soyshake
tastes better than most, saturated
with the boys stress-free energy.
Feathered in many colors, the
pigeons here enjoy sharing the
streets with people, and small
groups of birds tend to walk
along with shoppers. Earlier
that day, while Ravena waited
at a street corner for the light
to change, a gray pigeon stood
next to her, its eyes sparkling
a bright shade of fuchsia, a
color shed never seen in the
eye of another living creature,
and one shes not likely to
forget. As the sun begins
to dip below the rim of the
highest mountain, she no
longer feels like a feral cat
trapped in a corner with no
avenue of escape. Like a hot-
air balloon, the ropes binding
her soul wriggle from their
stakes, pulling free, one by
one. Ravena lifts the dark
wings of her shield toward the
cloud-lace of the setting sun,
and then wraps them around
her. Power embraces her
body. “Yes,” she whispers
to the tree faeries and the
sylphs of the air. “Im ready
to spin the wheel of change.”
Often called “The Mystic Cat Poet of the Small Press,” Laura Stamps is an award-winning poet and novelist.
Over seven hundred of her poems and short stories have appeared in literary journals, magazines, anthologies, and broadsides, including the Louisiana Review, The Pittsburgh Quarterly, Poetry Midwest, Big City Lit, The Wheel, Poesy Magazine, American Writing, and the Chiron Review. Winner of the “Muses Prize Best Poet of the Year 2005″ and the recipient of a Pulitzer Prize nomination and six Pushcart Award nominations, she is the author of more than thirty books and chapbooks of poetry and fiction.
Recent books include “The Year of the Cat: New Poems” (Artemesia Publishing, 2005) and a new series of novels and novellas for Wiccans and Pagans published by Kittyfeather Press: “The Cat Lady: A Novel in Verse” (2006) and “The Tarot Cats: A Novella in Verse” (2006). More information about books by Laura Stamps can be found at Kitty Feather Press
To purchase the Year of the Cat, visit Amazon Books at:
Year of the Cat