Gossamer Thread
He stood on the edge of the promontory, apparently gazing up and across the vast divide. His hands grasped the rail tightly, his face turned up slightly to soak in the late afternoon’s sun-rays. The taut figure didn’t move, even after the last of the spectators finished their oohs and ahhs and slowly wound their way back down the trail, making their way past the adobe-colored rocks that littered the edges of the well-beaten path.
A hawk screeched in the sky and the man reacted as the sound reached his ears. His tense grip relaxed, and a sigh escaped his lips. He murmured, “Surrounded in measureless oceans of space / musing, venturing, throwing – seeking the spheres to connect them”. His body sagged suddenly, its rigid pose loosening. He turned and wearily set out to make his way down to his cabin at the bottom of the mountain. It was only when his back was against the soaring sky that his sightless eyes and red-tipped cane came into view.
He shivered at the sudden gust of wind that swept over the cliff’s edge. The moving air felt cool on his skin, so recently warmed from the sun. A small creature skittered on the path ahead of him. He jumped at the voice beside him.
“A gossamer thread pulls me to your soul.”
The man laughed delightedly. “A fellow Walt Whitman fan! Well, I have flung that thread out in the void often enough…,” he started, when another voice reached them faintly.
“Help! Help!”
The man stopped, immobile for a moment as he sought to identify the source. “Did you hear that?” he asked his unseen companion.
“Yes, it came from down the path.”
The two hurried now, the clacking cane finding its way on the familiar route.
“Can you see?” he called a bit ironically, to his companion who surged ahead, moving off the path as the blind man could not afford to do.
“Yes, someone has fallen off the path. They are on a ledge down below.”
“How far down are they?”
“About six or eight feet. It is a human. She is laying on her back with one leg folded under her.”
“Well, I didn’t think it was a mountain goat calling for help, so thanks for the clarification,” the blind man called testily. “Can you help her?”
“No.”
It was silent for a moment. “Is she dead?” the blind man asked.
“No. Maybe unconscious.”
“Is there a way down to her?”
“Yes.”
“Could you go down and help her up? Could you give her a hand back up to the ledge?”
“No.”
“Why not?” he almost screamed in frustration. What a time to be helpless!
“I don’t have hands.”
An amputee! Visons of the explosion that cost him his eyes and his buddy McKinney’s foot outside Kandahar flooded his mind. He saw again the look of horror on his sergeant’s face, as clearly as it had leered out at him in heart-stopping nightmares for years afterwards, the last look his eyes were to see before being transported out of the area on a hastily constructed travois.
Bile rose in his throat, and he tasted again the blood and bitterness that filled his mouth long ago, realizing that his life was about to change forever.
“Oh, I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he called.
He had to think. Night was approaching, and the temperature plummeted to freezing lows after dark. He knew what he had to do. His “no man left behind” mantra propelled him to call out sharply, “Can you help me if I help her up?”
There was a pause. “I don’t know.”
Oh, my God! This was getting worse and worse. For the first time, the blind man regretted his decision to live in the remote area, lacking even basic cell phone coverage. They had maybe an hour to get the unfortunate woman back on the path and heading down to the warmth of her car, or to his cabin where the fire steeped in his wood stove, underneath the ashes.
He took a deep breath. “Can you talk me down?”
“Yes.”
Okay. This was it. At least I have a fellow vet, he thought with resignation. Here goes nothing.
“All right. Talk me down then. Describe how many steps exactly, according to the face of a clock. Noon is straight down the path.”
“At 9 o’clock, take five steps.”
His cane weaving ahead of him, the blind man took five steps, and stopped. The probing cane encountered no ground, and he shuddered slightly.
“Get down on the ground and slither backwards until you drop over the edge,” his helper instructed.
He could hear moaning now, faintly rising from near the top of the abyss that he was willingly planning to descend. “It’s okay, ma’am,” he called down. “We will get you out of there.”
He crouched and laid his cane down, his hand even more unwilling to cease its grasp now than it had on the railing moments before. On his stomach, he propelled himself backwards over the edge, heart pounding, waiting for the voice and further instructions.
“Okay, that’s good. Lower yourself further. The ledge is about seven feet wide.”
Carefully he lowered himself, stretching as far as possible, as though seeking the ground through sheer will-power. “Watch out, ma’am”. He jumped.
Surprising, he stayed on his feet. It wasn’t as far as he had feared, far less than the eight feet suggested.
“Help,” she said weakly, unnecessarily.
“Yes, ma’am. Can you stand?”
“I think so.”
He reached out, his hands encountering hair and an ear. He leaned forward and grasped a shoulder. He smelled her perfume and the shampoo in her hair as he took a firmer hold and fumblingly pulled her to her feet.
She gasped, and fell against him. Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around her. He felt her legs moving tentatively as she stood inside the circle of his arms.
“I’m okay. It’s not broken.” She sounded relieved.
“Can you climb over the edge if I give you a foot hold,” he said.
“Yes.”
Edging away from her, he laced his fingers invitingly, creating the classic foothold, ready to shove her up and over the top.
He felt her foot enter his hands, then she shoved his shoulder and scrambled for the hold above. He pushed and she pulled herself up, dirt and rock tumbling onto his uplifted, sightless face.
He almost screamed when he heard the now-familiar voice beside him.
“A gossamer thread pulled me to your soul. Come, where the use of hand or eye or feet is not necessary. Come, you called. Let us go now.”
His breath quickening, the blind man realized that this was no veteran, nor even human. A wind swept over him and he felt himself soaring off the ledge and over the vast chasm. He glanced up as an eagle’s cry reached him from nearby. He could see!
He looked back. He saw the woman stand, and turn to look below. He saw his body, lying on the ledge, a smile on his lips. A scream rose from the woman, then she turned and limped away.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
A NOISELESS, PATIENT SPIDER
By Walt Whitman
A noiseless, patient spider,
I mark’d, where, on a little promontory, it stood, isolated;
Mark’d how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,
It launch’d forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself;
Ever unreeling them—ever tirelessly speeding them.
And you, O my Soul, where you stand,
Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, —seeking the spheres, to connect them;
Till the bridge you will need, be form’d—till the ductile anchor hold;
Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul.
A hawk screeched in the sky and the man reacted as the sound reached his ears. His tense grip relaxed, and a sigh escaped his lips. He murmured, “Surrounded in measureless oceans of space / musing, venturing, throwing – seeking the spheres to connect them”. His body sagged suddenly, its rigid pose loosening. He turned and wearily set out to make his way down to his cabin at the bottom of the mountain. It was only when his back was against the soaring sky that his sightless eyes and red-tipped cane came into view.
He shivered at the sudden gust of wind that swept over the cliff’s edge. The moving air felt cool on his skin, so recently warmed from the sun. A small creature skittered on the path ahead of him. He jumped at the voice beside him.
“A gossamer thread pulls me to your soul.”
The man laughed delightedly. “A fellow Walt Whitman fan! Well, I have flung that thread out in the void often enough…,” he started, when another voice reached them faintly.
“Help! Help!”
The man stopped, immobile for a moment as he sought to identify the source. “Did you hear that?” he asked his unseen companion.
“Yes, it came from down the path.”
The two hurried now, the clacking cane finding its way on the familiar route.
“Can you see?” he called a bit ironically, to his companion who surged ahead, moving off the path as the blind man could not afford to do.
“Yes, someone has fallen off the path. They are on a ledge down below.”
“How far down are they?”
“About six or eight feet. It is a human. She is laying on her back with one leg folded under her.”
“Well, I didn’t think it was a mountain goat calling for help, so thanks for the clarification,” the blind man called testily. “Can you help her?”
“No.”
It was silent for a moment. “Is she dead?” the blind man asked.
“No. Maybe unconscious.”
“Is there a way down to her?”
“Yes.”
“Could you go down and help her up? Could you give her a hand back up to the ledge?”
“No.”
“Why not?” he almost screamed in frustration. What a time to be helpless!
“I don’t have hands.”
An amputee! Visons of the explosion that cost him his eyes and his buddy McKinney’s foot outside Kandahar flooded his mind. He saw again the look of horror on his sergeant’s face, as clearly as it had leered out at him in heart-stopping nightmares for years afterwards, the last look his eyes were to see before being transported out of the area on a hastily constructed travois.
Bile rose in his throat, and he tasted again the blood and bitterness that filled his mouth long ago, realizing that his life was about to change forever.
“Oh, I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he called.
He had to think. Night was approaching, and the temperature plummeted to freezing lows after dark. He knew what he had to do. His “no man left behind” mantra propelled him to call out sharply, “Can you help me if I help her up?”
There was a pause. “I don’t know.”
Oh, my God! This was getting worse and worse. For the first time, the blind man regretted his decision to live in the remote area, lacking even basic cell phone coverage. They had maybe an hour to get the unfortunate woman back on the path and heading down to the warmth of her car, or to his cabin where the fire steeped in his wood stove, underneath the ashes.
He took a deep breath. “Can you talk me down?”
“Yes.”
Okay. This was it. At least I have a fellow vet, he thought with resignation. Here goes nothing.
“All right. Talk me down then. Describe how many steps exactly, according to the face of a clock. Noon is straight down the path.”
“At 9 o’clock, take five steps.”
His cane weaving ahead of him, the blind man took five steps, and stopped. The probing cane encountered no ground, and he shuddered slightly.
“Get down on the ground and slither backwards until you drop over the edge,” his helper instructed.
He could hear moaning now, faintly rising from near the top of the abyss that he was willingly planning to descend. “It’s okay, ma’am,” he called down. “We will get you out of there.”
He crouched and laid his cane down, his hand even more unwilling to cease its grasp now than it had on the railing moments before. On his stomach, he propelled himself backwards over the edge, heart pounding, waiting for the voice and further instructions.
“Okay, that’s good. Lower yourself further. The ledge is about seven feet wide.”
Carefully he lowered himself, stretching as far as possible, as though seeking the ground through sheer will-power. “Watch out, ma’am”. He jumped.
Surprising, he stayed on his feet. It wasn’t as far as he had feared, far less than the eight feet suggested.
“Help,” she said weakly, unnecessarily.
“Yes, ma’am. Can you stand?”
“I think so.”
He reached out, his hands encountering hair and an ear. He leaned forward and grasped a shoulder. He smelled her perfume and the shampoo in her hair as he took a firmer hold and fumblingly pulled her to her feet.
She gasped, and fell against him. Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around her. He felt her legs moving tentatively as she stood inside the circle of his arms.
“I’m okay. It’s not broken.” She sounded relieved.
“Can you climb over the edge if I give you a foot hold,” he said.
“Yes.”
Edging away from her, he laced his fingers invitingly, creating the classic foothold, ready to shove her up and over the top.
He felt her foot enter his hands, then she shoved his shoulder and scrambled for the hold above. He pushed and she pulled herself up, dirt and rock tumbling onto his uplifted, sightless face.
He almost screamed when he heard the now-familiar voice beside him.
“A gossamer thread pulled me to your soul. Come, where the use of hand or eye or feet is not necessary. Come, you called. Let us go now.”
His breath quickening, the blind man realized that this was no veteran, nor even human. A wind swept over him and he felt himself soaring off the ledge and over the vast chasm. He glanced up as an eagle’s cry reached him from nearby. He could see!
He looked back. He saw the woman stand, and turn to look below. He saw his body, lying on the ledge, a smile on his lips. A scream rose from the woman, then she turned and limped away.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
A NOISELESS, PATIENT SPIDER
By Walt Whitman
A noiseless, patient spider,
I mark’d, where, on a little promontory, it stood, isolated;
Mark’d how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,
It launch’d forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself;
Ever unreeling them—ever tirelessly speeding them.
And you, O my Soul, where you stand,
Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, —seeking the spheres, to connect them;
Till the bridge you will need, be form’d—till the ductile anchor hold;
Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul.