hrj

Every story I write grows around one or two crucial emotional scenes.  The rest of the story, to some extent, is simply an elaborate set-up to make those scenes inevitable. I've finally caught up with what turns out to be both the emotional and technical turning point in The Mystic Marriage. The emotional aspect was what came first, but as often seems to be the case, that event became a metaphor and inspiration for other turning points. When Antuniet accepts the imperfections of the human heart, it gives her the key to solving her alchemical quest by embracing the muddled impurity of human motivations.

Antuniet picked up the crimson stone and held it against the light from the window to check the clarity. No fractures or bubbles. No hazy patches where the fibers were misaligned. It was warm between her fingers and she could feel herself bending to the power it carried: softening, yearning. Her own art betrayed her. She shook off the influence. "There you are," she said bitterly. "Red jasper to cure pains of the heart and ensure love returned.  Pure, perfect, flawless...and utterly false."

“It isn't false,” Jeanne said with quiet intensity.  “It was never false, but it's never pure. That's where the poets lie to us.  We're all of us impure mixtures and flawed gems." She snatched the jasper away and held it up. "There are no pure feelings. How can there be honor without the pride in keeping it? What does love mean without the courage to follow it? Bravery without wisdom is folly. Loyalty can't be only a fishhook on a slender line; it must be a thousand tiny stitches binding one heart to the other." With a sudden swift movement she took up one of the empty crucibles from the bench and started scooping minerals into it from the open jars. “There’s love; that’s true.”  Five large scoops of the first and the jasper thrust into the midst of it.  “But there’s vanity as well.” A spoon from the second. “And jealousy.”  A dusting from a smaller jar. "There's memory of loss and dreams unrealized. There's fear." She stirred the powders roughly with one of the small chisels that still lay on the tray.  Traces of the colors swirled through the mixture like eddies of the river.  "And there's pain." With a sudden movement she jabbed the chisel's tip into her finger and watched the drops of blood well up and fall.  "There's always pain. It doesn't matter that it's by my own hand." Jeanne thrust the crucible towards her.  Antuniet took it by reflex and Jeanne wrapped cold hands around her own to keep them there.  “This is my heart: it is what you see.  I don't know if it will come through the fire.  But it's yours, if you will have it.”  Her voice was rough and low. She turned away abruptly and strode out of the room. The clatter of the door latch signaled her departure.