COMPASSION,The delicate creature found it difficult to evade the pain and crushing pressure of the loss of all of her kin, all of her folk. Everyone. Her mother, her father, her sister, her darling, tiny little baby brothers.
Everyone, each and every one of them, everyone, everything that she had ever loved, everything for which she had ever cared for was gone. Irretrievably gone. Forever.


This new place was so different, though similar enough. Her father had managed to save her from the Enslavers: she was one of the few lucky ones.
Freya tried, day in and day out, but could not, would never forget the sonic scream, the wail of anguish emanating from her mother, the scream that would have destroyed the ability of these creatures to hear anything, the scream of pain that would have shattered their minds.
It was the day she left the world for the Other Place.


These folk, the folk to whom she had been sent, were totally bound by the gravity of their world. They lived and kissed and loved high in the rarefied atmosphere of the highest plateaus of their world. Her parents had explained to her the importance of pretending to be like them.
This walking, in and of itself, was terribly difficult. None of them traveled in a normal fashion. She had seen the beautiful mountains, the deep valleys, the wonders of their world that they themselves had not seen-in their own place, in their own world.
They did not live, incredibly, in the normal world. For some reason, whatever reason, long ago, they had chosen to abandon what they called the Sea, the Sea which surrounded them, from which they had come.

She would never understand this. But here, on this world, she was free.


Freya ran her beiged, lacquered fingernails over the surfaces. Her modest heels clicked and clacked on the marble floors of her home.
She looked, she saw, she discerned.
There was not a dab of dust. Her footsteps echoed in the brilliantly appointed home. She loved her Helpers: they were so sweet, kind, so focused in this task of maintaining her home in the fashion that was so important to her Preston. Her Darling had never said this to her, but it was clear in his mind that this mattered greatly to him, so it mattered to her.

These creatures, so similar, yet so different, with whom she had melded, did not speak into each other’s minds. They almost always used their voices to speak. She felt sorry for them. They could speak, in a fashion, but they did not hear, they did not see each other.

Despite this affliction, her father had been incredibly wise in sending her to this place. Even the Enslavers, the Evil Ones, even they would never search for her here, would never follow her to this place: the creatures of this place were capable of a casual cruelty and compassionlessness that was truly incomprehensible. This was well known. These fierce creatures were feared.

Her father had hidden his beloved daughter in the den of lions.

Freya glossed over the minds of her family: all was good. She smiled and went to finish the task of preparing the foods that her Darling loved. She loved Mama Beth for having showed her how to do this.

“Like this, Ma Bey?”
“Yes, baby, it’s going to be beautiful.”
Elizabeth regarded the golden-locked child and could not help but love her. The five-year old was so good with her little fingers. She and her older sister took to embroidery like fish to water.
She was so glad that the curse that she had laid upon her son had gone unanswered. Her two granddaughters-even her two grandsons-were the most sweetly dispositioned children she had ever known. Preston had been a mess.
“I hope you have children like you one day.”
The curse, thank God, had not worked. Somehow, she knew, she knew that she had her sweet little Freya to thank for this.
The two little ones knitted away, their bright shining smiles and laughter windows into their sweet souls. Elizabeth beamed.

Elizabeth was of a sweet soul.
Part of this kindness lived in the heart of her Preston.
As Freya wandered through her home, as she assured herself that all was good, she also minded her precious ones. Her little girls-yes, they were fine-they were enjoying their time with their grandmother. Her little ones were enjoying the love that gently washed over them: Mama Beth was teaching them something. Freya smiled.
The boys-were they behaving? She searched and found their minds-they were behaving. They were on a green field with their father’s father. They were playing this game called golf. They enjoyed his presence, and he loved teaching them, being with them.
Freya desperately missed her own two brothers. She had never understood boys: they all seemed to be so full of mischief, so crazy, silly. But they grew to be tall, beautiful and strong. They became protectors, protectors of those who had guarded their hearths and given them good things to eat when they had been small and weak.

Preston’s father looked on as his elder grandson swung his club. The boy had potential, but his already broad shoulders and strong frame suggested to him that he should stick to the swimming. He and his brother were both phenomenal swimmers. However, the genteel gentleman wanted to spend his precious time with his progeny doing what he enjoyed-golfing.
These boys were good, totally unlike their father at his age. They were not the little demons that he had feared his son would produce.
This retiree, a man of significant wealth knew, had a sense of people that many others did not have: his grandsons were indulging him. They wanted to be at the beach, in the ocean, but they loved him, and they pretended to enjoy this thing which could have not bored them more.
These boys were kind and caring, not cold and brooding in the manner which he had expected. He was glad to see his pretty wife’s face, and his own, in theirs.
The Senior had been seriously concerned about the skinny, bosomy blonde that his daughter had brought into his home: she was comely and his son was the charmer. Why-of all people-had his little activist brought this creature into their life?
He had not slaved and struggled to give it all back to Them.
This child, however, was truly kind and sweet. He recognized, over time, that she could not be blamed for what she was. This would have been unfair, and truly unkind.
His son began to show up at work on time. His mind had become focused upon a future-yes, a future including Freya, but a future nonetheless.

Freya’s Preston was soon to come home, he was only two hours away. That was what was in his mind. It was always easy to find him: he thought of her constantly.
She had time to step into the pool in the wooded glen behind their home. This simple pleasure was a delight she would never be able to explain to these folk, to anyone here. Not even her own children. Not yet, not for the time being. She was so lonely, but her Preston was coming.
Her little ones, her poor babies. She had not been able to let them out of her sight, anyone of them, for the first two years of each of their lives.
They could not be bathed by another, washed by another, taken to a body of water outside of her presence. The result would have been catastrophic.
One day, one beautiful day, she would shine into their bright minds the vast, never-ending seas of her world, their world. She would explain to her babies what they were, who they were.

This star, the star they called the Sun was so warm. It warmed the water, this pool. Freya eased her frame into it.
She breathed in peace, relieved, if only for a few moments, of so many bonds. Her little ones understood, finally, though not completely, that they were different. Her cycle was complete, her four were born, and they were safe here. They had some, some understanding.
She relaxed her mind as she floated to the middle of the pool.
She opened her golden eyes and dreamt of the world which she would never see again.

The thread-like tendrils, the threads that brought to her that which was necessary to breathe began to emerge from her mouth and nose. These oxygen-giving threads began to mesh with the long blonde locks adorning her shoulders.
Freya floated and stared and dreamt. She smiled as the warm water caressed her nude frame. Her mind did wander. Her new sister, her dear sister of this world was coming to her home to visit with her and her Preston. Kayla was moving rapidly over the high plateau in what was called a vehicle, a car.

She had met her Darling through her new sister. It had been on a campus in Los Angeles. Kayla had fallen and scraped her knee. The fried potatoes from her red box were scattered all about her. It was unbelievable: people stepped over and around the beautiful brown girl.
Freya put out her hand and smiled at the pretty brown girl in the bright purple dress. The mind of this creature was filled with-what? Freya offered her the fried potatoes from her red and yellow box.
“Here, yours are spilled. Please, take some of mine.”
Kayla regarded the apparently kind girl, and within a billionth of a moment felt the kindness. She smiled and took her hand.
“You’re not from around here, are you? What, Sweden?”
The two spent the afternoon wandering through the beautiful green fields of the campus. They became fast friends.

Over time, Kayla explained to her friend the terrors endured by her ancestors: the horror of enslavement; the requisite cruelty and evil that necessitated it; the requisite cruelty that it created in so many of its victims. Freya wept. This was so similar to the world that she loved but had escaped: they were so different here, but the same.

Kayla thought-despite her inclinations-that this kind creature might save her brother: Smoothy would not casually step into these panties.
He might recognize her beauty, he might change for her. He might, through her, become the man that he could become.

Freya turned, floating gently. Her Preston was on the plateau, the plateau they called America, at the LAX. It was a question that she had considered over and over again and then some: why did they choose to live in this rarefied atmosphere and then turn around and bend their minds to create machines that would move them from plateau to plateau? It was so sad that they had not chosen to live and love in the paradise that surrounded them beneath these plateaus.

Those that cannot speak, for the most part, do not hear-at least not very well. They tend not to understand the importance of speech, what it is. Her Preston’s thoughts of her were poignant and sweet: in this she was glad her Darling could not hide his thoughts from her. He loved everything about her: the wonderful things she did for him…that she loved him.
“I’d die for you.”
He would smile at her and this thought would leap from his mind. At first, Freya would blanch: she was appalled at the casual linkage between love and death in his mind. These creatures were obsessed with death and dying and killing.

Over time, Freya realized, understood, that on this cruel world there was no greater love.
And he had never even told her, feeling her to delicate, told her that he would lay down his life for her. But she loved him for the knowing, she was glad she could look into his mind and see what he was.
This carpenter, this ghost that haunted her Preston’s thoughts had said that love was not to be proclaimed like these Pharisees do (who were they? She had never seen a Pharisee), but to be kept inside. This was why her Darling so rarely spoke of the shining love for her that he could barely contain within himself. He was afraid that this delicate, fragile, beautiful thing would be somehow damaged if he spoke of it too often. Poor Thing: it was so much more strong than he understood.
But, this carpenter had had a powerful effect on her Darling, and Freya was glad that Pres had met him.

Freya stared into the bright blue canopy and breathed deeply in the atmosphere in which she floated. She was going away from this place, if only for a few short moments, to be with her mother, father, her sister, her little brothers. She sighed a sigh of relief and relaxed totally. She then rested upon the bottom of the pool, her golden eyes fixed on the bright blue canopy of the southern California sky.

The traffic in SoCal is so unpredictable: Pres would be home much sooner than he had thought. It was so good to be going home, going to his Sweetheart.
Sometimes, he wondered if she understood how much he loved her, what she meant to him. He hated having been away from her for so long. It had been six days in China, but this account was going to secure not only their futures, but the futures of their great-grandchildren.

“Thanks, Jim.”
“I’ll take those, sir.”
“No, that’s alright. Only exercise I get these days. But thank you, though.” He smiled and gave the driver of the well-appointed limousine a handsome tip.
His heavy black bags hung from his broad shoulders. He opened the door and cried for his Freya.
She was not at the door as she usually was. The foyer was filled with the fragrances of simmering fried corn, greens, black-eyed peas. He followed his nose to the kitchen. There was a bowl of prepared cornmeal and flour, salt, all the other ingredients ready for the hot-water cornbread. But Freya was not there.

He had no idea what he had done to deserve her. She was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to him, for him. She was so sweet and kind. She always knew, always, what he needed, desired. It was as if she could read his mind.
He had achieved so much-for her, to be with her.
He had his pride, but he was no fool: he had changed so he could be with her, forever.
He met her eighteen years ago.

“No. You must love me first.” She then laughed and tweaked his nose.
Kayla had been right about him: he was more than the obvious horror contained in his lovely frame. There was goodness and kindness as well.

Where was she? Her cars were parked in the drive way, he had checked every room of the house. The kids were with Mom and Dad, but there was a feast simmering on the stove. Where was she?
On the third landing of their home, in his dawning panic, he glanced out the window.
He saw her.
His Darling was at the bottom of the pool.
She was floating, her eyes wide open, near the very bottom of the pool. The pool that she had gently insisted that he have created for her. He stared for a moment. He then turned and rushed down the stairs.
The six-foot antique mirror on the second landing exploded when the shoulder of the former running-back slammed into it. There was no time to worry about the damage and the pain and the blood. He flowed down the stairs and unthinkingly melted through the latticed glass doors, unaware of the damage to the face and hands.

She was there, standing there on the green lawn. She was staring at him as he rushed towards her. Staring at him. What had he seen? Had The Catastrophe occurred? Had it?
She moved her nude, fawn-like frame towards him, towards her Mate and Love as he approached her. Her smile and nudity should have beguiled him, but it did not.
The Catastrophe had occurred.

She saw the ugliness of the fear and revulsion: he had seen what she was.
In her Darling’s mind were horrible images: What have I been sleeping with? What have I loved? What is this …this thing. The mother of my children. My God. My children. What have I done?

All she had wanted was to dream of home.

This change of total love for her to horror in her Darling’s mind was too much, simply too much. After so much loss. Now this loss. It was too much.

She crumpled to the ground and the necessary fluid, the water, began to bleed from her eyes. She cried away the water, the fluid that she needed to live.

Pres, still in a state of shock, regarded the beautiful creature. She was going to die. He sensed this.

Freya forcefully, powerfully, using her last strength, spoke into her Darling’s mind: “Please, Pres, please love them. They are your babies, too. Please do not blame them for what they are. “
He heard this. Sensed this. He realized that she really was going to die. She was different. There was no time to consider any of this. He loved her.
He gently fetched her up and carried her back to the water. He carefully stepped into the pool and immersed her, submerged her. And he prayed.
He watched as threads began to come from his Darling’s mouth, nose. He watched as her bosom began to move. She was breathing.
He began to breathe.
Her golden eyes opened.

The tendrils eased into her. She released herself from her darling’s arms. She stood. He knew. But he still loved her.
She draped her arms around him, sensing nothing but love.
“Darling, you’re hurt, you’re bleeding” She was frightened by the glass and blood all over him. She began to pull the shards out of him. She was so worried about him while he cared about nothing but her.
He smiled. He lifted her and carried her into their home. She knew why he was doing this: there was glass everywhere, and he didn’t want her to be hurt. She knew his mind. She could see into his mind. She knew that he knew this. He loved her, nonetheless. She loved him all the more.
She had come to a good place.