Liebestod

The orchestra was warming up for a performance of classics when Peter
slumped into his mother's regular subscription seat in the concert hall
that night. His mother was unwell and he was taking her place. But the
young man's mind was far away. He was not much of a classical music lover,
for one thing. For another, his relationship with his girlfriend Anna was
troubling him. Anna was one of those "perfect girlfriend" types. One could
not fault her. A disturbing thought.

Above Peter's head shone the dull night-gold of a domed ceiling speckled by
small glittering lights--a starry sky for a summer concert. The lights
lowered and the conductor made his entrance, the audience responding with
polite applause. The mellow lighting, warm indoor air, and gentle wafting
of perfumes and body fragrances induced Peter into a slumberous state.
Through this haze he gradually became aware of the woman seated next to
him. Just the drift of her perfume at first. Very strong. Then the soft
silhouette of her body. An older woman.

The first piece played was Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, a Mozart favourite. Loud
and spirited. Peter was increasingly alert, but not because of the music.
It was her. Stealing a quick sidelong glance, he observed a shiny black
evening skirt covering her thighs almost down to her knees. Black stockings
below that. He had a strange feeling that she knew he was looking. The
woman lifted her arm and placed it on the armrest, where it bumped into
his. After a moment Peter felt compelled to remove his arm!
The orchestra was now playing Sheherazade. Peter's thoughts veered wildly
between the music and the woman next to him. He put his arm back on the
armrest alongside hers, and she turned and looked straight at him. He saw
the excitement in her eyes and became, in turn, excited. She smiled at him
wickedly then looked away. He was shocked at how exciting that was!

What was it they were playing now? wondered Peter. "Wagner's Liebestod!"
the woman whispered to him conspirationally. How could she speak to him
like that? In such a familiar tone of voice? Then the music took over. It
really was a beautiful melody. Gently soaring. Unquestioned yearning. Warm
and golden sounds. Warm and dark. Dark! Like her! Whose tender fingers
stroked the back of his hand very lightly as they listened together. The
melody rose and fell, then rose again, and Peter realized he was enjoying
this music with this strange woman in a way that he wanted to experience
again. When the music reached a crescendo, he felt almost ill with
pleasure.

After the Liebestod, the concert ended, the audience applauded, and Peter
and the woman's arms became unentwined. He turned to her to say something,
but she had risen without a backward glance and was walking away with a
man, her arm woven firmly through his--leaving only the strong perfume
lingering upon Peter's sleeve, whispering, "Liebestod!"

The Way To Heaven

There was nothing more that he could do. David accepted all that had come his way, and knew he was beat. Each day the same as the one before, each moment equal in its inexorable boredom, pretence and darkness. Forty years of battle had wearied him. The stars he had reached for, dimmed. The sun no longer rose in his day, nor set.

Each day was a swirling cloud through which he struggled, freed only by the inevitable fall to the pillow at night. And there he dreamed of chattering,laughing people at wild parties to which he had never been invited. And if he awoke from those dreams, for some moments afterwards he found difficulty in remembering even his own name.

And yet a bird in the night may suddenly sing a note that will capture his attention. The clouds may gently part, and the stars brighten. A tree may take form in the grey mist, its branches heavy-leafed and stretching forth, thick honey seeping from the moist bark of its trunk; and moss the softness of his own sigh, springing under the tentative touch of his finger. Warm whispers the breeze on such a night, and his heart will yearn!

On waking at dawn, David rises and walks to the foot of Cradle Mountain, where he has stood many a time gazing upwards and pondering. There he finds a cosy nook under a shady willow tree by the stream that meanders past, and sits, watching and waiting.

Now all men who have attempted to climb Cradle Mountain will readily attest to its sharp steep slope, boulder-strewn, treacherous terrain, and the inevitable doom of the expedition. Not one man has succeeded yet in attaining the lofty summit. Each day, the sun glares white hot, reflecting off gem- encrusted rocky surfaces. It is a wonder a man can make it even one third of the way without death from extreme heat and sun. And if he does survive till sundown, the freeze of night air will take him in his sleep.

On this soft clear morn, a lone woman is seen walking near the base of the mountainside. So unexpected a sight. She is not carrying more than a water flask at her hip, and it is not a sturdy hip at that. She does not choose the rocky, uphill path, but instead meanders down the grey-green grasses a short way, to where the stream runs along the lowest edge of the mountain.

The water's coolness attracts and refreshes, as she wades barefoot to the centre and throws herself on a whim upon a floating log as it sails past. And thence to grab at a frisky fish that dances, pull it up then let it fall back with a smile, as the log sweeps her downstream, down, down into a dark tunnel, whence she can see nought for the longest time, until she emerges, the brilliant sun flecking her eyes with gold.

And the woman finds herself at the very summit of the mountain. Below lie the noble grey rocks untrodden, the distant forests a shimmering green, the horizon a gentle temptress, and the white heat enveloping all in a blinding haze. She gazes while she can, before the log, soaring onward, carries her all the way to mountain's bottom, where she seeks rest under the shade of the willow at stream's edge.

"I've been watching you," David speaks calmly, appearing from behind the tree.

The woman turns quickly, but does not startle. She smiles, then begins walking away toward home, her face flushed from the sun.

"May I come with you?" David calls after her.

"Can you climb that mountain?" she laughs back at him.

"Why.. why sure I can!" he retorts.

She laughs again.

"Come on then! We're on our way to heaven!"

The Chairlift

The snow was falling hard at Mt Buller that afternoon. Megan slid her
boots into skis and stamped firmly down, snapping the boots into place.
She tugged the lower part of her knitted balaclava up over her mouth,
her warm breath, directed upward, instantly misting her ski goggles.
She skied slowly toward the white, snow-powdered gum trees.

A thick fog was descending. Megan picked her way through the sparse
gums, emerging onto a ski run. Checking out the downhill view, she
could barely see three feet ahead, however being an experienced,
accomplished skiier and in a daredevil mood, she allowed her skis to
assume control, and soon was enjoying the exhilirating buzz of racing
down the hill, relaxing into the neat moguls as she felt them rise
under her skis, and sometimes even taking a small jump for the thrill.

At the bottom she headed for the chairlift. No line, so no waiting.
Megan grabbed a chair as it appeared from the mist, and sat down,
quickly snapping the safety bar into place across her lap. The chair
rocked and her skis swung wildly, as the chair began its climb.

She watched the slope below for other skiiers foolhardy enough to be
out in the bad weather, but could espy none. Nor were there skiiers on
the other chairs that passed by. She spent the ride dreaming idly of
the warm fire waiting at the ski lodge on her return.

Eventually Megan spotted the top of the chairlift. Gazing intently
through the mist, Megan realized there was no attendant waiting to help
her off her chair. She had to make a split second decision. Either try
to get off when her skis came close enough to the ground, or continue
in the chair around the turnstile and back down the other side. She
threw the safety bar off and inched to the edge of the seat.

But Megan's skis remained a good six feet off the ground, and with a
thudding heart she stayed put in her chair as it rattled around the
turnstile and began its descent. She was shocked and in disbelief that
the ground had been so far away from the chair! First time she'd ever
encountered that!

As the bottom of the lift came into view, Megan saw that the attendant
who had been present earlier had gone. Quickly she threw off her safety
bar, shifted to the edge of the seat, and as the ground approached,
prepared to leap. She became aware that the loop of her left ski glove
had become caught in the safety bar and struggled to free herself, but
by the time she had done so, she found herself going round the
turnstile and heading back up the slope.

The snow was falling fast and heavy now, and a bitter wind had struck
up. Ice was encrusted upon Megan's upper lip and chin, her nose was
running, and she was shivering. As before, she observed no skiers on
the slope, nor on any of the chairs.

Megan devised a plan. She leaned precariously over the front of her
chair, lifted her legs up, with the skis still attached to her boots,
and managed to free the skis. They fell to the ground, one of them
sailing off down the hill. She undid her boot clips and kicked off her
boots, planning to jump off at the top of the lift in her socks. She
threw her ski lift pass down to the snow, as it had her photo and other
identification on it. Then she sat back, and waited for the end of the
lift.

Megan was never sighted again. But you and I know she is still up there
in that chair, a frozen, icicled corpse in socks, going up.. and down..
up.. and down.. the chairlift.

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