SOUL STORIES
i
SOUL STORIES
Safari to Mara
&
Aria of the Horned Toad
by Elizabeth Clark-Stern
Genoa House
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents
either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Genoa House
www.genoahouse.com
[email protected]
Soul Stories
Copyright © 2011 by Elizabeth Clark-Stern
First Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or
reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information
storage retrieval system without the written permission of the
publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in
critical articles and reviews.
Published simultaneously in Canada, the United Kingdom, and the
United States of America. For information on obtaining permission for use of material from this work, please submit a written
request to:
[email protected]
ISBN 978-1-926975-00-9
The author expresses her gratitude to Tepilit Ole Saitori for the
wonderful portrayal of Masai life, and for songs in the Masai
language from his book, MAASAI.
Acknowledgments
To Megan Seaholm, Janet Smith, Aylee Welch, Susan Scott, Bonnie
Becker, Beverly and Marc Olevin, Lee Roloff, Roger Reisman,
Wendy Thon, the women of the C. L. Club, Robert Moss & the
dream group, my editor, Esther Hershenhorn, and my proof editor,
Patty Cabanas, for artistic feedback and undying encouragement. To
James, Anna, Neville, and all the others in the township, and on our
magnificent safari, who opened Mother Africa to my heart and soul.
And, to my husband, John, who taught me to see the depth and
wonder of the natural world.
v
Also by Elizabeth Clark-Stern
Out of the Shadows:
A Story of Toni Wolff and Emma Jung
ISBN 978-0-9813939-4-0
vi
Safari to Mara
7
Part I
1
“They are here,” I whisper, pressing my nose to the cool window of the
green school bus. Far away, in green grasses, a million diamonds flash in
the sun. My heart drums.
Other noses join me at the window. Giggles. Gasps. We all know what
is happening this day beneath the blue sky that goes on and on, so far we
cannot see the end of it.
From the corner of my eye I see Mother walking to meet me, as she has
every day of my school years, her bare black head shining in the sun, her
long red robe whipping in the cool wind.
The bus stops. “May Engai keep you warm this winter,” I say to my
dear school friends. They all know that when the diamonds come to our
beloved Masai Mara, I go away from school to work for my family, to put
on the robes of the Masai, to practice the language of Maa. My mother
says I am a modern girl, but I am also Masai.
I run down the clanging steps of the bus into the warm arms of my
mother.
“Mara, you have returned,” she says, “as the sun and the moon return.”
“Did you see them, Mother?”
She nods gently. The green bus pulls away. On the faraway hillside,
the diamonds sparkle so bright, I shield my eyes. “I will make you proud,
Mother. This winter, I am now strong enough to carry a calabash on each
shoulder without spilling one drop of milk.”
“Yes, my dear. I know you are, but there will be no milking for you this
year.”
“You think I have lost my aim?”
11
Soul Stories
Her laughter is like raindrops dancing on the roof of our dung house. “I
will miss our squirting contests, but the cows will have happier nipples.”
“What work will I do?”
“Your father will speak of it.”
Her dark eyes fill with pride, and sadness. “What is it, Mother? Why are
you sad?”
“Questions, questions,” says Grandmother, coming out of nowhere. “It
is forbidden to question your elders.”
Grandmother drinks from a sour bowl. Mother finds sweetness in the
most bitter thorns.
“Mara is curious,” says Mother, lifting her chin to meet Grandmother’s
eyes. “Her teacher says she is very smart and loves to learn.”
Grandmother smacks her gums with no teeth. “Your Mara-bird is ten
years old. It is time to shave off her wild hair; prepare her to become a
good Masai wife.”
“Engai ake naiyiolo,” says Mother, bowing to Grandmother. “Only God
knows.”
Grandmother makes skinny eyes, like a black mamba snake, and goes
from us.
“Am I a bad child to ask questions?”
“You are dearest to my heart,” says Mother. “Your grandmother is
wrong. To question is a good thing. And I love your wild hair. Do not
shave it. Not yet.”
I do not have to earn my goodness. I see it always, in her eyes.
“Dance for me, my Mara--” she sings.
We dance to celebrate my name, for when I was born, my mother called
me “Mara” after the tiny bumps across my baby nose. Mara means “spot”
for the beloved acacia trees that dot our land.
I make up a song, “Wheeeeo, Engai ake naiyiolo, only God knows.”
“Wheeeo” calls the rust-breasted robin chat on the beloved acacia branch
above our heads.
“Wheeeo,” we answer back.
12
Safari to Mara
The cool, soft wind lifts the branches, like my mother’s arms reaching
up to hold a basket on her head.
“Come, Mara-bird, we will see the beautiful thing that has returned to
our land.” Mother fetches her lion stick, a pole split in two that she claps
together to bring terror to the great beast.
I feel a tingle, like red ants in my belly. We walk into the green grass that
tickles my elbows.
Mother raises her long arms, “Supa, Oloololo!”, she cries in greeting to
our mighty mountain that zigzags across the land, to trick Engai so She
will not bring lightening in the dry season. Engai is both god and goddess,
present in all things. We pray to Engai the female, because Mother says
if you look at the Earth after the long rains, you can see Her face in the
swirling soil.
We come to where the grasses open into the plains of the great Rift Valley. The diamonds have become a herd of great animals, their black stripes
quivering in the sun.
One is so close, he watches me with eyes as still as river stones.
I reach out my hand.
“No, Mara. There is a river between you and the zebra!”
I look at my feet. A river made of grass? I laugh.
“Dearest, you must never touch a wild one. Do not question me in
this.”
I feel my heart grow heavy.
Mother’s eyes find mine. “Mara?”
I lower my eyes. “Yes, Mother. I will obey you in all things.”
We stand together, the soft breeze cool on our faces, as the patterns of
light glimmer across the great herd. The sun goes down behind Oloololo,
making the blue sky orange with purple stripes.
“Come, Mara.”
On the way home, giraffe walk beside us, lazy legs long, loping.
White-backed vultures glide across the sky, their mighty wings covering
the setting sun.
13
Soul Stories
“What are the vultures looking for?” I ask.
Mother touches my shoulder to halt my feet. She lifts the lion stick,
slowly, slowly.
The grass shakes under our noses. We are as still as rocks. I squeeze
Mother’s hand. She squeezes back.
Out of the grass it comes—mighty lion? No: warthog!
Mother scoops me in her arms and twirls me around. We dance to the
snort of the silly old hog.
“If this warthog had been a lion?” I ask.
“We would still be here!” says Mother, rattling the lion stick, “Crrrraaacck!”
“What mischief is here?” calls Father, driving up beside us in his mighty
Land Rover.
We laugh and do a Masai jumping dance.
“Mara, my dear one!” He lifts me up onto his lap, takes Mother’s hand,
and pulls her up too. He lets me steer as we pass the Masai boys herding
cattle through the fence of thorns that surrounds our kraal. This fence
keeps cattle and Masai safe at night; keeps lion out.
We love to go inside our dung house on winter nights and warm ourselves by the fire. Stars blink at us through a tiny hole in the ceiling. I put
our calves and goats to bed in their little pens beside the grass mat where I
sleep. Mother and Father sleep in their own room, behind a wall of sweet
dung.
Father takes off his gray-green hat, and runs his long fingers over his
shaven head. He takes the earrings of the ilmoran, from the pocket of his
gray-green shirt and puts them through his ears. He cannot look like a warrior on safari. He says it would frighten the tourists.
My father looks at me for a long moment. “My beautiful daughter.”
I smile and touch his face. It is rougher than Mother’s, but his eyes are
soft and warm, as if in this moment, I am the only thing alive in his world.
I wonder if he would look at me this way if I had a brother? Engai brought
my mother only one child. It is a shame to my father to have no sons. He
14
Safari to Mara
calls himself a “modern man” for having only one wife, yet he must bear
shame from my grandfather, who has four.
“Mara, you must help me in my work as though you are my son.”
“I do not want to herd cattle like the boys. They will laugh at me.”
“No one will laugh. You are to be my Assistant Safari Guide.”
I shout and jump so high I think I will bust through the ceiling and into
the sky. “I am to go with you, in the Land Rover? The mighty Abisinetulolo?”
“Yes, my dear one. You are ready.”
“I have one question.”
Mother and Father laugh. “Only one?” he asks.
“What does Abisinetulolo mean?”
“I made it up. It is the sound our Land Rover makes as she speeds
through the grass: Ab-bi-sin-tu-lo-lo.”
“It is too long. May I call her ‘Abby?’”
He takes my mother’s hand. “If you like, my Mara-bird.”
Father brings me a pair of gray-green pants and shirt, and covers my
hair with a gray-green cap.
Mother cries to see me in this “dress of the other world.”
“But Father lives in the other world,” I say. “And now I will too!”
“Your father has a foot in two worlds. In our kraal he is ilmoran, a mighty
warrior. Out there, he is just another man with black skin.”
Father holds Mother in his arms. “I have much to teach our daughter.”
“Mother, I do not understand. You say it is good to ask questions. Now
you are sad I will learn new things?”
“My mind is in two places,” she says, tears making tiny rivers down her
face. “I want you to go, and be modern girl. I want you to stay and be my
little Mara-bird.”
“Each night I will return,” I whisper, “as the sun and the moon return.”
15
Soul Stories
2
“It will be bumpy,” says Father to the tourists sitting behind us. They
hold on tight. This Abby knows no fear. Her wheels look like rubber, but
surely they are made of iron, for she laughs at roads, and makes her own
way over rocks and down mighty cliffs.
We stop to make safari picnic. “Everyone stay in vehicle!” Father calls,
going into the bush.
No sound but a lilac-breasted roller bird on a termite mound, “KraaaaKraaack!”
Father comes back, “No lion in this bush. We can eat.”
I open the trunk of Abby, a “special-issue,” enormous trunk, big enough
for all our tools and supplies. I spread out a red Masai blanket and the sack
lunches. The tourists eat very fast: salad gone in five minutes, sandwich in
three, precious protein bar in two bites: chomp, chomp.
My father whispers that I must learn to eat fast as well. “Only when we
are on safari. At home you may eat as slow as you like.”
The tourists thank me for lunch.
“Asante sana” I say in Swahili. “Thank you very much.” I teach them to
say it. They are so happy to learn Swahili words. I see my father’s smile. He
says I must use this talk, not our Maa words. I am sad I cannot use Maa.
I want to share my own self with these people who have come to our beloved Kenya from all over the world.
In no time we are off again. Father hears a crackle on his radio and listens to the words. I lean closer.
“No, Mara. Not for your ears.”
I feel a buzzing in my belly. My father says this at home, before he gives
me a surprise.
Abby charges off into the tall green grasses and down a steep hill. There
before us, so close, millions of beloved zebra!
16
Safari to Mara
Abby moves slowly into the herd, so we do not scare them away. They
watch us with black eyes on far side of their foreheads. I stare at stripes
going every which-way. I am dizzy, but never so happy.
“These animals are Burchell’s zebra,” says my father. “They come here,
to the Masai Mara from Tanzania, every winter. Yes, July is winter in Kenya. Zebra and wildebeest come by the thousands to eat the new grass
shoots.”
I point to a papa zebra resting his chin on the back of a mare.
“This is called, ‘chinning,’” says Father, “It is the way a zebra says, ‘I love
you.’ And, yes, it is true: every zebra has a different pattern to their stripes,
like our fingerprints.”
We pass a fat zebra swaying from side to side, her big belly moving up
and down.
“Father, is she dying?”
Abby stops. Father holds his hand to my lips, whispering to the tourists,
“Get your cameras ready.”
No one breathes.
The fat zebra moans, “iilllckk.”
Out slides a baby zebra, falling to the earth in a gentle thump.
“Heeee--”
“What is he saying, Father?”
“‘Where am I? What am I doing in this place?’”
“His stripes are brown.”
“He will get black ones when he is older.”
“Haaaw!”
The mother zebra licks her baby all over. He sniffs her with his black
nose, looking into her eyes, as I look into the eyes of my mother.
The baby stands, his legs wobbling this way and that. “He walks in a
zigzag,” I say. “I will call him Oloololo, for the zigzag mountain, and Serat,
Maa for ‘fingerprints.’”
“No, Mara. Do not give names to wild ones.”
17
Soul Stories
“There is no harm, Father.”
“Do not name him, Mara. Forget this Oloololo Serat.”
“Yes, Father. I will obey.”
I close this name from my mind. But my heart? It sings “Oloololo Serat!” to the wild blue sky. My secret is safe. No one can hear my heart, but
me.
3
This night I sit by the fire with the boys. The girls sit in their own circle,
pointing to me, giggling.
My father wraps a red Masai blanket over my shoulders. His eyes say
that he is so proud. He is sad as well. His mother and father went away
before I was born, in a year of no rain. I know he whispers silently to them
this night: “See my beautiful Mara. She brings honor to our family, as if
she were a son.”
Strong wind blows dust into the fire. Grandfather stands in his deep
blue robe crowned with fur from sacred hyrax tree. His face is like Oloololo mountain, his eyes seeing farther than others can see. He is our Laibon,
who heals Masai, and sees the future in their dreams.
“We rejoice this night,” he says. “My granddaughter is Assistant Safari
Guide!”
Father blows the horn of the antelope, “Muuuwaaa.”
The men pass a calabash of honey beer. Grandfather gives me milk to
drink.
The ilmoran stand in a line and make the Masai jumping dance. This
night, Grandfather takes my hand and lets me jump with the warriors. A
great honor for me. I do my best, but I am only a small Masai girl. Father
jumps highest of all!
I bow to Grandfather and the ilmoran, and leave the circle.
18
Safari to Mara
I search for my mother. She sits with the women, not looking at me.
“Are you sad to see me among the boys?”
She takes my hand. We go out behind our dung house where we have
made two places in the soft dirt, one for my bottom, one for her’s. We sit
here when the night calls us.
Mother looks into night sky, “Mara, what do you see?”
I shout for joy. The Milky Way shines diamond-bright as a million zebra.
“Where did the moon go?” I ask.
My mother knows I do not mean the science I learned at school, of the
moon making circles around our little earth. I mean the story I heard as a
baby, in her arms.
“When the moon goes away, She comes back. She may stay away on
dark nights, cloudy nights, but sooner or later, the moon returns. When a
man or a woman go away, they do not return.”
“Why would Engai make the world this way?”
Her laugh fills the night sky, “You will have to ask Her, Mara. She made
the world, not I.”
“Does it hurt you, that I have put a foot into the other world?”
My mother claps my feet together. “I am very proud of you, my beautiful daughter. You are all children to me, Mara, my love, my daughter, my
heart.”
She sings:
Engonyakonya
Grow up, my child
Uawa ingik aulo
Grow up like the mountain
We stay close, our bottoms side by side, until the sun returns.
19
Aria of the Horned Toad
75
Part I
1
I got him cornered, right where our live oak tree kisses the garage. His little
bitty dragon head flicks from side to side, living proof something can step
out of a dream and show up right here in my backyard. I got to trap him,
even if I get grass stains all over my Fourth of July flapper dress.
Smack. I throw the orange crate on top of him. Such a ruckus. I’ve got
him, and he knows it, poor darling. Now comes the tender part. What
Mama calls, “the art of it.” I lift the crate ever so slightly. He pokes out his
spikey little nose. “Oh, no you don’t!” I holler, slipping in the wire screen
and flipping the crate over.
“I got him, Daddy!”
He can’t hear me. Too busy fixing the speakers in our driveway for the
Independence Day Talent Contest.
“Daddy!”
“What’s up, Pudding?” He comes round the corner, guitar flapping on
his chest like he’s the king of Country Western. He may not be the handsomest daddy on planet earth, but with that root beer brown hair going
every which way, and what Mama calls his “Carpetbagger smile,” he’s the
greatest thing going.
“He’s magic, Daddy. Last night I dreamed a horney toad crawled out of
my right eyeball. Now, here he is. A dream come true.”
“More like a cautionary tale, Miss Beatrice Delilah Ransom. Get too
close, he’ll spit hot blood out of his eye.”
“He won’t spit at me. Look at him, Daddy. He’s falling in love.”
Daddy leans in, close enough to get spit on, but my daddy’s so brave,
he doesn’t care. “He is something special alright. Horney toads are endangered, you know.”
79
Soul Stories
I reach in to the box and rub his belly, soft as Mama’s ear lobes. “He is
a rare jewel. Can’t wait to show him to Mama.”
Daddy lets out a long breath, like air going out of a tire. I lean on his
shoulder. Can’t have him caving in on me. Not today. “She’s got to get
home soon. I need her to give me pointers on my tap act.”
“I can’t make her come home.” His eyes go out across our precious
half acre to the grove of cottonwoods in the back. Mama used to sit out
in the grove in an old rocker, me on her lap, telling me Rumpelstiltskin.
One night she busted up that old rocker, saying I was too old for stories.
After that, she started hauling all the recycling back there, all the junk she
“doesn’t have the energy to deal with”—her tiny used-up gin bottles, my
old scooter, my broken bike, our old cracked bathtub with the claw feet;
some old antique junk that was here when we moved in years ago. Nobody
can see the mess from the outside. To the world, it looks like a beautiful
stand of old growth cottonwoods. Me and Daddy know better.
Down in the crate, my miracle horney toad sees a baby unicorn beetle
and snaps it up, yum, yum. Mama was already gone when me and Daddy
got up this morning. I feel like eating a beetle myself.
“What you going to call him, Pudding?”
I regard my darling toad, his eyes kind of sleepy now he’s had his dinner.
“Pudding’s taken. I’ll call him ‘Custard.’ Maybe Mama’ll make us some after
the talent show.”
“’Bout time you started learning to make it yourself, Miss ten and a
quarter.”
“I got to start cooking?”
“Not a bad idea.”
I chase Daddy all around the yard. He lets me catch him, then we hold
onto each other, real tight. “Blue Scooterbard, Pudding.” he whispers.
When I was real little, I couldn’t say “boulevard.” I came up with “scooterbard,” and Daddy made up this idea that when you step onto the Blue
Scooterbard–my favorite color is blue–you’ve found your own special way
of doing things, and you do it, no matter what. Tonight, it means I’ve got
to do my best tap act ever, even if Mama doesn’t show up.
80
Aria of the Horned Toad
“Yes, Daddy. I’ll make you proud.”
“You always do, Pudding.”
We hear squeaks of wagon tires on the sidewalk, little voices, laughter
of some lady. Not Mama’s laugh.
I grab my crate, and find a good seat out on the driveway. Our block talent contest is the highlight of July the Fourth in a tiny corner of our beautiful town of Austin, in the great state of Texas. The sun is quivering from
the pollution haze in our gorgeous dusty blue sky. No place on earth’s got
skies like this. I look at the bright red begonias busting out of their pots,
the warm breeze rustling the leaves in our cottonwood grove. Why isn’t all
this enough for Mama? Why isn’t she here?
First up is a new kid, lemonade-color hair, eyes way too big for his
round face.
“My name is Elmer Per Johnson,” he says. “Ya’ll can call me ‘Per,’ like
‘pear,’ cause it is easier than saying Elmer Per Johnson. I am six and threequarters, and my hamsters, Ned and Ted, are going to race down this track
I made all by myself.”
Everybody claps like crazy. I sneak a look down the row at Per’s grand
folks, Nana Pearl, and Papa Ben. Never been inside their house, but they
always wave to me when I go by their place five doors down. Once they
bought lemonade from my stand in the heat of the day. Tonight, they’re
smiling, but their eyes are funny, like they’re seeing and not seeing at the
same time. They’ve been like that since Per and his big sister came to live
with them.
Per puts each hamster in a big pink plastic ball at the starting line. We
cheer and scream, til finally Ned starts moving and makes it all the way to
the finish line. Ted just sits in the plastic bubble, chomping lettuce.
Per picks up Ned and Ted and bows to the crowd. I figure he thinks his
hamsters are cuter than my Custard. That depends on if you are into common pet store mammals. Me, I prefer trapping a wild creature that came
out of my dream into the real world!
81
Soul Stories
I don’t pay much attention to the next acts. Same kids as last year, doing
the same routines. I go over my tap steps, craning my head to see if Mama’s
standing in the back. I can’t find her.
Per’s sister gets up, one of these girls so skinny she turns sideways,
she’s a human envelope. I never get on with girls like that. I’ve never been
taunted as “fat,” but Daddy says my little dimpled elbows are “cute as a
button,” I hate that.
“My name’s Reese Ellen Johnson. I am ten and three quarters. I wasn’t
blessed with a great voice to sing for ya’ll, so I will speak the words, in
honor of the birthday of our sacred country.”
Sacred? Who uses words like that?
She fluffs up her pale strawberry-color hair, “Oh, beautiful for spacious
skies, for amber waves of grain . . .” Her skinny little arms float like she’s
signing ‘wheat’ for the deaf.
“For purple mountains majesty . . .”
I hear sniffles. Reese’s voice shivers as she lifts her arms. “America.
America. God shed His grace on thee.”
I’m crying too. I can’t stand this skinny girl, but I cannot deny the complete and utter beauty of her presentation. She’s so brave to stand up there,
letting out so much feeling, when everybody knows her mama and daddy
got put in jail. I sneak a look down the row at Nana Pearl and Papa Ben.
Bawling their eyes clean out.
“And crown thy good with brotherhood. From sea to shining sea!” Her
voice cracks, like she’s fixing to keel over. Daddy runs up and puts his arm
around her. I feel so proud of him.
He leads her down to sit by Nana Pearl and Papa Ben and Per. Everybody claps, for Reese and her wavy little arms, for Daddy saving the day,
for the human tragedy of Per and Reese losing parents to the jail house.
I hop up. Daddy hits the guitar and I tap for my life. No sad stuff. No
tears. Just a rip-roaring twenties routine, in my red-white-and-blue flapper
dress that Mama sewed for me out of her head. Everybody claps to the
music, whistling and cheering. I look for her face. Mama’s got to be out
82
Aria of the Horned Toad
there somewhere in the dusk. No Mama. Nowhere. I go all white inside,
like my heart’s buried in snow.
Daddy gives me a big old hug. “Tremendous.”
I grab Custard’s crate and flee to the backyard. I don’t want to stand
around and hear people say, “Beatrice Delilah Ransom, you were so great.
Where is your Mama? Why didn’t she come?” Then the low whispers,
“Poor child. She deserves a mama who doesn’t spend all her time down at
the Broken Token.”
I hold the orange crate close, singing America the Beautiful to my Custard.
“You have a beautiful voice.” Reese says, standing by her brother in the
burning sunlight.
“I do not.”
“Oh, but you do. I can’t sing at all without cracking.” says Reese.
“Well, I can only sing when I’m all by myself. That way if it’s awful, I’m
the only one knows.”
“You won a ribbon.” She holds out a big blue bow.
“Everybody gets one. Ya’ll got ’em too, didn’t you?”
They hold up their bows, real proud.
“What you got in the box?” asks Per.
I peel my arms off the screen, holding the edges down tight. I’m not too
sure I want them to see my darling.
“Horney toad.” says Per, like he’s in church.
“Horned lizard,” says Reese.
“People call him a toad,” I say, not trapping the snap in my words. This
uppity girl’s creaky voice drives me crazy. “He probably likes horney toad
just fine.”
Reese twirls a button on her little checked shirt. I hurt her feelings.
We all watch Custard flit around the crate.
“He doesn’t like it in there,” says Per.
“He’s mine.”
83
Soul Stories
“He is a creature of the wild,” says Reese.
“I trapped him, fair and square. His name is Custard. My daddy says he
can spit blood out of his eyes.”
“Your daddy is so great,” says Reese. “You’re the luckiest girl in the
world.”
“I am not. Did you see my mama here tonight?”
Per and Reese study the crab grass.
“She didn’t come. I worked on my tap act so hard.”
“You were great,” says Reese.
“Can I see him close?” says Per.
I take Custard out of the crate, his little claw feet scratching me. Should
I tell these kids where Custard really came from? Will they laugh at me?
At him?
Reese squeezes her skinny body between me and Per, her face real close
to Custard.
“He’s going to spit,” says Per, pushing her closer.
She shoves her brother out of the way. “I am not afraid of this animal,”
she says, looking right into those jet-brown eyes. “He’s magic.”
I breathe. “How can you tell?”
“Look at him. He’s harboring a great secret.”
I don’t know any kid uses words like “harboring.” But, she’s got a point.
I put my head next to hers and stare into Custard’s eyes. “If I tell ya’ll the
secret, will you promise not to tell one living soul on this earth?”
They cross their hearts real fast. “He crawled out of my eyeball last
night in a dream. Now, here he is.”
“I knew it,” whispers Reese.
“Is that all?” says Per.
“You don’t know a thing, Elmer Per Johnson,” I say. “Did you ever
have a wild creature crawl out of you in a dream and end up in your backyard?”
84
Aria of the Horned Toad
“We had to give up our backyard, and our house,” says Reese, her voice
going real tiny. “And, our mama and daddy, they could sure use some magic
. . .”
“Shut up,” says Per, grabbing Custard. My darling horney toad flips out
and lands in the crab grass.
“Catch him!”
Per squeals and Reese lunges after. I feel something funny in my belly,
like the whole world is tearing open, and I’m stepping into someplace I’ve
known only in my dreams. My hands sweat, my heart goes wild. I see Custard leaping out of the crab grass. I run after him, into the grove.
2
“Ew, what’s all this junk?” says Per.
Reese picks up a tiny gin bottle. “I guess the recycling truck doesn’t get
out here that often.”
I feel my whole face burn. Should I tell these kids my mama hides these
little bottles all over the house, so she can take a nip of her precious gin
any time she gets the Thirst? Would they laugh at me, or would they understand?
“The horney toad’s lost in all this junk,” says Per, lifting a torn tarp off
a pile of old lumber.
Reese pulls a bunch of old plastic bags out of the cracked bathtub with
the broken claw feet. “Don’t be such a gloomy worm. He’s got to be in
here somewhere.”
“I am not a worm,” says Per, kicking the tire of my busted up bike.
“Hush, ya’ll.” I whisper. I see something before my eyes. Something
magnificent. Something that has never appeared in our grove before, or
maybe on this planet earth.
85
Soul Stories
I can feel Reese staring at me. I don’t move my eyes to her. I keep them
on this glory of creation right in front of me.
I feel her eyes shifting away from me. She takes in breath. “Oh, my
goodness gracious sakes alive . . .”
I let out a sigh. She can see him.
“What’re ya’ll staring at?” says Per.
We don’t say one word.
“What’s going on? You’re starting to give me the willies . . .” Per’s voice
trails off. I feel him staring too, trembling with awe.
All of us stare at my horney toad, my darling Custard, big as a dinosaur,
licking a beetle off the cottonwood bark twenty feet above us. He savors
his treat, those humongous dragon eyes half closing in the joy of consumption.
I feel the tassels on my Fourth of July flapper dress shaking.
Custard’s ears–wherever they are in that spikey head–perk up. His jet
brown eyes, big as basketballs, rotate down and take us in.
“He’s going to eat us,” says Per.
“He could,” says Reese, her arms aflutter.
“Maybe,” I whisper, “Maybe we don’t taste good as a beetle.”
We draw breath, all at once.
He plants his front claws inches from our faces. His mouth opens. A
quivering blue tongue reaches toward us.
“Graaaooowwah.”
Such a sound! Like a waterfall of gravel.
“Grwaaaahhh.”
He closes his eyes, in total rapture.
“He’s singing to us,” whispers Reese.
I put a hand over my heart to stop my tassels from shaking. I step toward
him. If he’s going to eat me, so be it, but I’ve got to know what’s what.
“Custard . . .”
He opens his eyes and looks down on me.
86
Aria of the Horned Toad
“Is that name okay for you?”
“Goooooo . . .” His blue tongue whips gently across my cheek, scratchy,
warm.
“He likes you,” says Reese.
“We’re kindred spirits. Pudding and Custard.” I reach out my sweaty
hand and touch his nose, craggy as a rock.
“I still think he’s going to eat us,” says Per.
I look deep into Custard’s eyes. “Is this the Dream Country? Where you
came from, remember? You crawled out of my eyeballs.”
He lifts his mighty claws to the big old cottonwood trees towering all
around us. A strange light comes from inside the bark, like from a sun
glowing deep in the core of each tree.
“Waaaahhhhh.”
“He appears to be exercising his prodigious vocal chords,” says Reese.
I want to ask her what the heck prodigious means, but I don’t want her
to think I’m stupid.
He sings on, his face drawn in pain, one claw over his heart. At the end
of the song, he weeps, and takes a bow. We are plumb stunned.
“A horney toad aria–that’s an opera song,” whispers Reese. “My daddy
played opera all the time. He learned to love it from Papa Ben. You sing
beautiful, Custard, in a horney toad sort of way. I sure miss my daddy.”
“Shut up,” says Per.
Custard reaches his blue tongue to Reese’s face, licking off her tears.
Per lines up behind her. By and by, Custard takes to licking his face
too.
“Custard, boy. I know you don’t speak English, but could you let us
know, somehow, if this is the Dream Country, and if you can take us to
the Dreammaker, or whatever it is made you come out of my eyeballs and
into this world? I need my mama to have a dream that she doesn’t care a
hoot about the Broken Token, and just loves being here at home with my
daddy and me.”
87
Soul Stories
“We need that for our mama and daddy too,” says Reese.
“Yeah,” says Per. “They need fixing. Bad.”
Custard stands up on his hind legs, his eyes searching the top branches
of the cottonwoods. He puts his front claws together, like he’s saying his
prayers at bedtime.
“Oooooommmm.”
The cottonwood trees drop puffy seed pods down on us, big as clouds.
I know now we are in another world, far from Austin. In Austin the cottonwoods drop little bitty seed puffs in the Spring, and here it is, the heart
of summer!
“I guess this is his way of telling us he understands our quest,” says
Reese.
“We are in the Dream Country,” I whisper, “Where everything is possible. Even saving Mama.”
Everything is silent, still. Nothing moves but the giant clouds of cottonwood drifting past the nostrils of my horney toad. The crab grass turns
into soft green foam, moving like the waves of the ocean. The air is damp,
the kind that curls itself around you and whispers, “I am with you. All is
well.”
“How beautiful,” says Reese.
“Can I ride on your back?” says Per. “I’ve never ridden a dinosaur before.”
“My Custard is no dinosaur,” I say. “He is a survivor.”
“A triumph of evolution,” says Reese, climbing up Custard’s back like
she’s hiking a mountain.
Per scrambles after. I struggle with the tight skirt on my Fourth of July
flapper dress. Custard smiles, his eyes soft. He scoops me up with a mighty
claw and places me firmly on his head. The clammy air blowing so soft all
round us dries the sweat on my face.
“Grrrrooooowwww.”
He leaps high as the tree tops. We go deep into the forest, cotton clouds
parting before us. Reese and Per and me squeal and hold on tight. I feel so
88
Aria of the Horned Toad
grand, up there on his head. But then, he is my horney toad, so it is fitting
I should have the best seat.
Reese sees a light up ahead. “Prodigious, bold, it opens before us,” she
cries.
I just know we are coming up on some cave, or portal, or the throne of
the Dreammaker. I can feel it in my throat. I open my mouth and sing a
wild throat song------“Pudding!”
We keep going, leaping toward the light.
----“Pudding. Come on in.”
Daddy.
We slide down Custard, bump, bump, bump, landing in the crab grass
beside the beat up old bathtub.
I look up. Custard is gone. The cotton clouds are gone. The green foam
ocean is gone. Nothing left but me and Per and Reese and Mama’s piles
of junk.
We scramble out of the grove. Daddy’s waiting for me. A swarm of bats
come swooping out of the sky. I run to his arms, screaming all the way.
“Nothing to be scared of, Beatrice,” says Reese. “Mexican Free-tailed
bats swarming from the Congress Avenue Bridge. Eighth wonder of the
world, right here in Austin.”
“Right on,” says Daddy. “Some evening I’ll take ya’ll down to the bridge
and we can watch them close up.”
“I hate bats,” I sob into Daddy’s neck.
“Now, Pudding, come on in. Nothing to be scared of.”
He and I both know he’s lying. And it has nothing to do with bats.
89
FICTION
Aria of the Horned Toad
“The characters in Soul Stories are so alive and compelling that they jump
off the page right into your heart. Clark-Stern has the rare ability to blend
her imaginative poetic voice with exciting page turning plots. Soul Stories will
not only touch and engage young readers but are great adventures that will
appeal to all ages.”
Beverly Olevin, author of The Good Side of Bad
winner of Kirkus Discoveries Best Fiction 2010
Soul Stories explores two worlds: the world we know with our feelings and senses:
sight, scent, touch, belonging, joy, loss, renewal, and the parallel world of dreams,
intuition, imagination, and the dimension of the unknown. Together these realms
inform, shape, challenge, and nurture the soul.
Safari to Mara finds our heroine on the brink of womanhood in Masai society.The
only daughter in a sonless family, she is drafted to do work in the modern world,
yet tradition calls her to prepare for initiation as a wife. In the wilderness of her
namesake, Kenya’s Masai Mara, she finds an improbable guide who leads her into
the mysterious recesses of her awakening heart.
Aria of the Horned Toad begins with the dream of a horned toad crawling out of
Beatrice’s eyes,“so real I could feel his prickly little feet on my nose.” And so
begins an odyssey to the source of all dreaming. Beatrice believes that in this dark
and luminous place, she can find someone to fashion a dream to fix her Mama’s
terrible ways, and soothe the longing in her own wild spirit.
Elizabeth Clark-Stern is a psychotherapist in private practice in Seattle,Washington.
Before embracing this beloved work, she worked as a professional screenwriter.
Her produced plays and teleplays include All I Could See From Where I Stood, Help
Wanted, and To See The Elephant. Her play, Out of the Shadows: A Story of Toni Wolff
and Emma Jung, was performed at the International Jungian Congress in South
Africa in 2007.
Cover Photo © John Stern
www.genoahouse.com
to order Soul Stories call
1-800-228-9316 Canada/U.S.
+1-831-298-5335 International
181