The Auburn Prince Page 2

  The house—a marvelous piece of Victorian architecture—with its vibrant blue walls and a weatherworn shingled roof, used to belong to Bell’s father, who received it from his father, who inherited it from his father who won it in a game of chess from a man with a rabbit-shaped birthmark under his right eye. Ever since that faithful Wednesday, some one hundred and seventy-five years ago, the house has belonged to the Aurelius bloodline.

  After Bell’s father passed away, the family, with a then three-year-old Clementine, moved into the house on Vulpes Hill. However, they rarely stayed at the house. The couple’s work took them all over the world, from the Jordanian city of Petra to the springs and tributaries of the mighty Amazon River to even the Indux Alius that floated above the World. Little Clementine, unlike most children, grew up amid a whirlpool of cultures. Home schooled by the world, she knew very little of tiny country towns with tiny country schools that sat obediently in distant corners of the organized and civilized republics. She only knew of the freedom that open plains offered, of the street music in the avenues and alleys of great cities, and the patience of vast snowcapped giants who waited for spring to clothe them in robes of evergreens. Thus, when the Aureliuses returned to Vulpes Hill permanently, her adjustment to the orderliness of the bureaucratic and efficient school system was, to put it gently, difficult.

  “We are reading about the exploits of Davy Crockett,” she told her father. “Sure, he was interesting, but when I told my classmates of the Silk Road, of Kublai Khan, of the riches of the Mongols and suggested that Davy is an American version of Marco Polo, the kids all laughed. The teacher, Miss Gerücht, told me that Marco Polo is a swimming pool game and said that I should keep my elaborate imagination out of the classroom.”

  Her father chuckled and told little Clementine, “Don’t worry about their laughter, Dear. Just continue doing what you’re doing, continue being yourself. You won’t believe me now, but trust me, in the long run, you’ll be happy you did.”

  “Easier said than done, Dad,” Clementine whined. “They have this thing that they do here, where they pretend that they’re cool. I think I have to do that to be accepted, isn’t that how it works?”

  Bell smiled and messed up Clementine’s hair with his hand.

  “This is serious Dad!”

  “It always is with you, Dear,” Bell said. “Keep in mind what I told you. Trust in yourself.”

  Pretending to grow angry, she left her father’s study with a hidden smile. After such father daughter chats, Clementine’s spirits rose beyond the clouds of worry and self-doubt to embrace the warm rays of confidence. Focused, she scanned the bookshelves of her parent’s downstairs library and—after a serious negotiation between her interests and curiosity—picked a book to read in the backyard garden. While many of the texts she read—such as Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse—were beyond her understanding, sometimes, a drop or two of knowledge seeped into her young mind.

  Such was the case, when after a three-month-long binge of reading nothing but physical therapy and medical anatomy books, she not only put a splint on every plant in the house but when Bell accidently cut his hand while opening a can of olives, she treated and bandaged the wound.

  “What I should have you do is to keep that arm in a sling,” she told her father while in the kitchen. “But I’ll go easy on you. Now, let me see it. I’ll clean it again, this time with some iodine. I saw how you squirmed when I used hydrogen peroxide. You know, if Mom really cared about your health, she would buy me that good ant-on-xcept-ic…”

  “Antiseptic,” her father corrected her.

  “That’s what I said,” Clementine alleged.

  “I’m not buying imported peppermint infused eucalyptus oil, Clementine,” Alice said from the sitting room. “Bell, explain to your daughter how much one hundred and thirty dollars is.”

  “I agree,” Bell whispered to Clementine. “Mom doesn’t care about my health.”

  There was also a time when Clementine accompanied Bell to his job at the city university. While he taught a class on Indian Mythology and Folklore, Clementine explored the university’s vast library where she discovered the Veterinary Student’s Guide to Anatomy and Physiology (7th edition) textbook. After a thorough—and rather impressive—presentation on why she had to read it, Bell rented the book for her.

  In time, Clementine’s role shifted from being Bell’s caretaker to acting as a version of Doctor Doolittle. On several occasions—as was the case with a pair of finches, a marten, and a rabbit—she was responsible for recuperating animals from injury or illness. Her biggest veterinary challenge came in the form of a young buck who, after being struck by a car, ended up in the Aurelius’ garden. When Clementine found him in the morning, Alice wanted to call the police since at the time, Dusty Ripple lacked an animal control service.

  “I won’t hear of it,” Clementine declared. “This deer is no criminal, he’s hurt. He needs a doctor!”

  Bell phoned Dusty Ripple’s veterinarian, Mr. Anthony Q. Balderdash. Unfortunately, he was out of town for a few days, which meant one thing: Clementine showcasing her veterinary abilities. After setting up a shelter in the garden shed, Bell and Alice watched in astonishment as Clementine not only gained the battered buck’s trust, but also treated his wounds and put a splint on his leg, which she thought was fractured. When the veterinarian finally arrived, he mistook Clementine’s work for that of her father.

  “I thought you were a historian,” the veterinarian said. “You did a fine job treating this animal.”

  “Not me, Mister Balderdash,” Bell countered. “All of that is my daughter’s work.”

  The veterinarian laughed at what he thought was bashful teasing. Mr. Balderdash’s assistant took the buck away in a truck and a month later, completely healed, the animal returned to its home in the woods.

  “What are you doing, Mom?” Clementine asked her as Alice examined an ancient stone figurine under a magnifying glass.

  “Discovering,” her mother answered. “Look at the decorative jade used in the robe. You see how it shines in the light? Or here, the face, it’s made out of volcanic rock, out of what the Aztecs believed to be their god’s solidified blood.”

  Clementine gently touched the figurine’s face and unfortunately, a piece of stone fell off. She looked up at her mother, “I’m sorry. I…”

  “No need to apologize,” Alice said. “We often forget how fragile things are but that’s the beauty of these Aztec dolls: their frailty and the patience it took to make them.”

  Alice went on and spoke of Tlazolteotl, the Aztec goddess of filth and purification. Politely, Clementine listened and nodded, but understood very little of her mother’s explanation. That night, after searching through one of her birthday gifts, an encyclopedia, she read about jade and the Aztecs. Afterwards, she filled her little black notebook with insights that she later shared with her classmates.

  “They laughed again,” she brooded to her father in his study. “I told them about mom’s Aztec statues and they laughed.”

  “Be patient, Clementine,” her father encouraged. “Just because somebody laughs at you doesn’t mean that they wish to harm you, they simply don’t understand you, yet. Continue being yourself.”

  “Why do you keep saying that?” she said.

  Her father smiled and said, “When you grow up and look back at the life you have now, you will appreciate that it is always better to be yourself than to pretend to be someone else. You’re clever, Clementine, and ambitious like your mother. Those are beautiful qualities, especially when they stand at the core of who you are.”

  Clementine shrugged and, unsure of the meaning of her father’s advice, turned away. Looking at the corner of the room, she examined and pondered about that which lay underneath the large gray linen sheet. The sheet, and whatever it hid, had been there since Clementine could remember, and yet, oddly, until then, she never had the urge to peek underneath it.

  “What’s under here, Dad?” sh
e asked and pinched the sheet’s corner.

  “No, Clementine!” Bell yelled. “Leave that alone!”

  Clementine let go of the sheet. There was a sound of feet scuttling up the stairs, across the hallway and into Bell’s study.

  “What’s going on?” Alice said. “Why are you yelling?”

  She glanced at Clementine, who stood as still as a hunting stork.

  “Is everything all right?” Alice asked.

  “Yes, I’m sorry, Dear,” Bell said. “I overreacted.”

  “What did you do, Clementine?” Alice asked.

  “Nothing,” the girl said. “I wanted to peek under this sheet and…”

  “The carrot cake is ready in the kitchen,” Alice interrupted. “Go downstairs, try some, and give your curiosity a rest for today.”

  Silently, Clementine walked past her mother and out of the study. After exchanging looks with her husband, Alice followed. She cut Clementine and herself a slice of cake and the two of them went in the sitting room to eat. Soon after, Bell came downstairs carrying a small white book. He went into the kitchen, cut himself a slice of cake and sat next to Clementine on the sofa. Before taking a bite, he set down his dessert plate on the coffee table, turned to Clementine and said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you.”

  Clementine accepted the apology with a smile.

  “This book,” he continued. “It’s called the Meditations by Marcus Aurelius. Long ago, he was an emperor, a philosopher king. By chance, we share last names with him. I’d like for you to have my copy. Take it and when you have time, read it.”

  Alice and Bell watched as Clementine gently took the worn, clothbound tome and scanned the peeling black ink of its cover.

  “Why are you giving me this?” she asked.

  “Because long ago,” Bell began, “when I was younger, I dreamt of being a writer, of telling wonderful stories. I dreamt of nourishing the human spirit by writing a book that would shorten the distance between people, between that which is felt and that which is thought. My father laughed at the idea, but my mother, she believed in me. One day she took me to a bookstore and showed me all those past dreamers sitting patiently on the shelves. ‘Act upon your dreams,’ she told me. ‘So that one day, you too may spend your afternoons sitting on shelves, inspiring others.’ That day she bought me this book. ‘The advice you need to become patient, resilient and strong is in these pages. Don’t worry about what people think of you, for as long as you do no harm to others, you should act upon your gut feelings, act upon your dreams,’ she told me.”

  Bell smiled and hugged his daughter.

  “I know you’re having a hard time adjusting to school, to your classmates,” he continued. “Now, what I’m about to say may not sound like great advice, but trust me when I tell you that all of your worries will pass. Follow your inner starlight, don’t let anyone dim your confidence or eclipse your kindness. Happiness is as simple as being yourself.”

  “Thank you, Dad,” Clementine answered with a smile.

  “You may not understand everything written in there,” Bell explained pointing at the book. “It’s quite a heavy read at first. I was in my early twenties when I truly understood most of it, but you’re much sharper than I was at your age. I’m quite confident that after several reading you’ll at least get the gist of it.”

  After another hug, they finished eating their carrot cake. Clementine grabbed a second piece and headed to her room to begin reading the Meditations. While she was halfway up the stairs, Bell called her name.

  “You know that your mom and I love you, Clementine?” Bell asked from the couch.

  “Of course,” she replied.

  “Good. Don’t forget it.”

  They smiled at each other and she went upstairs. Before entering her room, Clementine stopped to listen to what her mother said to her father.

  “Follow your inner starlight?” Alice said. “You’re so corny sometimes, Honey.”

  “It’s true though,” Bell said. “A simple, yet positive cliché holds more truth and insight than all the self-help books combined.”

  “So corny,” Alice repeated. Clementine closed her bedroom door to the sound of her mother’s jubilant laughter.

  A couple of days later, while Clementine read Meditations in the sitting room, the house telephone rang. Quickly, she ran into the kitchen to pick it up.

  “Hello,” she answered.

  “My dear Clementine,” a pleasant female voice said. “What a delight it is to hear your voice again.”

  “Aunt Dahlia!” Clementine exclaimed. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine, Dear,” Dahlia replied. “Very busy. A cartographer’s job is never quite finished. If I’m not drafting a new map, then I’m reworking an old one: adding a new town or road onto it. I’ll spare you the boring details, my Dear. How have you been?”

  “I’ve been fine, mostly reading this new book that dad gave me. I want to go exploring the nearby woods again, but it’s been storming for the past couple of days, so I’ve been stuck indoors. When are you coming to visit again?”

  “Who knows? I might surprise you all and stop by tomorrow,” Dahlia hinted.

  “That would be wonderful,” Clementine said. “If you do come, I hope to see you when I get back from school. I made this map of the woods that I’d like to show you.”

  “I’ll be there when you get home,” Dahlia stated. “Are either of your parents around?”

  “No,” she replied. “They went grocery shopping.”

  “When they get back, I need them to call me,” Dahlia said. “It’s very important that they do so as soon as possible. Please let them know I called.”

  “I will,” Clementine promised.

  “Thank you. Take care my Dear,” Dahlia said abruptly and hung up before Clementine could say goodbye. It was not long before Bell and Alice returned home. Clementine told them of Dahlia’s phone call, and the two of them exchanged worried looks. While Clementine went upstairs, Alice and Bell darted into the kitchen.

  Having read Meditations for over an hour, Clementine grew bored and decided to skim through the world atlas. She followed the western coast of Africa with her finger until she reached the Congo River. Traveling upstream, she reached Rwanda. Confused about the pronunciation of the country’s name, she jumped off the bed and, as was routine in such cases, headed for her mother’s study. Alice was not there, nor was she in the library, so Clementine went downstairs to find her mother drinking hot cocoa beside the fireplace; a blanket warmed her back while a pile of soggy tissues lay to her right side.

  “Are you all right, Mom?”

  Alice, her eyes red from crying, looked over at Clementine and patting the floor to her left side said, “Sit down.” Clementine did. Alice put an arm around her daughter and the two of them stared silently into the flames.

  “The book Dad gave me is pretty interesting,” Clementine said.

  “Meditations?” Alice said looking at her daughter. “Since you were born, he dreamt of passing that book on to you. Now is as good a time as any.” She gave a tired smile and looked back at the flames.

  “Are you all right, Mom?” Clementine asked.

  “Your father and I, we love you more than anything in the world. You are the ground below our feet and the sun above us.”

  “I love you, too,” Clementine said.

  “When you were born,” Alice began, “for three days, your father lived in the ward where you slept. And for those three days, he hardly slept; always watching over you, making sure you were well. He stared at you awe struck through that window of the maternity hall. He never stared at me like that. My guess is that he fell into a sort of fatherly madness, a form of love that we women will never really understand. Even when we brought you home, he didn’t want to sleep. He just watched over us. I know because every time I woke in the night there he was, by the bed, smiling.”

  “That’s kind of creepy,” Clementine said. Alice laughed.

  “
To an outsider, it might seem that way, but love is love is love. To those who do not understand it, who have never experienced it, it might seem creepy, or dangerous, or corny, even disgusting. But love, especially the one your father has for us, is persistent, infinite and permanent.”

  The flames crackled in the fireplace.

  “When he finally fell asleep,” she paused to smile, “he woke me up because he kept on repeating our names. I never told him about it, kept it to myself until now. Looking back at that moment, I realize that even when we fall asleep, we continue loving one another. There are no boundaries to love. Love never ceases to stop being love, not even when we dream. My point is that no matter what happens to your dad and me, we will always love you. No matter what,” she paused for a moment. “God, your dad’s corniness is rubbing off on me, Clementine.”

  With those words spoken, Alice planted a kiss on her daughter’s forehead.

  “Get to bed,” said Alice. “You have school tomorrow.”

  Clementine stood up and after washing up, went to bed. Her mother’s emotional show of affection concerned her and she stayed up for a while contemplating her words. Thinking that perhaps she can get some answers in Meditations, she leafed through its pages until fatigue lulled her to sleep.

  In the morning, Clementine woke up to the blaring of her alarm clock. After eating breakfast and making her own lunch—which Alice taught her to do—she was ready to leave for school. While usually not up before Clementine, both Bell and Alice met their daughter on the front porch.

  “What are you two doing up?” Clementine asked pleasantly surprised.

  “We wanted to see you off,” Bell said. After hugs and kisses, they watched as she disappeared beyond the bend of the street.