A Magic Beyond All We Do Here

A Magic Beyond All We Do Here – Chapter 1

New Kid in Towne

Chapter One

Note: Turkish dialogue is written phonetically in this story owing to the fact that there are letters in the Turkish alphabet that do not translate well in HTML

Charles Norwood set the instrument into its form fitted case with all the loving care of a parent putting his beloved child to bed. The case, like the twelve stringed guitar laute it held was made of rare hard woods from old growth forests of the Canadian north-west. Cherry and maple strips were left unstained and unvarnished so that the natural wood, oiled and polished, glowed – a reflection of the same loving attention given to the instrument enclosed within. Linen and flax and hemp, oiled and bees waxed; then braided for strength and flexibility formed the bindings that held the clamshell case together. There were no metal parts on the case; no metal hinges or screws. The inside of the case was padded with lambs wool and lined with silk, a fact that the cats would exploit anytime they found the case open. Indeed, Charles usually had to evict a sleeping grey tabby before putting the “baby” to bed. Just as there were no metal parts to the case neither were there any metal parts on the guitar laute, or Lautar as Charles liked to describe it.

“Goodnight Rose.” He said, repeating the ritual he had begun when he first placed the Lautar in its case.

“I think you spend every waking moment with that lute.” A lady’s accented voice said from the music room doorway, having just come in from teaching late classes. Sidra always had late classes, being the astronomy teacher all her labs were taught after the sun went down.

“I spend time with all my stringed instruments, dear;” he said as he crossed the room to give her a tight hug and welcome home kiss.

“Yes, but that one is undeniably special, your baby.”

“Well, yes, one of them anyway.”

In every way that mattered the Lautar was his baby, the end result of 200 hours of labor using only muscle powered tools, he cut and sanded every component part that would become the Lautar. He measured, cut, fitted, glued and sanded the angled tuning head and neck. He measured the spacings of the frets on the fretboard with absolute precision – one miscalculation here and he would never be able to coax a tune from the instrument. He soaked the strips of hardwood so that they could be bent to form the bowl shaped body of the instrument. He mixed home brewed glues to hold the instrument together and lacquers for the soundboard. He needed just enough weight to hold the soundboard to the body during construction and found that his old college math texts had exactly the right mass for the job.

“Finally,” he thought at the time, “I’m getting some use out of those calculus classes.”

At a conservative estimate of $90 per hour (his average consulting fee at that time) the instrument had cost $18,000 in labor alone. He smiled as he remembered the day the Lautar was born.

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It was five summers ago, he and his clothes smelled of sweat and grime and exotic oils and stains, he was positively beaming at the thought of the beautiful work of art he had just put the finishing, well, finish to.

“Amber,” he called out. “It’s all done!”

A black and pink blur tore around the corner from the kitchen through the laundry room into the garage/luthier shop. Amber Norwood had luxurious raven hair like her mother; but deep blue eyes like those of her father, her skin color was a nice compromise between the olive tones of her mother and the light hue of her dad’s northern European ancestors. A precocious six-year-old (not just Daddy’s opinion, thank you – already reading at an eighth-grade level and giving the other “wunderkinds” at the Willows School for Gifted and Talented Students a run for their money at math and logic competitions.) She screeched to a halt just before running into her father and his new instrument propped upright on its stand. Dropping to her hands and knees she saw her own reflection in the polished maple soundboard.

“Oh daddy,” she whispered breathlessly, “she’s beautiful!”

“We have to let her sit for another day or two before stringing her, but she is finished now.”

“Can we name her?”

All of his instruments were named, and all were female.

“Do you have something in mind sweetheart?”

She looked at her shoes and whispered “Can we call her “Rose?””

Charles sat down hard on the low work bench. He looked at his daughter with her bright eyes and quivering lower lip and said softly “I guess it’s not quite done yet.”

Amber looked quizzically at her father.

“I need to find some red glass to inlay a rose on the headstock.”

The six-year-old nodded then climbed into her father’s lap hugging and sobbing. After a few minutes she mumbled something that Charles didn’t understand.

“What was that sweetheart?”

“Icky sticky.” She answered.

“I’m sorry, did you say “icky sticky?””

“Uh-huh.”

She sat back rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand.

“You smell icky and you’re all sticky.”

“Oh, I see. Well, I need to cut some glass here for the inlay. While I do that why don’t you get a bath and when I’m done here I’ll take a shower, okay?”

“Then can we read?”

“How about Patricia Wrede?” Amber brightened; “Dealing with Dragons” was her latest favorite.

She nodded, jumped down and tore off through the laundry room and kitchen heading for her bathroom.

Charles smiled at his daughter’s energy. “She has two settings,” he mused, “full throttle and asleep and precious little in-between.” He found the thin glass he normally used for stained glass projects, red for the rose blossom, green for the stem and leaves and because light would not be passing through the glass some mother of pearl from an abalone shell to give the inlay opalescence. He sketched a blossoming rose pattern on a sheet of heavy drawing paper then placed the bits of glass over the drawing in preparation for cutting.

As he set out his tools and materials his mind wandered back to ten years before.

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Gül (gool) Yaygel, a tiny woman of eastern Mediterranean roots, had met Charles while he was in the U.S. Army, stationed in Turkey on detached duty working with earthquake survivors near Mt. Ararat. He and his best friend Chuck Baxter (who enjoyed introducing himself as “the better-looking of the two Chucks”) were given the job of coordinating relief efforts in the town of Pasha as well as two small neighboring villages. She looked older than her 19 years, certainly because of hard work, but mostly because of the horror and grief of the latest earthquake. She stood just under five feet tall, had dark eyes and presumably dark hair under her head scarf; a traditional eastern Turkish girl. In spite of or perhaps because of her own anguish (having lost her mother, father, grandmother and brothers in the same disaster) she worked 20 hours a day tending the sick and injured. When she inevitably succumbed to exhaustion Charles had been the one to catch her. When she opened her eyes and saw his brilliant blue eyes full of concern she whispered, “Teshekkur Mavish” which Charles didn’t quite understand. He knew teshekkur was "thank-you," but Mavish?

In his rare off hours Charles relaxed with his old guitar, a Yamaha classical that followed him all over the world. He picked with a simple rolling fingerstyle that lent itself to the folk music he liked to play. One of the doctors noticed how soothing the music sounded and asked Charles if he would be willing to play for some of the patients as an informal music therapist. He readily agreed and arranged his schedule so that he could play for fifteen to twenty minutes in each of the three hospital tents just after sunset. Later that night as he was making his rounds he saw her walking outside.

“Iyi akshamlar, nasilsiniz?” He greeted her, saying “good evening,” and “how are you feeling?” What he meant was “aren’t you out of bed too soon?”

She glared at him at first; already having had to fend off clumsy Americans who wanted to flirt with the unattached and unfamilied young girl, and then recognized him in the dim light by the guitar he carried. She blushed and asked “Lutfen, tuvalet nerede?”

She needed a toilet but hadn’t been in this part of the compound before, and didn’t feel she could walk all the way over to the other side of the encampment before bursting.

Charles chuckled at this and saw her expression turn to anger again as she said “You laugh me for my need?”

“No, no,” he said quickly as he raised both hands to chest level, palms out and backpedaled away from her. “It’s just that that was the very first phrase I ever learned in Turkish when I first got here. Y’see I had to go bad.”

Gül seemed to get the gist of what he was saying because she softened her expression.
Then winced.

“I still need tuvalet”

Charles beckoned her to follow “Ah, yes. Lutfen, burada gelsen”

As they walked together he asked “what is ma vish?”

She looked down and said, “It means the color of your eyes, gozlerin mavish means eyes that are blue.”

___ooo000ooo___

Slowly at first, but increasingly over the next six weeks she became essential to his work in the rubble that had been Pasha. Her English skills and his understanding of Turkish were enough that – between the two of them – they were one bi-lingual person. He soon discovered that she had a quick mind and a wicked sense of humor. Gül knew all the Turkish children’s songs and sang them along with the kids they visited. She was bright and cheerful toward all the children and as such a tremendous help supporting his role of musical morale booster.

She had a total contempt for the petty larceny all around her. The organization and distribution of relief was hindered by the structured system of baksheesh that meant moneys and materials would be skimmed off every time goods changed hands. When one of the outlying village elders decided he would get the lion’s share of the dried foodstuffs Gül made sure that that village received no potable water until there was a more equitable allocation. Charles was impressed by her willingness to work very hard on behalf of people she didn’t even know.

“You too,” she said one evening over dinner in the mess tent. “You don’t know anyone here but you care for us.”

“It’s just my job.”

“No, is more than just job, you don’t have to work so hard or care so much, still you do.”

He took advantage of every opportunity to be around her. He didn’t crowd her or get too familiar because he understood the implications for her if he did. Still, he just felt right when they were together. When she introduced him as “abi” (“brother”) to some of the children they were visiting he realized that it bothered him that she probably only had fraternal feelings for him. He became conscious of the fact that he didn’t want to be her brother. His feelings for her had grown so much that he spoke before really thinking when he said “That would be considered incest. . .”

She thought she understood, but she wasn’t sure so she asked, “if you are not my brother, then who are you to me?”

“I think the word for it is “erkek.” (fiancé)”

She stood in shock for a moment, then half-smiled and whispered, “You make me joke.”

“No,” he said in earnest, looking deep into her dark eyes “no joke.”

Later that night she came into his tent for the first time. As she entered, her eyes lowered to the floor, she removed her head scarf releasing her luxurious black hair. Then she removed her heavy wool overcoat. She stood before him in a blue blouse under her short brown jacket, elaborately embroidered with gold thread, and a matching long wrap-around skirt over the pantaloons commonly worn by girls in eastern Turkey; hers were cerulean to match the blouse. She looked up at him; her eyes bright with hope and - fear?

“I will never hurt you Sevgilim.” He assured her, using the endearment “my love” for the first time

“You will use me and go away and I will be just another common girl.” She said in a small voice. “But I don’t care, for you I am crazy Tatlem.”

Charles winced at her self depreciation; to be a common girl was to be disgraced and disrespected in the community.

“Tatlem,” he repeated, “sweetheart, you will never be a common girl, you will always be my uncommon girl, you must believe I love you.”

She flowed into his arms and they embraced desperately, each feeling and feeding off the need of the other. She was soft and smelled of lilacs and mint. When they kissed for the first time Charles felt her urgent need even as she felt his growing desire. When they finally broke the kiss Gül placed her hands on his chest and pushed back to break the embrace, which he reluctantly released.

He held her at arms length and tried to remember the words, finally saying “Seni seviyorum, seni chok seviyorum.” Telling her he loved her, he loved her very much.

She took a step back, looked directly into his eyes and said “I love you more.”

Using slow, deliberate movements she removed her short embroidered jacket, then the shirt and skirt followed by her under shirt and finally the pantaloons. He realized she was presenting herself to her man for the first time.

Her skin was an amazing olive hue, her breasts were small but perfect for her petite frame, her sex was hairless (Charles had heard from the barrack’s scuttlebutt that Turkish girls shaved their pubic hair, but now he had irrefutable proof.) He removed his boots and fatigues then shed his t-shirt and boxers – he wasn’t sure if it was traditional, but he wanted her to see him as he was seeing her. Given their mutual arousal it seemed they were pointing at each other without using their hands.

She guided him over to his cot and had him lay down on his back. She then covered his body with hers, her hair curtained his face as she gazed lovingly into his eyes; she smiled and said “Mavishim benim, my blue eyes, my own.” She sat up on him, straddling his hips to press her shaven mound against his erection and slowly, deliberately rubbed up and down the length of it. Soon her nether lips were slick as she slid up and down while ricking back and forth along his length. Her motions were delicious torture as she moved backward then ground down on the base of his engorged shaft, then forward to grind on the head of his gland, slowly at first then with a bit more speed and urgency – they both began to breathe heavily from the mutual masturbation. Feeling her heat and her wetness, seeing her wonderful body he began to push back squeezing even more stimulation from their contact. He groaned as he emptied himself all over his abdomen, her insistent pressure causing him to ejaculate more than halfway up his torso. She continued pressing and squirming, unabated until she mewed her pleasure aloud and fell forward onto his chest, breathing heavily. Her premature years fell off her as she smiled and said ““Teshekkur Mavishim benim.” (Thank you my blue eyes, my own)

The next day Charles formally declared his intentions for the orphan girl in front of the town leaders. If anyone objected they would still be married, just later and away from the town. The elders didn’t like the idea of a foreigner taking a girl of the village away, and argued every minute point until Gül finally stepped up to the low table, glared at the most vociferous detractor and almost shouted “Suslan deve ya!” (shut up you camel!) She let her anger take her as she berated and belittled the so-called leaders of the community in eloquent terms, finally rounding off the lecture with a softly spoken phrase that made all the men squirm uncomfortably. At last they agreed that she could and probably should go. Later Charles asked her what the tirade was about.

“You were there, you speak Turkish, didn’t you hear?”

“I’m not that fluent, and you spoke quickly and used words that I do not know, Sevgilim.”

She brightened at the use of the endearment, “my love.”

“I told them that they were ungrateful for you and for all that you have done for them, that they would be living off rats if it were not for you and that you were my family now no matter what they said. I also told them that if I did not go with you that I would talk to their wives and they would have nothing from them for as long as I had to stay in Pasha.” She looked down in amused embarrassment. “I may have said they are camels.”

“Have I told you lately that I love you, Sevgilim?”

“Tell me tonight, as you did last night Mavishim benim.”

That night as he stood in the shower he shaved not only his chin and neck, but his pubic hair as well so that when he undressed for her he was as hairless as she.

“You do that for me?” she whispered hoarsely.

“Only you Sevgilim,” he answered.

She flowed into his arms again and pressed the side of her face against his neck, sobbing uncontrollably.

“What?” He asked, in a panic, “What did I do wrong? Please tell me.”

“Oh Mavishim, you are too good for me, you say you love me but you show you love me and I am degmez!”

“I’m sorry, Sevgilim, I don’t know degmez.”

“You can do better than me,” she wailed.

“No, I can’t, because you are, what is the word? Kemal, yes you are perfection to me, because love makes you perfect.”

“Do you know what you do to me, Mavishim?”

She pulled his hand to her waiting sex and pressed it hard against her hairless mound, eliciting a shudder.

“Oh Tatlem!” she breathed into his chest.

He rubbed her mound, his middle finger entering warm wetness making her weak in the knees. He lifted her and carried her to his cot where he laid her down on the newly acquired four pelt sheepskin he used as a comforter. He kissed her tenderly, opening her lips with the tip of his tongue. She opened her mouth and tentatively touched his tongue with her own and moaned her pleasure into his eager mouth. She whimpered when he broke the kiss but hummed her delight as he traced light kisses along her chin, down her neck, over her collar bone and onto her left breast. He kissed a circular pattern around her areola, which made her squirm as she tried to get her nipple into his mouth. He laved the flat of his tongue just under her areola then placed his hot mouth over her nipple circling it with his tongue. She bowed her back as she gurgled; then screamed, “Mashallah! Maash! Maash! MASHALLAH!” Gül curled into a fetal position so that her knees were on his left shoulder and her head was on his right; her fingers laced into his hair pressing her breast into his face as he kneeled on the rug next to the cot.

“If I die now,” she whispered into his ear, “I will be happy.”

“But that would make me sad, Sevgilim,” he whispered back, “so promise you won’t die, okay?”

“No one can promise that, but I will try.”

“What does Ma-shalla mean?”

“Mashallah,” she replied dreamily, “means God protect this man.”

As she uncurled he continued his ministrations while she kept her fingers in his hair. She stretched languidly on the cover as if to say ‘take me, I’m yours.’ He kissed and sucked and licked the skin between her breasts, murmuring endearments as he went down to her navel “my love” which he licked with the flat of his tongue “ashkim” heading southward, finally arriving “seni seviorum” at her newly shaved sex. The puffy outer lips appeared darker than the surrounding skin, the swelling exposing the pink inner lips. He could see she was already very wet, the engorged clitoris having already retracted into its hood. He turned her body so that her thighs were on either side of his head giving him full access to her wet center.

“Please tell me if you don’t want me to do anything, Sevgilim.”

“Oh, Mavishim, I want you to do everything with me!”

He laved her outer lips with the flat of his tongue; then used its tip to plow her furrow from bottom to top, pressing her clitoral hood when he got there. Still using the tip of his tongue he traced the outline of her swollen clitoris inside its sheath, reaching as far into her as he could. As he was licking and sucking her arousal he reached up with both hands to capture her wonderful breasts, messaging them and rubbing her nipples with his thumbs as he was trying to find just how deep he could go with his tongue.

“Ashkim, oh ashkim,” she cried, “my love, oh my love”

“Ashkim, ashkim, ASHKIM!” she cried as she came, bowing her back so that only her head was on the cot, her legs on his shoulders; thighs clenching his head.

Before she had a chance to come all the way down from her climax Charles positioned himself above her, his erection resting on her aroused sex. She reached down and grasped him and moved the tip of his gland up and down her wet slit again and again and again and yet again; then pulled the helmeted head into her eager opening. She was so tight that he felt himself pop into her; she was so wet that he had no trouble moving slightly deeper in and out as she hung onto his shaft trying to stuff more of him into herself. He felt a slight pull inside her and realized they had broken through her hymen, but she didn’t seem to be in any pain as she released his cock to grab his butt cheeks and tried to cram as much of him as she could into herself. He moved slowly at first, wanting her to get used to his size, but she started bucking against him, insisting that he keep up. She wrapped her legs around his waist and bounced up against his hard cock while he assumed a push-up position so that she would have more room to move. He didn’t want to move too much because he was afraid of hurting her, then he got an idea. He unlocked his knees and pushed off with his arms to get into a sitting position, as he guessed she would, she hung on as if for dear life. He used his arms to scoot forward on the cot so that he could roll onto his back. This put Gül on top and in complete control. She smiled at him and began to move back and forth making his cock piston in and out of her as she slid up and down their slick bodies. After a short time she sat up and began to bounce up and down on his engorged shaft, wiggling every time she bottomed out. Somewhere around the hundredth bounce and wiggle Charles blew his load deep inside her.

“MAASHHAALLAHHH!” she screamed as she went rigid on top of him.

She leaned forward onto his chest, her kegel muscles clenching; trying to milk him of everything he had to offer. Her eyes were glowing with love for him and he knew he was happier than he had ever been in his life.

“Now I am your woman.”

“Now in the eyes of Allah and the universe, you are Hamim benim.”

“Hanim benim.” (My wife, my own)

The next morning Chuck Baxter pulled Charles aside and said, “I know love is blind, but as my granny in Missouri used to say, the neighbors ain’t deaf.”

Charles turned a nice shade of red.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing here? You’ve only known this girl a little over a month.”

“I’m so sure I want to get married as soon as possible before she has a chance to change her mind.”

“Well, funny thing. I have a friend in the Embassy in Ankara and I think she can expedite the paperwork to send her to the U.S. It’ll be less hassle to get married stateside than here, way too much paperwork here!”

Charles looked at Chuck as if seeing him for the first time, then grabbed him in a massive bear hug that threatened to break bones.

“I swear to whatever gods there are that I’m gonna name our firstborn son after you!”

“Not hard,” Chuck laughed, slapping Charles on the back, “since we have the same first name!”

They arranged for her transportation to Izmir where he was garrisoned, then sponsored her so that they could travel together to the U.S. where they would be married a few days later. His own parents were dead and he had fallen out of contact with his brothers so the wedding party would consist of a few service buddies and their wives.

Gül pleaded with her fiancé to try to get at least one of his family members to the wedding; she felt it was essential that a blood relative be present for the ceremony. Grudgingly he called his brother James and told him that the youngest son was getting married that weekend in South Carolina and he was welcome to come. James was delighted to hear from his kid brother and said he’d be there in dress blues and tennis shoes. As soon as he hung up the phone James called the other brothers and told them that if they didn’t all meet at the appointed time and place for the wedding he personally was going to kick their collective asses, all together or separately, and since he was an Army Ranger with combat experience they all showed up. The number of guests increased exponentially every day leading up to the wedding, four brothers, their wives and children, assorted army buddies, their families even the immigration official from Charleston arrived with his wife in tow. It was obvious they were going to need a hall of some sort so James called a few buddies and managed to secure the VFW hall in Columbia. Naturally the members of the Veterans of Foreign Wars also showed up, with their families and what was supposed to have been a simple civil ceremony evolved into a major social event. Someone called the local representative’s office and a very nice silver platter arrived engraved with congratulations from Senator Strom Thurman.

Charles and his bride both agreed that Chuck Baxter had to be the best man. When Gül first entered the U.S. the immigration official who asked for her name asked if Gül was Turkish for anything. Charles said yes, it can mean “smile” or “rose.” She thought about that for just a moment and said, “I think I like being a rose, please, can we be calling me Rose?”

They became Charles and Rose Norwood five days later. Just before the well attended civil ceremony Rose removed the many gold bracelets that she always wore and gave them to her fiancé. “Please accept this; this is my çeyiz (chey-iz), my marriage price.”

With great solemnity Charles accepted the dowry, and said “I will keep these for our daughters, or if we have none for our first son so that he may give it to his daughters. I expect you to be there when our children’s children are married.”

“Chok tesekür ederim, Mavishim.”

Rose glowed, smiling through tears as the ceremony was concluded. The Certificate of Marriage was presented for their signatures as she sat next to her new husband waiting for him to sign. When he had signed he passed her the pen and watched her out of the corner of his eye. The moment she set the pen down she tried to step on his right foot, but he had been in Turkey long enough to know what to expect. If she could stamp his foot at the wedding table, it signified that she would be in charge at home. He lifted his foot out of his shoe just before she could stamp on it then gently brought his sock covered foot down on top of hers.

“Let’s not start off on the wrong foot, Rose.”

At the reception they cut the cake together and she was pleasantly amazed that he didn’t smash the cake in her face. He was determined that their marriage would start off civil and remain so for as long as they both lived.

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Charles finished cutting the glass and mother of pearl then used the wood working tools to gouge the pattern into the instrument’s head stock. He carefully flanged the edges of the glass so that it would need no glue to hold it. As the last piece of glass snapped into place Charles had an idea; he measured a small oval piece of amber; then gouged a socket just below and to the right of the rose inlay.

“Hello Amber Rose,” he said; echoing his words from six years before.

He heard a knock on the side door of the garage workshop. It was Sidra Sinestra.

“Is it ready yet?”

“Almost, the finish has to dry, but it’s pretty much done.” He said as he led her into the workspace.

“Oh, my.” She gasped, “I had no idea.”

“What?”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“I brought you something for it,” she held up a small piece of what looked like ivory, except it had a slight curve and what appeared to be spiraling ridges.

“What is it?”

“Most importantly it’s what it is not. It’s not plastic!”

“Ah,” he remembered their discussion from the previous week.

He had carefully followed the plans for the Guitar laute, translating them with her help from the original 300 year old German text. But he couldn’t find the alpine horn or ivory for the saddle, that part of the bridge on which the strings would rest. He didn’t want to use the Ivory found in so many New England tourist traps, he didn’t feel sanguine about using something from an endangered species. So he shaped a piece of plastic.

“I won’t use ivory”

“It’s not ivory, its horn.”

“A straight horn?”

“It’s a strait section cut from a curved piece, and it’s a natural material, just like everything else in the laute.”

“Where does it come from?”

“It comes from me, a gift. Here’s a thought, be gracious, accept the gift and say ‘thank you,’ please.”

Charles smiled, and said “thank you, please.”

“Git.”

“What exactly is a ‘git’ anyway?”

“Right now it’s you,” she smirked, “but I think you’ll get over it.”

“Just when I thought I was all done here, oh well, no rest for the wicked.”

They talked about school and students and music in general as he measured and rasped then sanded the horn into the perfect shape and size of a saddle. He removed the offending plastic piece and placed the new saddle in place where it fit perfectly.

“Thank you again.”

“You’re welcome, good night.”

Two days later the finish was completely dry and “Rose” was ready to be strung.

From the moment he had strung and tuned the Lautar Charles knew there was something special in the feel and tone and just plain playability of the instrument. It wasn’t just beautiful to hold and behold, it was a joy to play. He knew that it was just a coincidence that blackbirds appeared on his windowsill as he played the old Beatle’s standby. That the blackbirds were gathered, singing in the dead of night was a bit odd. . .

“Oh well,” he thought “it’s late and time to put you to bed; goodnight Rose.”

Charles displaced the grey tabby, placed the Lautar gently in its case before heading off to his own bed.

“Anyone home?” Sidra asked. She saw the birds on the windowsill as she walked into the kitchen area.

“I’m sorry Sid, just woolgathering.”

“Good memories?”

“Some,” he mused, “most actually.”

The bad ones were there too.