The Velvet Thorn

The night moved on, yet Bella stayed awake, restless. The wind had been blowing hard, moaning horridly in the dark. Soon, a flash of wild thunderbolts cracked the skies open, sending a heavy downpour of violent rain. The lamp in Bella’s room blinked and died. Bella heard a tiny cry from the other room. The monstrous roar of thunder had awakened Donna. Anthony also woke up. Frightened, the boy pulled up a blanket and covered himself with it. Just then, the shadow of his mother appeared at the door.

“Mommy, Mommy!” he called in frightened whispers. “I’m scared!” His body was trembling. Bella climbed in and slipped between her children.

“Don’t worry, son. Nothing is going to happen. Go back to sleep,” Bella calmed the boy down as she put her arms around him. Anthony snuggled close to his mother. Donna whimpered in the dark. She opened her heavy eyes and snuggled against Bella, fearful as well. But Bella immediately gave her a series of soothing pats on the thigh to quiet her down. Feeling her mother’s warm presence was assurance enough; she went right back to sleep.

Outside, the rain poured incessantly. Feeling that sleep wouldn’t come, Bella got up and drew near the altar to light a candle. Lightheaded, she dropped to her knees in prayer. She prayed emptily until a wild draft that seeped through the crevices of the window blew out the candle’s glow, bathing her in darkness. Bella ended her prayer.

To discard a mysterious fear that suddenly clutched at her heart, she walked toward a large window. The home where she and her family lived stood at an elevation high enough that she could see the lights of Glendale. And although the scenery was beautiful on a clear evening, the heavy downpour had created a mysterious cloud cover that had taken away the luster of the city lights.

As she looked around her surroundings, she was taken by surprise to realize that, just like at the Eagle’s Nest Manor, there was a huge cedar of Lebanon tree in front of the window. It resembled the old cedar tree. She looked at it and saw in her mind the old tree, still mystically standing in its usual place—loyal, unchanged, and undaunted by the storm. Now, before her eyes, she saw its replica, as though it had followed her to watch over her vigilantly. It was now taking a great beating from the tempestuous wind. Behind it, the glow of early morn hopelessly fought the thick, heavy thunderclouds that hovered threateningly in the dark gray skies. Bella gazed at the mighty tree with awe and compassion. It also bore the configuration of a man laden with a heavy weight upon his shoulder. On the drooping branch of this mystical tree, a tiny nightingale perched. With plumage drenched from the rain, the poor bird planted its claws firmly on the branch to withstand the fierce winds. Feeling its life ending, it sang its most beautiful song that cut through the darkness, lending, for even just a moment, an unforgettable sweetness to the harsh and frightful atmosphere. Nature stilled to listen, quieting even the loudest roar of thunder for a brief moment, until the nightingale heaved from its heart its final note. Then, as its song ended, a solid bolt of lightning suddenly struck the drooping branch on which it perched, producing a frightening, deafening sound. C-R-A-C-K! And down came the branch in a big thump! There was absolute silence—a silence that was the holiest ode to this gentle nightingale, which lay lifeless on the cold, damp earth.