Hubris and Hemlock:

Chapter 1: A Name for a Night

A creak from across the hall made her breath catch in her throat.
What was that?
Inching her chin up, she cast her eyes around, head stock still.  She held her breath until her chest began to burn.  Inhaling bit by bit, she stood to survey the jail cell sized room -her favorite in the house.  Easily defended for a rock climber who fit in spaces only children dared to go.
Just a squirrel.
Nanyehi's cheeks puffed out as she exhaled and deflated.   Well, I guess the Ides of March never lose their hold.  She wondered what her Cherokee ancestors would think of her, jumping at noises.  Well, my Black ancestors say it's foolish to rush in where angels fear to tred.   She folded her legs into Indian style, sitting in her hamaca while retrieving the package, beside her Songs of Freedom on the folding table. She finally finished upwrapping her new Siddur Birkat Shalom, thumbing through the table of contents. Egalitarian language? Interesting. I'll bet they're having a field day with the frummies. The crack of a stick snapping in the yard below made her stomach clench. The kitchen door! The corn bread!!
Another minute of frozen silence. Everything smelled normal, and a glance at the timer showed 10 minutes left before she needed to check the oven. A shriek as little David, Shmuely in hot pursuit, cut through the yard toward the Cohen home. Noisy today; Must be getting their costumes ready. Another try at reading. No dice. Senses refusing to budge from Red Alert, she put down the siddur, cursing herself. Twenty years and still having to fight down the bile every other minute. And the burning ... down there. This hadn't happened in high school, much. The homework and part-time jobs had kept back some of the muck, the memories of being pinnioned like Jerry under Tom's paw. The image of 5 cartoon claws brought a laugh that lifted some of the pressure from her chest. Deep breathing helped a bit, but a break would be better. Something requiring real concentration. At least the nice clean pages wouldn't be stained by the tears leaking from her eyes.
Tip-toeing down the stairs, she cast a furitive glance out the front window at Park Hts avenue. Kids were already starting to deliver Shalach Manos packages. Maybe an hour to climb and then shower and change before Mike gets home. Purim was more important to him than Pesach! Fine, as long as someone else does the driving. Taking a nap would still be healthier.
The front and kitchen doors were dead bolted, windows closed and locked. Closing the basement door, she flipped the lock, and tiptoed to her section of the basement with the climbing wall. Better keep an ear out for Marie. Rechecking her watch while tying her hair back, she noted that the delivery was already 5 minutes late. Her head tipped up in a half chuckle and begginings of a smile, anticipating the always noisy arrival of her mentor and "partner in crime." At least her entrances never startled you. Looking up the wall, her old dancing handkerchief, brilliant white tucked into the highest handhold, beckoned to her like an old friend. Tilting a greeting to her other partner in crime, she gave a half-nod to her dance leading prop. Sorry, no Kalamatianos today. But maybe a hug from Talie. There ought to be just enough time to reach the 5th or 6th level before she gets here, knowing Marie. Her foot instinctively found the first hold, a tiny crevice where she could just wedge her left big toe, lunging her full body length upward, right fingers curling around a hold just below the first 'biner. Mike hated that she didn't tie in before starting her climbs, but at home she refused to follow all of the annoying safety rules she taught her beginners. Here at least, she had enough privacy to concentrate, and plenty of padding if she fell. She was also agile enough to get away with climbing stunts that made her flight instructor husband nervous enough to wish he were back in his Piper Cub. At least my students don't get sick planning their landing setups. She shook her head, laughing again at the thought of Mike claiming to be a better instructor than she was. His insistence on following every rule to the letter was a good rule of thumb, but his lack of flexibility often extended well beyond reason, in her opinion. Insisting, for example, that his student remain in the traffic pattern when the poor guy was already nervous turning downwind was a mistake that she notice long before Mike did, that day as an observer in the third seat. If this was how Mike taught all of his students, it was no wonder so few of them managed to solo. Tying a chalk bag on her waist, she noted that her hands were starting to sweat. Perfect time to take a breathing pause. Just reaching the belay line where she'd left it dangling, she pulled it through her 'biner, finally attatching herself 'safely' as Mike would have it. A wave of warm air seemed to pass over her, despite the entirely closed environment. Her jaw began to feel tired as she fumbled with the knot, and she looked up, perched on two foot-holds, still half in free climb mode. I'm clenching my teeth again. God. I hate being tied down to so many unnecessary rules. But Mike was right about the higher levels, especially when she was tired. Better safe than sorry. She went back to tying-in to her harness.

Originally published at www.wattpad.com.