The Trillium Spring 2012

The Trillium

The Trillium is the official arts publication produced by the students of Trinity College. The ideas expressed herein are not necessarily those of the faculty, staff, or adminis-tration of the college. Entries are judged on the basis of creativity, thought-provoking ideas, and freshness of style. The student co-editors do not know who the authors of the entries are. Managing Editor and Typist: Jacob Slaughter Co-editors: Andrew Koenig Jaime Kowieski

Anne Lehan William Smith

Cover: Nautilus by Celine O’Neal Title Page Artwork: Trillium by James Allen Class of 2004 Faculty Advisors: Cliff Williams, Production Brad Fruhauff, Editorial Copyright © 2012 This material may not be reproduced by any means, in part

or in whole, without written permission from the authors.

April, 2012

CONTENTS

LAURA BROWN Notes from a Homeless Girl CELINE O’NEAL Oblivious JASMINE EISINGER Swagatam Chicago JONATHAN CASTELE Breugel’s Icarus JASMINE EISINGER Loathing the Pastoral ALEX JOHNSON Light at the End of the

Tunnel JOY HILLYER A Moment of Moroccan

Warmth ETHAN CARLSON Monorola JOY HILLYER Picturesque Portugal DAVID EISINGER To the Tree and Back ETHAN CARLSON Mendicante GARRETT KLING La Sonrisa

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

19

20

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LAURA BROWN

NOTES FROM A HOMELESS GIRL I lurk beneath the city. I see you pass me day after day. You were in a hurry. You couldn’t stop. You might be late. You toss your head away. You cannot meet my gaze. But you do not know me. You do not know my name. I’m hungry. I’m thirsty. I’ll leave again to the underground. Sleep is accompanied by the smell of putrid sewage, by the smell of the tattooed rats. I was nine when I ran away. I don’t sleep without a place to hide. I know I’m not safe. I’m filthy, I’m shameful, I’ve fallen from grace. I swear I won’t bother you. But I have a simple request: Look me in the eye.

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CELINE O’NEAL

OBLIVIOUS

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JASMINE EISINGER

SWAGATAM CHICAGO Namaste. A sparse room, bare bulb, spicy curry: dama bat. Smiles, laughs, languages collide between the Bhutanese, the Korean, and me. A stuffed monkey, an English book. This is how it feels— America, new to them and me. Swagatam, Chicago. Translations: namaste = hello dama bat = thank you swagatam = welcome

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JONATHAN CASTELE

BREUGEL’S ICARUS Pieter painted, saying that personal tragedies occur While the mundane lives of others remain unaffected The brush strokes may be beautiful, but His heart spat in the twisted face of the tragic father, Redirecting the focus to nameless peasants at their day’s

work Near the scene of a son’s demise Cursed be the serf with his horse in the foreground! Though he and I are one man Unobserved deaths happen in my domain And unread obituaries fall through my fingers Wax dripping from their wings as a newspaper drops into

the trash How can I be expected to weep for the one who drowned

out of my sight as I Tended to my horse? I cannot! Though, I truly Want to I wish I could feel the pain of every mother and brother,

son and friend As their own loved one touches the sun and falls to the

earth unnoticed But I do not have the depth to weep with Daedalus, Pretentious peasant that I am The serf with his horse turns his head from me as I turn

my head from the Canvas mirror of Breugel’s Icarus

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JASMINE EISINGER LOATHING THE PASTORAL The Silence! How it grates upon my ears. The smell of patties in the field; Wildlife risking mine at dusk and night— Will I survive to my home? The pace of molasses Haunts my steps, my drive, My mind. I once lived here and felt comfort in the slow, Sleepy towns where Nothing much ever happened. Now I happen to it and their eyes come alive. I am the most interesting thing, the newest news, and I hate attention.

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ALEX JOHNSON

LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL

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JOY HILLYER

A MOMENT OF MOROCCAN WARMTH

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ETHAN CARLSON

MONOROLA

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JOY HILLYER

PICTURESQUE PORTUGAL

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DAVID EISINGER

TO THE TREE AND BACK Allison Edwards opened the French doors and stepped out onto the terrace overlooking the beach. The terrace was roofed, of course—India’s summer heat was oppressive enough without the direct sun beating down on one’s head. Allison tiptoed across the marble floor in her bare feet and looked over the balustrade at the blue blue ocean. Her fiancé’s manor house was settled in the middle of the small bay; the hilly arms to the north and south holding the water in. The beach was wide and curved gently along one whole side of the cove. Its golden sands were fine and soft, except for a small area in the middle. This patch of rough sand surrounded what Allison considered the most peculiar and delightful feature of the whole place—a large outcropping of rock. This massive piece of stone jutted from the side of the slope that came down to the beach and was smooth nearly all over. It made a lovely place to paint, if shaded by an umbrella. Allison idly took in the familiar scene and then noticed the drooping flowers by the stairs to the beach. “Torin!” she called out without turning her head. “Torin! There’re some plants that need watering!” She closed her eyes, and only a minute or two later the portly Welshman pattered around the side of the house. She heard the soft slap of feet on the stairs and the sound of trickling water on loose earth. She listened for a moment before her mind wandered off to her fiancé. Why did he always have to rush off like that? she wondered. Hugh seemed to have been making less and less time for her in the past month; the railroad was absorbing him. He had a high post that he had tried to explain to Allison, an attempt that hadn’t succeeded too well. The bottom line was that he was away in either Bengal or the United Provinces for nearly two-thirds of his time, and Allison was left alone at his manor house. Not that she minded the house; her father’s north of Bombay wasn’t this nice and had no beach, but what she minded was the aloneness. Her friends were all up north and couldn’t make the long trip from Bombay to Calicut very often. Allison opened her eyes to find that Torin had gone and the afternoon sun had crept a little lower. She sighed and grasped the shoulders of her dress, then shook it briefly to cool herself a little. It helped only very slightly. She took a quick look around to be sure no one was about, then took a few seconds and managed

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to loosen her corset a bit. After a few more minutes she went inside and called for some punch. A cool glass removed her a little from the apathy she had been feeling, and she decided to do something adventurous. She thought for a second before remembering that she hadn’t yet explored the southern section of the cove, where that funny-shaped tree was. She debated with herself for a moment and finally decided to brave the heat and go. The walk under the sun in the humid air, on the hot sand and with water so close, nearly drove Allison mad, but it took only a few minutes before she came under the shade of the rocky hill and found some relief. Not much farther on, the rockier beach began and she wished for Hugh’s safari boots to protect her feet. Her own shoes were far too flimsy for this sort of thing. A sharp rock poked at the ball of her foot and she almost gave up. Then she looked up and saw the tree she had been so curious about only a few yards away. The pain was dealt with and forgotten as she approached the tree and circled it. Its branches were weirdly grown, twisted and thick. There were no small branches on the inside of the tree; rather, the leaves formed a rough sort of green sphere around the contorted trunks in the middle. Allison felt a sudden urge to climb it. Another glance around to make sure there were no men about, then her shoes were off and she was clambering up the smooth branches. The gentle bark scraped her feet almost like birch, though the skin was brown and not white. She gave up pondering the mysteries of the tree when she found a twist of branches that seemed made for her. The branches formed a gracious bed around her as she settled herself among them and stared up at the azure sky. The air was still hot, but a gentle sea breeze was beginning to blow into the cove, making things bearable. The feeling of comfortable, exotic, idyllic beauty returned, and Allison took off her hat and let her golden hair fall through the branches, its yellow locks seducing the frustrated ground as it strained unsuccessfully to touch the gilt curtain. Peace descended on her; for one moment she was freed from the stress and loneliness of the last month. Then in an instant it was shattered as a man’s voice said, “Is it customary for young ladies of this cove to climb trees and sleep in ’em? If so, then I’m afraid I’ll ’ave to go an’ tell my wife that she’s socially inept and must begin climbing trees ’erself.” Allison gave a little shriek only a moment after the voice began and scrambled to her feet, holding a higher branch to steady her precarious balance. Below her and several yards away

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on the shoreline a fisherman was standing beside his small boat. His figure and face were very obviously British, his attire very obviously Indian, his boat very obviously dilapidated, and his smile very obviously displaying his pleasure at finding a beautiful young woman caught unawares. They looked at each other for a moment, the young fisherman quite amused indeed, and Allison trying to decide if she was embarrassed, angry, or just surprised. At length she was merciful and, deciding to be surprised, said, “Pardon me, sir. I thought myself alone.” “Aye,” the fisherman said with a wink, “That was apparent enough. Ye live round ’ere?” Allison pointed vaguely towards Hugh’s house and the fisherman’s face darkened a little. “Oh,” he said. “Yer one of the train lord’s house, eh?” “He is not a train lord. He’s a businessman and a gentleman of the highest caliber. He’s not some heartless monster who hoards money away.” “Mmm,” the fisherman said, nodding noncommittally and looking around as if ignoring her. “What’s ’is name?” “Lord Hugh Melburn, originally of Derbyshire.” The fisherman smirked. “And ’e’s a train man. ’ence, train lord. No denyin’ it, lassie.” “I am not a lassie!” she said. “My name is Allison Edwards, daughter of Sir Charles Longham, the assistant governor for her Majesty Queen Victoria herself. What’s your claim to nobility, peasant?” The fisherman shrugged. “I don’t need one. I’m plenty ’appy without the title, and it seems to me that all it’s done you is to get you all riled up about it. Nobility never did me any favors.” Allison bit back a harsh reply and asked instead, “What’s your name?” “Montgomery Baker, mum—Monty.” “And you . . . fish?” “Aye, for Maguukaquog Dasari Ratan, down by the river.” “Oh, yes, the cook knows Ratan. He says he’s a feisty little fellow with a mustache and an accent so thick that it’s easier for Cook to speak his little bit of Hindi than for Ratan to speak his English.” Monty grinned. “Aye, ’e’s a bloody skinflint and no mistake.” Allison put on a shocked expression and rebuked him, “Such language, Mr. Baker.” But she didn’t really care, and Monty knew it. There was a short pause before Allison said, “You said you were married?” A laugh. “No, I ain’t married. I said that’n to be funny.” Allison grunted disapprovingly, and there was an awkward

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silence. It dragged, till finally she said, “Mr. Baker, would you help a lady down from a tree?” The fisherman gave a slow nod and said, “Aye, I would, if she asked me. But she’d ’ave to call me Monty an’ not Mr. Baker. After all, ladies stranded in trees inspire my deepest compassion.” Allison rolled her eyes. “Very well, Monty, will you please help me down?” Monty smiled, triumphant. “Certainly, mum.” After climbing down as low as she could, she held out her arms and Monty lowered her to the ground by her elbows. His hands were hard and calloused, but there was something gentle in the touch that surprised her. She slipped around the trunk of the tree and replaced her feet in her castoff shoes, then returned. “Thank you, Monty,” Allison said as she put her hat back on. “Would it be too much to ask for a ride back to the house in your boat? These shoes . . .” Another mischievous grin and Monty replied, “No, it ain’t too much to ask.” Allison sighed. “You really must stop that, Monty. It’s most unbecoming. Will you please give me a ride?” “Yes, milady, I will.” He helped her into the boat, and she sat on the forward of the two seats. The splintered wood poked and scratched, and she shifted uncomfortably as Monty took up the oars and began pulling towards the large white house. “So, Miss Edwards,” Monty said after a minute or two of rowing, “Do ye like the ’ouse?” “Hugh’s house? Of course,” Allison said. “It’s a beautiful house. I mean, it’s—” “Do ye want a bigger ’ouse?” he interrupted. “A more bee-ootiful ’ouse?” “No,” she replied, “I can’t imagine a much better one.” “Hmm,” the fisherman said. “That’s good, I suppose.” She raised an eyebrow at him, but he wasn’t looking at her. Even having only just met him, she could see something was bothering him. “Monty,” she said a few moments later, still hating the informality of the title, “What did he do to you?” “Who?” he asked, looking away from the bottleneck of the bay and back at her. “My fiancé. Lord Melburn. What did he do to you?” A short blast of air came from his nostrils. “Do? ’e ain’t done nothing. The train lords as a ’ole ain’t even done nothing. It’s not what they done, Miss. It’s what they ain’t done that’s got me un’appy. ’e ain’t done me no favors. Not ’im, not the train lords. They jes leave us to fend for ourselves. They’re a groop o’ snotty

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bastards, if ye ask me.” “And me?” Allison asked. ”What am I?” He grinned slightly. “I ain’t got no fault with yoo, Miss. I jes . . .” He looked away at the water for a moment, then shrugged. “Never ye mind, Miss. It’s not my place.” Allison looked at his face for a bit, studying the contours roughened by incessant life outdoors. She felt a strong urge to ask him more, to listen to him and find out what had stabbed him so deeply. Sand crunched under the keel of the little boat, and Allison looked up to see Hugh’s gleaming manor above her. The big rock was just to the left and the staircase was waiting. Allison stood and waited as Monty hopped out of the boat. He extended a hand to her and helped her out, then jumped back in and picked up an oar. “Thank you, Monty,” Allison said to him, somehow reluctant that he was leaving already. “Would you like to come inside for some tea, or perhaps some cool punch?” He shook his head briefly. “Thank ye, mum, but no. I’ll be fine.” He glanced up at the house for a moment and shifted as if he was going to get back onto the sand, but then simply sat down in the rear of the boat and nodded respectfully to her. “Pleasure to meet ye, Miss Edwards.” With a shove of an oar against the beach, the boat was floating freely again and Monty began pulling towards the mouth of the bay. Allison watched him for a moment, then turned and climbed the stairs to the marble terrace. She went inside and dipped an empty glass into the punch bowl. She took a sip. The punch was only marginally cool now, but it still tasted marvelous after being in the sun. “Darling!” a voice said loudly behind her. “There you are!” Allison turned to see Hugh striding toward her across the open floor. He put a hand on her back and kissed her briefly, then smiled. “Just got back from the Bengal. Blast, it’s hot in here.” He picked up a glass and poured himself some punch. “Hmm,” he said. “It’s not cold. When did you make it?” Allison shrugged. “About an hour and a half ago.” “Hmm.” “How was your trip?” she asked him after a bit. He shrugged, taking another sip from his glass. “Rather a bother, really. Cappers won’t agree to sell me his old line to Assam, and I can’t do a thing about it. He won’t be convinced, even though the thing isn’t making him a single bloody shilling.” “I see,” Allison said, even though she didn’t. She was silent, but then spoke up. “I met a fisherman today. Said his name was Montgomery Baker.”

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Hugh shook his head a little. “Don’t know the name.” “Ah. He was a nice sort of chap. He gave me a ride back from the old tree in his boat.” “Oh, did you go for a walk today?” “Yes,” Allison said, smiling. She grabbed his hand and led him out onto the terrace. “There,” she said, pointing to the side of the bay. “To that tree. It’s a funny old thing.” “It looks like it,” he said, grinning down at her. They stood there for a while, quiet. “Hugh,” she said eventually, “Do you suppose we could go out on a picnic tomorrow? Just us?” “Of course,” he said. “I’ll have Jenny make up some sandwiches and things.” Allison smiled at him, then turned and walked back inside. She drained the last drops from her cup and looked over her shoulder. Hugh was still standing on the terrace, silent and unmoving like a Roman column, shaded from the warm Indian sun. After a few more seconds he pulled a meerschaum pipe from his pocket, packed some tobacco in it, and lit it. Allison turned and dipped her cup into the punch again. She stood on the razor edge of decision for a single instant, and then she fell.

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ETHAN CARLSON

MENDICANTE

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GARRETT KLING

LA SONRISA