The Watcher Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The journey in our lives that leads to greatness is often taken after a fall from tragedy. Such was the way of my journey. Let me first tell you about the beginning of my life, before my real journey. My mother, Glory, was something of a rebel and had met and run off with my father, Christian, to the dismay of my grandfather. It has been said that my father was unlike anyone my grandfather had ever met, and this was in no way a compliment. I do not and may never know the details of what occurred in this romance between my parents, but it took Glory away from home and later I came along. My Grandfather told me that my mother called him in tears the day I was born and asked that he come. When he arrived at the hospital she was gone, and the nurses handed me into the worn but caring hands of my grandfather.
As with all stories there comes a hero, and the hero at the beginning of my story was my grandfather, George. He was not named after the great President of our country, but after St. George, the patron saint and protector of horses. His love for horses must have began before his first breath, and that love trickled through my veins in much the same way. It was this hero who swooped in and cradled me in his arms, carrying me away from those who did not seem to want me, and into the love he would show me for many years to come in our humble home in West Virginia.
Our house sat at the end of a tree-lined driveway on a ridge overlooking miles and miles of countryside. This was one of the few places left in the world that would have appeared to look the same as a home one hundred years ago. Oh, we had the modern conveniences of phone and electricity, but the unpainted house with its lean-to wood shed and patched-over fences seemed out of place to the homes nearby, brick and vinyl, with paved driveways and garages. The only building that was kept up in good repair was the stable. Grandfather spent a great deal of time and money making our little stable as comfortable a home for our horses than any horse could want.
I thought everything about the farm to be beautiful. Our vegetable garden fed us through the summer, and we canned everything we could for winter. There was also a flower garden in the backyard, or I should say the backyard was a flower garden. No spot was bare from flowers. It was my favorite spot to play in as a child. Green fields surrounded our yard, some for hay, others for pasture, and where those ended the woods began.
During my first years of school, before Grandfather decided to home-school me, I would brag to all the children about my Grandfather's beautiful hilltop farm.. It did not take long for the other children to scorn me, finding nothing spectacular about me or my home, and thereafter my short time in school became an uncomfortable reminder of my unique life. I was a quiet child, with a vivid imagination. When I often found myself on the playground among all the children and yet very alone I would create a whole new world, and my classmates would laugh as they watched me playing and talking to myself.
When it became evident that I was not making friends and was miserable in school, at the age of twelve, Grandfather hired a tutor to home school me. His decision was unexpected. We did not have the money for a tutor, and I had no idea how or where he found her. Her name was Jasmine. She was very young, probably in her twenties. That first morning when she walked into the door of our home I was immediately struck by the wisdom I saw in her eyes. She was striking in every way. Her long, red hair fell down over her shoulders reaching her hips. Her features were sharp, and her ice blue eyes drilled into you as she spoke. Grandfather stood with his arm around my shoulders as she approached, and with only the soft-spoken words “Take care,” he disappeared out the door. I watched him leave, feeling very self conscious and afraid as I dropped my eyes to the floor. But with all her striking intensity, Jasmine’s soft smile soon had me at ease as we began our first lesson.
She led me to the kitchen table and pulled textbooks from her leather case. I stared at her long, unpainted fingers, much too shy to look into her vivid eyes. When her cool hand touched mine, I looked up to once again see her soft smile, and I began to relax. Very quietly, in a voice like velvet, she said, “Morgan, I am happy to be your teacher. I will never ask more from you than you can give, and I will try to make your studies as interesting as possible.”
I nodded and gave a weak smile in response. As she opened the math book I drew in a deep breath and thus began my home schooling.
Jasmine soon became an important figure in my life. She would arrive each morning and disappear each afternoon in her silver sedan. Our studies were often done outdoors, and more than once Jasmine tutored me as we walked around the farm. Grandfather always left before she arrived ,and did not seem to like to speak of her much. He did not ask about our studies , and I never did ask him any questions about Jasmine, such as where she lived or how he knew her. It seems strange to me now that I didn’t inquire about such a simple thing. I was too fascinated during my time with her to ask questions, and because I was a willing student intent on soaking up every bit of knowledge I could find, our days were happy and productive. For her age, Jasmine was the most intelligent person I had ever met, and there was no subject she was not well-versed on. While she mainly kept our studies based on the same thing any home-schooled child would learn, throughout the years Jasmine did share with me some of her other talents, such as tarot card reading and psychic abilities. She never revealed any psychic ability to me, but I always knew she had these abilities.
Jasmine revealed her talent at tarot card reading to me one day about a year after she had started tutoring me. It was late in November, and I had been feeling very depressed. I had found a picture of my mother in one of my Grandfather’s books. I was mesmerized by the image of this woman I had never known. In the photo, she was sitting on the couch, her legs curled under her, wearing a white summer dress. She had a sort of Mona Lisa smile that was both beautiful and mysterious at the same time. I could see some resemblance, although she was much more beautiful than me. When I showed the photo to my Grandfather he became very angry and tore it in front of me. It was so unlike him; although I knew he did not like to speak of my mother, he had never done anything so hurtful. And so, when Jasmine came that morning for our lessons, I broke down in tears and told her the whole story. She told me that there are reasons for the things that happen to us that are unknown to most. And then she explained her tarot card reading. She pulled the cards from her case with a secretive smile, and the first card, the only card she pulled from the deck was the Fool’s card. I remember being so disappointed, thinking that it was just my luck to get such a card. Jasmine only laughed, saying I didn’t understand the meaning of the card at all. Should I explain what the fool card means?
When Jasmine left that day, just as I did everyday, I went out to find Grandfather. I knew he loved me dearly, and I could not stay angry at him. Evenings were spent helping him with whatever chores needed to be done, and just sitting and listening to his stories. His love for the land was evident, as was his love for the animals. Some of the family and neighbors called him the “old hippy” and this seemed to bring him some amusement.
My love for him knew no boundaries, but it was our mutual love and respect for horses that drew the two of us together the most. I learned the history and attributes of each breed, how to care for a horse, from feeding and mucking stalls to giving shots and trimming hooves all from my Grandfather. I could appreciate the quiet munching at feed time, or the thunder of hooves at play time. Our horses were not champion-pedigree stock, but on my thirteenth birthday my grandfather guided me to the barn to meet the most beautiful mare I had ever seen. Snow white, and obviously Arabian, her coat gleamed from brushing, her mane was long and felt like the finest silk. But it was her eyes that captured my heart--huge, dark liquid eyes that seemed a mirror to something magical.
Time not spent listening to my grandfather's stories, or doing lessons and chores, was spent with Epona. I named her after the Goddess who was the protector of horses, donkeys and mules. With each passing year my love for this little white mare grew. When my grandfather would peek in on me at night and find me missing, he would only chuckle, knowing his "little fairy Morgan" was with her magical horse. Grandfather liked to sketch, and he sketched a picture of me galloping Epona across the ridge at night, a full moon gleaming down upon us, with my hair flowing behind me. I had never considered myself pretty, but the picture portrayed how Grandfather saw me, as an almost ethereal creature, and it was a drawing I would treasure for the rest of my life.
Just as my grandfather was named after a saint, and my mare named after a Goddess, my name came from the fairy "Morgan le Fay", and even as a small child my grandfather would tell me stories of the fairies, some he had read and some he imagined himself. My imagination came alive with mythical creatures, from centaurs and fauns, to dwarves and trolls, to the most favored of all--the fairies. It felt as if we lived in our very own story land, with our beautiful farm and all the animals around us, a visit each day from the intriguing and mysterious tutor Jasmine, and while I felt Grandfather to be the hero, I had never envisioned myself being the heroine. While Grandfather was always telling me how beautiful I was, and as I grew older I did see boys glancing at me from time to time in town, I knew I was really very plain. Brown hair that fell to my shoulders in slight waves, brown eyes, dimples (what heroine has dimples?). I was not tall, and I was not short. My features were nice, with slightly high cheekbones and a wide brow, but I was very forgettable. There was nothing striking about me at all, and if one was to peer into the window of our kitchen while I was studying with Jasmine I am sure the difference between us would have been amusing to the spectator.

Keep in mind, I had very few friends other than Jasmine. A cousin came to visit once or twice a month, and she brought her son Charles, who was the same age as I. Charles, however, found me strange and boring, and the feeling was mutual. His life revolved around the video games he carried with him, or the television shows he watched, and I was appalled to find that he had no imagination at all. Even when I made the transition from girl to young woman, my imagination stayed with me. Instead of using play as an outlet, I fashioned my imagination into paintings and stories, which Grandfather treasured as much as I did his sketch of me and Epona.
There were other friends from time to time. I made friends at the local horse show we would watch, and occasionally I would stop and talk with children who lived on our road while riding Epona. Mostly, however, my life was quiet and filled with learning or using my imagination. As a young woman I knew a normal interest in boys, and found private pleasure when Grandfather and I would go into town and some awkward but sweet boy would approach me and try to start a conversation. As I grew older I began to take a little more interest in my appearance, and I sometimes dreamed of that perfect prince who would ride up on his own white horse and we could gallop away into a sunset. My occasional interludes with strange boys in town and my fantasies were as close as I ever came to an actual relationship. My caretaker, my companion, and my best friend was my grandfather. He was my life.