Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 40. Finding the Words

There were old hatreds. Those are part of another story. Now their families never met, never spoke, and all the people of the families were watched and kept strictly apart, as happens in old stories of hatred closely and carefully kept.

One day the girl, who was never anymore allowed to see the boy but who had secret ways of speaking to him, ways that confounded their keepers, stumbled on a precious thing.
A string of words.
She tried to wear it, but no one could see it.
She tried to share it, but no one could hear it.
She thought to put it in a secret place, but she felt it whimpering and knew that dark would kill it, so she took it back out and sat with the string in her hand, wondering, and they were sad together, she and the string.
She tried and tried, she did her best but she couldn't think what a string of words might be for, yet they sat in her hand and looked up at her hopefully, trusting.

And she thought, as she always did, of the boy.

She remembered, long ago, when once she had seen him, for a moment, they had spoken of a game sometimes played by their people, the tribe of speakers.
A story-toss game.
The game of Say and Say.
She thought, I can wrap this string in a secret and send it to the boy by the ways that confuse and confound and he will know what to do.
So she did.
She did.
And waited, looking off toward where she knew the boy was, hopefully, trusting.

The next day a little bundle came to her, a little bundle wrapped in a secret slipping down the hidden ways of mystery and conundrum, sliding and falling at her feet. She opened it and the string of words shouted up at her hopefully, trusting, jumping, hopping in a crowd of friends.

The boy had taken the string and made a scarf.

She wrapped the scarf around her arms, and by evening she had made of it a shawl. She wrapped it up, in the way she knew, the way she had learned, and sent it back to the boy who was hopeful and trustworthy.

He returned her back the shawl and mittens.

She wore the mittens all that day but sent them back before dark only by now the shawl was a cloak which she had made and in which he slept. She knew he slept cold.

This went on, days and days and nights, no one cold, no one lonely, everyone wrapped in a secret tied by words.

What could the world do but stand and shake its head, confounded?

This is not a story that ends, but it is all I will tell.
You may make more of it for yourself.
Find a string of words.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 39. In the Valley of the Shadow

My mother doesn't approve of it, she said looking out the window, she doesn't approve of love, of people being in love.
He was so startled, he looked over at her, turned to her so quickly that he turned the steering wheel too and the car swerved. He swore softly and corrected carefully, still looking over at her, disbelieving.
What is it? she asked, what's the matter?
What did you just say? he asked her. About your mother? What did you say?
That she doesn't approve of people being in love? she asked him. That? Look where you're driving.
Yes, he said and looked where he was driving, that. What do you mean? How can that be?
Oh, she said. Well, she doesn't approve of most things, you know she doesn't, but my mother doesn't approve of love. Or of passion, she went on, speaking more to herself now than to him, nor even, I think, of happiness, she said sounding surprised. Mother has never been in love herself, you know, and I think she disapproves of it in others.
Really? he asked, really?
Really, she said, smiling a hard little smile, watch them next time, watch my parents. Watch my father.

Your poor dad, he said after the next time, after he had been watching.
Yes, she said, I told you.
I always liked your dad, he said, sounding a little desperate, a little frantic.
Did you? she asked. You've never really even seen my dad, she said with that hard edge of amusement in her voice. Not until today. Not until I told you what to look for.
Still, he said and waved his hand but had no idea what he meant by it.
So you saw it, she said, looking straight in front of her out through the front window, out across the endless desert. You saw them, the way they are.
I saw it, he said, holding tight, tight to the steering wheel.

It's the worst thing I can imagine, she said suddenly as they crossed the state line, after she had been so silent that he had been unable to be anything but silent, silent until he could hear ringing in his ears, til he felt he had to kick something viciously to stay where he was, to stay sane.
Her words surprised him, surprised him so much.
The worst thing? he asked gently. What is? Tell me?
Not to believe. In anything. Not to want anything. Not in happiness, not a shred, not even a shred. And she was crying, just like that, just right there, without warning, without reason. It frightened him. He pulled the car over, reached out for her, unsure, frightened and unsure.
Hey, he said. Hey. Reached out. Arms around her. Two frightened people in a little speck of air conditioned car on the side of a perfectly straight road running as far through an endless desert as any human eyes could see.
You won't end up like your mother, he said with a sudden flash of understanding.
How do you know? she asked, how can you be sure? But it's not my mom I'm thinking about, she said, pushing him back a bit so she could focus on him. It's my dad. And she cried harder. I don't want to end up like my dad. She put her hands over her face.
He held her. What else could he do? She cried softly and he thought about it. Sweetheart, he said into her hair, sweetheart, what do you think I'm for? This is what I'm for, he said helplessly and tightened his arms around her. This is what I'm for. He felt her tears sliding hot down his neck, into his shirt. This is why I'm here, baby, he made strong words for her in the middle of that vast desert. This is why I'm here.

Forty Days and Night: Love Stories. 38. Tell Me, Sister Ann, Do You See My Brothers Yet?

He seemed fine when he came down to dinner. He asked her how she had been, how the weather had been, how her family was. Boring, he was always so boring. She told him all of it anyway, since he had asked. He listened closely, he seemed to be starting to say something a couple of times, but she just kept on telling him about the weather, all of the weather there had been, every day, since he had gone. He asked, after all. Then she started on her family. Lots to tell there, they were all crazy. Finally he raised his hand and asked her for his keys. That was rude, she thought, just to ask for the keys back while she was answering him about her family and she hadn't even finished with her mother yet, let alone her sisters, but she handed the keys to him without saying anything about his rudeness. Then she went back to catching him up on her mother. He was looking through the keys.
They're all here, he said. As if he had not expected them all to be there.
She stopped mid-word, sat with her mouth open. What are all there? she asked, because of course the keys were all there, where else would they be? It surprised her so much she figured he couldn't be talking about the keys, he must be thinking of something else.
He was turning his keys over and over in his hand, looking at them closely, holding them up to the light. They're all here, he said to himself. Every one of them.
She stared at him, narrowed her eyes. Crazy. Just like her mother. Dang.
He looked up at her, caught her measuring gaze, gave a forced laugh. My keys! he said in a jolly way, my keys are all right here! You took such good care of them. How nice of you.
She was nodding to herself. Yep. Just like her mother.
So, he said casually, what did you do with them while I was gone? Did you have any...adventures?
What did I do with them? she asked, what did I do? I used them to open doors, she said, and felt silly. What else would she use keys for? she wondered. Was this some sort of a test?
Of course, he said heartily, of course! Opening doors! Yes. Yes. Any special doors? he asked suddenly and sharply, looking right into her face.
She made her eyes big. There aren't any special doors here, she said, just the normal sort of boring ones.

The truth was there really wasn't anything special around here, nothing special, nothing to do.

He had given her the keys to everything before he left, of course, and told her she could do anything she liked as long as she never went into the small room at the end of the long gallery on the ground floor. The trouble was she didn't know what she liked to do, so she watched television and worked on her tan. That was all the work she needed to do here, everything else somebody else was paid to do. It was so boring. Her mother had been excited, so excited about him, even though he was so old and strange looking. Her mother was so excited that finally one of the girls was finally going to marry someone with some real money. Finally. Well, he had money all right, but living in this big old house out in the country was not so great, as far as she could see. Boring, boring. No wonder all his other wives had run off. They'd have died of boredom if they stayed here. She drove to the mall, to her brother's house, to the club, to the lake, to her mother's house, to the mall again, then to all her sister's houses. Then she went home and it was not even lunch time and she thought she was going crazy. So she invited everyone to come stay with her and they all said they'd come. They were coming tomorrow, she was planning a barbecue. But now he was back, which was fine, but he was being so weird about his keys. He was going to spoil it, she knew he was, he was going to be old and strange and spoil her nice plans.

But he didn't spoil anything. He left instead.

First thing in the morning, without explanation. He gave her back the keys, told her the same thing he'd said before and asked her twice, twice! like she was a baby! if she understood she was not to use the little key that was for the small room at the end of the long gallery on the ground floor. She said she understood. Gosh, he was an old weirdo. This marriage was a mistake, money or no money. He got right in her face, lots of drama. He said she was forbidden to use the little key. Told her in no uncertain terms that if she used it, if she went into that room, he couldn't answer for his actions. He said, I forbid it in the strongest possible terms. So, she didn't go in there. Sheesh. Who wanted to, anyway?

Her party was not ruined and her family loved the house, just loved it. She was almost glad she had married him after all. Almost.

Two days later he was back. Not even pretending to care how she had been, just asking for his keys. Fine. See if she cared. She did not. Keys. Check. Who wanted them, anyway? And he freaked out, he just freaked out. Kept yelling that they were all there, that the stupid things were all fine. Well, what did he expect? This was just stupid.

He didn't even come down to dinner. She could hear him upstairs pacing and talking to himself. She put on loud music so her family wouldn't hear him. That made it feel even more like a party and cheered her up.

He left in the middle of the night. Woke her up to give her the damn keys. Made her promise, swear, that she wouldn't go into the little room at the end of the long gallery on the ground floor. Or use that little key. In any way. She was so mad at him. In any way? How was she supposed to use it if she didn't go into the room which he had just told her not to do? He was worse than her mother, lots worse.

He came home again that afternoon.

He was calm now, calm and completely creepy. So, he said, so. She looked up from her magazine and her sisters looked away, embarrassed. He was talking in this voice like he was God or something, and like she was a naughty little girl. So, he said, now tell me about it. Because, he held up one finger like he was stopping her even though she wasn't about to say anything to him when he was being such an idiot, because I know. Remember, he said and looked hard at her, I know what you've really done. You're only a woman, you can't help it. You have to know everything, you can't control yourself. Now her sisters were not looking away, they were looking at him, right at him. And they were not happy. He ignored them. He stared at her and his eyes got all twitchy and scary. You went in there, I know you did. It was only a matter of time, they do, they all do, because they're just women! Women can't control themselves, they're weak, they're liars, they're stupid and they deserve what they've got coming to them.

Now her brothers were standing up, walking over, looking hard and hot around the edges. She stood up, too, and she was mad. You're a jerk, she said furiously. You're just a big fat jerk. Why did I even marry you? Who cares about you? Who cares about your stupid room? What the hell can you possibly have that you think anybody is going to be interested in? I hate you, you know that? I hate you and you are every bit as ugly as people say you are. You should shave that horrible thing off your face and stand up straight and dress like you were born in this century. Here are your stupid keys. I never want to see you or them again.

She stormed up to her room, packed her things, all of them, even the new things he had paid for, and stomped out, slamming the door.

Her brothers drove her home.

Well, her mother said, well. So much for the money.
More important things in life, Ma, she said shortly and went upstairs to unpack. Lots more important things, her sisters said as they helped her put away all her new loot. Good stuff, she had gotten some really good stuff. Like, one of her sisters said, like not marrying a man with a funny colored beard. No beard at all next time, she promised herself, I think that's a deal breaker.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 37. Mirror

It was always about the other mother. The dear one.

For instance, when she arrived at an event.
Hello, darling, don't you look lovely tonight! And how unusual! I mean, not everyone could get away with something like this, could they? So exotic!
And then, turning from her as if in that way she wouldn't really hear, turning to one of the old friends, one of the family-members-in-law, Do you remember how the dear one used to light up a room when she walked in? And she always dressed so simply.But she could pull it off. Class, that was what she had, class. Electric, just electric. The masses of that hair, stunning.

Or, when old friends who were supposed to be her new friends saw what she had done with the house.
Oh, how wonderful! And how brave! You've really gone all out here, haven't you, made the place quite a showcase, yes, really one of a kind now, isn't it? Did you work with someone, or did you come up with this all on your own?
But she would overhear them, huddled together, sotto voce. Oh, it felt so cozy when the dear one was here, she always made it feel just like home from the moment you walked in. Yes, yes, so homey then.

Or with him, even when she was with him.
Thank you, darling, I do love a drink when I get home and this is made just as I like it.
Then he would walk to the bar and change it, fix it, smiling at her.
Oh, sweetheart, have you seen my glasses? I always look for them right here on my desk--what? Where? With the paper? Oh, how thoughtful. No, that's fine. I'm sure I'd have found them sooner or later.
And he would take the glasses and return them to his desk where the dear one had always set them for him to find when he left them on the bookcase or next to the sink or in the pocket of his coat. He was very absentminded.
Are you taking my baby shopping today? he would ask, rumpling his daughter's hair and smiling down with that look only his baby ever, ever got. Oh, I know she doesn't need another dress, she never needs anything, he would say fondly, absently, dismissively, but she's always had a special one for the Christmas tea.
And he would walk away from her, tucking his little daughter's hand under his arm, leaning down to hear words whispered into his ear alone.

It was worst with the little girl, no question, it was by far the worst there. No one turned politely away, no one pretended to whisper, no one considered for a moment whether she would want to hear them gushing, pouring compliments on the blooming little girl like they were warm maple syrup, like they were honey butter.
Have you ever seen lips like this on a child? On anyone, for that matter? It's quite unreal! Other than the dear one, of course, she had a mouth just like that. Quite a showstopper she was. No one, no one could ever touch the dear one, though it looks like this little beauty may, someday!
No one. No one had a mouth like that but the dear one. No one. The dear one and, one day, the child.

The family acting as if any compliment to the little girl were a compliment to her.
Oh, my goodness, look at her, all that black hair! She's going to be a beauty just like her mama.
Just like her mama. Not like the woman standing here now with this little girl, the woman whose smile was set now, set like a stone smile. Not a beauty like her, the living woman, a beauty like the dear one, like the dead mama.

The old/new friends, coming to visit for the first time in a long time.
Oh, will you look a that! She's the spitting image, she is, the very image! That skin! I remember it so well! I thought I'd never see skin like that again, but just look at her!
Just look at her, the image of the dear one.

People meeting them for the first time.
Goodness, your little daughter is gorgeous! You must be very proud. She's so different from you, isn't she? You're so pale. Of course, she's pale too, but she's just rosy, isn't she? Does she take after her father? Oh, not yours? Well, that explains it.
Yes. It explained lots of things.

Strangers stopping them on the street.
Better watch out for this one, she'll cause lots of trouble one day, won't you darling? Do you want a lolly? Is it alright if I give her this candy? What a little beauty, what a little heartbreaker.
Lots of trouble. One day that little girl will cause you lots of trouble.

One day.

And this, when she was a beautiful woman. She knew it. Had always known it. Men stared, stopped to watch her walk down the street. She rested in that place, that safety, that surety. He had fallen in love with her the moment he saw her, and he couldn't say that for the dear one. Childhood sweethearts they had been, so who knows if he had ever really even seen the dear departed as a grown up woman? She was the most beautiful woman people had ever seen, she was, not the dear one, they told her so. people told her so. All the time. Often. Whenever that little girl, his baby, wasn't there, wasn't holding her hand, skipping along, black curls bouncing.

One day.

And she could cook. Her food was magic, pure magic. When they ate her food, nobody thought to remember anyone else. Not the family, not the old/new friends, not strangers who came to her table for the first time. They did a bit of whispering as they sat down, reminding each other that she had grabbed his heart by way of his stomach, but that all stopped when the food came to the table. She was the queen at the table, she ruled. The dear one, rest her soul, wasn't remembered for her food.
Rest in peace, dear one.

She researched boarding schools. He wouldn't hear of it.
She talked about relatives in the country, healthful fresh air and open spaces, the life long benefits of early fellowship with cows and dogs. And rabbits. She mused aloud how vital it was for girls to learn to ride. Young. To ride and to milk and to shear. He paid her no attention whatsoever.
She mused, idly, whether and how anyone could grow up properly without a year abroad. Years abroad. It was, probably, never too early to begin. To go. He laughed at her. He laughed at her and that night at dinner, sitting, eating the dinner she always made for him herself, all of it, made all of it herself for him and him alone, he told his baby, his little beauty, that she had grown into the most beautiful girl in the world.

The first time was nearly an accident. He was gone with his work, traveling. She told that first doctor that the poor little thing had slipped in the kitchen and fallen. Which, of course, the poor little thing had. Fallen, that is. At home she combed so carefully the dried blood out of those black, black curls and reflected that, really, it could have been worse. Much, much worse.

The fourth doctor she didn't like at all. He watched her far too closely. At first she purred and bridled at that attention, recounting to him what was now a long saga of the poor little girl's accidents and injuries, her illnesses and conditions. He talked and talked to her and she loved it, she loved him, til she realized he was taking notes, caught him asking the little girl questions. She put a stop to that at once. I'm sure the silly thing's fine after all, she told the doctor, her jeans are probably too small and she's short of breath. She's very vain that way, wears them cruelly tight. I don't know, he said, she's very pale. Oh, the poor thing's always been like that, she said, takes after her mother you know. Not me. Her mother was famously pale. Skin like snow, I'm told. No, it's just the jeans. I warned her about them, but she never listens. I'm sure she'll be fine as soon as she changes. Sorry to have troubled you, but the smallest thing sets the poor girl off and she always thinks she's dying.
And she gathered them up and went home.

She oversaw the little girl's diet, watched her for sign of chill, hovered over her like a real mother would, if a real mother watched every move and breath and developed ways of discerning thoughts, of reading minds. After the fourth doctor the little girl became very quiet, very watchful, and she was increasingly watchful after each succeeding doctor. Almost as if there were a brain in that glorious, empty head, she thought contemptuously. Days went by and the poor little girl mostly stayed in her room. For years. She ranted in the kitchen, she raved as she concocted delicacies for him, railed against her slavery, her entrapment by a beautiful stranger's beautiful child. Then one day, after a total of six doctors, she had a perfect idea. It would not be easy, it would take some tricky cooking, but it would work. It would work and she would be free and the most important, most beautiful thing in his world. She made the crust and went right out to buy the fruit.

It wasn't easy to get the stupid girl even to eat nowadays, almost as if the little chit were frightened, as it someone had warned her. Here honey, she said in her very best mommy voice, aren't you hungry? You're thin, you're so thin she said and could not keep the envy from twisting her voice. Look, silly girl, I'll eat half of it, and she took her fork and ate half the piece of pie she had cut, half a piece of the best apple pie she had ever tasted, had ever made. I'll work it off tomorrow, she promised herself as she finished the crust, I'll do a double workout at the gym tomorrow.
To celebrate.

But he called an ambulance, of course. Of course he did and no one would let her ride alongside the child. No one. She shouted. Idiots. She had to drive herself because he went with the girl. With my baby, he said, and she despised him, his weakness and his tears and his love, and she made plans as she drove around and around looking for parking. Impossible, she fumed, this is going to take all night. She checked herself in the reflection of the door as she went in. Perfect. Still.

They stopped her at the door. No admittance. But my husband, she began. Family only, the seventh doctor said firmly and nodded to the nurses who escorted her to the waiting room. Well, she thought happily, great! I'm not waiting around here, and she drove home, running a sign and a light. Making plans, making plans all the way home. It was good she hadn't stayed, nothing happened, nothing changed. Coma, this seventh doctor said as he denied her entrance again. We're waiting for a specialist. The specialist came to talk to her first, before even going into see the useless girl. Very handsome, very charming. She gave everything she had, turned it on full force. The young specialist beamed at her. Oh, what an innocent! Asked her what the girl had eaten before she came, asked, delighted, if there were any pie left. She went right home to get some. Tried to remember how she had done it, which side was which. She thought about it, chose a side, cut a piece. The sweet-faced specialist took it with him into the room where the stupid girl was sleeping like the dead. If only, she thought grimly.

And she couldn't figure it out, couldn't piece it together. How the world came flying apart when she had been so careful, so very expert and tricky. She tried, for as long as she could think about anything, to think how that had happened to her when all she had wanted was what other people had. To be the most beautiful. To be loved the most. To have someone who cared only for her. She just wanted what other people had, what she saw they had. That was all. Was that so much? The little hussy married the specialist. Not a baby now, not anymore. All those years in shut in the bedroom, the lying little cheat had grown up. Well, he could have the baggage. Seven doctors indeed. She washed her hands of the lot of them. She sat up very straight in her cell. There she was, in the mirror over the sink. Still. Still the most beautiful woman, the most beautiful woman here. No visitors, please. Let me just be.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 36. The Pieces of the Dreams that You Have

They made a garden and they made a house and they made a fire and then they made dinner.

Then they slept.

While they slept she dreamed of fishes that swam and floated on the air just outside the thoughts in people's heads, fishes that slowly expanded and contracted, fishes that changed from one deep and shimmering hue to another. Red, blue, green. And then of a dress, and herself in the dress, a dress stiff and layered, jewel toned, that slid from color to color as with the flow of her thoughts.

He dreamed of a mountain that fell and kept him from coming to her when the snakes threatened. Then in his dream he walked with her in deep surf and in air that turned to gold as the sun came up over the ocean. He saw the raindrops far, far above their heads falling perfect and whole, golden pearls, flashing past him and into the ocean.

They tended their garden, they set their house in order. They sat by the fire after dinner and when it was autumn she said, we've lost something, and he agreed. He said, I believe you are right. They slept close together and did not dream and when morning came they began to search. Nothing is easy to find but lost things are difficult, and a thing that is lost even to memory and naming is most difficult of any thing to find. Needles and haystacks are named and can be measured; they are weighable, countable, stackable and sewable. A lost thing, on the other hand, might as well be underhand and overland for all the two of them could do to find it. The sun went right down before they had found more than a mere few dozen of lost things and he took her hand in the cool and dusty blue of evening, where they stood tight together under stars no more than a hundred or two of which had names any one knew and he said to her, softly and gently, we will look tomorrow. We will look until we find it. Yes, she said sadly, yes, we won't have a choice. He knew it, he knew the choices they would not have, and he carried her hand soberly in his all the way back to their garden and their fire. Between them they brought all the found things that were no longer lost. Some of the things made nice stacks in the dark garden and some of them needed to go into baskets in the shadowy house and a few of them were eaten for dinner by the fire. Six of them ran away to the neighbor's tool shed.

Winter came and they moved the fire inside their house. It looked as though, if you could peel back the snow out on the garden, under it there would be only bumps of dirt and plant mistakes, but it was really their summer garden sleeping under the snow. The house sang in the cold on the outside and hummed in the heat on the inside. The house was always reaching out to hug them when they came back from a day of searching. We'll know it, he said to her while he sorted into piles the fifty found things of that day, we'll know it when we find it. We'll know then that it's found. Yes, she agreed, we will. We won't have a choice, and she threw away some lost things for which no name could ever be found and made room on the bookshelves for a few others, put two of them into her hair and fed a handful to the cat. Which cat was one thing they had found, but which cat told everyone that it, the cat, had found them. They could not have found me, the cat told people, unless I had in the first place been lost. The evidence that I was never lost is that they know my name; they call me to dinner and I come. Lost things have not known names. This was what the cat told people. The cat was one of the found things that had gone into a basket.

She dreamed of a fair and of dancing with him while birds sat in his shoulders and reminded her of things she had left undone and he said, never listen to birds that talk but don't dance. So they walked away from the dance and were lost until an old man came and showed them the way, grumbling and grumbling.

He dreamed of a little woman who sat down under their bed and told him terrible things until she came and dropped an iron on the little woman. Then he dreamed that she held him while he cried from the terrible things the little woman had said, and while she held him she told him not to eat the woman's bread, and that if he did that, he would forget all about her. And he did.

They made an early spring bonfire with last year's dead growth and sat close to it, drinking hot chocolate in the thin spring sunshine. She looked deep into the coals and said, thoughtfully as she drank some hot chocolate, We maybe need to do this in the house. He spilled some chocolate on his shoes. Do this? he asked, in the house? Make a bonfire? She looked toward him from far away, her eyes focusing beyond him, her hands wrapped tightly around the hot cup. Prune, she said, inside the house. Clear. Cut back. Oh! he said, right! Of course. Prune. Trim inside the house. Yes, I see. So they did; the next day they pared back the winter's growth of found things til only the ones that answered to their names were left and then every year after that, when they had finished outside the house, they cut back inside the house. They threw the parings out the windows and doors and there, in the newly shorn and ship shape garden, would be a houseful of about-to-be-lost-again things. Sometimes they donated those things to the Orphans of Brave Men Lost at Sea Fund, and sometimes they gave the things to the gypsies if the gypsies wandered by in the early spring. Gypsies travel light and they never knew why the gypsies wanted the pile of trimmings, but that was the gypsies' problem. Once or twice they gave the pile away as Christmas gifts. People were so moved at the thoughtfulness of those presents. Sometimes they had a garden sale, but the best by far was when, if that winter's takings had run mostly to wood and other combustibles, they just burned the whole lot. With those fires they had to roast marshmallows on sticks like, ten feet long. That was the most fun by far but it felt so irresponsible that it took them a couple of years to recover before they could do it again and enjoy it. After the huge fire was out, after they got home from donating or gifting or whatever that year had brought them, he always took her face in both his hands and told her, tenderly and because he meant and he knew it, We will find it, you know, we will find the lost thing. We will look until we find it. And she said sadly, I know we will. We have made the choice to look until we find it.

She dreamed of water and sand and dragons.
He dreamed of books with pages that flew away when he opened them.

Then they raked the leaves off of the lawn and jumped in the huge pile to see if there was anything lost in those leaves.

Hunting for a lost thing.
Picking tomatoes.
Making cider.
Pumpkin pies.
Shoveling snow.
Searching for something lost.
Forcing bulbs.
Planting peas.
Flying kites.
Trimming the inside of the house.
Gathering rosebuds.
Spitting watermelon seeds.
Drawing with sparklers.
Questing, together, for a lost thing.
Peach pies.
Reading books in piles of leaves.
Dressing as famous witches.
Sugar cookies.
Looking for a thing that is lost.
Bringing in firewood.
Constructing Valentines.
Hunting asparagus.
Pruning the inside of their house.
Eating by candlelight.
Going to find a lost thin. Or two.

One day he caught her staring out over his head into a sky filled with so many stars that it didn't even matter that they only knew the names of one or two hundred or so. What is it? he asked her, what do you see?
I was wrong, I think, she said, I think I was very wrong.
Oh, lover, he said, wrong about what? She turned to look full at him, and her eyes were filled with tears.
Nothing was ever lost, she said, we had lost nothing. I was so, so wrong. I'm sorry.
Oh, baby, he said helplessly, no, how could you have been wrong? What do you mean saying nothing was ever lost? Think, look, just look at all the things we have found. I told you, I told you all along we'd know when we found it, and we did. We knew every time.
The looking, with you, has been my greatest joy, she told him. I've loved every minute of this.
Yes, he said, we're pretty good at this, aren't we?
Perfect, she said, perfect. Come on, she said, let's go find something. I have a feeling it's lost.

They slept, they woke, they hunted together, and every spring, like clockwork, like yardwork, like tide and tree work, they cleaned out the nameless things in their house.

She dreamed of stores that opened into more stores and drawers filled with buttons and notes and jewelry and tiny dolls' arms and legs.

He dreamed of a city empty and glowing, waiting for him to arrive with piles of found things heaped in basket carriages drawn by cats.

She stood, in her dream, and waited for him, before she opened the Cabinet of Doors.
He hushed the cats, so he could hear her when she would finally come into the waiting city.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 35. A Thousand Little Girls

He loved her so much he made a song for her. He loved her so much he talked to his mom about her. He tried to get his friends to be nice when she was around but it was hard, almost all his friends were boys and that made it very hard. He thought no one but his mom knew he was thinking about her all the time but after a while his sister knew. His sister said he should like someone else, another girl who was his sister's friend but he didn't. He never would like that other girl, his sister's friend, and after a while his sister gave up bothering him about it. His sister gave him a lot of advice about his girl and told him he better listen to it and he did, mostly, sometimes, but not always.

One day it was his girl's birthday and it was summer and the days were really long and warm. Not so hot, not yet, not hot like it would be when it was his sister's birthday, but not still cold and only pretending to be summer like it always was on his birthday. It was perfect weather for a summer party and it was going to be his girl's birthday and he wanted to do something for her, something nice and a big surprise. He decided to make a fairy town for her by the river and to get his mom to make fairy food and to take it to the fairy town and have a party there when it was evening, with candles in the trees and with music. He'd ask his dad to play the guitar and to not sing and his mom to come with the food and help him make a great party, and he'd only invite the friends who liked to play fairy town. That was three of the people he knew, plus his girl and plus his sisters, so seven people not counting his mom and dad. Seven is a magical number.

He sat in the mud by the edge of the stream carefully tying sticks together with grass. His littlest sister was making steps from the root of the tree down into the water, down to the landing they had made from sticks and smooth stones. She was using round, flat rocks, pressing them into a sloping shelf she had scraped into the soft, damp dirt. He watched her a moment, then went back to his slow work, satisfied she was setting the steps evenly and making them level. He could hear his other sister behind him in the bushes, singing and breaking something. Branches.

His mom and his dad were talking, too, his dad was helping his mom set up the folding table for the fancy fairy food and also some chairs for people who would want to sit down on something and not be able find a good log. He carefully set the stick and grass sliding double door in place on the pod and acorn warehouse that sat on the bank above the landing and then he scooted back from the water. He looked around the town and nodded in satisfaction. His littlest sister had finished the waterside steps and was busy working in the backyards of a row of bark cottages, making raised garden beds with straight rows of tiny, stuck-in leaves. He looked around for his next project and stopped to consider a hollow at one side of a tree, his head a bit on one side, and then began to build a theater, like a Greek one is his book at home.

The day went by and so far no one had come, but it wasn't a bother, wasn't a worry because he had told people his family would be by the river all day and that they could come whenever they wanted to, to help with the fairy town. One of his friends came and started to help and they had a great time all day. His friend loved the theater and helped him make a bakery and a pottery. His littlest sister made stables for mice and the bigger sister made a whole row of shops that sold clothing made out of flowers, and his friend helped both his sisters and talked to his mom and dad and had a great lunch with his family. Then the other two friends came in time to help with the food and with putting the candles in the trees so that by the time his girl got there the whole place looked really magical. The first friend who came also had the great idea of putting little birthday candles into the tiny shops and houses so the fairy buildings just glowed in the warm summer evening, and the candles reflected and flickered in the ripples on the river where it flowed around and under the tiny landing he had made below the pod and acorn warehouse.

His girl loved her gift, just loved it, loved the fairy town, loved the food, loved his dad playing the guitar, and he felt very happy. His littlest sister played with the first friend who had come and his bigger sister watched everyone and made lots of plans in her head for other, better girls her brother should fall in love with and marry. They ate the special fairy food his mom had made and his dad played songs for them to listen to and to sing. The river chuckled and splashed as it flowed past, and all the candles burned low. He was happy, very, very happy. He had done just want he hoped he could do for his girl and she had loved it. Just loved it. He was so happy, and he didn't even fight with his bigger sister on the way home in the car.

Do you think, his dad asked his mom as they drove the rest of the way home with sleeping children in the backseat, do you think he will ever notice that the girl he had so much fun with was not the one he has a crush on? Oh, yes, I expect he will, his mom said, he's a smart boy. His dad drove for a while and didn't talk. His mom watched the reflection of the moon on the river as they drove alongside it. How long, his dad asked, how long do you think it will be before he notices? His mom smiled out the window at the river and at the shredded moon reflected on its surface. By the time he is twenty-three, she prophesied, I think right about then he'll notice.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 34. All the Pleasures

They realized, more or less at the same time, that they were starving. They set down the books and looked at each other. How long has it been? she asked him, when did we eat? Did we? he asked, did we eat? We must have, she said, we must have, people do. Alright, of course, he said, what was it? What was it we ate? But she couldn't remember. Oh! she said, oh, look here, look at this one, and she picked up a book and blew off the dust. Look! Just look at this! and he came over to look and then he found the even more amazing one, under the stack she had made. So, what with one book and another, no one ate for a while longer. No one remembered to think about it, so no one could have said for how much longer.

By the next time they remembered food, they had gotten shaky. She tried to lift a huge pile of books from a table and had to sit down, hard and fast, pinned under the books. He stood up quickly to help her, concerned, and stumbled against the table where she had piled the books. Honey, he said, I'm sorry. You okay? Yes! she said, yes, I'm fine, nothing was damaged. Good, he said, relieved, what have you got there? Just look! she said, and he came over to sit beside her. He looked and she showed him and he found more to see and she was amazed and he turned the pages, turned the books to the light, turned her face to his, turned them both to the books they turned over and over. They forgot food again. They forgot they had forgotten. They found more books and forgot more and more.

He made a bed for them when their eyes got too dark to see. He made it of books and he helped her to it and lay down by her and she pulled pages over them. She was cold now, very cold, but the book bed was very comfortable, so comfortable, the most forgiving and yielding and loving bed she had ever known, and she curled around him, growing warm and blissful. I'm happy, she said, I'm so cozy and happy to be here with you. Yes, he said, it's wonderful, isn't it wonderful? but something was tugging at him, something was nagging at him. He had to sit up to think, had to sit up even though his head felt light and empty. I think I wouldn't have ever thought, he said very slowly because his thoughts were starved now too, I wouldn't ever have thought books made a nice soft bed. Well, she said, wrapping her arms around him to hold herself against the shaking that swept over her in waves now, these aren't ordinary books. No, he said, no, that's true. I mean, he said picking one of the books up and holding it to the light, I mean, just look at this! and they did look for a long time, at that book and then at another and another and they got emptier inside themselves until they had no choice but to slip into unconsciousness on their pile of bound words, open books spread protectively above them.

He was having trouble waking up. He fought his way out of dreams too rich and too disturbingly bright to be remembered in waking life, he fought his way out because his heart was crying out that he must check on her, make sure of her. But he couldn't do it, he couldn't wake her til he pulled out of her arms the book she still clung to in sleep. It came away from her with a great sound of tearing and she awoke with a gasp of horrible pain. What have you done, she asked, why did you do that? He held her close, pressed against her where she was raw and bleeding now. I couldn't wake you, he said, was it a good book? It was perfect, she said simply, where is it now? Over there, he said, but don't look. I think it's dying. Poor thing, she said, poor, poor thing, and she hid her face against him. Then she looked up, and she was focusing on him, right on him for the first time in days. Wait, she said, wait. I didn't know books could die. I don't believe they can. These are special books, he said, they don't behave the way you'd expect. They're the best books, she said, the very best.

He was opening his mouth to agree when for some reason the thing that had been nagging at him came sharply into view. The bed! he said, the bed is so comfortable. Yes, she agreed, it's the best bed. But it shouldn't be, he said, you know perfectly well it shouldn't be. No, she said slowly, I know it should not be. Sleeping on books should hurt, he said, even sleeping on very good books, even on the best books in the world, should hurt. These are strange books, she said, starting to turn over the ones on her legs. Oh, she breathed, oh, look at this-- But he took her hands in his and made her look into his eyes. It hurt and he felt the books under him flinch with pain, but he did it. They don't behave the way we'd expect, he said. No, she agreed, no, normal books don't die when you put them down. So, she asked, what are you saying? We're starving, he told her, we'll die if we don't eat. Do you mean, she asked, fear and panic rising in her eyes, you don't mean we have to-- No, he said hurriedly as he felt the books hold their breaths and lean forward in dread, no, of course not. We couldn't. We never could. But do you suppose...and he reached out, took a large book, and brought it slowly toward him, do you suppose you can eat books, after all? Because if we can, we never, ever have to go, he said, and he took a large bite.

Turns out you can eat books, or they could, if you can find, as they did, the right sort of books. Not all of them taste good, not all of them sit well inside you, but some are quite nourishing. We do, though, or they did anyway, inescapably become what we eat, and over time they became the sort of love story in which they had never believed. The sort of happy-in the-end story they had disdained, had believed themselves above and beyond, but which they found was not at all hard to believe in when they ate words and slept long and sound and deep on a loving bed of books. Turns out that was the very kind of book they loved best to have for dinner, and if they should have noticed, become alarmed at the sheer number and preponderance of that very sort of story in the stacks and racks around them, well, they just didn't.

And they lived, if you can call it that, very happily ever after. They certainly called it that.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 33. Girlie: The Crone

[This is a story in five parts.This is the fifth part.]
Tell me can you love me, he said and on he came, leaning forward so as not to miss a word, his crown catching the sun, tossing the light, lifting the light and letting it free. Letting it fly, letting it soar though back it came no more, loosing it and whirling it round, hard and serious. But now he had to look up to her, high and higher into the great tree where she climbed and where she sat, swirled in the jewels of her own, own hair. Down she leaned, hard and serious, so he would not miss a word, not a single word. Go home, she told him, go home and I will come to you if I can. Something there is I must do and sure I must be, sure of you. And perhaps he went then, the King on his high horse, and perhaps he lingered. Perhaps he cried out to her, and perhaps he spoke not a word. Perhaps he did what he must, or did all he could, or did only what Kings and proud, good men should, but she looked not down to see, and the sun went down and down and down and it was dark. She wrapped her own hair about her and set herself to a-wait the crone, and she waited in the strength of a broken heart.

When the sun came back upon her the King was gone, and down and a-down came there the crone, striding along the King's way, her raven set hard and serious on her shoulder. Hie there, dearie, the crone called with never a look at her up in the tree, hie there my mutton chop, my honey pot, my peppermint drop, what and what have you gone and done with the King? He's gone, said the girlie, he's not here no more, and you have been a-telling me lies. Not so, not so, cries the crone, naught and not so. How say ye it to me? What lies ever gave I ye? Like this, the girlie says, like this and like these. It's you said to me that sad and sorry was I and would be, so I was and would be forever and forever did I not now find those brothers which had wandered, had traveled, had lost themselves sadly and badly and madly from me. Then the crone screwed shut one eye, the better to see things. Where then's that lie? the crone gave back to her, and the girlie nearly screamed with the frustration and tangle of it all. Why, says she, why, how is it and how can it be? Naught that you have said is true to me. Brothers five found I, knit them into shirts of my own hair, but no happiness found I there, nothing lasting, nothing true, and the youngest brothers, the last two, I left with no shirts to clothe them, to hide and to show them. How can it be, how can it be true, that happy I'll be when the seven I've found?

Oh, my roast chicken, my plum pie, the crone told her, said I you'd be happy? I think not, no, not I. She said only, the raven put in edgewise, leaning forward so no one missed a single word, she said only how you'd not be happy. You found the seven, the crone gave her gently, nor you'd not be happy unless you did. You're not the one to walk away from brothers lost, not you, not you. And it was well, well and truly done, my lolly, my jam roly poly.

I pulled out my own, my own hair for them, the girlie said from her high, high tree.
Yes, said the crone, yes and you did.

I brought them back to who they were, the girlie said, I set things as they should be.
No, said the crone, no, that you did not. You gave them shirts. You washed their sheets.

But, said the girlie.
But nothing, said the crone. Now do you listen to me.
Brothers are not for keeping, not as such and as so. Their hearts they give away, to the world, to fond wishes, to their own, own lives. Such are the brothers as they are, such are the brothers as they will be. Let be, the crone said to the girlie in the tree, let be, let be.
You wrapped them in your own, own hair that you might them see, not that any of them might see you. It's not a gift can be given, the crone said gentle and mild, to make another see true heart, true deserving. Only we can choose to see, or not choose.
Not any of what was done was done for the saving of them, the crone said, but only that when time was, you might come in the way of a King. And so you have, so you have, my crispy comfit, my glaceéd fruit. There's magic here, the crone confided, magic and conniving. Oh, said the crone, oh but you're a good girlie. Now, tell me what you've done with the King himself and why you're hiding up a tree.

Look at me, the girlie cried, look at me. How can he be loving of me, when I'm covered in this? You're speaking of your hair, the crone said, one eye shut and the raven leaned forward to catch it all, every word, yes, I see your meaning. Gold and silver, jewels and gems. You're afraid, the crone said so soft, so gentle, so sweet, so kind. You're afraid of your outside, isn't that so, my baby, my queenling, my own, own girl? How can he see me, the girlie cried, how can he see me when I'm covered in this? and she wept sore, her tears streaming down like a fall of stars. The crone looked up, high and higher. You're so tired, the crone said, and you've done so well. It's down you must come now, down, a-down. And when she said it, the girlie slipped and caught, and slipped, and the girlie let go, and down she fell. Through all the tree she fell, new sunlight catching on the gold and silver, tossing the light and color of the jewels high and higher. All in a blaze she fell, a comet with a living tail, and she landed in the soft dirt of the King's own way. And the crone watched her fall and saw her land and took her raven which sat on her shoulder like a lack of light, like a blindness, and went the crone on her way.

One hundred horsemen found the girlie lying there in the soft light cast by her own hair when back up and up that way they came, when they rode empty back to their own king, for they could not bring to him the one woman in all his kingdom fitted for a tear. Many and many a woman had they found, yes, many and most and all, but not a one who was not fitted with tears a-plenty, tears of her sisters' and tears of her children and tears of her life and her lands and all the things of her own, own hands and with tears, too, with tears all all her own. So the King's Hundred rode back up the King's own way, softer in their hearts, and sorrowing for the things they had that day found. And it was nigh dark when under the great tree they passed and her they found, another thing, one other thing to be found on this day of seeking, and they took her up from where she lay on a bed of her own shining tears. Carefully, carefully they took her up, carefully they brought her home, carefully they laid her before the King himself, for she had on her and all over her tears and tears of her, and a woman's tear is a dreadful and dangerous thing.

She's dead, the King's One Hundred said.
She's dying, the King himself said, and he sent for a healer.
The healer came, old and bent, with her raven black as a memory of the time before words, black as a dream of death, set hard and serious on her shoulder.
The crone stood before the King and told him, yes, she knew a healing. But you must in yourself be sure, she told him, you must be very sure, for if you're wrong, it's not she but you will die. And if I'm right? the King asked. If you are right, if you are right, if you are right she'll be born to you anew, the crone said, and drew forth and handed him a straight razor, sharp, sharp. All of it? the King asked. All, the crone gave back to him, all and all. The King took the straight razor in his own hands and straight to his task he went and the last deep breaths he took were none of them to steady himself to his task but to steady his hands for the saving of her.

Tenderly he cradled her head in his hands, tenderly he set the razor to her, tenderly he cut it all, all away. The crone watched him sharp and sharper when he worked, sharper than ever was the razor, and it was as sharp, as sharp as life. He took away ropes of gold and shaved away nets of silver, cut off piles of jewels short and tight and threw them from him, impatient with their weight, tossed them where the sunlight shone on a trash heap, where the light picked them up, twisted them into the air, tossed them and spun them and lofted them up and away and they never were seen again. But never and never did the King take his own eyes from the girlie's face. The crone watched a king's ransom tossed so lightly aside, and all the while the King himself cradled the girlie's head in his tender hands, held her like his heart would break. This is the King as he is, the crone said soft to her raven, this is the King as he will be. Magic, the raven gave back to her, magic is for conniving. And when the girlie's head was shining, when she was light and free, her eyes she opened, eyes warm and living, eyes bright with loving, and she saw herself with hair all shorn and him with his arms held out. You see me, she said. You came home to me, he gave back to her, and his own, own tears ran like stars down the cheeks royal. She caught them then, the girlie caught them, and close forever after she kept them, because beautiful they were to her, and because the tear of a King is a dreadful and a dangerous thing.

When the King married his girlie, a raven black as dried blood, black as fresh ashes on new snow, sat hard and serious on his shoulder royal and leaned forward to whisper magic, edgewise, into the ear of the King and also of his own, own Queen, but the crone herself set the shining crown on her Queen's bald, bald head. When their own first child was born, the girlie Queen's hair was long and curling and deep darkest red.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 32. Girlie: The King

[This is a story in five parts. This is the fourth part.]
The sun grew hot, the sun grew high, the sun slipped over and bye and she did not see the crone, for the crone did not come. But this was the King's way, and it was the King himself who came, riding easy with a hundred men, his crown set hard and serious on his head. Soft they came, for the rains there had left the place tender and the way was soft under horses' hooves. And magic there was, too, magic and conniving, for the girlie in the tree never saw, never heard, not a sound, never a word of the hundred men who beneath her passed, til at last the King himself beneath her came.

Now, she thought not on travelers nor on horses nor men nor on the King himself, but she wept her sore, there in the great tree which hangs over the place you must pass as you come down and a-down on the King's way. Cried she for all that was and was not. Cried she for what she saw as she looked about her for her brothers' love to her and for their help and their care and their warm keeping, and cried she for those things she did not see. Wept for an empty heart and useless hands, sterile life and barren lands. In her true mind's eye looked she about, and not a brother, not a boy, not a friendly man could she see, could she see, and wept she hard and serious high in the great tree, and careful she caught her tears in her hands, for she knew and well she knew that a lost tear is a dreadful dangerous thing. But the wind was tricksy just there, and magic there was, too, magic and conniving, for from her fingers the wind tore a single tear, though she knew it not. The tricksy wind stole her tear, caught it, tossed it, spun it gently round and round while it sparkled like a star falling through the sun. Down and a-down through the limbs and through the leaves fell a tear of her, fell a single tear of her onto the face of the King himself as he rode under the great tree which overhangs the King's way, as down and a-down he came on his horse and with his men. Then all in a wonder put he his hand to his own cheek and caught away her tear in his hand.

Never and not at all had he cried, had the King cried since that day the crown sat hard and serious on his head. In wonder held he up the tear before his eyes, turned it this way and turned it that, but no way he turned it could he ever think how it came to be on the cheek royal. Lovely to him it was, like a pearl and like a burning sun, like a song of lost, lost love, like a story of lovers found and faithful, like deeds and quests and a binding spell cast in olden times. He sat under the great tree which overhangs the King's way, sat on his horse still as a statue and all his men about him never daring for to breathe as their King was wrapt in a wonder big as the wide world at the beauty of the tiny thing in his hand. After a lifetime he spoke. It is a woman's tear, he said, for it is not mine, and when he said so all his men drew back and all their horses stamped, for a woman's tear is a dreadful dangerous thing. Somewhere in my kingdom, the King cried, is a woman who fits this tear, and she shall be my bride. To the man that her finds shall I give merit and deserving beyond any former giving. And so wheeled the men upon their mounts and off they were and away, for this was to their understanding, this was for their doing, this was why they rode by the hundred with their king. Every father's son of them went for his King to seek a woman who fitted a tear, and the King himself was left by himself and alone on his horse beneath the great tree that overhangs the King's own way. And when they were all away, when all had fled, then down from high and from high the girlie came a-climbing and a-seeking of her tear, of her own, her own own tear.

Saw she the King, then, saw him there on his horse with a shining drop like a burning world held careful in his hand. She knew it then, knew he had a tear of her and she was sore afraid, for a lost tear is dreadful, dangerous, though she knew not it was the King himself. But the man, friendly, smiled and bade her come near, and so she did, so she did, near and nearer til all at once the crown she spied, set hard and serious on his head. Then knowing who he was dropped down on her, and down under knowing who he was she dropped. Beneath the tree, beneath the rocks, beneath her own hands she fain would hide, and when she was under her own hands, she felt of her hair. Shorn and bristly, her hair, cut off short and tight. I can't, I can't, I can't stand before the King himself with not a hair upon me, she thought and before she had another thought, out and out she pulled her own hair.

Long it came, long and longer. Bright it was, bright and brighter. Not fish nor sheep nor bear nor boar nor snake nor bird nor dog. Like ropes of gold, like nets of silver, like caskets and baskets and caches and snatches of jewels it came and down it poured and down and over her til she was wrapped and wreathed in the jewels of her own hair. Magic was there, magic and conniving. She looked up at the King himself through the jewels of her hair, and he reached out, slow and soft, and fitted to her the tear of her he held in his hand. Back he started, back and away, then he mastered of himself and was off his horse in a moment to be by her, to be nigh her, to be with her. Let me, he began, let me, he went gently on, please, please let me be a love to you and let me be all your help and you be my care and give to me the warm keeping of your heart and hands, and do you take my life and my lands. And he leaned forward so as to catch all her words, and reached out, reached out his own hand to touch the glory and weight that was the masses of jewels of her own, her own, own hair.

Back she stepped then, and stopped him.
I love you, girlie, said he as he stood in his own right and on his own way, and one step forward he took.
Back she stepped.
Love me, love me, he said, reaching for her, for her words.
Back she stepped and one hand was on the great tree that overhangs the King's way which pass you must when down and a-down you come that way.
Don't, she said, both hands on the tree.
Tell me if you can love me, he said and on he came, leaning forward so as not to miss a word, his crown catching the sun, tossing the light, lifting it and letting it free. Letting it fly, letting it soar though back it came no more, loosing it and whirling it round, hard and serious. But now he had to look up to her, high and high into the great tree where she climbed and where she sat, swirled in the jewels of her own, own hair. Down she leaned, hard and serious, so he would not miss a word, not a single word. Go home, she told him, go home and I'll come to you if I can. Something there is I first must do and sure I must be, sure of you.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 31. Girlie: A Raft of Brothers

[This is a story in five parts. This is the third part.]
So she was happy with her brother, happy for a time and after a fashion, but as she walked him home she rubbed her head and rubbed her head and felt her hair all short and bristly and wondered mightily how she'd ever want to be pulling five more brothers all home by her hair.

And this was how it went for her, and for three of her brothers more. Happy, yes, happy for a time she'd be, til on a dawning, sad she'd be, sad and sad and not a brother more would she find til down and a-down under the shade of that great tree would come the crone, mumbling and mombling and all wreathed in smiles without the teeth, her raven like a coal hole torn in the daylight, sitting hard and serious on her shoulder. Always went it the same way, for all it changed and twisted, it was the same, the way was the same. The crone calling her a baby muffin, a rum baba, a coconut pattie, and teaching her how she must pull out from herself another hank and twist of hair, of hair, an ell, a bolt, a shackle of her own, her own, own hair, and the raven leaning forward to catch every word. Three times more the crone balming her with words and plans, succoring her with the same words o'er and o'er. Here and here is what you now must do. Do you pull and do you pull on all your hair til once more a shirt you knit and knot, you cobble and couple, you sew, you twist and twine, crimp and acquire, weave and wrap, cut and chop, parcel, pinch, tuck and trim, til a shirt you have tailored and tumbled and sculpted and sweated. When it's whole, then take it up and look you, run you run to the brake, run to the woodheart, run you run to the sweet green pasture all fat with crunchy grass that lies hard by the the King's way as you come down and a-down through field and through town, up bridge and mountain down. Lift, there, what you have molded, and let it free, let it fly, let it soar and come back to you no more. Hold your hairshirt high there to the wind and let it loose and let it fly.

And the girlie did it, every time of it, every bit of it, she did it all, all the crone's telling. She pulled her hair and out it came, glossy and black, brittle and grey, sparkling silver and green, and she cut it off her, cut it off short and tight. Shirts three made she for brothers found in bushes with berries, in woods with wildings, in pasture with rats and micelings. Shirts men fought for and sang for, begged and pled and bled for, though it did them no good for all their strivings, no good, no good at all. Those shirts she held close and dear til she reached the place told her and there the wind tore them every one from her and sent them lofting, questing and dropping down and a-down on the brothers she sought. And up they stood as men, back they came with all their stories trailing and nothing to show but the glorious shirts on their man-backs, and there was she, hair all shorn and arms held out. And after they told her all their woes, their longings and their losses and their leavings, after they had told the way the crone came to them, named them all her berry smoothies, her tiny brownie bites, giving them for only one kiss to her, only one kiss, the impossible wantings of their hearts, each and every father's son of them fell to petting the girlie, to hugging and to holding her and a-telling her all his love.

And this was how it stood for her. Came a day she laboured o'er their five beds and beddings, stood stooped, a-washing sheets from a fish-bed grown plashy and reedy, from a sheep-bed grown oily and woolsey, from a bear's bed grown splayed and stained, from a boar's bed grown rank and torn, from a snake-bed grown cold and scaled. She scrubbed and rubbed, she twisted and wrung, and as she worked she thought on the brothers five she had found, had made into men alive with worked magic from her hair, her hair, her own, own hair. This was how it stood for them. Her fish brother gasped after gold to be thrown him for no work of his. Her sheep brother followed the others, if move he did at all, or gazed he out over field and stream and chaw a stem that from his lip hung down. Her bear brother spoke not but slept his way through night and day and ate and ate and ate and ate. Her boar brother spoke hard and sharp and ripped into talk and song, through friends and foes, all teeth and swears and elbows. Her snake brother slid silent cold and cold away from all and every, stayed low, stayed down, stayed cold, hissed the world away.

Well, I'm not happy, I'm sorrowing and sad again, sad, the girlie said, low and soft inside her head. I've not found them all, not yet by two, but I'm no brighter, no better now with them five than the day I looked about me for their love to me and for their help and their care and their warm keeping of my heart and hands, my life and my lands. On that day I looked about, not a brother, not a boy, not a friendly man could I see, could I see. Now I look and the five I see, but what of that seeing? Well and well, it's as the crone said, yes and it is. This is the brother as he was, this is the brother as he is. What now have they? Arms and legs, arms and legs. It's all as she told me, all as she told me. Sad and sorry am I and I will be, so I am and will be forever and forever if I do not now find those brothers which have wandered, which have traveled, which have lost themselves sadly and badly and madly from me. What now, is the thing for my learning? She stopped in her washing, leaned down and a-down into the suds and the soaps and rested from her wresting while she thought. She did not go to the tree that hung out and over the road as you come down and a-down on the King's way, if you take it. This time she thought through things and things for herself.

One hand on each side of her head she laid, thought and thought and then pulled she out and out her hair, her own, her own hair. In the one hand it came away dark and brown and bushy, smelling of bones and of dirt. In the other hand light and friendly sweet, colored like a rainbow and smelling of the sky. These two handsful she held before her eyes and thought and thought. Then straight and sure, down she went, to where the river crosses the King's way and out and on the bridge went she, hair like fur and hair like feathers in her out-held hands. High and careful on the bridge she stood and looked she all and all around. And then she saw.

A bird she saw, bright as the rainbow and high as the sky. Round it flew, up and low, sweet it sang, true and slow. From under the bridge came a child, as answering the bird's song, and with the child came along a dog. Dark brown he was, bushy, yes, and brown. Round the child danced the dog, barking and happy and true, yes, and true. This is the brother as he was, she thought, this is the brother as he is. She watched the bird, the joy of its flight and the spread of its song. She watched the dog, with the child, the love in its face, the strength of its guard. Happy, thought she, happy are you two, happier by far than me. Arms and legs, she thought, arms and legs.

She opened her two hands above the river as under her it ran, all a-sparkle and shine. A river gold and silver, pearl and black, grey and all scales from the face of the sun. The wind reached down for the hair she had pulled and pulled, lifted it, lofted it, laced the air about her with it in a tiny, perfect storm. Threw away did she then hair like feathers and hair like fur. Walked away then, from the washed bedding and likewise the unclean and climbed up to sit in the great tree where it hangs over that place you must pass as you come down and a-down on the King's way. The sun grew hot, the sun grew high, the sun slipped over and bye and she did not see the crone, for the crone did not come. But this was the King's way, and it was the King himself who came, riding easy with a hundred men, his crown set hard and serious on his head.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 30. Girlie: Another One

[This is a story in five parts. This is the second part.]
So she was happy with her brother, happy for a time and after a fashion, til the day, though, as was bound to happen and which did happen just so, she awoke to a house and heart empty of six brothers. Six, and not a thought of how she might find them, might seek them, might retrieve them. Off she went at once to seek, to hunt. Low she wandered and high she wandered with never a plan, with never a clue, and find them she did not til at darkfall she found herself in the crook and shade of the great tree which overhangs the road so, as by you come and on you go if you take the King's way. Long and high and sad she sat and thought it this way and thought it that but never a straight thought had she, when who should she see coming a-down and a-down but the crone and on her shoulder, her raven sitting hard and serious.

Why then, my then, how comes you so high then, my pork chop, my cherry pie, cries the crone as she comes nigh. Came not to you a brother in that shirt all a-shine and a-shimmer? Ah, me, sighed the girlie in the tree, ah, me, Mistress Crone and also your Good Raven, I am a-sad and a-sorrowing, for brothers seven had I, had I, but when today I looked about me for them, for their love to me and for their help and their care and their warm keeping of my heart and hands, my life and my lands, not a brother, not a boy, not a friendly man could I see, could I see, but only one, who yet turns his hands to nothing, leaves them at his sides both loose and flapping while all the while he turns his eyes ever and ever after a jingle in men's pockets. Words he makes, aye me, plans he sows, wanting and wishing and that is all of him. He walks about him, he looks about him, he wears the golden shirt and carries his hands in his empty pockets and now all forgotten he has of my seeking, my saving, my pulling and my knitting, forgotten he has to be a-petting and a-loving, remembered only the gold a fish is never sharing.

Well and well, the crone said, one eye crafty on the girlie in the tree, yes and it is. This is the brother as he was, this is the brother as he is. Gold and deep dark longing had he, but you fished him out, and what now has he? Arms and legs, arms and legs. No weight of dark water, no buggies, no gold beyond counting. It's all as I told you, all as I told you. Sad and sorry are you and you will be, so you are and will be forever and forever if you do not now find those brothers which have wandered, which have traveled, which have lost themselves sadly and badly and madly from you, my treetop birdie, my jam tart. And here's a thing for your learning, the crone craned back to give it to her, one eye closed to better see the matter, while the raven leaned forward so as not to lose a word. A bird might indeed be sister to a fish, but how shall those two love at home together? Six brothers yet have you, but them you have not.

But how shall I go and how shall I fare and what shall be my seeking and my want and my ware? the girl asked and pled. I know not how, I know not where, I know not when they left me, turned from me, looked beyond and from me fled.

Here, my sweetling, my chocolate flake, the crone soothed her, and the raven leaned forward to catch every word. Here and here is what you now must do. Do you pull and do you pull on all your hair til once more a shirt you cobble and couple, crimp and acquire. When it's whole, then take it up and look you, run you run to the top of that hill which lies hard by the King's way as you come down and a-down through the glade and through the glen. Lift it high there to the wind and let it loose and let it fly.

And the girlie did it, she did all the crone's telling. She pulled her hair and out it came, short and white, curled and curling. Soft and curvy and cosy it came, and she cut it off her, cut it off short and tight. Then she cobbled and coupled and crimped until a shirt of dearest plush and cuddle she held in her hands, dimpled and curving, all of pearl and cloud shimmer. Up she held it, high she lifted, and cold the wind caught it as it twisted and spun in her hands, sweeter and softer than midnight snow under a fullsome moon. Then and then did all the people come, with a yelling and a run. Such a shirt! One would have it for his babe and one for his dying love. One would have it for his sleeping and one for his comfort keeping. All reached, all longed, all begged. Take my farm, take my land, take my gold, take my lambs. But she would none. To her the shirt she clasped and ran she up that hill and there, at last, she held out the shirt, coiling warm about her hands, pearls and spindrift and up it went and down it fell. Away til it was lost. Pillowing and billowing, puffing and plumping it rode the wind over grove and over green and was not.

All the people stopped, stony, stared her down as she had been an enemy, and from her they melted and faded as they had never been. And when they were all away, when all had fled, then came from far and from far a sheep, eyes blank and glassy, teeth green and grassy, rambling and ambling and on its back a shirt it wore. All of pearl and spun clouds that shirt, and the sheep walked under it and out of it two legs grew. Legs not legs of lamb but legs of a man. Curling pale hair, arms with elbows to them, fingers and toes, eyes round and blue, not slit and staring. A brother come back to her was he, and she fell on his neck and kissed it. He held her and told her all his telling and all his tale.

Sat I on the edge of the field, on the top of the wall all stacked there of stones, he told, long and longing, thinking and pondering on nothing and nothing at all but the ease and pleasing life of a sheep. All a-fire my life seemed to me, a-fire and for no reason but that all and everyone wanted things of me. Working I was, for just it seemed to me the working of it, weeding and hoeing, sowing and growing, making and mowing. All of thought and all of strife, nothing of easy, pleasing, empty life. And on a day came down that way a crone, gnarled and bent and on her shoulder a raven like a spill of ink, hard and serious. Up and asked me what I longed after, called me her apple seed, her bitty carrot cake, and I told her, I told her. Of my heart's desire to be rid and rid of all the foolishly sought for gain and gold. Rest is it you're after and a-longing for? asked she and her raven leaned in close, so as not to lose a word, pleasing empty ease of mind? I'll give it and you'll get it if one wee kiss you'll give to me. And I gave it, sister, and I got that rest, a sleep so deep that I forgot my own self, forgot my way and my name, ambled about in the green and grassy, ate of clover and buttercup standings, chewed while I stood and while I stood I slept, til of a sudden a shirt blew down and around upon me, and just as sudden I could not crop no more, nor bleat, nor bear to eat of clover. So up I came, and there was you, hair all shorn and arms held out. And he fell to petting her, to hugging and to holding her and a-telling her all his love. So she was happy with her brother, happy for a time and after a fashion, but as she walked him home she rubbed her head and rubbed her head and felt her hair all short and bristly and wondered mightily how she'd ever want to be pulling five more brothers all home by her hair.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 29. Girlie: The First Brother

[This is a story in five parts.This is the first part.]
She had seven brothers and she lost all of them. Some here, some there and some she could not have said where but on the day she thought to look, to wonder, to seek and to yearn, not a brother was to be found.

She set out to find.

But find she did not, and by the setting of the sun she was sad, lonely and lacking fraternity. She sat her up high and high in the crook and shade of a great tree which overgrew, there, the roadside, to ponder, to wish and to wonder. As she sat alone and brotherless, down that way came a crone with a raven set hard and serious upon her shoulder. Why now, why how, my pretty morsel, my sweet nubbin, the crone crooned, why set ye here, why ponder ye in such a brown study that I could see the cloud and shadow of it from over the hill and far away as I came, as I came, as I came on a-down by here?

Ah, me, sighed the girlie in the tree, ah, me, Mistress Crone and also your Good Raven, I am a-sad and a-sorrowing, for brothers seven had I, had I, but when today I looked about me for them, for their love to me and for their help and their care and their warm keeping of my heart and hands, my life and my lands, not a brother, not a boy, not a friendly man could I see, could I see.

Ah, you, ah, you indeed, the crone gave back to her again, ah, you indeed. Sad and sorry are you and will be, so you are and will be forever and forever if you do not now find those brothers which have wandered, which have traveled, which have lost themselves sadly and badly and madly from you, my tender lambie pie, my little candy girl.

But how shall I go and how shall I fare and what shall be my seeking and my want and my ware? the girl asked and pled. I know not how, I know not where, I know not when they left me, turned from me, looked beyond and from me fled.

Here, my cookie, my sugar cake, the crone told her, and the raven leaned forward to catch every word. Here and here is what you now must do. Do you pull and do you pull on all your golden, golden hair, pull it long and pull it straight and from it a shirt strong and light shall you make. Twist it, spin it, knit it, tuck and tie it. When it is knitted through and through, do you drop in and straight down that well which lies hard by the King's way as you come down and a-down through the copse and through the coomb.

And the girlie did it, she did as the crone had said to her. She pulled her hair and out it came, long and longer, gold and golden. Strong and light and straight it came, and she cut it off her, cut it off short and tight. Then she twisted and spun, knitted and tied until a shirt of wondrous shimmer and shine she held in her hands. Up she held it, high she lifted, and hot the sun caught it as it twisted and spun in her hands. Then and then did all the people come, with a yelling and a run. Such a shirt! One would have it for his wife and one would have it for his own. One would have it for a burying and one for a wedding in the morn. All reached, all longed, all begged. Take my farm, take my land, take my gold, take my lambs. But she would none. To her the shirt she clasped and ran she to that well and there, at last, she held out the shirt, one more glister, one spin and down it fell. Away it went. Into the cold and deep and slimy of that well it flashed, and was not.

All the people stopped, stony, stared her down as she had been an enemy, and from her they melted and faded as they had never been. And when they were all away, when all had fled, then from the waters slick and cold there rose a fish. Long and long he was, golden and slim, and up he came, from the murk and dim, to the light and to the day. He turned his flat black eyes up to the sky and up and up and up he came. And on him, a shirt he wore.

Long and silky straight the shirt he wore, all a-golden glister and slippery glamour. It clung to him, it twisted and it spun. In one arm of that shirt came then one arm on that fish. Not a fish's arm in that shirt, but an arm that was the arm of a man. Two arms, golden hair on a man's head, legs straight and strong, fingers and toes and eyes like sweet brown almonds, not like cold black moons. A brother come back to her was he, and she fell on his neck and kissed it. He held her and told her all his telling and all his tale.

Sat I on the edge of the well, he told, long and longing, thinking and pondering on the gold the folk threw down and a-down into the murk and into the dim of that water, he said, for I longed after it, hankered and yearned for gold and for gold. And on a day came down that way a crone, gnarled and bent and on her shoulder a raven like a sliver of night, hard and serious. Up and asked me what I longed after, called me her honey nut, her tiny barley cake, and I told her, I told her. Of the gold, of my heart's desire after all the foolishly wasted and lost gold. Gold is it you're after and a-longing for? asked she and her raven leaned in close, so as not to lose a word, deep water gold? I'll give it and you'll get it if one wee kiss you'll give to me. And I gave it, sister, and I got that gold, so deep that I forgot my own self, forgot my way and my name, nosed about in the deep and dimmy, ate of buggies and cold water plantlings, slept while I swam and swam while I ate, til of a sudden a shirt came down and a-down upon me, and just as sudden I could not swim no more, nor breathe, nor bear to eat of buggies. So up I came, and there was you, hair all shorn and arms held out. And he fell to petting her, to hugging and to holding her and a-telling her all his love. So she was happy with her brother, happy for a time and after a fashion.

Internet Down--didn't see that coming.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 28. Father's Day

Hey, sweetheart, the father said, I'm home. Sorry I'm late, traffic. You're fine, the mother said, you're not late at all. Let me get into other clothes and I'm yours to command, he said. Good, she said, good, but I think I've about got it. We just need to set up. Oh, and balloons. Okay, I'm really glad you're here for that.

The mother made a strawberry lemon cake and a caramel chocolate cake and the father made the peach ice cream the twins said would be yummy with both. The older sister did everyone's hair and nails, which was much better than playing any party games they could think of, and the middle sister made sure everyone had a turn and a friend and got reasonably equal amounts of loot from the pinata. The oldest brother nearly missed the whole thing, as the twins had feared, but before they even had a chance to notice and to wail about it, he came rushing in to do the magic show for the end. He turned little red balls hiding under cups into lemons and then into mice. He turned one red sponge ball squeezed in a little guest's hand into sixteen red sponge balls and then into a shower of glittering, sugared candies. He made the flame at the end of a match disappear by blinking at it and then he made it reappear by blowing on his sisters. He made the wrappings from the presents vanish and reappear as suckers in the guests' pockets. He made straight hair curly and pink hair orange. It was a wonderful party.

As darkness fell, the middle sister gathered the guests in front of the television with pillows and blankets and the oldest sister turned on a Federation of Magical Kingdoms Princesses Club movie for the guests to watch in the hope they might be calm by the time their parents arrived to take them home. Calmer, anyway. The oldest brother went out into the garden under the trees and picked up scraps and cups and bits of pinata dragon and stuffed them into plastic bags. He should make the trash vanish, his father observed as he watched his son through the kitchen window. Nothing ever vanishes, the mother replied, it always goes somewhere. How about into the trash cans? his father asked. Well, I think he's accomplishing that, the mother said. The father went to help his son with the trash bags and the mother went into the living room, into the semi-darkness of the movie, to check, to count, to plan the transfer of guests back to their parents, and to sit down for a moment. But she didn't sit, she never got past the checking, the counting. She scanned the children, frowned, scanned again and then worked methodically across the room. Back. Again. She walked carefully across and among the little bodies and pillows and blankets strewn about the on the floor, drawing no attention, making no fuss. She went quietly out the door and into the kitchen. Then she ran.

How can they be gone? the father asked for the forty-ninth time. How can they just be gone? Dad, the oldest boy said, it's not that they are gone, it's that they are most likely here and we just can't find them. Don't you remember? the older sister said, we talked and talked about this before they came, that we'd have to be so careful. Didn't you see them at the party? the middle sister asked, they're tiny. They're absolutely tiny. No, the father said, I can't remember seeing them. You're sure they were here? he asked the mother. You're sure they came? Of course I'm sure, the mother said, and you never saw them because they are so small. You never looked that closely. Why would we invite children too small to see easily? the father demanded as his family hunted and searched. Why would we do that? We've discussed this endlessly, the mother said. The twins love them and you work with their father. I do? he asked, amazed, and then stopped short. No! Those children? I don't work with their father, dammit, he whisper-shouted, I work FOR their father!

They had looked under all the chairs and tables. The oldest boy worked over the garden, carefully turning up every leaf and branch. The mother checked in all their shoes and pockets and all the way under every bed. The girls handed out more treats to the guests and discretely searched under arms and legs and in pillowcases. The father, grim and careful, went through the trash bags. They met in the kitchen, tired and worried and confused. Some of them were panicking. I don't know what to do, the mother said, I'm sick, I just feel sick. You don't think, the older sister said, you don't think something...I mean, like a cat or-- No! the oldest boy said, they're fine. They're here. They're probably asleep. We just have to find them. Remember that grandma and the cookie jar? the older sister asked with an intense sort of shudder. That is not even true, her brother was looking at her with distaste, that is a myth. Will you stop even saying things like that? It isn't helping. Excuse me, your highness, the older sister said, I was only asking. What if we offer them something really wonderful? the middle sister asked. She was trying to cry softly. Make it a game? Carry a prize around and pretend the first hidden person to fly out gets it? That won't work, sweetie, the mother said holding her, because they can't fly. That's right, the older sister said, worried, I remember. They don't fly. They don't fly? the father said, his face turning a strange color. They don't fly? We invited minuscule children who don't fly to our house for a birthday party? Why would we do this? Are we all insane? DAD! everyone said, and he said, Stop, every one of you. I know. We discussed it. Be quiet a minute. Let me think.

When they went to bed the sisters were still asking their mother about it. But how? they asked and asked, how did he think of it? How did he ever know? It's a family story, the mother said, and it suddenly came back to him. His great-grand uncle. The first time, I believe, it was an accident, but Uncle soon realized what a useful spot that was. Used to hide like that and people thought it was so cute when he was small. And Uncle was, you know, very, very small, but he did grow. He was in and out and in and out of there and it was all charming and fine until one day he realized he couldn't get out. That he never would get out. It was just awful for everyone and your father never forgot that story. Yes, she said, a terrible story and a man wrote it down in a book. That man took the sad, outlandish stories he had heard and put them into a book, hid them there under a little fun and nonsense. We have the book, if you'd like to see it in the morning. People don't tend to read it clearly, his book. Too few of them seem to see any sadness. I couldn't ever understand that, myself. I always thought Mr. Lear simply told the stories as they were, as they happened, as they were told to him. He never even tried to make them over, the mother said. Such sad little tales, all of them, and quite, quite true. She tucked the covers around the sleeping twins, told everyone good night, went out and shut the door carefully behind her.

In the tea kettle, the middle sister said, climbing into bed, I can't believe it. We're so lucky to have a smart dad. Even if he never listens when we talk, the oldest brother said. He found them, the middle sister said, ignoring her brother, he went straight to the tea kettle and there they were. And just in time, the older sister said. Imagine what might have happened. No, the oldest boy said, his hand on the light switch, don't even imagine. I thought they had vanished, the older sister said, squinching down deliciously under the covers. It was a cool night. No, the brother said, no. Nothing ever vanishes. It just goes some place else.


There was an Old Man who, when little,
Fell casually into a Kettle;
But, growing too stout,
He could never get out,
So he passed all his life in that Kettle.

-Edward Lear, True Histories of Families of My Acquaintance in England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales: Rhymed and Retold by the Author; Distractions for a Summer Afternoon

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 27. Wide as the Waters

He had carried in boards and boards and more boards. When she came home the bedroom was filled with boards and nails and screws and saws and hammers and the neighbor was just leaving. Thanks so much, he was saying to the neighbor and the neighbor was saying, Any time, no problem at all. What is this? she asked. Lumber, he answered around the screws in his mouth. Thanks so much, she said. Any time, he said, no problem at all.

After she came back into the house and was speaking to him again, she asked him why he was building something huge in the bedroom. This is where it goes, he said, and it's going to be way too big to move. She went away to the kitchen to make dinner, which was as far away from the bedroom as you could go inside the house and still be inside the house. He sang a little happy sawing and nailing song to himself. The chorus went, Hand me the saw and then hand me the nail, snow in the winter, summertime hail. She was yelling from the kitchen; the kitchen was far away. Are you asking me to come hand you things? she yelled. No! he yelled back. I am not asking that. In that case, she said, dinner is ready and you may have half of this food. I am not asking you to hand me things at this time, he whispered to himself, and he put down all the tools and went to eat, humming.

After brownies and ice cream she came in and handed him things. I just don't understand why we needed a new bed, she said. Why we needed a bed bigger than a barn. Who wants a barn inside their house? she asked. He looked at her, raised his eyebrows. I know people, he said. She put her hand over his mouth. You know weird people, she told him. Is the mighty bed finished? she asked, it's late. Yes, he said, it's finished, only we have to put on the sheets. They made up the bed and he hoisted her on to it. There, he said, how is it? I can see so far now, she said, and he threw the pillows at her head.

Seriously, she said later, softly in his ear. Tell me. Why this huge bed? It's a mile off the ground. Four feet, he said. Four feet of lumber, she said. Why? He pulled back a bit, so he could see her clearly. He was very serious, as she had asked. It's for the floods, he said. Good night, love. He pulled her close and went to sleep. She stared at the ceiling for a long time, then she got up and went to the window. She opened it, leaned outside in the cool night. No sound of rain, as she had known there would not be. No clouds in the sky, as she had known there were not. No thunder in the distance. For the floods, she thought, for the floods. We're sleeping on a boat in the middle of a desert. She clambered onto the bed and tucked herself under his arm. For the floods. Huh. She slept.

Water rose with the moon. It consumed the garden and slid over the sidewalks. It bubbled down into the cellar and climbed back out one slow cellar step at a time. Water raced across the kitchen tile and darkened the carpets, rose there til the moon's reflection shimmered and danced on the rising water in the living room. Water pushed up through the pipes, swiftly filled the bathtub, cascaded soundlessly over its sides, over sinks, up through drains. Water gushed down the hall and as it fell down the stairs it joined the water coming up. Water raced low and fast into the bedroom under the door he had carefully closed before he had climbed onto the bed. Water rushed to the edges of the bed, lapped against the wooden sides, found the way under and began to pull, to push, to press, to lift. More water came in under the door, more and more and more and then the water just took away the door that was in its way. Water lifted the bed, rocked the bed and spun it, water pushed the bed across the room, water edged the great bed through the hole that had been a window until the water had torn and punched and ripped the wall apart. The bed paused, crested the fall of water pouring out of the bedroom, tipped out to slide down, to ride away, then shot forward on a great wave as the house collapsed behind them.

Well, she said, you called that one right. She looked at him admiringly. You finished this in the nick of time. Way to go. Yes, he said, I did, and you know, you had me worried. I did? she asked. I did? How so? Was I so unsupportive? I did come hand you things, she reminded him. No, it wasn't that, he said, it was that dessert. It was too good. I lingered dangerously. Ah, she said, the brownies. Yes. That might have been catastrophic. Well, she said, lying back against him as the water lapped and sang around the boat bed, what do we do now? Now we row, he said. Both of us. Right, she said. I assume you packed this boat? Here's your oar, he said. Hungry? She found the food and they ate graham crackers and yogurt. You thought of everything, she said, this boat is loaded. Why think of anything if you don't go ahead and think of everything? he asked. Why indeed, she agreed. Where are we going? she asked. Land, he said wisely and with a grand gesture, and then looked quickly over at her. I see you are considering throwing me overboard for that, he observed. I think you should not do so. I never would, she assured him, but I will continue to consider it, and she kissed him. How far is the land, do you know? she asked. He shook his head. Not close, he said, but the boat will carry the two of us there. She held his face in both her hands. I am with you, she told him, there is no place I'd rather be. He smiled hugely and sang a happy rowing song. Hey, you, he said, and grinned at her. Take your oar.