[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.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Thursday, June 23, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, June 20, 2011
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
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
Saturday, June 18, 2011
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.
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.
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