The Fire-Dwellers

by Margaret Laurence

  Thor’s face. Immediately in front of her and somewhat above. His height. Very tall man. Surrounded by a circle of anonymous others. Stacey sees only Thor – the white opalescent skin, the eyes like turquoises, opaque blue, the silver mane. She realizes she has walked all around the room in search of him, and now she has found him.

  Excuse me.

  Why, hi there, Stacey. You enjoying the party?

  Yes. Yes, thanks. There was only one thing I wanted to ask you about.

  Go right ahead. What is it? It isn’t – ah – private?

  Oh hell no it’s not private it’s only about that quiz

  Quiz?

  Quiz. Why’d you do it?

  You mean the Richalife Quiz? I don’t think I quite see

  I said why’d you do it? What can you gain? Who’s gonna tell you anything on a thing like that?

  You don’t think so?

  Hell I know so. I mean if I feel guilty or anxious, like let’s say I stabbed my dear old grandmother in the back for her money or I find I got stigmata on both palms and I gotta wear gloves everywhere I go, you think I’m gonna say?

  Titters of general laughter. Thor reaches out and takes Stacey’s hands.

  Here – let me see. No, you’re all clear, Stacey, I’m glad to say. You didn’t strike me like the type. Well, about the quiz, now.

  — I got to stop. Stacey, girl, shut your trap. Change subject. Now. Essential. Get a grip on yourself. Think of Mac.

  No, it’s only that it’s an intrusion or do I mean infringement? I mean infrusion, that’s what I mean but I guess I shouldn’t have brought it up.

  One of the circle, a slender man in glasses, puts a hand on her rump.

  As long as that’s all you bring up

  Hey the party’s getting rough

  We’ve all got good manners here

  Stacey lets the talk flow away from her. She glances around to find Mac, knowing she must focus on him. Finally she sees him. He is standing near a window, his face turned away from her. He is talking with a tall brown-haired girl whose face is a medieval tomb carving, elongated, drawn in subtle lines of earnestness and prayer. Stacey quickly looks away.

  — Don’t be ridiculous. He’s only talking to her. Yeh, but that look on her face. What is she saying? None of your business, Stacey. None of your damn business. She looks so much more sensitive and that, than I look. What about one for the road? Stacey, kid, you’re stoned. I am not stoned. All right, so even if I am, so what? I don’t give a fuck.

  She spins around to face Thor again, and in doing so, her evening bag spills open and two pink soaps slither down onto the polished floor. Stacey looks at them as though she has never seen them before. There is a small moment of silence and uncertainty. Then someone laughs, a high fluting. Stacey discovers with some astonishment that it is herself.

  I always take them home for the kids. I do it with those wrapped sugar lumps too

  Thor picks them up for her.

  Think nothing of it. I know I used to like things like that, as a kid.

  Yeh? Well, I’m certainly glad to hear it. Were you – were you always called Thor?

  Except when I was called late for supper ha-ha. Yes, it’s an Icelandic name.

  That’s what I figured. Lots of people of Icelandic descent where I came from. Not exactly where I came from, but same province. Manitoba. Prairie girl, that’s me.

  Really? How interesting.

  He looks bored almost to the limit of endurance, and she recalls too late that she told him once before where she came from, as though compelled to flaunt her small-town background.

  Yeh, and you know what? The only joke I can ever remember is about Thor.

  Well, in that case, it must be a pretty good joke.

  It’s so-so. The great god Thor comes to earth once, see? And I guess this would likely be in some Scandinavian country, eh? Anyway, he meets this lovely country girl. So he – he – persuades her. You know, he persuades her. To go into a hayfield with him. Well, he seduces her, see? But later on, he feels kind of bad, being as he had an advantage. I mean, he is – like – a god, see, so who could resist him? You know? So he says to her, Look, there’s something I oughta tell you. I’m Thor. And she says, Tho am I, but it wath worth it, wathn’t it?

  Laughter. Ripples, extending outwards. Thor’s uninterpretable face. The young henchmen, simpering in spectacles. Women’s shrill braying giggles. Men’s deep-voiced guffaws. Then Mac’s arm on her elbow, pressing hard enough to bruise.

  C’mon, Stacey. We promised the kids we’d be home by twelve.

  Did we? I don’t remember

  Goodnight, Thor.

  Thor is talking to someone else.

  Oh – good night, Mac. Good night, Stacey.

  G’night

  The car is flying, and out in a blackness of sky, when the city lights have gone away, the moon is also flying, descending the hollow hill of night, climbing again to the center of everything, in trails of moonstone light. Stacey, leaning her head against the back of the car seat, can see it happening.

  You know what they called the moon in the Highlands, Mac?

  (No reply)

  Mac, you know what they used to call the moon, there? They used to call it MacFarlane’s lantern. You know that? And you know something else? That was because the MacFarlanes were a pretty sneaky lot, see, buncha thieves, actually, and they used to go around on these raids, see? Banditti. That’s what they were, the MacFarlanes. Buncha banditti. So that moon was their lantern. And you know something else? The MacAindras belong to the MacFarlane clan. How d’you like that? That’s you, kid. Banditti. MacFarlane’s lantern. Only that isn’t you, is it, Mac? That isn’t you at all. Au contraire, as we say in Quebec.

  Dry up, Stacey. You’ve said enough tonight.

  Dry up, Stacey. Shut up and simmer down, Stacey. Do this do that. I would like to live on a desert island. What would you like?

  Don’t ask me. I might tell you. No use in your condition.

  What d’you mean, in my condition? You make it sound like I’m pregnant.

  C’mon. We’re home.

  Home Sweet Home. Oh boy.

  C’mon. Stacey. Just get to bed.

  Okay okay okay okay

  She is lying on a magic carpet. Must be a magic carpet, what else? It is moving very rapidly, in upward and downward swooshes. Each swirl leaves a color in its path jet-trails of color smoke one for each day of the week pink purple peacock blue tangerine green leaves greensleeves bird-feather yellow raspberry no not raspberry that’s an essence the essence of the whole matter is is is

  Blackness.

  — Help. Water. Water. I’m dying of thirst. Bathroom. Oh man, that’s one degree better at least. What time is it? Half past seven. Morning. Can’t be. Is. Oh perdition. Am I going to throw up? Nothing to throw except two glasses of water. Back to bed. No. Got to get up. Impossible. Not impossible. Got to.

  Stacey goes back to the bedroom. Mac is almost dressed. He looks at her silently. Then she remembers.

  Stacey, tottering over to Thor’s court. Stacey, arguing in a loud harridan voice, her hair disarranged, her make-up long since vanished. It’s a-a-inf-infrusion, tha’s what it is, so there, see? Oh God. Two pink soap tablets tumbling out of her handbag. The gusts and shrieks of pointing laughter. Thief, thief – takes the soap from the ladies’ john. Stacey, regaling the company with corny slightly low joke about – what? Joke about Thor. Oh God. Stacey, believing they were laughing with her.

  — Oh no. It couldn’t have been. It was. Was it that bad? Am I exaggerating? No. No, I’m not. It was probably far worse than that, even.

  Mac – oh Mac, was it awful?

  Look, Stacey, there’s no point in discussing it.

  It was awful. I can remember everything. Every word. Oh Mac, I’m sorry.

  Yeh. Well.

  I don’t know what got into me.

  Allow me to tell you, then. What got into you was Scotch.

  Mac please don’t loo
k like that

  Oh Christ. Like what?

  Grim. Like ice. I can’t stand it

  Look, Stacey, it’s nearly eight o’clock. Can we just get breakfast?

  Mac, I’m sorry. Honestly, I’m terribly terribly sorry.

  Yeh. So you said.

  I was kind of nervous anyway, and then you left me on my own.

  Great. So now it’s my fault.

  I didn’t say that.

  Stacey, there is absolutely no use in talking. I got to get to work. I don’t want to discuss it.

  I think we should. I think we should discuss everything

  Oh God. Look, Stacey, I’m not asking much. I’m only suggesting that breakfast would be a good idea. Is that asking too much?

  Okay okay okay I’m going downstairs right this minute. Mac, do you think you should tell Thor I’m sorry?

  If he doesn’t mention it, I most certainly will not bring up the subject. Now if you don’t mind

  Okay okay I’m on my way

  Clutching her housecoat around her, Stacey rushes down to the kitchen. The motions of getting breakfast are automatic. The minutes are eternal, the voices piercing.

  — Hush. Please. Just be quiet for once. I tell you, my eardrums will crack. How’d you like to have a mother with cracked eardrums?

  She says as little as possible. At last they are all out of the house, and Stacey is alone with Jen. She pours her coffee and begins to sip at it cautiously.

  — Oh my guts. When this coffee hits them, they will rebel into convulsions. Slowly, that’s it. There. That’s a bit better. Why did I do it? I’ll never live it down. Mac will never forgive me. I’ll never forgive myself. It isn’t as though it’s never happened before. No, Stacey, girl, don’t think of the other times. Not that many. No, but all dreadful. Don’t think – I command you. You do, eh? Who’re you? One of your other selves. Help, I’m schizophrenic. Oh God, why did I do it? I was so damn scared of not doing well, and then I didn’t do well. Maybe if I hadn’t been so scared – don’t make excuses, Stacey. Mea culpa. It must be wonderful to be a Catholic. Pour it all out. Somebody listens. Not me. I’m stuck with it, all of it, every goddam awful detail, for the rest of my natural or unnatural life. Mac scares me when he’s like he was this morning. Why can’t he ever say? Maybe if he ever did, he’d throttle me. I wouldn’t blame him. My God, maybe he will throttle me one of these days. “Salesman Strangles Wife” – it could happen to anybody. Nobody is an exception. What would happen to the kids if that happened? Oh my guts, churning around like a covey of serpents. Covey? Nest? Medusa does in summer wear a nest of serpents in her hair. Joyce Kilmer. I can’t seem to focus on anything. Whatsamatter with my eyeballs? When I close my eyes, something flickers across them. Jangled nerves. Feels like that tropical worm in that article – lives under people’s eyelids and crawls over the eyes when so inclined. Charming. I’m sick. I’m ill. Have I ruined Mac’s job? Was it as awful as I remember?

  Stacey, face distorted into a swollen mask like the face of a woman drowned, the features blurred. The lunatic laughter, hers.

  — I am exaggerating. I must be. Am I? I can’t tell. It seems worse every time I think of it.

  NINE-O’CLOCK NEWS PELLET BOMBS CAUSED THE DEATH OF A HUNDRED AND TWENTY-FIVE CIVILIANS MAINLY WOMEN AND CHILDREN IN

  C’mon, flower. The least we can do is clean this house.

  Duncan can play alone, for when he feels the world’s aloofness he goes inward to more satisfactory countries. After school, he is not to be seen and Stacey finally discovers him in the basement, not in the playroom but standing beside the automatic washer, spinning the dials.

  Duncan – what you are doing? Don’t you dare

  It’s okay, Mum. It’s not switched on.

  Well, all right. What is it? A spaceship?

  Duncan looks at her, half surprised and half pleased, a short stocky figure in jeans and striped T shirt.

  Yeh. Sort of. I’m taking it to Venus. That’s a neat planet, you know, Mum? It’s very bright, all surrounded by these gases that they don’t know what they are. Miss Walsh said.

  How you going to get through all the gases, then?

  This ship has a built-in-gas-goer-througher.

  Well, that’s great. But shouldn’t you be outside, nice day like this?

  I don’t want to.

  Why not?

  Ian just tells me to scram.

  Well, it’s your yard, too. Come on, I’ll speak to Ian.

  I don’t want to, Mum.

  Oh, okay, but you ought to be out in the sun.

  Stacey goes upstairs to the kitchen to begin dinner. Ian is standing beside the long low window, breaking small pieces of leaf off the potted plants.

  Hey, my African violets! Cut it out, Ian. What’s the matter?

  There’s nothing to do around here.

  Why don’t you play with your bug?

  It’s no fun. The wheels keep coming off.

  Why don’t you find somebody to play with, then?

  Ron’s gone with his mum to see his aunt. Terry’s playing with Robert and they don’t want me.

  What about TV, then? Not that you should, this early.

  Nothing on I want to see.

  Well, what about going to see if Peter can play? He doesn’t live that far. You could go on your bike.

  Ian swings around slowly to face her.

  Who?

  Peter. Peter Challoner. You haven’t played with him for quite a while.

  Ian’s grey eyes turn hard, hooded almost, and Stacey can see the small vein along his throat pulsing, as it does sometimes when he is more than usually tense.

  What is it, Ian?

  Peter’s dead. I thought you knew.

  Stacey looks at him, unbelieving. Ian’s face prohibits questions, but she has to speak.

  He can’t be. What – what happened?

  He got run over. It was that day you came home late for lunch.

  Oh Ian – I didn’t know – I must’ve missed it in the paper

  The scree-ee of brakes. A white Buick. The driver getting out slowly, as though unable to look. The slight quiet figure under the front wheels. Stacey, running along the sidewalk towards home, heels snagging on the cement.

  You didn’t tell me, Ian. I didn’t know. Oh honey. Why didn’t you tell me?

  Ian’s face is pinched and rigid with its control, its go-away quality.

  What would’ve been the use? What could you have done?

  I could’ve

  — I don’t know. For you, maybe nothing.

  Stacey makes a tentative move towards him, one hand out to his shoulder. Ian breaks away, his thin strength arrowing past her, and reaches the back door. Then he turns upon her, a flame-furred young fox cornered, snarling, self-protective.

  Can’t you just shut up about it? He was dumb, see? Nobody but a moron would run out into the avenue after a football. It doesn’t happen that easy unless guys are pretty dumb.

  Ian, wait

  But he is gone, out to his lair, the loft of the garage.

  — What’s he been having nightmares about these past weeks? Why can’t he ever say? How did he get to be that way, or was it born in him? God, how should I know? He gets further and further away. I can’t reach him at all. Was he always that way, only I never noticed so much when he was younger?

  Ian MacAindra, age four, marching around and around the kitchen table, to the martial music on the radio. Stacey, amused. Aren’t you tired, honey? Yes. Why don’t you stop then? I can’t stop till the music stops. So she turned off the radio when she saw he wasn’t joking.

  Mac has just come in, when there is a wail from the basement, and pounding footsteps. Duncan runs up the stairs into the kitchen, one hand bloodily scarlet. Stacey goes to him.

  What happened?

  Duncan’s voice is barely discernible through his fear-sobbing.

  Nail sticking out of the wall – didn’t see it – it was rusty too will I die Mum? Ian says you die if it’s rustyr />
  No, you won’t die. I’ll fix it up. It’ll soon be better. Don’t worry. It’ll be all right.

  Duncan continues to sob, the tears runneling through the dust on his wide youngly plump face. Mac comes in from the hall, running his fingers distractedly through his brush of hair.

  Duncan, for goodness sake shut up and quit making such a fuss about nothing.

  Leave him, Mac. He was scared. Ian told him a rusty nail would

  Scared, hell. He doesn’t need to roar like that. Shut up, Duncan, you hear me?

  Duncan nods, gulps down the salt from his eyes and the mucus from his nose. His chest heaves and he continues to cry, but quietly. Mac clamps a hand on his shoulder and spins him around.

  Now listen here, Duncan, I’ll give you one minute to stop.

  Duncan stares with wet slit-eyes into his father’s face. Stacey clenches her hands together.

  — I could kill you, Mac. I could stab you to the very heart right this minute. But how can I even argue, after last night? My bargaining power is at an all-time low. Damn you. Damn you. Take your hands off my kid. Oh, God, I know, Sir – I know. Mac’s probably spent the day placating Thor. And I haven’t forgotten pitching Duncan and Ian to the floor either. What right have I got to say anything? But I can’t help it. I can’t stand this.

  Leave him, Mac, can’t you? Please just leave him alone.

  Listen, Stacey, if he doesn’t begin to learn some control now, when is he going to learn? Duncan, you just listen to me. You can’t go through life bawling your head off, the slightest thing happens. What a mess you’ll be if you go on that way. You’ll never get to first base if you can’t learn to control yourself. Okay – you’re going to get hurt; you’re going to get bashed around; that’s life. But for heaven’s sake try to show a little guts.