Bryce can hear her cinnamon toast popping up in the kitchen. She runs to push it down again. Cinnamon clouds roll through the house.
Agnes is practicing weather charms. Shouldn’t the party end with a midnight rainbow? She sniffs. Cinnamon clouds will make everyone hungry.
“Herring, punch, toast, popsicles, nut mixes,” says Agnes. She’s nervous that won’t be enough.
“Better make it a potluck,” thinks Agnes. Potlucks make everyone happy. Even the guests who have herring allergies. Invariably, there are guests with herring allergies.
“They can bring the marshmallows and pasta salad,” thinks Agnes.
[:]
Agnes wonders if we can call the party a centennial. After all, a century is defined as one hundred consecutive years.
What if Mrs. Borage starts talking about Ethan Allen? His fawn vest and sagathy breeches? The time they rode together on catamounts all the way from Isle La Motte?
“We’ll all be embarrassed,” thinks Agnes. Agnes more than anyone else, of course. Agnes has a professional degree.
[:]
Today Bryce is working on block-prints, the gilded roses and wreaths and the Roman numerals MDCCXXXV. They are exactly like the pink Ruckers papers you can buy in all the finest auction houses. Now she can put out her shingle
HARPSICHORDS RESTORED HERE.
[:]
Bryce also made our kitchen wallpaper, a Privy-council green flock and, on the second floor, red glitter gorgons and a border of narrow leaves, cannabis sativa.
“Bertrand insisted they were Japanese maple,” says Bryce, defensively. She has grown to like the cannabis sativa leaves, from the purely artistic perspective.
Bryce imagines Bertrand in Japan, or on Taketomi Island, where the sand is made of a trillion tiny star-shaped skeletons and bushes of cannabis sativa bloom on the coral. Water buffaloes graze on cannabis sativa and children brush the water buffaloes all over with glue and the water buffaloes wander gently through the town, pollinating everything they touch with cannabis sativa.
We haven’t received a postcard from Taketomi Island, or a little box of star bones, or blue corals, or star-shaped seeds of cannabis sativa.
“Not that I expect anything,” says Bryce. She wonders what kind of glue the children brush on the water buffaloes. She wonders if the glue is made of water buffaloes. It must be.
“Either that or it is made of cannabis sativa,” thinks Bryce.
[:]
Fiona has a mouthful of pins. She has decided to make Mrs. Borage leather chaps. She can’t ask Mrs. Borage for her measurements; the chaps are a surprise. Fiona took her own measurements instead. The chaps fit her perfectly. Fiona looks at her reflection in the mirror. What was Fiona thinking? Mrs. Borage doesn’t want leather chaps. Fiona will have to make her something else.
“A fringed leather jacket!” says Fiona.
[:]
Today Mrs. Borage is wearing a navy blue jacket, gold lace jabot and cuffs, white knickers and black leather boots with high heels. She walks the long walk to the center of town. She sits on the bench in front of the library. She takes a popsicle out of her boot. Popsicles are more refreshing in the summertime, but in the summertime, you can’t pack them for lunch. They melt. Mrs. Borage wolfs the whole thing down immediately. Was it strawberry cheesecake? Probably. It might have been Black Forest Chocolate.
Mrs. Borage remembers that chocolate makes special pathways in the brain. Or does it make a kind of chocolate shell? She concentrates very hard on her brain. Her brain seems to have a chocolate shell with nougat pathways.
In her other boot, Mrs. Borage has a candy bar. She’ll save that for later. For now, she is perfectly content.
[:]
Mrs. Scattergood peeks out the drop slot in the library door. She hopes that Mr. Henderson will walk by soon to check on his pottery sales in the Country Store. He is going to be extremely surprised!
“Mozart,” gasps Mrs. Scattergood. He is sitting on the bench in front of the library, noon on a workday. He’s not even reading.
“Retired?” thinks Mrs. Scattergood. There is something elderly about him…. The powdered wig! That might fool the Social Security Administration, but not Mrs. Scattergood. Anyone who plays glass harmonica knows that Mozart died young, of hitziges Frieselfieber.
All day, Mrs. Scattergood has been sitting at the circulation desk, reading the science journals. She is halfway through an article about translucent concrete, a wonderful new building material. World cities will soon resemble aquariums, see-thru towers lit from within, and the people moving visibly inside, dressed in brightly colored uniforms provided free of charge by Municipal Beautification Commissions.
Mrs. Scattergood decides to go back to her article. If the Waddington Library were made of translucent concrete, what would she look like from a distance?
“I would look like a tweed-fish,” thinks Mrs. Scattergood, unexpectedly. Lately, Mrs. Scattergood has been thinking all kinds of unexpected things. Now she seems to be having visions.
“El Niño has fallen on an election year,” thinks Mrs. Scattergood. “I am an Aquarius. Also, the change of life.” Mrs. Scat-tergood stirs dong quai powder into her chamomile tea.
The Rockette in the reference section smiles shyly at her. She has just put another book down the back of her leotard. Mrs. Scattergood wonders if she should say something.
Does the Rockette have a library card? Mrs. Scattergood doubts it. She doesn’t have pockets.
“I like your tassels,” says Mrs. Scattergood.
“Spangles,” says the Rockette.
“Spangles,” says Mrs. Scattergood.
X
Agnes is making party favors to put around the house. One hundred dinosaur eggs, all sizes. The big ones are papier-mâché and the little ones are marzipan.
Bryce opens up her egg mold and takes out a hard, white sugar egg. She scallops the seamed edge with gold frosting and outlines a golden eagle with a golden crown. Agnes watches her add a few golden leaves around the bottom of the egg. No dinosaur has ever laid an egg like that one.
Bryce goes outside and puts the egg on Bertrand’s window-sill. She looks up at the blue sky. Does she see the white and gold eagle of Poland? She scans the horizon. No, the whiteness in the distance is from the snowmaking machines on the mountains.
“What a wonderful occupation!” thinks Bryce. It must be a growth industry, with so many witches working outside the home.
[:]
What’s this taped to the front door?
“Petition and Notice of Foreclosure!” says Bryce.
In the Matter of the Foreclosure of Tax Liens by Proceeding In Rem pursuant to Article Eleven of the Real Property Tax Law. The above-captioned proceeding is hereby commenced to enforce the payment of delinquent taxes or other lawful charges which have accumulated and become liens against certain property. The parcels to which this proceeding applies are identified on Schedule A of this Petition, which is annexed hereto and made a part hereof.
“Proceeding In Rem,” murmurs Bryce. “A dream assault?”
The other night Bryce dreamed she had painted all the grains of rice in the sack beneath the kitchen counter. She painted them complicated colors, silver bullet and ladybug shell. Bryce runs back inside. She’s never seen such scintillating rice.
Will Bertrand kiss the saffron crocus? Bryce wanders back outside with the sack. She picks out all the yellow grains of rice and sprinkles them in a circle around the house. Suddenly, she realizes that the color might be called “bulldozer.” She wonders if she has just made a terrible mistake. Bryce does not understand very much about magic, but fate is something different. Everyone understands fate.
“Will the house be demolished?” moans Bryce.
Mr. Henderson is plodding down the sidewalk. He is remembering how the armored men glided on their skates down the shining path. Did they have blood-red leaves on their white tunics? He thinks that they did.
Now the sidewalk is g
ray and rough again, dingy weeds sprouting up through the cracks. A warm breeze is blowing. Mr. Henderson can smell wood smoke. Does it also smell like cinnamon? He thinks that it does.
A woman is wandering through Mrs. Borage’s yard with a magnifying glass. She is wearing a dangerously inclined beret and a smock painted with mysterious symbols. Of course Mr. Henderson recognizes the dominical letters and the zodiac. He is less familiar with the barn stars and hex signs. He guesses that the gold distelfink on the red heart with the red and gold tulips means luck, hope, and faith.
And the circular chains?
“Eternity,” sighs Mr. Henderson. It is a distressingly ambivalent concept.
“Unseasonable weather,” calls Mr. Henderson. He is very fond of Mrs. Borage and he is just as fond of her many adult nieces. The adult niece of Mrs. Borage gives Mr. Henderson a resplendent smile.
“Do you think it’s the Kingfisher Days?” she calls back. “They usually come later.”
“Oh yes,” says Mr. Henderson. “Kingfisher Days. I wouldn’t be surprised. I almost left my coat on the hook.”
Mr. Henderson puts his can of soup and his box of muesli on the sidewalk. He folds his long coat and puts it neatly on the groceries. He takes his reading glasses from his shirt pocket and perches them on his nose. Mr. Henderson stoops from his great height and peers into the grass. Immediately, he finds three golden grains of rice. Has there been a wedding party? The wedding of the Kingfishers? How did he miss it? Mr. Henderson sleeps very little as it is. He wonders if he should sleep even less.
He thinks of the kingfisher, far away, brooding on her nest, floating up and down on the tiny waves in the middle of the sea, and the warm breezes circling around her.
“Those are the last ones,” says the adult niece of Mrs. Borage. She examines the rice in her palm. She has a distracted expression.
“Well, goodbye,” says Mr. Henderson. She doesn’t answer. She is staring at the rice. There is nothing else to look at on her palm. Her head line and heart line seem to have disappeared. Peculiar. At least the rice has been gathered up.
“A disaster may or may not have been narrowly averted,” thinks Bryce. She runs inside to write that down. It will surely do for somebody’s horoscope.
[:]
The dogs have encircled Mr. Henderson’s coat and soup and muesli. He looks at the dogs.
“Excuse me,” says Mr. Henderson. He walks into the circle of dogs and picks up his things. He finds that he likes standing in a circle of dogs. It is an interesting thing to discover at this stage of life. Would his life have been different if he had discovered this earlier?
“I can’t imagine how my life could be otherwise,” says Mr. Henderson. “But then I suppose I am a fatalist.”
“Beware the pogonip,” says one of the dogs. Mr. Henderson looks around the circle. Usually, the dogs are absolutely speechless.
“It is not because they don’t have anything to say,” realizes Mr. Henderson. “It is because they don’t have teeth.”
[:]
Mrs. Borage stands outside the front door.
“Petition and Notice of Foreclosure,” reads Mrs. Borage. The sun is six degrees below the horizon. Mrs. Borage will not read a Petition and Notice of Foreclosure after civil dusk. It is a matter of principle. She examines the shingle.
“Harpsichords Restored Here,” reads Mrs. Borage. We have been using the harpsichord as a dining room table. Mrs. Borage clears off the magazines. A postcard flutters to the ground. Mrs. Borage recognizes the Three Chilly Saints.
“St. Marmetus, St. Pancras, St. Gervais,” says Mrs. Borage. “How many times have we circled the maypole together!” She turns the postcard over.
Fustic from the smoke-tree
Yellow—Ladies’ bedstraw
Broomsedge—a nice brass
Blue logwood
Kermes
Red madder
“A recipe for a midnight rainbow?” says Mrs. Borage. “Dear Gervais! Dear Agnes!”
[:]
Mrs. Borage rolls her harpsichord to the front door. She’ll have to take it apart to get it outside.
“How did I get it inside?” wonders Mrs. Borage. Of course! She didn’t! Mrs. Borage remembers, before she built the house, the marvelous tea parties, harpsichord and sofa and wingback chairs under the open sky. She remembers the taste of rain in lemon zinger.
“It was a gorgeous, impractical lifestyle,” thinks Mrs. Borage. When she remembers it, it does seem worth missing.
She pries apart the harpsichord case. She carries the keyboard into the yard, the pinblock, the soundboard. Back and forth, back and forth, with great pieces of lacquered oak, goes Mrs. Borage. She hammers and hammers. Suddenly, Mrs. Borage drops her router. She realizes she has been building a Viking funerary craft.
“That won’t fit back through the door,” thinks Mrs. Borage.
Anyway, it’s time for that candy bar. Mrs. Borage climbs into the Viking funerary craft. She sits in the stern, on the shiny black bench. She doesn’t feel foolish, sitting in a boat on dry land. Viking ships are amphibious. Hence, the tactical advantage of the Vikings as a land-sea invasion force. Mrs. Borage feels the warm wind stir the lace at her throat.
[:]
Mr. Henderson can’t bear to go near his garage. He has lost the ability to pot. Even the clay on his clothing has grown white and dry and it falls away from him. There is a white trail of potter’s snow all through the house.
“Some men endeavor,” thinks Mr. Henderson. “Some men mold their worlds or even the physical universe. Other men are better suited to stand mildly by, to receive the affections of animals and flowers.” Mr. Henderson decides to give all his muesli to the birds. He goes out onto his porch. It is growing dark, but he sees Mrs. Borage. She is sitting in a Viking ship. The compost heaps tower around her.
Mr. Henderson is reminded of the fecund archipelagos vis ited by the HMS Beagle, maybe because of the colorful birds on the tops of the compost heaps, the pink and green cockatoos. How tame they seem! Were there Vikings in the fecund archipelagos?
Mr. Henderson has only foggy notions of geography. This is the case with many people in the United States of America. Ozark attributes it to the doctrine of American exceptionalism and, of course, to logocentrism, and to the education system, and also to geo-political restructuring as managed by Capital. How many borders have changed in Mrs. Borage’s lifetime?
“The border between life and death certainly,” says Mrs. Borage. “All the borders of Moldova. And Limbo, entirely annexed. It goes on and on.”
Mr. Henderson checks his wall calendar. As he suspected, it is Leif Erikson Day. He takes the small bag of prunes and the smaller bag of hazelnuts from the cupboard. Not for the birds. They might choke. Prunes and hazelnuts—it is the muesli of Vikings.
Mrs. Borage’s eyes are closed. She is singing a Viking song. It tells the old tale of Gudrid the Wanderer: the white sun, the sea of worms.
The adult nieces of Mrs. Borage have come outside to dance. They are singing a Viking song, also. It is not nearly as doleful. The adult nieces of Mrs. Borage sing:
Can’t you hear my love buzz?
Can’t you hear my love buzz?
Can’t you hear my love buzz?
Mr. Henderson gives the muesli to the niece in the leather chaps and Trafalgar jacket. She doffs her three-cornered hat. Strange that Leif Erikson Day should fall just a few days before Mrs. Borage’s birthday! Leif Erikson Day comes earlier each year.
Mr. Henderson feels something squish beneath his shoe. He has just stepped on a marzipan egg. The marzipan eggs are not holding up well in the warmer weather.
“I can make egg cups,” thinks Mr. Henderson. He should be able to do that much at least. Mr. Henderson tries to open the door to his garage. He pushes harder and harder. He sees a tuft of bear fur. Has a bear taken up residence in the garage? Mr. Henderson imagines himself making egg cups, each as fragile as an egg shell, encircled by bears. He knocks gently on the door.
“Mr. Bear,” says Mr. Henderson.
“Ms. Kidney,” says Ms. Kidney. She climbs out from her parka and rubs the sleep from her eyes. In her dream, executives from FAO Schwartz were attempting to steal her sled for their Christmas display.
“We will stop at nothing,” threatened the top executive, as more and more executives poured out from beneath her enormous skirt. Ms. Kidney looks at Mr. Henderson. He looks nothing like the tiny executives, but neither is he Mr. Bear!
“Mr. Buzzard,” says Ms. Kidney. Mr. Henderson feels very nervous. He sidles into his garage and sits on his stool. Ms. Kidney sits back down on her parka. They look at each other.
“I am drinking your port,” confesses Ms. Kidney.
“I don’t have any port,” says Mr. Henderson.
“Tawny port,” says Ms. Kidney.
“I don’t thinks so,” says Mr. Henderson.
“Ruby port,” says Ms. Kidney. Mr. Henderson blinks helplessly.
“You’re a gillyflower, aren’t you?” sighs Ms. Kidney. “Well, your port is the excelsior.”
“I’m glad you like it,” says Mr. Henderson, at last.
“And damn the Bishop of Norwich!” says Ms. Kidney. “Are you with me? Eh, demijohn?”
Mr. Henderson nods at Ms. Kidney.
“I am with you,” he says. “But if you don’t mind…” He faces his wheel. He pumps a few times with his foot.
“It’s not Basil Fool-for-Christmas, is it?” says Ms. Kidney. Mr. Henderson turns back around.
“Skulldugging dream I was having,” says Ms. Kidney. “Little men in penguin suits.”
“No,” says Mr. Henderson. “It is Leif Erikson Day.”
“So it is,” says Ms. Kidney. “Do you have a stronger drop?”
“A stronger drop?” says Mr. Henderson.
“Stronger than the port,” says Ms. Kidney. “A nip for old Lucky?”
“I don’t have any port,” says Mr. Henderson.
“Yes, we’ve drunk it,” sighs Ms. Kidney. “Do you know any knot tricks?” Ms. Kidney ties a magnus hitch.
The Mothering Coven Page 3