Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 17

by Kelly Link Gavin J. Grant

  Simon lurched to his feet, slid a ten dollar bill under his bowl and hurried after her. It was too much money, but he couldn't wait for change. This might be the lure the Madonna had been waiting for, and he had to know what she would do with it.

  As the door closed behind him he heard Maria call his name, but the Madonna was descending the stairs and he had to follow.

  He reached the riverbed in time to see her disappear around a bend, far upstream. Dropping all caution he began to jog. The riverbed curved around and he found himself in a park that surrounded a shallow crater, crisscrossed with thick pipes—the would-be source of the Donwell River. The Madonna was nowhere in sight.

  The sun had baked the bottom of the pond into hardpan and fissures, and a turtle the size of a dinner-plate sprawled there, its pink mouth hanging open. Simon wondered where the creature had come from and how long turtles could survive without water. This one looked parched.

  He considered taking it home with him. It could live in his bathtub until the city finally flooded the river, if they ever did. He reached down to pick it up but it snapped at him and he recoiled.

  "Quite right,” he said. “A turtle would be miserable in a bathtub."

  It crawled over to a well-rusted pipe, clawed feebly at it, and collapsed.

  "Hang on a minute,” he said, searching for a suitable chunk of rock.

  With a resounding clang, he smashed a piece of granite against the pipe. Too resounding. What he was doing probably constituted vandalism. He glanced around but no one was in sight. With his next blow, he hit the pipe closer to the ground, letting the mud dampen the sound.

  He'd meant to make a small hole to give the turtle something to drink, but on the fifth impact the weakened metal split open and a fountain of water sprang up, soaking Simon to his knees.

  He dropped the rock and ran.

  Panic carried him as far as the bridge, at which point he decided that running would only draw attention to himself. He paused to catch his breath and the water overtook him. Anxiety was replaced with an unexpected surge of pride. It was barely two feet wide, but today it was his stream.

  If there was a bit more of a skip to his stride as he followed his fledgling stream home, no one witnessed it. The only people he passed were a young boy and girl, and they were too absorbed in floating a newspaper boat over pebble rapids to pay attention to passers-by.

  That night he dreamt he was underwater trying to catch the Madonna who swam like a fish, farther and farther ahead of him, undulating in her tight black pants and thin blue T-shirt, and trailing the gold and brown lure behind her.

  * * * *

  The small stream inspired a flurry of donations. By Wednesday the daylighting project was in the black; by Thursday the work-stoppage had been reversed; and by Saturday crews had laid down a proper stone-dust path and dumped truckloads of topsoil on either side of it. Nature joined in, dusting the willows with green buds. Simon could have sworn they'd been nothing more than saplings a couple of weeks ago, but today, as he walked to the café, they swept up over his head. One of the abandoned warehouses sported a new sign, advertising lofts with a river view, illustrated in a familiar style, showing a fisherman in hip-waders standing in the middle of the water.

  The café buzzed with the anticipation of summer, and Maria was wiping down the only vacant table, which happened to be next to the Madonna's. When she saw him, she pulled out a chair and patted its back. Simon sat down, feeling guilty for running off the week before.

  "The usual?” Maria asked, without her customary smile.

  He nodded, wondering if she was mad at him. He was only curious about the Madonna, he reminded himself, nothing more. Besides, Maria was married, so why should she care?

  The Madonna had exchanged muted colors for a thin red sweater that hugged her curves and plunged at the neckline. An assortment of feathers, fur, and thread lay before her, which she stared at, frowning.

  With a sudden gesture of dismissal, she swept everything off the table and onto the floor. Whipping out a pair of scissors she snipped at the collar of her sweater, and pulled away a bit of wool. Blood beaded on her pale skin. She looked up, past Simon, towards the invisible river beyond, grasped a lock of her hair and hacked it off. Working a thread loose from the waist-band of her black trousers, she unraveled a fair length, and cut it off.

  Moving surely, snipping and wrapping and knotting, she made a body of red for the fly and tied a soft halo of silver hair around it with the black thread. After a cursory inspection, she thrust it into her trouser pocket and rose smoothly to her feet.

  Before his conscious mind had a chance to stop him, Simon leapt up, sending his wrought iron chair crashing over backwards.

  "Let me be the fish you're trying to catch,” he blurted out, and immediately regretted it.

  She pushed passed him as if he were no more than an obstacle to be negotiated, dropped an envelope and some money by the cash, and left.

  Painfully aware that every eye in the place was fixed on him, he righted his chair and retreated to the counter.

  Maria was examining the envelope, which had her name written across it in a flowing script. She glanced up at him eyebrow raised, and his heart sank further. But he must have appeared as pathetic as he felt because her stern expression began to crinkle at the edges. She poured a fresh cup of coffee and spiked it with a bottle from beneath the counter.

  "Frangelico, to mend a broken heart,” she said passing it to him with a smile.

  He took a long swig.

  "My heart wasn't in any risk of being broken,” he said to no-one in particular.

  Maria's smile widened and he suspected she might be laughing at him.

  She leaned across the counter and whispered, “A man can do a lot more with a warm-blooded woman than he can do pining after a silver-haired Madonna."

  Her words mixed with the Frangelico in his belly in a most inappropriate way, spreading a tingling heat into parts of his body that it seemed were best left ignored. Blocking those feelings absorbed most of his attention, leaving him at a loss for conversation.

  "What did the Madonna leave you?” he asked, finally.

  "I have no idea,” Maria replied, slitting open the envelope.

  The cozy brown housefly tumbled out.

  "That's the lure she tied last Saturday....” Simon trailed off, feeling guilty again.

  He picked up the fly and examined it.

  "The gold and the brown, it's some kind of fabric,” he said, handing it to Maria.

  To his surprise, her face drained of color, and then flushed deep burgundy.

  "This is the fly that got you racing after the Madonna last Saturday?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  "Do you know what she made this out of?” she asked him.

  "No."

  "It's made from a piece of the paisley skirt my niece, Tony's oldest, gave me. I noticed a nick in it after she left last Saturday. And look, the little legs are made out of hair the same color as—"

  "Tony's your brother?” Simon interrupted.

  "Of course. What did you think?"

  Simon just shook his head. He watched Maria's hands move as she talked. No ring.

  She was trying to tell him something about the fly but he began to panic that he'd make as much of a fool out of himself with her as he had with the Madonna, so he excused himself and walked home, more confused than ever.

  * * * *

  Simon opened his eyes. The faintest pre-dawn light outlined his window blind. What had woken him? Was someone in the condo? He listened for an intruder, but all sounds were washed out by a dull throb from outside. The river!

  Simon leapt out of bed, raced down the hall, crossed the living room, and flung open the door to the balcony. The night air chilled his bare skin but the undulating surface of the river mesmerized him. He wondered whether Maria knew that the Donwell had finally been freed.

  Leaving the door open so the full roar of the river could fill his apartment
, Simon returned to the bedroom. He pulled on random pieces of clothing from the laundry pile, grabbed his jacket, then descended the stairs, two at a time, and ran out into the twilight.

  The willow's branches, weighed down by freshly unfurled leaves, trailed in the current. Simon knelt beside the tree and dipped his hand into the water. Cold bit at his fingers but he kept them submerged, feeling the river push at him like a living thing.

  He stood and wiped his hand on his jeans. No lights were visible in any of the apartment buildings or houses, but instead of returning sensibly to his own bed, Simon headed upstream. He got as far as the abandoned warehouse, when a figure emerged out of the shadows, striding towards him. He recognized the red blur of the woman's sweater and the pale glow of her silver hair. The Madonna. She was carrying a fishing rod and a net hung from her belt. Before their paths could cross, she turned aside, walking straight into the river.

  "Hey,” he yelled, running to the water's edge. “Come back. It's too dangerous. You don't know how deep it is."

  He thought he heard her laugh, but it might have only been the rush and splash of the river.

  When the water reached mid-thigh she stopped and began to pay out the gossamer line. With a snap of her wrist, she lifted it into the air. Turning slowly, she flicked it in arcs above her head, and Simon had to duck as the fly came speeding towards him. Once she was facing upstream she let the line float gently down. After a few minutes she cast her fly to another spot, nearer to shore.

  Simon kept pace with her as she waded further upstream with each flip and cast. They had almost reached the bridge when the tip of her pole dipped. She leaned back, raising the rod up to perpendicular. The line zipped towards the far shore and grew slack. She reeled it in until it was taut, paused, then reeled it in some more. A large silver head emerged at her thighs. Trapping the rod beneath her arm, she unclipped the net and scooped it under the fish.

  The creature fought his captivity, sending spray high into the brightening sky as the Madonna pried open his mouth and released the hook. She grabbed him firmly with both hands, letting the rod and net slip away.

  The huge fish thrashed, but her grip was true. She lifted him up and kissed him, long and hard, full on his fishy mouth. The sun broke over the horizon, shooting a shaft of light between two buildings to illuminate the pair. In the sudden glare, the Madonna vanished and two fish fell, with a splash, into the river.

  Simon waded in, staring at the place where she had last stood, wondering if he had lost his mind. The monster fish broke the surface just in front of him. Startled, he stumbled back, landing in a patch of cattails. Another, slimmer fish leapt shining out into daylight, turned in midair, and followed the first downstream.

  With their passing, the roar in his ears subsided to a gentle gurgle and he could hear the songbirds raising their voices in the morning choir.

  The fishing rod had snagged in some water lilies a few feet away. He didn't think the plants had been there ten minutes earlier, but after what he'd just seen, he supposed anything was possible. He waded over to retrieve the rod. The mauled fly still dangled from the end of its line.

  "Planning on catching something?” a familiar voice called from across the river.

  Maria leaned against the brick wall of the café, awash in golden sunrise.

  "I wouldn't want to catch anything in this river,” he said, tossing the fishing gear onto the ground behind him.

  "You shouldn't judge others by their choice in Prince Charmings,” she replied.

  "So you saw it too?"

  Maria being there the whole time grounded the Madonna's transformation solidly in reality. She nodded and began to pick her way down the steep slope.

  "It would appear that Madonnas require audiences,” she said. “Fortunately, Tony's agreed to the patio, as long as we can get a deal on stones, and can coax friends and family into helping out. So people will be able to sit out here all summer long and admire her work."

  Simon realized he was on the wrong side of the river and began to wade across. The water didn't seem nearly so cold as before.

  "I'd be interested in helping out,” he said. “That is, if you'd like me to."

  He'd intended it to sound casual but Maria didn't answer right away, leaving the words hanging in the air between them, gathering nuance. The water reached his waist, and the strong current threatened his balance. And then he was through the deepest part and he knew that Maria's silence also contained meaning.

  As he approached the shore, she reached out a hand. He grabbed it and scrambled up the loose bank onto solid ground. The fuzzy housefly hung on a gold chain around her neck, and it brushed the top of her cleavage as she drew a deep breath.

  "You're sopping wet,” Maria said, smiling, his hand still firmly gripped in hers. “Come up to the café and I'll make you a hot cup of coffee."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Native Spinsters by Diana Pharaoh Francis

  ...and William Osbourne shot his sixth tiger in as many months, and the jamadars ran before the elephants all the way from camp, lauding his victory in quite a ferocious manner. I shot nothing and was forced to trail behind in disgrace.

  * * * *

  Fanny paused, her eyes gritty. She scanned again the brief missive she'd begun drafting three hours before. It said nothing of any consequence. But how did one broach such a subject as she must do?

  A dozen crumpled sheets of parchment littered her desk and the floor beneath, giving mute testimony to her many false starts. She eyed the jerky handwriting on the letter before her, wanting to crumple it as well, wanting not to have to write anything at all, wanting to erase the last day entirely. She closed her eyes. If only Caroline Hughes had had more strength of character—But no, she had been raised to fall by a father who had forgotten all about duty and honor.

  Fanny opened her eyes and shook her head, dipping her pen in the well. She sat poised, searching for the words that seemed immensely inadequate. She glanced at the open doorway where the aide-de-camp tapped his toe, staring down his nose at her tailors lining the corridor walls. She bent back over her page.

  Dearest sister, I come at last to the close of this letter, for the packet sails tonight and George says there won't be another for a month. However, I must venture one more thing, though I do not even know how to enter into the subject, except to dive right in without fear of consequence.

  Previously, both Emily and I have written recommending to you Miss Hughes. But something has occurred which has convinced me that you must not, on any account, receive her. Forgive my mysteriousness, but I have no time to explain more. All I can offer is that she really is not one of us, and you simply must not allow her entrance to Bowood.

  Your fondest sister,

  Fanny

  Barrackpore, 1838

  Fanny set aside the quill. Did it say enough? It must. She blotted the letter, blotching her signature as she did. She frowned at the smear. There was no help for it, she decided wearily, hearing the aide-de-camp rocking impatiently onto his heels.

  She folded the paper, creasing the edges and sealing the flap with a dollop of green wax. She bore down on her seal with unnecessary force and the F surrounded by willow leaves distorted with the pressure. The hovering young man returned the slight smile she gave him with a curt nod and spun out into the passageway. He tripped over the tailors who sat cross-legged with yards of green Chinese silk pooling about them, sewing on Fanny's gown for Mrs. Thoby Prinsep's ball. He spoke sharply at them in unintelligible Hindustani and then strode off down the corridor.

  Fanny retreated to the window, wishing for a breath of fresh, cool air. The sun was sinking, but it made no difference to the heat and humidity. The brilliant oranges and reds bled through the limp mosquito netting swathing the wide opening, putting a feverish blush on the room. In that unguarded moment, the unwanted memory grabbed at her again, She cowered to the floor, clutching her arms around herself. Choked, groaning sounds emanated from between her stiff
, white lips. Behind her the punkah swished, pulled by a young man in a turban who carefully pretended he wasn't there, though he rolled his eyes at the peculiar behavior of the English memsahib.

  The memory seeped away. Fanny willed herself to get up before someone in the hall noticed her weakness. Oh, but to have doors on her room so that she could shut out the stuffy, bustling aides-de-camp and the chattering tailors!

  Please God, let the letter be in time!

  Letters had such a habit of going astray, of lying forgotten in a customs house or in a pile of government correspondence.

  She really is not one of us.

  How could Eleanor begin to understand the depth of her warning? Even if Fanny had acquainted her with the story....

  But no. She could never tell Eleanor, nor anyone else.

  She really is not one of us.

  Because she was—

  Was not—

  Not even—

  The words still wouldn't come. She couldn't bear to think them, not even for a moment. She wouldn't think them. She would not remember.

  Oh, how Fanny hated India!

  * * * *

  "We are to take a drive to a bit of ruins they say is quite lovely and sketchable,” Fanny informed her elder sister Emily, who reclined on a chaise, her skin doughy, her usually snapping eyes sunken and dull. “Some of George's men discovered it hidden in a lovely little valley. It appears we shall be the first visitors to it for many years."

  "I don't think so, dearest,” replied Emily in a faded voice. “I cannot seem to shake off this dullness. I shall read the latest by Boz and drink that dreadful concoction Dr. Drummond left for me. You might take poor Miss Hughes. She has been at such loose ends since her father passed. And the packet to take her home won't come for a few more days at least. She's really quite pleasant and quiet."

  A fleeting frown sharpened Fanny's expression. To spend an entire day with Caroline Hughes? How deadly! After a moment, however, she smoothed away the frown and bent to give her invalid sister a smile and a kiss on the cheek.