At mid-afternoon, the Constable sits down as well. He feels he should offer them something. He has nothing to give.
“Where is our child?” the egg woman asks.
“What has she done?” the junk man sighs.
They do not move from that spot. By late afternoon, the first landship arrives. And another. And another. They encircle the town, like a noose.
26. Now.
They spend the night together, the Sparrow and Jonah, going from house to house, holding tightly to one another’s hands as they run through the town. Rapping on windows. Crying through the locks.
“Come,” they say. “Come with us.”
And they do come. As young as five, and as old as twenty. They rub the sleep from their eyes, and throw homemade woolens over their nightclothes. They tramp silently into the dewy starlight.
“Okay,” they say. “We’ll come. We’ll follow you anywhere.”
They can see the Sparrow. They can’t remember not seeing her. And they love her. And she loves them. So much.
The butterfly clings to the Sparrow’s back, making her look as though she has luminescent wings—which is helpful for spotting her in the dark. The dogs lope along the sides of the growing crowd, herding the stragglers back to the group.
“This way,” the Sparrow calls. “To the rubbish heap. It’s where things start.”
None of the children have ever been to the rubbish heap—indeed, they’ve been warned away from it. Rumors insist that it is haunted by ghosts. And if not ghosts, the junk man, who is just as bad. The way he talks to himself. The way he has conversations with people who are not there.
“Trust me,” the Sparrow says. And they do.
Jonah refuses to let go of her hand, even though his hand has begun to ooze. His blisters now have blisters. He won’t be able to use that hand for a month. But it’s worth it. He will hang on to the girl with the butterfly wings until he cannot.
The Sparrow is barely there. She can feel each cell, each molecule, each electron cloud—the bonds between every speck begin to shiver and moan. She is a thing in flux. Not particle, not wave. Something else.
“The Boro comet,” she tells the children, “does not cause the magic. I was born under the comet’s influence, but it is not the comet that made me what I am. The comet draws. It doesn’t make. There is an ocean underground—an ocean that swirls and swells. There is a tsunami under our feet, and we are going to let it loose. Let it cover the world.”
“But the Minister—”
“If we are all blessed, then we are all empowered. If we are all enhanced, then we are all protected. And if the magic is diluted, then there will be nothing for the Minister to mine.”
“How will it happen?”
“It is already happening. You feel it, don’t you?”
And they do. The buzz in their anklebones. The crackle in the air. The slightly wobbly feeling, as though the ground under their feet was about to give way.
“Hold hands,” the Sparrow says. “The first wave is about to hit.”
27. Now.
Soldiers flank the landships and move in procession into the town, marching by twos along the West Road, their faces hidden behind the perpetual grins of their metal masks, the required iron rings welded around their throats.
Once a soldier, always a soldier, whisper the townspeople as they pass. Poor things.
The soldiers’ boots are polished to a high gleam. Each smart stride leaves the smile of their heels pressed into the ooze of the road. Their knees snap; their wool-clad thighs whip forward; their electric eyes do not drift to the right or the left, and they betray no feeling or thought.
The junk man hails them as they march by.
“Welcome misters,” he says with a toothless grin. The egg woman elbows him in the ribs. Her hair stands on end. Her eyelashes have begun to singe. There is something coming. It is underground. It is in the air. It is all around them.
28. Now.
The children head into town at a run. They are sun and water and wave. Kinetic energy. They are comet and star and nebula. The vacuum of space. The multilayered folds of time. They are all these things at once.
Frogs appear in their pockets. Birds appear overhead. The children have cats’ ears or lizards’ tails or wings. They are giants, then elves, then nothing at all. Another wave hits. They change again.
The butterfly clings to the Sparrow’s back, lifting her above the crowd. Jonah runs below her, keeping the girl in view. His hand is burned. It will scar. He does not care.
The Sparrow sees the landships surrounding the town. She sees the soldiers crowding the streets. She laughs.
“That’s not a landship,” she says. The children below her agree.
“It’s a bunny,” one of the smaller children says. And indeed, the landship is a bunny. It was always a bunny. It has a bow around its neck. “And that one is a cow,” another child says, pointing at the next landship.
“And that one is an ice-cream cart.”
“And that one is my mom.”
As landship after landship transforms, their occupants go tumbling out onto the ground. Soldiers. They are flabbergasted.
The Sparrow blows a kiss at a soldier. His mask transforms into a butterfly and flutters away. His eyes flood with tears. He falls to his knees.
“An angel,” he cries, as another soldier is freed.
“A god,” cries the next.
The soldiers stumble and scatter. They blink their flesh eyes again and again, seeing as a baby sees.
The children don’t stop. They weave through the astonished soldiers and speed past the abandoned landships. They run faster.
“The fountain!” the Sparrow calls. “Run to the fountain!”
The Minister is waiting for them. His personal landship has parked in the center of the square, which is deserted, except for a bone-thin man and a boulder-thick woman and a man in a constable’s uniform, sitting side by side by side on the fountain wall.
The Minister looks down. The three stare blankly back.
Imbeciles, he thinks. They must be imbeciles.
He can feel the magic in the air. He can taste it on his tongue. He thinks of his tower—his beautiful tower. He thinks of the Boro comet, due to come in a decade. What’s a decade to a man so enhanced? It’s like waiting for afternoon tea! He imagines grasping the comet in his hands. He imagines devouring its magic, crunching it between his molars. He imagines becoming sated, at last.
He thinks of his mother’s face. That scar curving down her cheek. He thinks of her polished boots, marching away. Magic can bring her back. He is sure of it. If only he can catch that comet. Just as she told him to, all those years ago.
He hears the sound of small feet. He hears the voices of children. He feels their breathing and their energy and their joy.
Red flowers, he thinks. Red, red, red, red.
The Minister presses his hands to his mouth. He falls to his knees.
He wishes he had earplugs to silence his own screams.
29. Now.
The Sparrow sees the Minister on the deck of a landship. Weeping like a child. He shivers and shakes. The Minister rests his head on his knees. He calls for his mother.
“Oh,” she says, her voice echoing strangely off every surface of the town. She is a chorus, a flock of sparrows, flying away. “You poor, poor man.”
The Minister looks up. He is so afraid. Still he stands. Still he tries to look the part.
“My wayward magician,” he calls out. His voice squeaks. He is both enraged and embarrassed. “At last.”
The Sparrow floats above him. The butterfly flutters nearby—she doesn’t need it anymore. The children crowd into the square. They are a chattering mass, surrounding the landship and the fountain. They climb trees and balance on signs and climb on top of carts.<
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The Sparrow glances down at the junk man and the egg woman, still sitting on the edge of the fountain.
“My baby!” the junk man says.
“My baby,” the egg woman whispers.
And it’s true. She is their child. The both of them. The Constable is her grandfather. Of course he is. How sorry she will be to leave them. Already, she is not solid. She is a storm cloud. An electric shock. She will strike, and then she will dissipate.
“I have come to give you a present,” the Sparrow says.
“I am here to receive it,” the Minister seethes. His voice is syrup. It is oil. It leaves a slick on the skin that does not wash off.
There is another wave coming. The largest yet. The Sparrow is unstable. She could blow at any minute. She turns to her mother and her father and her grandfather.
“I love you,” she says. “I love you, I love you, I love you. Don’t forget me.”
The wave surges under the junk heap (strange new animals made of old boots and broken glass and springs scatter into the forest), under the munitions factory (each bullet becomes a blossom, each firearm a shovel, each chemical a love note to the brokenhearted), under the school (the chalk grows arms and legs, the switch sprouts wings, each desk becomes a hammock, and flowers spring from the floor). The Sparrow lands before the Minister. She holds out her hand. He lays his own upon it, palm to palm. It burns. He winces.
“Are you sick?”
“Yes,” she says. “But not for long.”
The wave arrives. It surges under the fountain and pours out the top. It submerges the town, the farms, the forests and the road. The neighboring provinces. The capital. The magic pours and pours and pours.
“What is this?” the Minister whispers.
“An act of love,” the Sparrow whispers back. And she kisses him on the mouth.
There is heat. There is light. There is a crack in the world. There is the sound of something exploding—or something coming together. The Minister cannot tell.
The Minister sees his mother. The Minister sees stars. The Minister sees the Boro comet, hanging like a jewel around his own neck. He wraps his fingers around it. He traces his finger along the scar on his mother’s face, like a meteor streaking across the sky.
“I knew it,” he said.
And then there is only darkness.
And the Minister is gone.
30. Now.
There are no curtains on the window, at the junk man’s request, and as the sun invades his face first thing in the morning, his first thought is his missing cart. Indeed, every single morning for the last three months, the whereabouts and well-being of his cart were his daily first thought—best, he thought, to start with the small losses. Otherwise he might never get off the couch.
(The fact of his seemingly permanent place on the couch is a new development. He is inside, even. Still, after years sleeping out of doors, there are a few things he has insisted upon. The lack of curtains, for one. And at least one open window.)
He sits up, the memory of the cart’s delightful squeaking wheels echoing in his ears. He hangs on to the sound, like a touchstone. There are reports that, due to the whimsical and chaotic nature of the magic still leaking back into the land, the cart has, apparently, grown a stag’s head, and has been seen in the forest, happily munching the bark off a young maple tree. The junk man isn’t sure how he feels about this. He is fairly certain that the cart itself is made from maple. Wouldn’t that be cannibalism? He isn’t sure, but he is worried about his cart’s current moral path.
He hasn’t had a drink since the wave. Not a drop. He is suddenly very worried about moral paths.
He sees to the farm while Marla is indisposed. She hasn’t gotten out of bed since . . .
People called it the Blessing. And maybe it was. The soldiers were freed, after all. The Minister disappeared in a flash of light. And the strange things that had been leaking from the girl all those years. Well, they are everywhere now. The world is filled with sparrows. He grimaces just thinking about it. He swallows acid into his gut.
My Sparrow, my Sparrow, my Sparrow, he thinks as he pulls on his pants and slides his feet into almost new boots. Each syllable follows a heartbeat. My Sparrow. Each heartbeat is an elegy.
He goes into the yard to feed chickens. The red plumes, the purple bantams, the snow-white silkies. And of course, the legions of Midges, outnumbering the rest. The Midges take the longest—primarily, because there are so many, but also because they have been refusing to eat. They miss the girl. The junk man croons and cajoles, and finally persuades each Midge to eat. They do so begrudgingly. They remember how the girl loved him. They are doing it for the Sparrow. Everyone misses the girl. Even those who never laid eyes on her in their lives. They weep and mourn and rend their hair. They are desolate.
By the time the junk man goes inside, his feed bucket is empty and his egg basket is quite full. He has also gathered tomatoes and herbs and a dark purple pepper. He whips the eggs, fries the vegetables, and makes an omelet. He has never made an omelet. He has never even had one. He has never known the word omelet until this moment. But there it is—fluffy and delicate and perfect. A delight to the tongue.
So many things he can do now. He tells himself it is because he has given up the bottle. He knows it is because of the wave.
“Here,” he says, entering Marla’s room and throwing open the curtains. “Eat.” He sets the tray on the bedside table. He even included a vase of flowers.
“Go away,” the egg woman says. “I hate you.”
“I know,” the junk man says. “But I will not go away. You’re all I have left. And I love you. Hell, I’ve loved you for most of my life.”
He rests his hand on hers. They do not move. They stay that way, their grief pressing on their chests. Very slowly, she allows her fingers to interlace with his. Very slowly, she hooks him close, and hangs on tight.
31. Then.
The night Marla brought the Constable to their camp, the Sparrow woke up while everyone else was still asleep. The fire was low. The junk man had laid out blankets for the egg woman and the Constable and himself, and they curved toward its fading heat.
The Sparrow stared at the fire for a long time, until the logs blazed and a pile of glowing coals piled in the center. She watched as the bodies of the adults unraveled a bit, and relaxed. They would sleep longer if they were warm. She climbed out of her tree and ran down the darkened trail.
The Tice house slept hard in the dark. Though the Vox’s harsh rattle woke other families, the Tices chose to keep their pillows unpatriotically over their ears. They slept through it. They didn’t even stir.
“REMEMBER CITIZENS!” the Vox concluded as the Sparrow slid open the window. “NO ACT OF LOVE FOR OUR BELOVED MINISTER IS TOO SMALL. HE LOVES YOU. HE LOVES EVERY ONE OF YOU. WHAT WILL YOU DO TO SHOW YOUR LOVE TO OUR DEAR LEADER?”
The Sparrow stood in the living room. What would she do? She had an idea. She imagined the wave. She imagined it moving through her, moving through whatever she touched. He loves magic, she thought. He loves it so much. And he could be a part of it forever. Dissolved. Unified. A blessing.
He would never have enough. Not the way he was going after it. This was the only way to make him happy.
She tiptoed up the stairs, and climbed into Jonah Tice’s bed.
“Wake up!” she said, cuddling close.
He smiled.
“It’s you.”
“It’s me.”
“I remember you. And then you go away. And then I don’t remember you. How do you do that?”
“I don’t know.” The thought of it made her incredibly sad.
“I’m glad you’re here now,” he said. And he held her hand.
“Do you have a pocketknife?
He did. The Sparrow unwound one of her braids. She pulled out a lock of h
air and cut it with the knife, tying it into a tight bow and fitting it inside a locket that she had found on the rubbish heap. She put it around Jonah’s neck and secured the clasp.
“Isn’t this for a girl?” he asked.
“No. It’s for me to give to you, and for you to keep. One day, I will disappear. Either you will remember me, or you won’t.”
“I’ll remember you.”
“Sometimes you don’t.”
Jonah hung his head. It was true. And it shamed him. He imagined a needle and thread, stitching the memory of her into his soul. He felt himself bleed. He gripped the pendant. “I’ll never take it off. Never.”
“See that you don’t. When I disappear, throw the locket into the fountain.”
“And then what?”
“Maybe I’ll come back. Or maybe you’ll remember me, and that will be enough.”
“That’s not enough.”
“It’s enough for me. Promise. Promise you will.”
“Don’t go.”
“Promise.”
He listened to the snore of his parents, the song of crickets, the lonely cry of an owl in the dark. He hugged the Sparrow, who hugged him back.
“I promise.”
They fell asleep with their arms wrapped around one another, hanging on for dear life.
When Jonah woke, the Sparrow was gone. He didn’t remember her at all.
32. Now.
Jonah doesn’t keep his promise at first. When the wave came, the blast from its magic sent him flying backward. He hit a streetlamp, cracking his skull. The egg woman carried him in her arms to the doctor, who wasn’t sure he would make it.
And indeed, he didn’t want to make it. He watched the Sparrow disappear in a burst of light. There was nothing left of her. His heart would never heal.
As it turned out, while his heart, indeed, did not heal, his skull and his brain did. And when he woke, his pendant was gone.
Gone.
No one remembered seeing it.
His mother gathered him home to finish his recuperation. He refused to go out. He refused to eat. He stayed indoors for months, drawing pictures of the night sky and throwing them into the fire to be burned.
Dreadful Young Ladies and Other Stories Page 21