At what cost would she have those things the monk promised her?
But if by some miracle she were to stay, would things ever be the same? And if she was destined to be the War Goddess, would life as a dirt-girl ever satisfy her?
It was almost dawn when I walked back to the house, the monk’s metal cup in my hands. Our neighbors—what few of them there were—were already coming into the fields. I stopped and watched one mother walk up the road with a hand to her side as if she were in pain, a baby slung over her back and another little girl of about three running beside her, and her belly swollen big and ripe with the next one. They were my neighbors. I knew their names and their dispositions, but suddenly they seemed like strangers.
The little girl tripped and fell on her bare knees in the dirt.
“Hush,” her mother told her when she started to cry. “We have work to do.” And she bent and lifted the little girl to her feet, dusting off her knees and kissing her hair.
I turned and walked the rest of the way to the house, tears scratching the corners of my eyes.
When I opened the door, Aria was already up and dressed. She had folded her nightshirt, and she was sitting on the edge of her mattress, clutching one of her corn-husk dolls with both hands.
“Will the monks let me take Deer?” she asked, blinking up at me.
“I’ll tell them to,” I said.
“I wish you could come.”
“So do I, Aria.”
I sank to my knees in front of her, put the monks’ goblet aside, and gathered her up in my arms so tightly I didn’t know if she’d be able to breathe. I cried against her shoulder for a long time. She was a good girl. She tangled her fingers in my hair and let me.
“You be good to your fancy clothes,” I told her. “And keep your hands clean.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“And listen to the monks when they tell you to do something, all right? Don’t be hard-headed.”
She nodded and swiped at her nose with the back of her hand. I wanted to tell her to be merciful and just, but the words would not come out of my mouth. I wanted to tell her a hundred other things, too, but instead we walked outside to wait with Jaren for the monks. They came in a long, snaky line, walking down from the road, the wooden litter bobbing in the middle like a branch in a stream.
Before they took Aria, I snapped off a handful of forget-me-nots from the roof and pressed them into the hand that was not clutching Deer. “Remember me, Aria,” I whispered.
Jaren knelt and gave Aria a hug, then stood and put his hand on my shoulder.
The Senior came down the path toward us. He didn’t mention the cup. I didn’t say anything to him. I held Aria’s hand until the monk gently pried my fingers from hers and led her away. She only turned around once, biting her lip, her eyes too big.
Jaren tried to guide me into the house. But standing in the doorway, I thought I heard Aria say, “Good-bye, Mama.” When I looked over my shoulder, they had already lifted her up into the litter and settled it on their shoulders. She opened her hand and stared at the flowers lying flat on her palm, then clenched her hand into a fist. The forget-me-nots stuck out through the gaps. That was the image of Aria they left me with—that handful of crushed forget-me-nots.
And the sight of the dust cloud fading away into the horizon, until it became a film on my eyes, like tears.
Copyright © 2001 Angela Boord
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Angela Boord lives in St. Louis, Missouri with her husband, two children, and lots of plants. Before her tour of duty as a stay-at-home Mom, she did graduate work in anthropology and wrote manuals for accounting software. She is currently at work on a fantasy novel. For more information about her, see her Web site.
Judith Huey is a mixed media artist who uses everything from computer software, Bryce and Painter, to watercolors and oils. She was Alabama Wildlife Artist of the Year and designed the 1997 Alabama Duck Stamp, and her work has appeared in museum shows, fine art galleries, paperback book covers, and online magazine illustrations. Her sales range from $15.00 to $7,000 depending on medium and size. Judith’s work includes portraits of children, adults in costume, fantasy, horror, and scifi pieces.
Chameleon
By Beth Bernobich
Part 1 of 2
11/12/01
I am Chameleon.
The morning sun shines through me. I have no flesh to stop the light; no skin to catch its glory, reflect a color, or cast a shadow. I am far more than ghost; and yet, without substance, I am too much like one.
So I take up characters as I would a deck of cards. I shuffle and cut them, letting the cards flicker past; then I close my eyes and choose one.
At first glance, the card looks plain, but when you study the inkwork, you see its complex design. Look at the face—no glitter here, no cheap seduction. Its very subtlety provokes me.
My name is Sarah.
With broad strokes I sketch an outline. I make Sarah lank and tall; I dress her neatly and without distinction—white blouse, dark knitted skirt, shoes dulled and scuffed at their toes. She looks ordinary—deliberately so. But with her eyes, I can gaze upon my audience; through her mouth I will speak.
I’m twenty-four. I’m not pretty, but as my mother said, I’ll do.
More details now. I mix reserve with unexpected warmth. I choose a hundred flaws, and balance them with grace. Each trait, each quirk and gesture yet unmade, I sketch from the vision within. At last she stands before me.
One word, and she breathes. One touch, and we merge together. Soul within soul, we leave the void of creation.
* * * *
The air around us thickened as we entered downtown New Haven. Sarah and I were walking along an uneven sidewalk. It was twilight; the streets were veiled with mist, the air scented with asphalt and the faint aroma of curry. A chain link fence bordered our path; on it hung a battered sign reading “Yale University Housing/No Trespassing.” Streetlights punctuated the haze at irregular intervals.
Rounding a corner, we passed two young men and a woman, who chattered about lectures and books and where to find the cheapest falafel. Moments later, a group of teenagers passed in the opposite direction, their conversation lilting from English into Spanish and back. Emotions flickered across my palate, the raw and pungent mélange of youthful desires. I absorbed knowledge about the city from every passerby, but no one stared—I was just another pedestrian in this neighborhood, where university and town intersected.
We passed into better-lit streets, to a neighborhood of chic stores and glass-fronted bistros, where couples strolled along brick sidewalks. Jewelry, collectibles, gourmet coffees … I read the shop signboards as we walked. Then, wedged between an African art gallery and a laundromat, an older tavern caught my notice. Its heavy wooden doors stood half-open, and from within came the roar of conversation mixed with laughter and music. Here, I decided.
Sarah obeyed, entering the tavern. Men and women thronged the bar. We pressed through the crowd; from all sides I tasted a rich medley of passions, but I did not pause. I would not feed on scraps and leavings. No, tonight I wished to dine exquisitely.
A nearby laugh punctured the din. Glancing toward it, I caught sight of a woman murmuring to her companion. I noted her plum-soft lips, her perfume like spice, her amber skin and crimson fingernails. She looked directly at me, and I stopped.
The boundary between me and the exterior world thinned. Sarah receded, and I sampled the woman’s emotions, expecting opulence. But no. Beneath her polished exterior, I found only a meager passion, dulled by repetition. I turned away.
Under my direction, Sarah found a table near the back and gave her order to the waitress. While we waited for our drink, Sarah traced the rings on the table’s scarred surface. The tavern looked far from fashionable; pale stucco covered the walls. Hidden spotlights illuminated replicas of Degas’s ballerinas, Van Gogh’s sunflowers, and the muted blue figures of Picasso’s early period. Chandeliers, hung from wooden beams, gilded the drifting wreaths of cigarette smoke. A faint memory—of other taverns, in other lands—floated through her thoughts, only to vanish when the waitress appeared with Sarah’s drink.
Sarah swirled the wine in her glass, watching the bubbles spin and break apart. She sighed, as though tired, and took a sip. While I kept her busy, I sketched memories of a family: a mother, a younger sister, a father who died five years ago. With quick strokes, I added enough texture for the usual questions which strangers exchange. One stranger, I thought, for I now wanted a companion.