The Lion of Farside by John Dalmas

“But what if I don’t want magical powers?” I asked her.

She didn’t answer right away. Then she said, “If you were blind, and didn’t entirely believe in sight, you might be uncomfortable if I said I wanted to open your eyes.”

I didn’t have anything to answer, so I nodded and told her fine, let’s do it. It would make her happy, and I figured she wouldn’t do something bad for me. My problem, I told myself, was I was scared of what I didn’t know. I’d been scared that night the transparent Varia took me home with her, too, and look how much I’d liked that after we got there! But I still felt uncomfortable about “opening my magical powers.”

Over several weeks, I couldn’t see we were making any progress. Varia said it was a little like putting a pot of water on the stove to boil: You wait and wait, and nothing seems to be happening, and suddenly there it is boiling. I couldn’t help wondering, though, if maybe the wood in my firebox was piss elm, and wouldn’t burn.

One evening when we’d finished, her eyes didn’t have their usual steadiness, and I asked her if anything was wrong.

“Not with you,” she said.

“With what, then?”

“I guess I’m just tired.”

“Looks like more than tired. Looks like worried.”

She smiled. “See? Your powers are coming back. I was thinking about my children; all forty-one of them.”

Yeah, I thought to myself, maybe my powers are coming back, ’cause I can tell you’re lying to me. I really didn’t believe they were; just a look at her face told me. But I wasn’t going to badger her. “I’ll have the plowing done tomorrow morning,” I said. “Maybe you and I ought to take the rest of the day off. Go in to Decatur and walk through the stores. Buy some ice cream, and celebrate. Maybe Morath will even divide my cows up between his daughters to milk in the evening, and we can blow twenty cents on a movie.”

She came over and kissed me, tears in her eyes. “Curtis, you’re so nice, I love you more than you know. If anything ever happens to me, I want you to remember that. Regardless of anything. And tomorrow—tomorrow I’d love to go to Decatur with you when you’re done plowing.”

That’s Varia for you, always thinking, always trying to do the right thing. I still didn’t realize how well I’d married. A good good woman.

Anyway, when tomorrow got there, and I’d milked and had breakfast, her tune had changed. “Before we blow any money on ice cream and a movie,” she said, “there are things I need to do to this house. Let the plowing wait till this afternoon.” She handed me a list. “I want you to get these things for me right now. I need to civilize this kitchen.”

I stared at her. She was standing there kind of like Ma did in front of Pa sometimes, when she didn’t want any argument. I looked at the list: red and white checkered oil cloth, paint, and eight or ten other things she had every right to want, or even have. But none of it seemed very important, and I’d have to chase all over town to get it. “Okay,” I grumped. I’d never been grumpy before with Varia; I didn’t even give her a kiss, sad to say. How many times I felt bad about that.

I went out to the truck, gave it a crank, and drove off to Decatur. It was almost noon when I got back. By that time I’d convinced myself she’d gotten pregnant; I’d heard how women can get notional when they’re pregnant. When I walked into the house, she wasn’t in the kitchen, and I felt a little pang. “Honey!” I called out, “I’m back! I got your stuff!”

She didn’t answer, and I got a sick feeling. Two weeks before, I’d have told myself I was scared she’d gone off and left me because I hadn’t given her that kiss, but now I hardly glanced at the idea. It was something a lot worse. “Maybe she’s out in the privy,” I muttered, but didn’t believe that either, not even enough to go out and call to her. Instead, somehow or other I went into the pantry, and there on the counter was some folded tablet paper held down by a stove-lid handle. I unfolded it and started reading, though somehow I knew what had happened—not the details, but the main thing.

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