“Of course, even the deadliest weapon gets dulled with repeated use: although the old man had inherited a fine and speculative mind, as the years went by, he spent more and more time bent over a Ouija board, watching as the planchette spelled out messages like LIFE IS BUT A DREAM. His constant companion was a yellow-crested cockatiel, which rode everywhere on his shoulder until, one bright morning in the wintertime, the old woman woke to find her husband stretched out glassy-eyed across the floor beside his bed. She yelled at him to get up, but she might as well have held her breath. The old man had had a stroke and, from that moment on, the cockatiel chose for its perch the back of his wheelchair, as if wary of contact with human infirmity.
“‘Wgghh, wgghh, WGGHH!’ the old man would shout, to let his wife know that, even though he could no longer speak, he still had needs and desires.
“For her part—despite her occasional irritation at being summoned into the dark room where her husband sat, with his disturbingly sweet smell like milkweed—the old woman was happy. At last she could work on her needlepoint tapestry without the old man hanging over her shoulder, remarking on her choice of color or her sense of design. She had been stitching this tapestry for years, constantly revising the landscape, so that the saplings which had originally formed the lower border were now mature trees; through their branches you could just make out the surface of a river, likewise transformed over time from a restless flickering of silvers into a broad band, its depths hinted at in hues of umber and sable. Animals appeared on the far bank—otters and deer and fisher-cats—the old woman consigned their bones to the underbrush when they died. Their lives were so short! What did they know of old age’s relentless self-absorption?
“In fact, only one creature in the tapestry had managed to resist the routine claims of mortality. This was a large fish, swimming closer and closer to the right-hand edge of the fabric, as if, at any moment, it might break loose and continue swimming through thin air. The old woman had loved this fish ever since it first leaped up out of the water, its emerald eye taking her in. She’d been a young woman then; when her husband turned to her in bed, she’d meet his ardor with a gaze like that of the fish. She had never wanted children. She was, in her own way, content.
“There was only one problem. Once it was certain that the couple was asleep, the cockatiel would sneak into the parlor, sidling up to the tapestry and snipping, with its hooked beak, the threads that were the body of the fish. It left the rest of the tapestry alone. At first, the old woman had wondered what was behind this destruction, but eventually, not too long after the old man’s stroke, she caught the cockatiel in the act. Although she ordered it to stop, the bird ignored her, plucking out bits of wool and dropping them onto the floor.
“In the morning she confronted the old man with her discovery, at which the cockatiel widened its eyes in a parody of fear. ‘Tattletale tit,’ it said, ‘your tongue shall be slit, and every little bird shall have a little bit.’
“Despite her hatred of the cockatiel, the old woman began to suspect that the fish’s longevity was a product of the bird’s tampering. Every day, as she re-created its sleek body, she tried to test this suspicion, devising complicated knots at the back of the tapestry, weaving in stronger threads. But no matter what she did, in the morning she would find a blank place where the fish had been.
“Late one evening, as she sat reworking the sky to include the Pleiades, there came a knock on the door. The old woman opened it to find, standing in front of her, two young girls. ‘Good evening, granny,’ said the shorter of the two. She was very pretty indeed, like a little elf. The taller one towered above her, and was wearing hip waders.
“The old woman invited them in. For a moment she forgot how strange she must look; for a moment she imagined herself to be enchanting, her long hair the color of ebony, her skin as clear and smooth as glass. These were the first children, in all the years she had lived there, to come inside her cottage. What were they doing in the woods? Had their parents abandoned them?
“The two girls walked cautiously across the threshold and peered into the darkness of the living room. Could they see the old man where he sat hunched over in his corner? Certainly they could hear him grumbling, softly at first, and then louder and louder. When the old woman offered them tea, they politely refused. It was so late, the taller girl explained. Her name was Lou, and her sister’s name was Lina. They were lost, and wondered if the old woman could tell them how to get back to Owl’s Head.
“Whereupon the cockatiel roused itself, flying up out of the shadows to land, all at once, on the coat tree. ‘I am like a pelican of the wilderness,’ it croaked, ‘I am like an owl of the desert.’
“Had the girls actually jumped? The old woman laughed. If the bird was her affliction, at least it provided, as well, a source of amusement. She shook her fist at it, and then, quick as a wink, stuck out her index finger and jabbed it in the chest. ‘An eye for an eye,’ the bird commented, returning to its perch on the old man’s chair.
“Lou clapped her hands. Such an unusual creature! But Lina, it must be admitted, was growing a little impatient. She pointed to the windows, black squares filled in with stars, and the old woman finally grew serious. Owl’s Head, she informed Lina, was ten miles away, through the woods, on the other side of the mountain. The girls would never be able to find it at this hour. Every year children wandered into the woods, and no matter how long the parents searched, those children were lost forever. When the old woman took Lina’s hand, she found that the skin was surprisingly cool. There was a bed in the attic, the old woman suggested. She could make it up, and then the girls would be able to get a fresh start in the morning. Lou and Lina glanced at each other in alarm, but the old woman was adamant.
“And so it happened that, despite their sense of foreboding, the sisters ended up on a lumpy mattress in a tiny room shaped like a slice of cake. Lina, who usually had trouble sleeping, fell asleep at once, whereas poor Lou remained awake for hours. To begin with, there was the sound of snoring: the low, rumbling snore of the old man; the squealing snore of his wife. And then, when she had finally become accustomed to this noise, and was starting to doze off, another noise took its place. A heated discussion was going on downstairs. Lou thought she recognized the voice of the cockatiel; the other voice was unfamiliar, deeper and slightly muffled.
“‘In the beginning, Sister,’ said the bird, ‘light was everywhere.’
“‘Ah, but you have never lived under the water, Sister,’ replied the unfamiliar voice. ‘There we swim among the souls of the drowned, and we teach our young to honor what is fleeting.’
“‘In the beginning,’ repeated the bird, ‘light was everywhere. And it did not have to bend around men.’
“‘Even the littlest ones among us come to understand, in time, how beautiful we are,’ said the unfamiliar voice. ‘You can take me apart as often as you like, but you will not change that fact.’
“‘You are a fool,’ shouted the bird. ‘And what about me? Look at my tongue: just like a tiny bud, is it not? You must believe my heart is no different. Incipience is a terrible burden, Sister.’
“The other voice grew fainter now, so that Lou could barely make out what it was saying. Something about the smell of river water? Something about a promise? The voice was sad, and the girl felt tears forming in her eyes.
“Eventually she fell asleep. When she awakened, she didn’t know where she was. Indeed, the room in which she found herself was so small and lightless that, for a moment, she thought that she was dead and lying in her coffin. But there was someone else lying there beside her. Lina! And there was the old woman’s head, sticking up through a trapdoor in the floor!
“As Lou watched, the old woman’s lips opened and closed, explaining that breakfast was almost ready. Her tone was pleasant enough, but there was something in her expression—a sly look—which made Lou wary. The moment the head vanished, Lou shook her sister awake. There was no question about it: the soone
r they could get out of that place, the better. She didn’t need to explain; Lina was in complete agreement. Still, it’s unclear why Lou chose to keep secret what she’d overheard the night before.
“They found the couple sitting in the kitchen, the old woman pouring coffee into her husband’s cup. An ordinary and cheerful kitchen, but Lou felt as if something was wrong. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it: there was the sun, shining in through the window, lighting up pots and pans, plates and forks, Lina’s thin white face, the old woman’s pursed lips, the old man’s bad eye, round like a blob of mercury. And then Lou realized what it was—the old man’s cockatiel was gone.
“When she asked what had become of it, the old woman snapped her fingers. The cockatiel had flown away—just like that!—during the night. She didn’t seem particularly affected by this event; if the old man was upset, it was impossible to tell. But, as the old woman pointed out, the food was getting cold. She urged the girls to sit down at the table, where they noticed, for the first time, a large fish, cut into four portions, on a serving platter. Such treats rarely came their way, the old woman told them. A gift? Lina wondered, but the old woman shook her head. She had caught the fish herself, that very morning.
“Of course, this was a lie. In fact, the old woman had taken the fish from Lou’s wicker creel, which she had found on the front stoop in the middle of the night, when she opened the door to let out the cockatiel. She had stood there listening to the sound of its wings—the subtle sound of an expert magician shuffling a deck of cards—growing fainter and fainter, until she could hear nothing.
“Now, with great ceremony, the old woman set a portion of fish onto each of their plates. ‘Eat it while it’s hot,’ she ordered. And then, just as Lina was hungrily reaching for her fork, the old woman grabbed her hand. ‘There’s one thing you ought to know,’ she said, ‘before you begin. There was a regent of Byzantium, the Empress Irene, whose reign was marked by discord. Still, upon her death she was canonized, because the faithful could remember only her devotion to graven images, to artifice.’
“Lou shivered. If she recognized the fish, she didn’t say a word. You see, even though she was, at heart, an adventurous girl, she was also, by now, very frightened. She thought she could remember the last thing she’d overheard the unfamiliar voice saying the night before. ‘My poor sister,’ the voice had said, ‘you have confused incipience with amorality, and I weep for you.’
“Lou opened her mouth to call out, but it was too late. As the old woman leaned forward, smiling, Lina took into her mouth a morsel of fish—that morsel in which was hidden the tiniest of bones—and, when she swallowed, that bone lodged itself unerringly against her windpipe, choking her to death.
“Some miles away, high up in an old poplar tree, perched the cockatiel. It perched rigidly, the sun glinting off its yellow head; as the years went by, it began to gather dust until, in time, it toppled over and fell into a million pieces in the grass.
“‘Awk, awk,’ it said, ‘gone but not forgotten.’”
It had stopped snowing, and a red light pressed out from behind the devious, twisting screen of branches at the lake’s edge. I could feel nighttime’s approach; already the hills to the west cast down across us their shadowy nets, preparing to trap the unwary—preparing to entrance a solitary child such as myself with promises of expansive silence, of deep purpose. The perch were covered up now, lying under a thin white sheet; the moon, likewise, was faintly visible under its sheet of clouds.
“I want to go home,” I said.
“Bear with me, Kathleen,” Rogni said. “I’m almost finished.”
“But I’m scared,” I said.
He motioned for me to stay where I was, and then he walked—an ordinary human figure again, in a dark coat dusted with snow—to the end of the row of tip-ups, where he drew from out of the hole in the ice a large, greenish-white fish, its sides and V-shaped tail dotted with red spots. “At least it’s beautiful,” he said, carrying it back to show it to me. He laid it down gently among the perch, and removed the hook from its mouth. “This is for you,” he said.
“What do you mean?” I asked, horrified.
“A present. From me to you. Lake trout. The sweetest meat you can imagine.”
He put the fish into my arms—it was already frozen, the lens of its eye opaque, withholding information.
“No!” I said. “How can you expect me to take this thing home?”
“A story is a story, Kathleen,” Rogni said. “Trust me.”
“Trust you? What are you, crazy?”
Under my feet I felt faint movement, as if the whole frozen disk that covered the lake had detached itself at the perimeter.
“I don’t have time to argue with you, Kathleen,” he said. “Take the fish. Does your mother know how to cook trout? High heat? Rapidly? An open pan?”
He was growing larger now and, as he did so, the many shapes of him struggled violently with one another for ascendancy. The monstrous—fiery cogs turning within a mantle sprouting eyes, erectile tissue, darting tongues—twitched, in an instant, into the beatific. I heard a crooning voice, saw the cream-colored arms of a woman lifting the lid of a blue box, out of which streamed stars, their bright faces regarding me hopefully. Hopefully, Willie, so that I drew closer, only to be repulsed by the overwhelming, mineral stink of metamorphosis. I thought I saw, for just a second, a white bear reared up on its hind legs, and then that shape was gone, and a hundred others swarmed in to take its place. Wherever Rogni’s voice came from was rising up higher and higher into the darkening sky: it was becoming faded, disconsolate, like a memory of music: “A little salt? Pepper? Sweet butter?”
I cradled the fish in my arms and started to walk towards the shore. Abruptly the ice lurched under my feet, and then began its slow, horizontal rotation. It was as if I were trying to walk across the surface of a moving merry-go-round, but a merry-go-round empty of wide-nostriled horses and lacquered benches; of other children and the blurring, peripheral faces of happy mothers; of the chance to pluck, from thin air, a prize. I don’t think, in all my life, I have ever felt so lonely. I was even tempted just to stand still, to allow myself to be launched, finally, fish in arms, into space. But, as you know, I didn’t—by concentrating and picking up speed of my own to compensate, I managed to keep my balance. The closer I got to shore, the faster the ice moved, until, at the very last moment, I had to jump across a yard-wide gap filled with black waves, from off a wildly spinning plate.
When I landed, the wind got knocked out of me, so that by the time I looked back to where I’d been, all I could see was a thin thing coiling upwards through the sky, high above the gold and molten lake water. The fish, I was surprised to discover, was still locked in place within my arms. It was cold, chilling me even through the thickness of my parka; like any dead fish the smell it gave off aroused circumspection rather than appetite.
As I walked home I tried to figure out what to do. The clouds had dispersed into particles and vanished so that the moon was wholly visible, a full moon in a darkening sky. Such a difficult world, Willie, where the snow-covered road on which I walked was like your arm, reeling me in; where the fish that I carried was like a receptacle hammered out of metal—a valuable receptacle with a secret hidden inside. Just like you.
I can’t remember at what point exactly I reached my decision. I think it might not have been until I turned in to the driveway and saw, as if for the very first time in my life, the windows of our house shining at me through the heavy arms of the pines. Was the choice between sustenance and retribution? I didn’t think so, because the body of the fish itself was growing heavier and heavier, as if it carried a moral weight—the terrible gravitational field of doubt, out of which a single tiny feather tried to escape. The house increased in size. Believe me, what I chose was in the name of all things that were not Kathleen, that had their sources outside myself and that were, consequently, unfamiliar. What I chose was in the name of you, Willie. The house
was now enormous, and I walked into it breathing hard, feeling my heart’s consistent prodding of blood outwards, even to the tips of my fingers; feeling drop down around my feet the invisible garments of that faith in which I’d been clothed ever since the first time I’d heard Rogni’s voice: they made puddles on the floor, the most ordinary puddles imaginable, reflecting nothing.
Everyone was in the kitchen: Mama at the stove, where steam rose out of many small pots; you sitting at the table playing solitaire, fending off the hissed advice of Mrs. McGuire, who sat opposite you, all dressed up and ready to go in her black coat and hat; Daddy at the counter, a newspaper flung into the air in front of him between his two fists.
“Kathleen,” he said. “The prodigal returns.” And then he whistled, admiringly, between his teeth. “Where did you get that?” he asked.
“What?” You set a seven of diamonds on top of an eight of clubs and got up, craning your long white neck to see. “I didn’t know you knew how to fish,” you said.
“I don’t,” I said. “A man gave it to me. An ice fisherman.” I put the fish down on the table, its dorsal fin barely touching two exposed aces, and we all stared at it. The color had drained away during my walk; it was no longer beautiful, but it was certainly very large.
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