The Mothering Coven

by Joanna Ruocco

  “More ghosts?” wonder the Misses Fibonacci. They’ve been passing many ghosts on the highway, more than usual. The World’s Smallest Boy exhales a black cloud of smoke. He sees a distant pink arrow flash through the smoke. It’s now or never. He jumps from the dashboard and clings to the wheel. The wheel turns.

  [:]

  Mrs. Scattergood sits alone in the library. She goes to the reference section and opens a book. She flips through the pages. They are blank. The library has undergone another devaluation. Mrs. Scattergood shakes her head. Every day the Western Canon diminishes in relevance.

  “What am I doing here?” thinks Mrs. Scattergood. She decides to close the library early and play her glass harmonica. Mrs. Scattergood leaves the library doors unlocked. She glances at Dorothy Canfield Fisher defiantly. Is Dorothy Canfield Fisher sitting in judgment?

  Dorothy Canfield Fisher is wearing a Russian hat. She is smiling. She looks as though she might hurl down her book and go stomping off across the frozen sea.

  Up in the sky, there is a bright star. It is argent, like the moon, but smaller and more concentrated. It burns like the sun.

  “The morning star,” says Mrs. Scattergood. “The evening star.” Luckily, her glass harmonica has little wheels. She pushes it up the road.

  [:]

  “Mr. Zimmer is wearing a girdle!” cries Dorcas. Mr. Zimmer is wearing blue trousers and a blue shirt and a wide, black girdle. Could it be considered a noble girdle? Dorcas thinks yes.

  “May I see your coat of arms?” asks Dorcas, politely.

  Mr. Zimmer blinks at Dorcas.

  “Will you sign here?” he says, also politely.

  It’s bothersome, the courtesies that get in the way of real conversation. Mr. Zimmer needs a drink. Luckily, Ms. Kidney is heaving metal buckets of frosty schnapps through the trees. Does the schnapps taste vaguely of clay?

  “Potter’s schnapps!” calls Ms. Kidney.

  [:]

  Dorcas is wearing Fiona’s Trafalgar jacket. Dorcas is much bigger than Fiona. She has ripped the jacket at the seams and the epaulettes have fallen off. She doesn’t look like Vice Admiral Horatio Nelson. She resembles disgraced Rear Admiral Husband E. Kimmel. No matter! Today, even disgraced Rear Admiral Husband E. Kimmel will have a place at the table.

  [:]

  The guests are congregating in the backyard. The backyard has the highest concentration of nut mixes. Agnes has put a platter of toast out front, on a stool by the funerary craft. The toast is less popular. The Crisco and calf’s mugget toast, certainly, but even the cinnamon.

  “There’s no accounting for guests,” thinks Agnes, “in the final analysis.” She is feeling more sagacious by the second and her nerves have stopped jangling. The schnapps.

  “Marred schnapps,” thinks Agnes. “Miry schnapps.”

  Mrs. Scattergood hasn’t brought a gift. Should she slink away? Suddenly she brightens. She points to the pyre.

  “I am waiving the fine,” says Mrs. Scattergood. It is a signifi cant gift. There are at least a hundred books on the pyre, probably more. Mrs. Scattergood starts to play her glass harmonica immediately, so there can be no awkward thank yous.

  [:]

  Beneath the stairs, Hildegard is dreaming. Through a crack in the alpine peaks, she sees a tall woman. The woman is singing in a sunny dorf, wearing something silken, a bright-white kirtle. There is a deep, dark gap between her two front teeth. Hildegard sits up. She has walkman cords around her neck. She holds the phone against her heart.

  [:]

  The Fibonacci Flyers have arrived! There is a guardrail plastered to the grill of the truck and the pink trailers are painted all over with pineapples. Mr. Fibonacci has grown a short, dramatic beard. The stars have moved into Capricorn.

  “Where’s the old goat?” cries Ms. Kidney.

  “Dear Ms. Kidney,” says Mr. Fibonacci. Smoke is rising from his top hat. He doffs the hat. The World’s Smallest Boy is sitting on his head, in the lotus position. He smokes regular-sized cigars, of course.

  Esmeraldina is Esmeralda now. Her contortions have become semi-permanent, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She sorts through the nut mix with her toes, looking for peanuts. Not for her. For Helena. Helena’s trunk is arthritic. The Misses Fibonacci tie their trapezes to the oak boughs. The metal bars are corroded but they’ll hold. They always do.

  [:]

  Mr. Dykes and Mr. Hephaistos give the first slices of the frozen pies to the fire-swallowers. Mrs. Borage doesn’t mind. It makes sense. Besides, she is listening to Irish Love Poems. A truck driver is telling her about a crystal fountain.

  “The pure crystal fountain,” says the truck driver. “That stands in the vale of Tralee.”

  “The vale of Tralee,” thinks Mrs. Borage. “I hadn’t considered it.”

  The children, of course, go straight for fried potatoes. Mr. Hephaistos hands out greasy paper baskets. Some of the potatoes have strange carvings, symbols from a magic alphabet!

  Bryce doesn’t get a dagger. She gets a peacock; every feather has a heart. She fills the hearts with ketchup.

  “I don’t remember carving these,” thinks Bryce. “I must have done it in ecstasis.”

  [:]

  There is never any good reason for guests to be on the second floor of the house during an outdoor party. Are they looking for pearls? Ace Reporter Duncan Michaels doesn’t want pearls. He is rifling through Mrs. Borage’s dresser, as would any unauthorized biographer. Mr. Zimmer is in the hallway, admiring Bryce’s wallpaper. Japanese maples. His favorite. He is less impressed with the punch. It seems to be pixie stix dissolved in water.

  Dorcas is on her fifth cup. Every cup goes straight to her Theta-brain. She is armwrestling Helena. It’s an even match. Helena brings more raw tonnage to the table, but Dorcas is in her prime. The trunk crashes down on the glass harmonica. Dorcas raises a fist in victory.

  “Port,” says Ms. Kidney. “Not you, Dorcas. My Pachydum-pling. My Heliport, my love.” Dorcas doesn’t want port anyway. Another cup of punch.

  [:]

  From his garage, Mr. Henderson can hear the shrieks of children and the lowing of beasts. He can hear the ringing bass of the Strong Man. Mr. Henderson removes the bronze mignonette from the kiln.

  “It is imperfect,” he thinks. “It is unbeautiful.” He is reminded of the physical universe, how it caves in on itself, how it is always collapsing, everywhere at once. Why did he think this was a good idea?

  “I should have made a glass flute,” thinks Mr. Henderson. “A glass fiddlestick.”

  He walks slowly through the trees. The bronze mignonette is unbearably hot. Mr. Henderson is wearing oven mitts. The bag of marshmallows is tucked beneath his arm. Has he brought a little muesli for the birds? There are no birds. The birds have been frightened away by the acrobats. Creaky trapezes swing back and forth above Mr. Henderson’s head. The Misses Fibonacci are having a leaf fight. On the upswing, they grab fistfuls of dry leaves. On the downswing, they hurl the leaves, laughing. Mr. Henderson is covered in leaves. It is like a sky burial in the woodlands, the spirits trapped in the canopy, a rustle, and falling back to earth.

  [:]

  Mr. Zimmer and Ms. Kidney have made their own punch. It is port, schnapps, and whisky. They are roaringly drunk.

  “Done much apple-knocking?” roars Ms. Kidney.

  “I’ve knocked a few,” roars Mr. Zimmer.

  “Oranges?” roars Ms. Kidney.

  “Oranges,” roars Mr. Zimmer. He can’t remember what they’re talking about. He does love oranges. He sits down heavily on his delivery, a big cardboard box.

  “Oranges,” roars Mr. Zimmer.

  “It’s hard to shave an egg, dear baldy,” roars Ms. Kidney. “But you’re an honest shaver.”

  “Yes, sir,” roars Mr. Zimmer.

  “A decent man,” roars Ms. Kidney.

  “I am descended from James K. Polk,” roars Mr. Zimmer.

  Who did Ms. Kidney vote for, those many years past? Why, she vot
ed for James K. Polk, even though she is a Canadian citizen.

  “A hickory stick on the pyre,” roars Ms. Kidney. “And hazels,” calls the truck driver, who lives for love. “And honeysuckles.”

  [:]

  The sun has disappeared. Is it nighttime already? The morning star is brighter! Could it be? The star of Bethlehem shining overhead?

  “It is a rocket,” says Mrs. Borage. She is standing by herself on the sidewalk. She waves at the sky.

  “Safe travels,” says Mrs. Borage.

  “Where’s the gandygirl?”

  “Where’s Mrs. Borage?”

  Ms. Kidney and Agnes have come around the house. There is Mrs. Borage, silhouetted against the red bricks of the Security Spray Complex. Agnes would like to run towards her, but the ground is surging. She takes a step forward but the ground pulls away. She watches it roll back like the tide.

  “Gulp o’ buoy,” offers Ms. Kidney. She holds up the bottle.

  “No, that was the last of it. Shame.”

  [:]

  Bertrand is swimming in the Gulf of Salerno.

  It has grown chill. She is the only person on the sand, but, looking up at the white houses, she sees that all the saints are out on the little balconies. Some have oranges in their upturned palms.

  “Goodbye!” whispers Bertrand to the white houses, the saints, and the oranges. The sun is disappearing into the sky. She sits down on the sand. Where to next?

  She thinks about the world around her. Every particle is magnetic. Every particle is opening, everywhere at once, dark and translucent; all of the capital cities are visible, and the people moving back and forth in brightly colored clothing. Bertrand sees the distant pink light of a faraway circus, another bright and impossible object. She counts star after star.

  [:]

  It is time for the procession.

  “To the six-sided crystals that scatter light around the moon,” toasts Agnes. “And to Mrs. Borage.”

  Mr. Henderson lowers his glass. Where did he put the bronze mignonette? Bryce is holding it, walking towards the pyre. She’s filled it with batter.

  “Wait,” says Mr. Henderson. Waiting—a relic of common time. Bryce gives Mr. Henderson a resplendent smile.

  She nestles the clay heart inside the pyre.

  [:]

  Who is allergic to the herring? It is poor Mr. Lomberg. Bring him marshmallows! Mr. Lomberg is glad that he’s retired. The pyre doesn’t have a permit. Does it have wooden skis? Yes, it does. It does now.

  [:]

  Ozark shakes her flashcards onto the grass. She sorts through the diamonds.

  “I’ll make a quilt,” says Ozark. “A quilt of knowledge!”

  Mariner’s Compass

  Job’s Trouble

  Orange Peel

  Pine Coffin Housetop

  Burgoyne Surrounded

  Bricklayer

  World Without End

  Crazy

  She likes “Crazy,” but also “World Without End.” She can barely see her golden thread flashing up and down, up and down, in the darkness.

  [:]

  Mrs. Borage climbs into the funerary craft. She has taken off her wig and her bluchers. Now she is wearing her moccasins, her fawn-vest, her sagathy breeches. Her hair fans out in the wind.

  “Huzza!” cries Mrs. Borage. “Huzza!” Ms. Kidney lashes the dogs. They will have a very hard time pulling the craft through the dirt, amphibious or no. Why doesn’t Fiona weld on runners?

  “Fiona?” roars Ms. Kidney.

  “Shhhh,” whispers Bryce.

  What about the Strong Man? Couldn’t he push? Mr. Henderson follows the ringing bass through the crowd. Abruptly, the voice disappears. The World’s Smallest Boy is about to win a pie-eating contest. His mouth is filled with lemon meringue.

  The ground is whitening.

  “Gervais!” cries Mrs. Borage. Has he brought the frost? A lorry pulls into the driveway. Better! He has brought snow-making equipment from the mountains. A whole fleet of lift operators in red winter jackets pushes the snow-making machines down the metal ramp.

  Suddenly the yard is covered with snow. Is Mrs. Borage howling at the moon? Ms. Kidney’s sixteen dogs have opened their toothless mouths and they sing into the frozen gale. Who are they calling to?

  Dorcas hooks her fingers through an oarlock. Ms. Kidney hooks her fingers through an oarlock. Helena lowers the great dome of her head to the back of the craft. Everyone is slipping and falling. The schnapps. The ice.

  “Hugues de Payens!” gasps Mr. Henderson. Helmeted figures are gliding towards him. They close their ranks around the craft. Dorcas and Ms. Kidney step back. Across the yard and through the trees, down the hill—the craft doubles its speed. The kinetic energy increases, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144, and the children are racing behind.

  Mrs. Borage stands tall in the prow. She looks behind her. She ponders the biomass of children. How much water would they displace? More than Lake Chargoggagoggmanchauggag-oggchaubunagungamaugg? More than Hudson Bay? There are so many children in the world. More than ever before. More than have ever died. The dead are overwhelmed by the children. No wonder they are afraid to show their faces.

  Up on the hill, Bryce lights the pyre. A spark leaps from the fire to the house. The house is burning. The barn stars glow, eight-pointed rosettes. They shower down. From the corner of her eye, Bryce sees the red and purple rickshaw moving away, rolling down the sidewalk, faster and faster. Bryce looks at Dragomir. He’s standing beside her. He takes her hand. She is many, many years his senior. They wave to Hildegard.

  “Goodbye, Hildegard!” calls Bryce, but Hildegard is already miles away. She is riding up the entrance ramp. The ramp inclines quite steeply. Just a little faster, and Hildegard will launch into the air.

  [:]

  “She loves me,” says Mrs. Borage, and stops. Why not?

  [:]

  “There’s always the orange harvest,” says Ms. Kidney.

  “There’s room in the equipment trailer,” says Mr. Fibonacci. “For front-folders.” Is Mrs. Scattergood a front-folder? She takes a half-step forward. She is!

  Ms. Kidney kisses her hand.

  “My Belle,” says Ms. Kidney. “My Belle Lettres.”

  Mrs. Scattergood looks up at Ms. Kidney. Her heart beats faster. Mr. Henderson is not a front-folder. He’s so thin, though. Isn’t there room along the axle? There is!

  “If the wind changes direction,” thinks Mr. Henderson. “The fire will come through the trees. My house. My garage.” He thinks of the unformed clay, centered on the wheel. He imagines the sublimation of clay, the cycle of clay, the clay raining down on the rooftops. He supposes it is just as well.

  Ozark has run up the hill to smother the fire. Is the quilt of knowledge flame retardant? Alas.

  How can Dorcas have lost a pie-eating contest to the World’s Smallest Boy?

  “Trickery,” thinks Dorcas. The pie was yellow. Yellow tastes different than pink. It has a sharp, sad taste. Still, it was delicious.

  Dorcas won’t fit in the equipment trailer. “I wouldn’t mind riding with Helena,” says Dorcas. “If Helena doesn’t mind.”

  “What about Mrs. Borage?” say Agnes.

  [:]

  Mrs. Borage is looking at the burning house. She takes one deep breath. She blows. The wind has changed direction. The flames grow higher. Trick candles. Mrs. Borage sighs. What did she wish for? Just look. The wish is still there, hanging, unwished, above the rooftops.

  What say the ghosts? They have just exited the Holland Tunnel, heading north.

  “Look at the smog,” says Henrica. She is sitting on a charger. It belongs to Sir So-And-So, a gentle knight, of generic tunic and unclean hose, with a bright shield, couchant something, and a more or less cross—sad story, he was pricking on the plain, a model of puissance, by all counts ydrad, but not without a softer side, not unwilling to roast a duck for his old mother, and do the dishes, now and again, and felt the occasional hat, but, suddenly,
a something volant (isn’t it always?), dragon or very large bird, caught him unawares, pricking, English saddle, up, down, up, down, utterely exposed there on the plain, not so much as a walnut bush or crocus, and on the knightly up, a birdly down, a good grip with the talons, one quick twist, and that was that, his neck never the thickest, and his head carried off, to cozy an egg in a distant nest, or act as an eaglestone, who knows, a shame, his poor mother, all alone, a cold duck sandwich—and poor Sir So-and-So tripping quite a bit on tire treads and other turnpike lilies, unpleasant walking, headless, not to the dexter either, but sinistral, closer to the eighteen wheelers, that’s chivalry, Sir So-and-So can’t say to Henrica, “What smog?” his mouth being third to go, after the eyes and nose, a close third, and he remains sullenly silent, chivalry is imperfect, and Henrica says simply, in accented English, “It is shaped like a wish.”

  Is that a story?

  “It is a lengthy sentence,” says Mrs. Borage, “a sentence from an aberrant present, one of the many lapsed futures which forked from a long ago moment. It is in that somewhat attenuated process of never coming to have passed.”

  “An awkward phase,” says Ms. Kidney, not without sympathy.

  “There is a tense for that,” says Agnes, thinking.

  It’s on the tip of our tongues.

  “Mrs. Borage, are you coming?” calls Agnes. Mrs. Borage is floating further and further away. Her next stop, the frozen sea. The fog is settling. Mrs. Borage’s fine smile is gleaming, or it may be the particles of ice, with the fire shining through them.

  Mr. Henderson has been trying to remember his geometry.

  “Sooner or later she will reach a vanishing point,” thinks Mr. Henderson.

  Not in the spherical plane. There are no vanishing points.

  Mrs. Borage floats ahead. The universe is there, everywhere at once, opening.

  acknowledgments:

  I have borrowed phrases from the following writers and sources: Frank O’Hara, William Shakespeare, Emily Dickinson, Carrie Collier, Gervase Markham, Pliny the Elder, the New American Standard Bible, George Washington, Edmund Spenser, various Farmer’s Almanacs, a CSC drinking song sung by my cousin Peter Ruocco, Robbie van Leeuwen, and Bragi Boddason.