already gone back to the forest, where presumably they slept in trees or in caves underground with the rest of the trolls. Or then again maybe they all had nice beds with creamy cool sheets and cotton-candy pillows like one’s own, and toys and many books, and a globe that lit up at night, and kindly animals in their gardens, and parents who loved each and every one of them…
And then it was nearly silent on the beach; even the rising tide made just the softest, gentlest of sounds—and after all, the waves were warm, and the sky, all the colors of the inside of a seashell, was reflected everywhere in the water, and somehow one felt warm inside and very much at peace. Whether one had left one’s gods behind or they had been first to leave did not matter; the world here must be full of new gods, more powerful gods. One would only have to begin naming them for them to spring into existence and fill up forest and sky and ocean. Already one felt these new gods were burning up the whole world. For just a few seconds a breeze arose from the direction of the sinking sun—as if the great oak at the edge of Mar’s garden and its thousands upon thousands of silvery leaves were quivering with one last fit of rage before it, like everything else left behind on the other side of the world, gave up the god within its branches and bark and became, like all other living things, merely mortal. Oddly enough, there was still that taste of one’s own blood in the mouth, stronger than saltwater or tears, that essence of oneself that might last even after one has drowned and been swept beneath the ocean, beneath the earth even, into the troll peoples’ secret recesses. Instantly the sun was gone in a quiet explosion of fire and flame, and the insects all at once began to chant within the silhouetted trees of a fairy-tale forest.
More water, please. Do you hear me now? I’m ready to confess. Listen, listen! Mar,
Far—I can confess now. If that’s what you want. Listen to me, please. I want to thank you for making your way through the trees and finding me before it was too late, Far. Thank you moonlight, thank you white pebbles. Thank you for carrying me in your arms and above the waves. I confess, sir. I confess, I always could, I just didn’t want to. I—I didn’t know how to begin. Didn’t think I could, maybe. Listen, Mar, Far… Thank you, Mar, for laying me down in your soft pink bed. Another sip, please… Thank you for waiting so long for the words to come. I will be good from now on, just you wait and see. I always wanted to be good, and now—now I just want to go home. I’m so much better, see? I want to learn to read aloud all the words in books. I want to feel new words in my mouth like something sweet and rich. Tell me what you want me to say. Now, for you and for all the world, I want to confess…
Mona and the Witchdoctor
By midmorning there was already a long line of cars from the city parked outside the witchdoctor’s camp, and the families who were waiting stared as the three friends walked past. Mona, Abigail, and Naomi were not here to be made well or to find marriage partners or to attract money, as these people were, but just to look around. They were not believers, nor were they much in need of anything. Abigail was engaged to be married, Naomi was happy in her new job at a travel agency, and Mona was enjoying her summer, living at home and taking a photography course. They were young, not too long out of high school (where they had been a clique of three), and they looked and dressed and acted very much alike—though it was Mona who had the highest and loudest laugh. With an empty weekend before them, they had driven upcountry to check out things. Abigail’s fiancé had told them where the witchdoctor’s camp was (his aunt had gone several times to cure her various ailments), Naomi was bored enough to do anything, and Mona thought the camp might be a good place to take some snapshots, so early Saturday morning they had left in her parents’ car.
The camp consisted of a shiny silver house trailer under a canopy of trees, a few sheds, and a dusty rock-garden. An expensive car rested nearby under a carport—it most likely belonged to the witchdoctor, who was said to be very rich, with several houses and wives in the city. Besides the people sitting in their cars, no one seemed to be around. The three young women thought they heard a muffled car radio or maybe a television, but otherwise it was quiet —there was probably a consultation going on inside the trailer. They had sneaked around behind one of the sheds, with some half-dead bushes to hide them, and were waiting for something to happen. It was hot, but the sky had gone cloudy, and Mona was afraid it was going to rain before she got any good shots. Abigail and Naomi were already eager to leave.
Just as they were about to give up, a screen door slammed. Someone was approaching the rock garden. If it was a man or a woman, they couldn’t tell; the person was short, brandished an ivory cane, and was dressed in a funny sort of pajama suit and a multicolored wool stocking cap. He or she had peculiar colorless skin and moved quick and skittish as a bird; Abigail, who was the least clever of the three, whispered that it must be some sort of Chinaman. The client trailed a few paces after—a pudgy man in a business suit, looking very bored and a little sheepish.
There was a garland of dried flowers or peppers around his neck, odd against his proper pinstripes.
As the businessman watched from a safe distance, the witchdoctor spun around three times and then took up a handful of white pebbles and scattered them on the ground, making a circle around himself. Next he raised the ivory cane, said a few words the three friends couldn’t hear from their position a good hundred feet away, and struck the cane three times in the middle of the circle. The businessman stood back with arms folded, fingering his necklace. The witchdoctor seemed pleased with this brief performance. Mona decided it would be a good time to attempt a photograph. Naomi and Abigail shrank back as she raised the camera.
The camera was old and made a surprisingly loud click as the shutter was released; both of the people in the silent garden looked up, and for a moment all three friends were frozen against the wall of the shed, just as a breeze came up and parted their screen of leaves. The businessman, probably a little impatient for his cure and to get going, hardly looked up, but the witchdoctor shook his cane and shouted something at the three girls who ran off, laughing and trembling and gasping all at once.
They continued to laugh all the way home (Mona higher and louder than the others) as they took turns describing the ridiculous scene, which grew more fantastic with each retelling. Each of the friends had noticed something different: Abigail how the witchdoctor moved his arms and hips like a sort of crazy birdwoman, Naomi how the businessman had stood balancing on first one leg and then another like a child who needs to go the bathroom, and Mona how dull and dusty the whole place looked, with all those shiny cars around it. She hoped the photograph she took would come out; it might be amusing. They all agreed the trip upcountry had been worth the effort, and they would have to do it again soon.
Mona’s photograph, however, turned out all black—she was not used to the heavy, old-fashioned camera her teacher made her use—and Abigail’s fiancé was angry that they had risked the wrath of the witchdoctor. His aunt had attested the witchdoctor was a very powerful man (he had cured her headaches and lumbago and gout, after all) who was capable of killing an enemy with just a look. The girls should have stayed away, especially since they did not believe. Abigail’s fiancé did not really believe, either, but he still thought it was wrong to interfere with other people’s magic. Naomi just laughed and called him a coward; they were modern women, and they lived in the real world.
Not long after returning from their trip Naomi lost her job when the agency unexpectedly closed down, so she had to borrow money from her parents to pay her share of the apartment she rented with Abigail. Mona jokingly said it must be the witchdoctor’s curse, losing her job right then, and Naomi had to laugh. After all, she already had leads on a few other jobs, and she could use a vacation in the meantime. The same week Abigail and her fiancé broke up; they just argued too much, and she was no longer sure he really did love her. She did not seem too concerned—there were plenty of other men around. Mona agreed
but added that she wondered when the curse was going to strike herself. Abigail and Naomi looked at her and laughed low, throaty laughs, but not for too long.
In time the joke wore thin. Everything was going fine for Mona—she eventually quit her photography class, but still expected to go to college in the fall. She lived at home with her parents, who were well enough off, so she didn’t have much to be concerned about. But Naomi failed to get the jobs she applied for, and Abigail, who got a small allowance from her widowed mother to live on, couldn’t find any men who didn’t bore her. Other small disasters were happening with some frequency: Their refrigerator broke down but the landlord wouldn’t fix it, Naomi’s cat died for no apparent reason, and Abigail sprained her knee. Mona would exclaim Oh God it’s the curse! but she was the only one laughing now. She suspected her friends were just jealous because she had nothing much to worry over herself.
When they went out to bars or restaurants together now they seemed to drink too much and argue even more. They fought over men they wanted to dance with, who would
Ensemble Page 5
