I might add.”
“Yes,” Blithe said weakly with a hand to her
neck, her hat on and her carpet bag hanging down from
the crook in her elbow, “yes.”
As the two ladies left the proper house in the
Upper West End, Miss Tullie had the nerve to waltz
back in and offer cake to all her stunned and astonished guests. During which they all sat down and bared a bit
of their own souls in what might have been termed ‘really
good conversations‘. Unfortunately for Blithe, Miss
Tullie’s guests all went home satisfied, that evening, that
they had attended her particular social event.
Two months later, shunned and lonely, Honor
and Blithe set up their family Christmas tree with
handkerchiefs in one hand, hanging ornaments with the
other, dabbing at tears which occasionally welled into the
corners of their eyes, slighted and uninvited from the
traditional holiday merriment; invited to not one, single
party!
“We could move,” Honor suggested, swallowing
hard at the thought of leaving the family home where
she’d been born.
“O, could we? Move? Or is even the thought of
it much too drastic? Maybe we’re just sulking,” Blithe
said.
“You said that last month, remember, when we put on our Sunday’s best and invited…”
Blithe interrupted her, “Don’t remind me,” she
dabbed quickly and repeatedly at the corners of her eyes,
“only Bishop Hadley showed up!”
“Yes,” Honor said slowly, gulping so as not to
tear, “It wasn’t so much that it bothered me, not that
much, I just felt bad for him, you know?” she sniffled.
“Yes, I know. Once he’d come in, he couldn’t
just leave.”
“O, we all know he wanted to,” Honor whined,
“and I wanted him to, but what is the proper amount of
time to stay after entering a social gathering where no
one but one has dared to enter?”
“It was so good of him to stay the full 45
minutes. If he’d have left after just one half hour, I
certainly would have excused him.”
“No slight at all!”
“But that brave last 15 minutes, well, he truly
enjoyed himself, didn’t he?” “Or, he surely would have run for the door at just
thirty minutes. Yes, he did,”
“He loved the cake. He commented on the cake
several times,” Honor remembered.
“Was it too many times? Was there nothing else
to talk about but cake?”
“No, no,” Honor consoled Blithe, “he talked
about the new parish extensively. I do hope he gets
it.”
“Yes,” Blithe said, and then her tears dried up,
right then. She lifted her chest and let drop her antique,
glass ornament to the floor. Honor gasped and Blithe,
with a defiant look, lifted a finely polished proper ladies
leather boot and lowered the heel right down onto the
bit of ornament left unbroken and smashed it into the
floor.
“What?! Blithe?! Here,” Honor tried to hand
Blithe her chamomile tea, but Blithe explained with a
passion, a fervor, her plans and her action for doing so. “No more clinging to the old for us, Honor,
sweet sister, don’t you see?”
“Yes, um, no…” Honor said, her confusion still
visible in her expression.
“I’m freeing up!” she exclaimed, “Letting go.
We’ll move. We’ll do it.”
“But, what, what has gotten into you?”
Honor asked, now furiously dabbing a fine,
antique piece of linen and Italian lace to her teardrops
which were welling up almost uncontrollably, “Move?”
“Yes. I won’t let us sit here and watch a parish
be awarded to the only brave soul to enter our tea party,
will you? I won’t let us be used - reduced to pity parties
and sympathetic visits. We must go, Honor!”
“Go?” she asked weakly, sweeping up bits of glass
from the floor with a small, hand broom and duster pan.
“O, Honor, get up!” Blithe commanded her. She
handed her a red, shining, glass ball with gold and purple
lattice lace. “Do it,” she whispered. Honor shook her head, “No. I mustn’t. It was
mummies.”
“She’s dead, Honor. And, so are we, if we stay
here. We must begin anew. Do it.”
“Where will we go,” she asked as she grasped
onto the glass ball, remembering the discomfort of the
last few months.
“Bishop Hadley will have his new parish, Honor,
and when he does-”
“We will have a new beginning?!”
“He will invite us in like must-keeps, Honor. Sit
us in the front row and sigh at us in front of everyone!”
“No!” and with that the ornament, as if pushed
by the ghost of mummie rolled right off Honor’s palm
and smashed itself against the polished hardwoods of the
family home.
“Maybe,” Honor began slowly, “you are right.”
“Maybe?!”
Blithe quickened the pace of talk about the topic, interjecting all sorts of worries to persuade her
like, “What if something were to happen to Bishop
Hadley, hmmm?”
“He’s a well man; but, he does horseback ride, he
told me so.”
“You see, he could have a mishap, a fall, and
where would we be then? Hmm? Handed off to some
cruel nair-do-well or fortune seeker, we could!”
With that, Honor grabbed off the tree her
favorite colored ball, blue with red polka dots and
smashed it to the floor.
“Well, we won’t take all of these old things,” she
said smiling to show her teeth for the first time in
months.
“No, too costly,” Blithe said, then took hold of
Honor’s hands, not wanting her sister to smash the whole
entirety of the Christmas tree to the floor. She took a
deep breath.
“You’re smiling,” she told her. “I know,” Honor giggled, nervously.
“Where shall we go, Blithe?” she asked her.
Then, Blithe thought for a moment. Far off were her
thoughts. She dreamt for a moment of India in the East.
She imagined bright yellows and reds, hot curries, exotic
teas and spices; but, then, she thought of a man she’d
met once at the market, headed toward the waterfront.
Full of exuberance and good cheer, he’d asked one last
kiss from an English woman. He’d said to her in a
booming voice, “All new beginnings are possible in
America!” and then he’d kissed her hand, as Blithe, a
proper lady, had denied his request for the kiss; but, as
Blithe heard the steam whistle of the outgoing ship that
day, she’d secretly wished the man a blessed, new
beginning and smiled quite a bit free-er sharing his
excitement - just as Honor was smiling at Blithe that
very moment that she glanced from the window to her
sister.
And so it went, that, Blithe boomed out the words, “America! The land of new beginnings!”
“America?” Honor
questioned, “Seems a bit rough,
dear.”
“Well, that’s what adventure is, sister; it’s usually
a bit rough; but worth it, well worth it.”
“I see,” Honor thought out loud, “like an African
safari or an air balloon ride.”
“Exactly!”
“Why can’t we just do one of those? Be gone
awhile and then return home, to our house and our
things?” She stroked her hand along the embroidered
monogram of a linen, monogrammed tea towel.
“Because Archibald Proper and his new wife are
on African safari right now.”
“We’d look like we followed.”
“And, Max Whitely’s sister has already told us of
not one, but two, hot air balloon excursions she’s
braved.”
“Oh… Yes, I do think I remember her telling us now.”
“Yes, dear, you do,” Blithe scolded her, “You
must be more attentive to our guests.”
“What guests?”
“When they’re here… Were here. O for Pete’s
sake, Honor, at least pay attention to me when I’m
talking.”
“I am! It’s time for tea. You’ve rambled on.
Your chamomile,” she said and handed the dainty cup
and saucer over to her sister.
“Just the way you like it, a little cream and two
sugars.”
“Thank-you, dear; but, why must I always be
chamomile?”
“It suits your disposition, dear.”
“What if I don’t want chamomile, Honor? What
if I like my disposition?”
“Oh dear,” she said.
“I think America and my disposition will suit one another just fine, don’t you?”
“What will I do?”
“Well, you can stay if you like.”
“O, Blithe, you are a bit rough, sometimes.”
Honor made an oddly, silly expression and
nearly burst into a giggle, “It’s like you’re saying to your
own sister ‘Rough it or die!’ O, this is a bit wild, isn’t it?!
I shall go, Blithe! I will! I’ll go with you to America,”
she said and held her tea cup up for clanking.
“To America,” Blithe said, touching tea cup to
tea cup with a clink of fine porcelain, “I’ll drink to that.”
And, each took a sip of their tea.
I was watching all of this from where I always
hung out around Christmas time, the branch of the
Christmas tree with the carousel giraffe (ornament). I
used to sit up on it when ‘they’ weren’t looking. I was
the one with the set of great lungs, too, who’d blown
that shiny, crystal ball right out of the palm of Honor
McGillicutty onto the floor of their family home. Fantastic smash! I had out done myself in mischief for
the day. It’s funny, all those years of ‘chasing’ them out
of their family home with tricks of
a Brownie (a house elf). Not pixie stuff, really, but I’m
Irish and I was a boy, then - I just liked causing trouble
- but, soon as they were actually thinking of leaving,
well, I honestly felt a bit sad. The house was so large,
so drafty. Without them it would have been a
downright relic. Right away, I thought of going with
them.
“To America!!” I thought and whispered out loud
as tea cup tips clinked. I was pretty sure there weren’t
any Irish pixie gnomes there! I wondered if I’d be a
novelty, maybe a real hit, or at worst, an oddball out.
“America.” I dreamed for a moment. I liked
these two ladies, I did. Blithe would take the carpet
bag, I thought. I was sure of it. She never went out
without it. I had ridden in the carpet bag before. A bit
bumpy, but a much easier way for a fellow of my stature to have gotten across town. Much easier than hoofing it.
Speaking of hoofing it, did I ever tell you about horses
andcarriages?! More than just a few of us - wee folk
had been crushed! Anyway, after that bit with the
ladies, as I was then still just a little fella, I climbed up
several branches and mounted a carousel
horse (ornament). I liked to ride it back and forth.
Great fun for a boy. I‘d hoped they’d planned to wait
for Christmas to be over, because I did enjoy that time of
year back then.
As it turned out, we left within a week’s time.
Honor cried for most of that time. Blithe refused to
waiver or look back. Old trunks were pulled out,
furniture nearly given away. Dresses, hats, bags donated
to charity. There was a constant in and out of people
but the furnishings, keepsakes, and antiques, only went
one direction - out, out, out! By the last day of seven,
Honor and Blithe stood in the center of a completely
empty old house, no longer a home, amid three packed trunks each, and one carpet bag in which I had taken up
permanent residence, so as not to get left behind.
When the horse carriage finally pulled up to the
curb in front of the household’s open door, I was safely
tucked into the handkerchief caddy, inside the carpet
bag, nestled into the crook of Blithe’s arm, high
above the wheels and hooves - the dangerous parts of a
carriage to Irish pixie gnomes such as me. It really
wasn’t that bad - not as bad as I’d imagined, evendreamt
about. But it was loud, and extremely bumpy.
I occasionally peeked out of the carpet bag - to
look about for other pixie gnomes and just to enjoy the
adventure of it all, carefully though, and not all of the
time, so as not to put myself at undue risk. During the
steam whistle, for instance, I clamored to the top of the
bag just in time to watch us sail away from the shore.
Honor and Blithe were so busy - and misty - watching
England slip away, they wouldn’t have seen me, but I
kept myself well hidden, nonetheless. I shed not a tear, myself. I was excited to see America. Not so for the
two sisters. I nearly lost my bed of handkerchiefs - each
required at least one fresh replacement as we watched
until the fog enveloped England, and until the shores of
the sisters’ homeland since their births could no longer be
seen.
“We’ve done it, I suppose,” Honor said after a
final, and rather loud for a lady, blow of her nose into
her second, or was it third, handkerchief.
“We have indeed,” Blithe replied. Her tears
finally done rolling down her tightly drawn cheeks.
The voyage was terribly lengthy so that one
couldn’t help but be anything less than excited for
America.
Even Honor, who’d had a look of uncertainty
about her the entire time from the moment she’d spoken
out loud what she imagined to be shot down with a
resounding, “No!”, the unimaginable question, “We
could move?” met, instead, with a “Yes!”, longed to arrive safely in America. Thinking back in England, that
a ship voyage would be most grand and brave, the sisters
bought tickets around ‘the horn’ of South America to
land in a place called San Francisco to be met with a
carriage and travel N
orth f
from there. Exhausted at the thought of more travel
during a discussion with Blithe, Honor ordered thesisters
each a cup of chamomile tea with an added bit of honey.
They played table tennis to pass the time and I got in
and out of all sorts of places while they were below
deck. The captain’s quarters was my first room to sneak
into; but, my favorite was above where the ship was
manned. I could see for miles. I sat in a little protected
spot and could ride there, safely, no matter the weather,
watching for whales, dolphins, and sea birds. I enjoyed
the mist on my face - the smell of salt air. Life at sea
suited me fine, and I later thought back on it often; but
after awhile, I, too, was anticipating American shores
and running about on solid land - as much as anyone on board.
Then, finally, one day, it came, the call - “Land
ho!” from the captain and everyone cheered. We ran to
the railings, pointing and squinting, trying to catch sight
of the slice of land the crew had seen.
At first sight of it, we beamed wide smiles,
congratulated ourselves, silently, on our bravenessand on
how we’d endured the voyage to at long last be
rewarded with the awesome sight ahead, the shore ahead.
We thanked the captain. We thanked God, and then
we cheered when the awe passed, hollering uninhibited
and excitedly toward the shore. Well, I didn’t. But, I
did sit upon the boot of one of the sisters who did.
Blithe and Honor both lost their shyness in the
exuberance of the moment. Both chatted and giggled
with the men and women next to them, occasionally
patting away tears - this time of joyfulness not
melancholy.
I actually hooted along with the crowd. There were so many hollers no one knew it was me - the
stowed away Irish pixie gnome. Yep, one of a kind
they’d forgotten existed back in England; just now about
to set foot on the shores of North America, possibly and
hopefully to run free! As we (wee) once did, if not in
England, certainly in Ireland; and, as the shorelines
details of green trees and crashing grey,
blue, and white waves became visible - this just seemed
the place to do it - reclaim my history as a pixie gnome
a species freed from hiding - able to walk about - enjoy a
conversation - have my own address - receive the post
all the things a human enjoys, all on my very own.
Yes, I thought, my house will have a plaque that
reads, “Irish Pixie Gnome lives here!” and people will
The Faerie Ring Dance Page 2
