Wake, Siren Page 14

  “Where’s Itys,” he said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Bring him here.”

  I couldn’t contain my joy. I started laughing. “He’s here,” I said. “He’s right here. He’s closer than he’s ever been to you.” Oh, I laughed. And here now we will move away from the palace and toward the sea. You’re gripping my neck a little—could you—no, no, I’m sorry, we’re almost done. There’s no getting off now.

  I kept laughing. Imagine it, please. Please imagine my laughter as I told Tereus that our son was right here. And now please imagine Philomela rushing in and please imagine how her hair is matted with blood and there is blood underneath her nails, on her neck, she is wild-eyed and covered with blood. And please now imagine the head of Itys in her hand. Imagine his small head. Skull with face attached, a terrible purple-gray color to his cheeks, his eyes dull like coated in wax paper and lilting up into their corners, his soft mouth hanging open as though in sleep, a bit of spine poking out from his neck, a jagged, dripping piece of severed spine. Please imagine this. And please imagine the weight of a child’s head in your own hand. Are you imagining that? Imagine it. Its hair between your fingers, the hardness of its skull against your knuckles, knowing that a quarter inch below is the brain that told his heart to beat, that let him learn words like mama, that held his small boy joys and sadnesses. There it is, in your hand! And now please imagine throwing it. Because that is what Phila does. She hurls the head of Itys right at Tereus. She takes his small head and she hurls it at his face.

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  She’d never wanted more to be able to speak. To be able to form words with her tongue. To shout out. To be able to sing her joy.

  The child’s head flew, Tereus’s face went gray with horror, he dodged being hit, and the head cracked against the wall like a cabbage and thudded to the floor.

  Right, yes, sorry, your ears will ring for a day or so. You might feel dizzy. I said you might feel dizzy. Yes, but it won’t be permanent. No, I promise.

  Tereus lost it, of course. Tables flipped, him raving about being a tomb for his own son. And he came after us with his sword. And at that moment is when we three are changed. Phila, a nightingale. Me, well, you know. And Tereus a hoopoe. We flew our separate ways. And now we’ll head back to where we started, and we can—oh, oh dear. You want off now? Just a few more moments. Find the horizon. No, but I warned you. Yes, but you were warned. Have another Life Saver. Let yourself be absorbed by the feathers. I know, I understand. But it’s starting to get to me. People want to know. And then they don’t want to know. That keeps happening. It’s so horrid, it’s so gross, people say. It’s too loud. But it was horrid, and it was gross, and it was loud. And either you want to know or you don’t want to know. And it’s easier not to know. It’s easier never to have to imagine the weight of a child’s head in your hand or how it would feel to fling it. It’s easier never having to imagine a blade against a pink tongue and the mottled scar tissue on the root. It’s easier not to think about a grown man putting himself inside a child whose mouth is pouring blood. It’s so much easier not to know. Well, right, yes, but you see, I did tell you it would be hard. I told you it’d be harder than you thought. But not like this? What did you expect?

  No, really, what did you expect?

  We’ll land shortly. You’ll be able to gather your things. Look over your shoulder first. To the west. I told you! I told you. The sunset was going to be beautiful. Look. I told you it would be and it is. It’s so beautiful. It’s just so beautiful.

  BAUCIS

  Do you remember that day? We were sitting in the kitchen after the morning chores were done. We were drinking tea. We were talking about how short the days had gotten, closing in on the equinox, and we were talking about the shorter twilights, and I asked you if you remembered late one summer so long ago, we were by the beach, and we’d fought that morning, and you went down to the ocean alone and came back and said, You need to come, and I was still mad, but I did, and you said, Feel the water, and I did. And it was so warm. So much warmer than it should’ve been at that time of year. Do you remember how we took off our clothes? How we were naked on the beach, how we shared it with the seagulls and the spider crabs, and that one small fishing boat not far from shore, who saw us, I’m sure. Do you remember how it felt to swim? How it washed away all the morning’s poison? I remember, you said. We ate clams that night, you said. That’s right, I said, remembering sitting on the porch in the dusk, swallows flinging themselves across the sky in front of us. We ate so many clams. And we were both laughing at the memory when there was that knock on the door.

  We looked at each other, paused, surprised. We had guests from the village now and then, but people didn’t usually arrive unannounced. I put my mug down on the table and moved toward the door. You sat up straighter.

  I turned to look at you before I opened the door. And I can see you there, the way the light was hitting you from the kitchen window, lighting you up from behind so your hair glowed. It was those days when I’d see myself in the mirror and think, Who is that old woman? Who is that old woman with her white hair and the lines around her eyes and cheeks that hang off her face? It was a shock. Who was this old person before me? When inside I felt as I did at twelve, at thirty. And I’d wink at myself in the mirror and think, That person, those people are still inside you. But when I looked at you, even when your hair glowed gray in the light that morning, I didn’t see the old man before me. I didn’t see the slumped shoulders and your knuckles bulged with arthritis. I didn’t see the untamable white hairs whiskering out of your ears, your eyebrows. I didn’t see the changed slack way skin hung from your face and your arms. I saw you as you were at twenty-five, at thirty. I saw your cannon legs, thick as oak trunks. I saw the waves in your light brown hair. I saw the broad spread of your shoulders, and the line of muscle that cut beautiful trenches from your torso to your waist. I loved that part of you. And that’s who I saw when I turned around before I opened the door. You, beautiful and full of blood, fifty years before.

  Not all lives are large. Not all stories are sad.

  I opened the door to two men, one taller than the other, both with bones that framed them to look like they came from elsewhere.

  “We’ve knocked on a thousand doors,” the tall one said, “looking for shelter. Looking for someone to take us in, even for just a night.”

  “And we’ve had a thousand doors closed in our faces,” said the shorter one. “We’re not from here, and we’re hoping for just a little bit of warmth. We haven’t found it yet.”

  “Come in, come in, please, come in,” we both said. You stood from your chair, and I cringed as you cringed as it pained your knees to rise. Our visitors ducked through the low door, and I could see the way their eyes had to adjust to our small, dim home. We were so used to every inch of it, knew all its cracks and crannies, all its creaks and crevices. It wasn’t large. People asked, How can you live in a place so tiny? It was large enough for us. You shook their hands.

  And then we worked together, you and I, the way we’d done again and again, for guests, for ourselves. I pulled the bench away from the wall toward the hearth, fluffed the cushions and welcomed them to sit. You brought them water right away, without asking if they wanted—any traveler needs to slake their thirst.

  I shifted the coals from the prior night’s fire and there was heat there still. The embers glowed. I kneeled and added leaves, sheets of dried bark, I blew and the embers gave life to flames. One can keep their own home at whatever temperature they want, but let a guest feel warm. Let a guest not hold their shoulders by their ears in chill. Warmth in the body opens doors to warmth in the heart, to making one feel comfortable, safe, and welcome. You were
the one to build the fires. I’d sit and watch as you placed kindling and logs. You had your methods. You’d light one corner, then another, and lean back on your heels, watching as the fire grew. It gave you pleasure, I know it did, and I liked to watch you do it, to see the light grow in front of you, you becoming silhouetted against the flames, to feel the warmth as you were feeling it against your face and chest, to hear the leaves crackling, giving way to the lower roar of the fire taking hold, and the hissing and spitting, and above that, a quiet whine, one that signals a form in transition from one state to another. And once your knees made it too hard for you to bend that way, I took the job, and you taught me how to place the logs, and I came to know what a pleasure it was to bring warmth into the home.

  Once the fire was lit for our guests, I started another under the stove below our little copper pot that you kept shining all those years. You’d brought deep greens in from the garden that morning, beautiful fans of chard with their fuchsia veins. I cleaned them, stemmed them. And cabbage heads, too, dense and fresh. I began slicing the bottoms off and peeled away the outer leaves. You chopped an onion. In another pan, darkened by years of use, I heated the olive oil brought from our friend with the olive grove up the mountain and let it warm before placing your sliced onions there, and soon their fragrance filled the room. I never tired of that moment, when the smell of onions heated in oil rose and spread. A moment of promise, the promise of warm food cooked with love, of sated appetite, of home. Onions in oil, and a little salt.

  As I kept watch on the stove, you used your two-pronged pole to grab the slab of smoked ham hanging from the rafter, one you’d aged with care, and you sliced some off for me, for our guests, for you, and placed the pink flesh in the pot to boil. The noises of an active kitchen made good concert. The sizzle of the onions, the bubbling of the boiling water, storming all around the pot, the thunk of the knife through cabbage leaves into the thick board below. And as we made the food we talked with our visitors, asked them how long they’d been traveling, where they were heading, where they were from. They were vague! And they asked us about our lives, how long we’d lived in our small home, if we had children—No, we said, we don’t, and they seemed embarrassed to have asked. I paused my chopping. “Don’t worry,” I said. “It was our choice. Our love for each other was enough.”

  Our visitors seemed at ease. They were generous with their thanks, even before the humble meal was set before them. Conversation rolled and it was good to have these strangers here.

  With a handful of mint in my hand, I rubbed the surface of the table clean. The mint leaves rolled beneath my hand and their fresh smell—spring, growth, green—rose and filled my nose, and our guests’.

  I pulled the cloth from the shelf, the one we used for feast days, celebrations. It was shabby, tattered by years, softened by time, and showing the stains of many meals enjoyed on it beforehand. The embroidery of oak and linden leaves that ran down the center in cream-colored thread looked as fresh as when I’d first had it in my lap. I always liked to spread the cloth across the table, the way I’d spread a fresh sheet over you remaking the bed after washday. That gentle thwap sound as it’s snapped into the air, and the soft way it falls, on the table, over your body. I liked to see the contours of you below it, valleys, fields, and hills in snow. It fell silent as light over you. It turned you to a child. You remember? Those were summer days, the light sheet, the dark blue cotton blanket.

  The cloth down, I noticed the table wobbled slightly. I took a fragment of a broken plate and slid it beneath the spot where the floor had dipped. I pressed on the table: level now, and firm. Four knives, four forks, four spoons, four plates, and four wineglasses, I laid out. My hands had started shaking by then. And then we started eating.

  I placed a dish of olives, green and black, on the table, and a tiny bowl for the hard pits within. It’s the right way to begin a meal—the scent of the mint lingered in the room, mixed with the savory smells of onion and ham—and our tastes were opened by the bitter salt of the olives sitting in their oil. The light in the eyes of the shorter of our guests came on, the light that said, without words, delicious. We’d pickled cherries late last summer; I opened the jar and spooned some out. A red so dark it was almost black, a soft sweet tang to complement the murky depth of the olives. Our new friends praised the cherries. You said you’d show them our small garden after we ate. The purple and white endive in their missile-shaped bulbs I’d roasted. Their edges charred and the flavors sweetened by the time near the fire. Fresh raw radishes. Their bright crunch danced with the softer chew of the endive leaves. “All from your garden?” the tall one said. You smiled as you nodded. “It’s nothing large,” you said.

  I placed the cheese out next, the cheese I’d strained myself, let curdle, from our old goat. It was smooth and the purest white, like clouds in September against those bright blue skies. You never loved the cheese, I know. Something in the texture. I loved it though, and hoped our guests would, too. From the ashes, I pulled two eggs that had been roasting slowly there, meant for our own humble lunch, and now shared. We all sat around the table and enjoyed. Peeling the shells had gotten harder for my shaking hands, but I was able to and sliced them in half to reveal their golden yolks, the gooey sunshine within.

  “Perfect!” the shorter one said when he saw it.

  When this first stage was done, you cleared the plates, our plates that we’d eaten off of for decades, sturdy earthenware, they felt like friends, some chipped, others showing cracks, still with us. You poured us wine into our beechwood cups and we toasted the coming season, new friends, the meal. It wasn’t fancy, our wine. It wasn’t aged. Our table wine, and I could tell you were nervous it wouldn’t please our guests. There were times when our humble tastes didn’t seem to match what others wanted. But the mood was grateful and pleased and I hoped you’d see it, too.

  And you did, I think, when you placed the steaming dish of ham and cabbage on the table. We all ate and drank our fill, and I told you it was delicious and I meant it, as I meant it every time. You nourished us. All along you nourished me.

  When we’d had enough you rose to clear the plates away and I rose to bring on the final stage of the meal. I set dried dates on a small plate, they looked like nothing special, with their thin waxy skin and the coppery-brown flesh below, but they were sweet as small cakes. A dish of nuts. And, my favorite, figs. No fruit more beautiful on the inside. Soft as the meat of my thumb, and dark skinned. Inside, that pink-flecked flesh with its cream seeds, and the rim of white around it. You barely had to chew them, just press them with your tongue. We had a few ripe plums, skin taut and shining deep purple, and purple grapes as well. You set a bunch on the table and our guests plucked them off their stems. Little blasts of juice as they broke the skin with their teeth. An ant crawled on one, and the smaller guest took care in removing it. He did not squish it against the table, but walked it to the door and let it go outside. Just like you’d do when spiders and other crawlies found their way into our home! And I sliced an apple and we shared that, too. Last of all, I placed a honeycomb on the table. The amber liquid pooled on the plate, its stick coming slowly from the waxy combs, each chamber a small mystery our bees had built together. It was the last of the season’s comb, and we shared it gladly. The taller guest pulled a piece of apple through the honey and a noise came from deep within him of pleasure.

  “I can taste hyacinth,” he said, “and lilac. And, and maybe a little bit of rose?”

  “You’ll find those flowers all around us,” you told him. “It’s inside those petals our bees do their work.”

  “It’s almost as good as ambrosia,” the shorter one said. We all laughed at the kindness, to be compared to the gods’ own nectar. But it was as the tall one pulled another piece of apple through the honey that we noticed. Remember that moment?

  Both of us at once. We’d been enjoying the meal all afternoon; the sun had followed its curved path across the sky and was on its way toward its n
ightly rest. We had poured glass upon glass of wine. And yet, do you remember, it was as though none had been had. I hadn’t refilled the vessel; you hadn’t either. Neither of us had opened a new bottle, nor had our guests, and yet the bottle was full, as though it was replenishing itself.

  Remember how frightened we were? I laugh about it now, but we leaped to our feet and kneeled and raised our hands to the skies and begged forgiveness for how humble our home was, and how humble the food was. And then you had the idea that one way to make up for it was to kill the goose and serve that to our visitors. So out we went, and you tried to chase it, and it flapped and honked and you’d lunge, and just miss it. And you were panting, and I couldn’t help but smile, the way it outran you, and I think our visitors were smiling, too.

  “Please, please,” they said, “you don’t need to do this. We’ve had so much! We’re so grateful for all you’ve done, especially compared to your neighbors who shunned us.”

  “There’s punishment in store for them,” said the other. “Not for you.”

  “Come with us,” said the tall one. “We’re heading there,” he said, pointing to the peak above the olive grove, a distance away. I remember thinking of your knees, and your fear of heights, and my heart still pounded from seeing the wine bottle filling its own self, coming to know who it was we had sitting at our table. But what could we do but obey, so up we went, you and I together, following these two gods. We stepped carefully, slowly. “Watch that root,” you’d say. “Careful here, it’s slick,” I’d say. That way, we made it to the top.

  Right before the summit, we turned. It’s funny: I remember the day so vividly, the softness of the figs, the saltiness of the cheese, the bright flares of pink in the leaves of the chard, the tiniest moments that could’ve happened any day! But this part, my memory feels blurred. We turned around to see that our whole village was drowned below a swamp. Low, dark waters where once our neighbors had lived. And thinking about it now, looking down on that scene, it feels like the way one might remember a dream. I remember water everywhere, and having no idea where we were or what we were seeing. But then you pointed: “Our house,” you said.