From the Dust Returned

The land was painted with moonlight now. In the big House he could hear the ribald laughter as “Mirror, Mirror” was played with a huge mirror. Celebrants roared as they tried to identify those of themselves whose reflections did not, had not ever, and never would appear in a glass.

Timothy broke Arach’s web on his lips:

“Now what?”

Falling to the floor, Arach scuttled swiftly toward the House, until Timothy trapped and tucked him back in his ear. “All right. Here we go, for fun, no matter what!”

He ran. Behind, Mouse ran small, Anuba large. Half across the yard, a green tarpaulin fell from the sky and pinned him flat with silken wing. “Uncle!”

“Timothy.” Einar’s wings clamored like kettledrums. Timothy, a thimble, was set on Einar’s shoulder. “Cheer up, nephew. How much richer things are for you. Our world is dead. All tombstone-gray. Life’s best to those who live least, worth more per ounce, more per ounce!”

From midnight on, Uncle Einar soared him about the House, from room to room, weaving, singing, as they fetched A Thousand Times Great Grandmère down, wrapped in her Egyptian cerements, roll on roll of linen bandage coiled about her fragile archaeopteryx bones. Silently she stood, stiff as a great loaf of Nile bread, her eyes flinting a wise, silent fire. At the predawn breakfast, she was propped at the head of the long table and suffered sips of incredible wines to wet her dusty mouth.

The wind rose, the stars burned, the dances quickened. The many darknesses roiled, bubbled, vanished, reappeared.

“Coffins” was next. Coffins, in a row, surrounded by marchers, timed to a flute. One by one coffins were removed. The scramble for their polished interiors eliminated two, four, six, eight marchers, until one coffin remained. Timothy circled it cautiously with his fey-cousin, Rob. The flute stopped. Gopher to hole, Timothy lunged at the box. Rob popped in first! Applause!

Laughter and chat.

“How is Uncle Einar’s sister? She of the wings.”

“Lotte flew over Persia last week and was shot with arrows. A bird for a banquet. A bird!”

Their laughter was a cave of winds.

“And Carl?”

“The one who lives under bridges? Poor Carl. No place in all Europe for him. New bridges are rebuilt with Holy Water blessings! Carl is homeless. There are refugees tonight beyond counting.”

“True! All the bridges, eh? Poor Carl.”

“Listen!”

The party held still. Far off, a town clock chimed 6 A.M. The Homecoming was done. In time with the clock striking, a hundred voices began to sing songs that were centuries old. Uncles and aunts twined their arms around each other, circling, singing, and somewhere in the cold distance of morning the town clock stopped its chimes and was still.

Timothy sang.

He knew no words, no tune, yet he sang and the words and tune were pure, round and high and beautiful.

Finished, he gazed up to the High Attic of Egyptian sands and dreams.

“Thanks, Cecy,” he whispered.

A wind blew. Her voice echoed from his mouth, “Do you forgive me?”

Then he said, “Cecy. Forgiven.”

Then he relaxed and let his mouth move as it wished, and the song continued, rhythmically, purely, melodiously.

Goodbyes were said in a great rustling. Mother and Father stood in grave happiness at the door to kiss each departing cheek. The sky, beyond, colored and shone in the east. A cold wind entered. They must all rise and fly west to beat the sun around the world. Make haste, oh, make haste!

Again Timothy listened to a voice in his head and said, “Yes, Cecy. I would like that. Thanks.”

And Cecy helped him into one body after another. Instantly, he felt himself inside an ancient cousin’s body at the door, bowing and pressing lips to Mother’s pale fingers, looking out at her from a wrinkled leather face. Then he stepped out into a wind that seized and blew him in a flurry of leaves away up over the awakening hills.

With a snap, Timothy was behind another face, at the door, all farewells. It was Cousin William’s face.

Cousin William, swift as smoke, loped down a dirt road, red eyes burning, fur pelt rimed with morning, padded feet falling with silent sureness, panting over a hill into a hollow, and then suddenly in flight, flying away.