Casserole Diplomacy and Other Stories (4 page)

of Cassiopeia. Their names on her tongue

are crystal—light made sound, a thoroughfare

of bells. Arcturus. Aldebaran.

And Vega of the Lyre—herself as heroine.

“Vega knows the stars.” Her husband claims

a share in her excitement, vicarious

and teasing. “No, don't say that.” Pained

by his intrusion, she blushes, shrugs

away his arm. He is no Perseus,

although she loves him. Her longings are

mute but stubborn, gleaming, nebulous.

A perfect marriage made of stars

beckons to her, sidereal, singular.

Diana

“Here, Mrs. D. I’ll turn the bed.

They say you’ll see the moon

from this direction.”
Poor old

thing. She’s just not

coming back from that last

treatment. It’s gone too far.

pain

dull apron

on abdomen

pain

remembered pain

like thick weight

of monthly blood

blood waiting

to be born

remember moon

seen when?

sixty years. We

lived somewhere

else else

where?

half full moon

D-shape

I remember

pregnant

wait I was

pregnant. Elsie?

moon a big belly too

pressed against

sky.

Elsie born

that night

remember

pain

The cataract           clears. The iris opens.

A city stares into the black          sky bowl.

One point           on the western rim of cloud

turns to supple           silver fabric—peau-de-soie

then lace, then filaments          that trail long fingers

of desire after          the escaping moon.

Diana

Look Mrs. D . . . A full moon.

I doubt she even hears us. Such

a pity—it’s just too late

for her to take this in. Hope

I don’t go like that.

aching

moon arc complete

as a crone’s

wheel complete

as a life flow

of silver flower

light

bud, bloom

splendid fruit

birth only

a beginning else

where

now the ache

of utter

contrast silver

against dark

arc spun end

to end

end over

end splendour

all the way

round.

Vega

Vega knew the stars—her secret dower

of pattern. But not these stars, incessant

rain of light, a pathless, brilliant flour

sifted on the night. Pattern irrelevant,

garbled, a wilderness of radiant

white noise.

“So, where’s your star?” Husband tries

to take her arm. “Where’s Vega?” Exuberant

he gazes up at star drifts. Tears fill her eyes.

“I told you—I don't know.” Her face shuts out the skies.

Nikki

Nikki, wake up.

See the stars.

Nikki struggles through muffling

layered sleep. Her world of muted days

and cloud-reflected city glow at night

has

vanished. Overhead

the stars hang near,

intense and lapidary, as though

the gem-encrusted fabric of the sky

drooped with their weight.

Wondering, she lifts her hand. Sudden

hunger makes her fingers curl,

coveting glory, coveting their fire.

Stars suddenly as real

as the fizz of soda pop, as close

as sparklers on her birthday cake.

Will they be here tomorrow?

No, just tonight.

Aren’t you a lucky girl

to see the stars

at least this once.

But luck drains out of Nikki's eyes,

like starlight through her small

plump fingers.

They won't be here

tomorrow?

The loss assaults her. Some birthright

snatched away before she knew

the heritage was hers. She is angry.

Her voice beats wings

above the reverent murmur of the crowd.

No!
No!

I want them again

tomorrow.

The stars sing back to her,

their voices incandescent.

Pale faces flower          in the pricking flame

of starlight.          The watchers seek

to memorize           unearthly messages

ciphered by far-off suns            and sent

across millennia.

Some among           the multitude begin

to drowse           and screen the dark

hollows of their mouths,            heavy eyes

able to absorb          only so much glory,

cups that fill          too quickly.

But most cradle wonder           like a quiet infant

all night in their arms,           yearn upwards

to the moon’s bridge,           to the stars’ black lake,

to the wide-set floodgates           of the firmament

until the clouds come.

Originally published in On Spec
Fall 1994 Vol 6 No 3 #18

Alice Major
has published nine highly praised poetry collections and a book of essays, “Intersecting Sets: A Poet Looks at Science.” She served as the first poet laureate for Edmonton.

Robert Boyczuk

Magic!
Bertwold thought, grinding his teeth and staring at the castle wedged neatly—and quite impossibly—in the heart of the pass.
Nothing good ever comes of magic!
Beside him, Lumpkin, his crew chief, mined his nose abstractedly, evincing no interest whatsoever in the castle.

The two men stood at the juncture where the road turned from gravel to dirt. All work had ceased; picks, shovels and wheelbarrows lay in the long grass next to the idle road crew. Behind them the paving machine huffed in a quiet rhythm, its bellows rising and falling, as if it were a beast drifting off to sleep. The digging and grading machines had already been shut off and lay like giant, inanimate limbs on the road. Bertwold had fashioned them thus—in the shapes of human arms and legs—to assuage the King’s distrust of machines. But now their very forms irritated Bertwold, reminding him of all the hoops he had already had to jump through to win the Royal contract.

And now this.

Clasping his hands behind his back, Bertwold stared miserably at the castle.

Its outer walls were fashioned of basalt, rising seamlessly from the ground to a height of nearly ten rods. Each corner boasted a square tower surmounted by an enormous ivory statue. Curiously, all four of the carvings appeared to be of imperfect figures, each lacking one or more limbs. The statue on the nearest corner was missing a head and sporting two truncated stumps where there should have been arms. Within the castle itself, visible above the crenellations of the walls, were apical towers of coloured emerald and ruby glass; and between them, the tops of ovate domes that shone with the lustre of gold and sparkled with the cool radiance of silver. Thin, attenuated threads, the colour of flax, (walkways, Bertwold reckoned, though they were empty) wound round and connected the buildings in an intricate pattern that was both complex and beautiful to behold—and, he thought with a slight degree of irritation in his engineer’s mind—altogether impossible.

“How long has it been there?” he asked at last.

“We’re not sure, boss,” Lumpkin said. “It was there when we came out this morning to start work.”

“Have you sent anyone to . . .” Bertwold hesitated, not sure exactly what might be appropriate in this case. “. . . to, ah, ring the bell?”

“Well, no sir. I tried to order a man to do it, but they’re scared of its magic, you see . . .”

Turning to Lumpkin, Bertwold tapped him on the chest with his forefinger. “Then you go and find out who lives in that
thing
, and what they’re doing there. You, personally. Don’t send a labourer.” Lumpkin opened his mouth, as if to say something, but Bertwold cut him off. “Or I’ll find someone else who’s hungry for a promotion.” Lumpkin clamped his mouth shut. “In the meantime, I’ll get the men back to work. We’re still at least half a league from the castle, and there’s plenty of road yet to lay. As far as I know, there’s nothing in the contract that prevents your men from working in the presence of the supernatural.”

Lumpkin, now a shade paler, nodded and swallowed hard. Spinning on his heel, he stumbled away, the gravel crunching under his boot soles.

Bertwold sighed. He had not counted on this when he had won the king’s commission to build the greatest road the land had ever seen. He looked at the castle, imagining the pass as it had been yesterday, and the day before, and every day before for as long as men remembered: a wide, inviting V of sky that gave onto the tablelands beyond.

Why would anyone want to drop a castle there?

Lady Miranda peered through the arrow slit.
Ants
, she thought, watching as a clutch of figures emerged from a tent and scattered, busy with their unfathomable, pointless tasks.
Insects
.

She looked at her right hand, then at her left, and pursed her lips. Between the two there weren’t enough fingers remaining to end this quickly. Perhaps if she asked Poopsie . . .

No
, she thought,
he’d never agree
. He was still off somewhere, sulking. It had been as much as she could do to convince him to move the castle from that horrid swamp to where they were now, even though he’d undershot their destination by over a hundred leagues. If she had been the one with the talent for moving, it would have been done right; but her talent was transubstantiation, of little use in such endeavours. She knew he should have offered his entire leg and not just the shin, for the gods were capricious and not entirely to be trusted. But that was Poopsie, always trying to cut corners, to save a finger here, a toe there, and ending up paying a much higher price for it in the long run. She’d wanted to warn him, but had, with difficulty, held her tongue. Now he’d have to go an entire arm or the other leg to unstick them if they ever wanted to leave this absurd spot.

And they must.

The mortals would never leave them alone until both she and Poopsie had been whittled down to their trunks. Humans
were
ants, swarming over their betters and bearing them down by dint of sheer numbers. Crush a hundred and a thousand would return. Their thickheadedness was simply incomprehensible.