I’m tired of this story. Let’s finish it.
To her surprise, she woke the next morning. The little red dots on her arms from the day before hadn’t developed into boils, and her knees and armpits no longer felt tight. In fact, they seemed to have no feeling at all. But that might have just been the contrast from yesterday. She didn’t remember if they should have a particular feeling. She sat up and yawned, then shook herself out. Perhaps the miracle had occurred, and the disease had passed.
She sniffed and looked about. The boy was nowhere in sight. He had been talking at her and wanting to show her something yesterday, but she could not remember what. Doubtless it was something bizarre. Aida stood up stiffly and stretched. She wanted to go back and explore the castle now. They had just walked straight through yesterday, but it probably extended on the sides.
Behold, the sea!
When she woke up it was past noon. She didn’t feel as refreshed as she would like to; her lungs and her knees and her ankles still hurt from too much running. The backs of her knees were itchy. She blinked and sat up and looked around. She lay exactly where she had fallen that morning, in the entrance to a courtyard. The ground was cobbled stone, but grasses grew in the cracks and in the corner a young tree had displaced several stones. At the far end of the courtyard there were steps leading up to an arch, through which Aida could see an armless statue covered with vines and surrounded by forest.
Aida woke late. As usual, she was alone. The rest of the family was probably already in the weaving shed. She wondered if there were anything good to eat. Someone was banging on the door. “What,” groaned Aida, not opening her eyes.
“Your breakfast, miss.”
Aida opened her eyes and sat up. Suddenly, it all came back to her. Her family was dead. She was imprisoned.
We always think it will happen to someone else…
She heard the meeting before long. It did not sound to her like a meeting of humans. She heard a short high-pitched sound, followed by a low murmuring hubbub. It sounded like coyotes.
When she came out of the forest, she was behind a throng of people. They were all facing a great orange bonfire, and mediating between the people and the fire, the priest sat cross-legged on a platform. He was wearing an iridescent robe, which winked and shimmered in the firelight. It seemed to be of finer cloth than usual. Around his neck he wore a necklace of silver odds and ends, and in his lap he held the sticks. In front of him stood a woman, his interpreter.
John R. Ahern writes a set of haiku about the Matter of Britain,
long fingers of trees
poking our eyes, and beetles—
near love, said Yvain
Does this story ever end?
Part I Part II Part III Part IV
She woke up suddenly and sat bolt upright. The first thing she noticed was a bad, dry, morning taste in her mouth. Then she felt a faint but rhythmic pulse in the earth. Then she heard someone singing. It was the same crooning off key voice of the night before. She strained her ears to catch what he was singing. He seemed to be walking back and forth, or else to be alternating between soft and loud.
John Ahern writes,
In reading some of the fairy tales of both the Grimms, Anderson, and various others, one salient feature of a great many of them is this concept of the Forbidden Fruit. A Forbidden Fruit is something irresistibly desirable for little better reason than that it is forbidden. It isn’t an impulse based in the usual human desires, psychological, physical, or otherwise, but simply an impulse to do something because it’s off limits.
“So what, Helena’s sick? She’s been sick before. Haven’t we all?”
Later Aida wished her callous words unsaid. Even in her confused state, she had no excuse for saying that. Those words came back to haunt her when Helena died two days later. Never again would Aida grudgingly fix a snarl for Helena. They buried her in a piece of blotchy cloth she had woven herself.
And so the world continues to spin on its axis…
Little yellow millet seeds slipped through clutched fingers, and the hens cackled and clucked around Aida’s bare feet, leaving little red lines where their talons scratched her. A long sigh wheezed down, and she let all the grain fall at once. A flurry of wings erupted, and she reached into the bag for more millet. It trickled down to the chickens.
“My goodness,” said Aida suddenly, “I don’t even know who he is. He must be a west sider.” She dumped the whole bag on the crowd at her feet and stomped out of the coop, leaving the indignant chickens to shake the millet out of their feathers. She muttered to herself as she stalked to the weaving shed. “What do I do. What do I do? This disastrous oaf is going to ruin everything. How in the world do I get rid of him?” She put her hand on the handle of the door and bit the insides of her cheeks. “Creep,” she said, and went in.
John Ahern scribbles deliriously,
Some storm-tossed sailors have just landed on some coast outside Africa. They’ve just been saved from a gale sent by Juno, who has a thing with these Trojans. Venus, who has a different thing with these Trojans (Aeneas happens to be her son), comes whining to Zeus, calling him out for not keeping his promises to the poor, destitute Trojans. Not particularly worried about pandering to the special interests of lobbyists—he is a somewhat partisan figure himself—Jove consoles Venus, telling her that, in fact, the Trojans’ luck will turn. They’ll settle in Latium and someday have an empire. Bigger than anybody else’s. An imperium sine fine.
