SRθ: Grim Inquiries (2023-2024)

Sit.20: The Town of Sparks

TAKING A BREAK

Poems wow and make us think,
they make a pleasant tune,
they place accent upon the air,
like fruit and fine perfume

sometimes, though, it's better yet
to see life as it is
to let the silence stay itself
and tend to daily biz

the world is made of poems quiet,
you'll hear them if you listen,
and one need not speak carelessly,
to make what's golden glisten.

* * *

They were renaming the town Catalite, and thank God for it. When people told me the old name, I thought they were sneezing at me. Ancient Gaelic has a beauty as dear to me as the land itself, and just like land, it has bogs as well. Actually, it could have been Celtic – I wasn't sure. The specific wording and shortening of it, 'Cat of Light' to 'Catalite', was suggested by The Artist – she wanted to honor her brother by using the title of his original draft, and make it snappy enough for quick conversation. The change in designation was meant to put the sweet little theatre town on the map, and make it a destination for sailors and rich tourists. 'Come one, come all,' said a parchment on the pub wall, 'See the Cat O' Sparks show! Now three tales to tell, one each week on Fridays! From Spring to Fall!' If that was true, the troupe was going to be busy, and the merchants were going to be very excited. Finally, they'd have someone other than their own neighbors to merch to. They were already sewing up a rainbow outside, making cat, mule, bird and even wizard-themed blankets and banners. Painted mugs, carved toys, and wooden tablets – everything I'd seen the day I arrived and a little more, hoarded in storage to be loosed as flood upon strangers. Mass production was in full-swing, and suddenly, everyone had too much to do. Hardly anyone was drinking, for once, as the mead would make them slow, and sleep horribly later – the pub shifted to making cold tea, steep enough to be juice. They kept it in mead barrels they'd been forced to empty for the river, spoiled. I couldn't have been happier to see it.
Rather than forging merchandise, I spent my time looking after The Artist, and my belly-sleeping child. It was the first time I'd been present long enough to feel it kick, or guess at its sexing – I believed it was going to be a boy, she was certain of a girl. Neither of us wanted for it to be third-sex, her seeing me as 'too lofty and tiresome', while I was afraid they wouldn't fit in. But secretly, I did hope they would be just like me, an' I could tell them all my trials and tips, to keep them good, innocent, and proud. Not that a boy or a girl couldn't be – but that wasn't my area of expertise. They'd need another teacher, then. The Artist was nearly ready now, and would be popped by the summer. She had trouble standing for very long, and ate twice as much as I could stomach... so, much of my earnings from odd reaping went straight into her belly. What worried me most, I think, was the curiosity of whether the child shared my allergies – was their mother harming them by eating bread? It seemed to fill her up, but also made her hungrier yet, and before I knew it she'd gnawed her way through another loaf. I was buying and baking so much bread, I woke up one morning thinking I was back in Morocco, and cried, "The customers!" But then I remembered, of course, that I only had two.

The dark-haired girl, on the other hand, could go any day now, and the old pub chef took special care of her at home. He was, I realize I've neglected to describe, an old man of heft and cleft with red beard and no hair on top. He had kind green eyes that reminded me much of The Author, and his actions proved that he was kind for real: he helped her out of bed and to the outhouse every morning, he cooked and cleaned for her every day, and he read her and her child a story every night. He'd long since replaced her with another for waiting tables. I could see no signs of harm, nor sex between them, though I did make sure of it a few times by listening in while walking past the house. And at night, a couple times, directly under the window. Perhaps her relations were best off being her own choice, but an uneasy vice in my gut told me a bald, middle-aged man and a sixteen-year-old orphan shouldn't be wed. I wasn't sure what had gripped me, but in my very bones I wanted that girl to be safe and sound, as well as her child. The Artist, I helped out of maturity, fondness, and obligation – this other one, though, was from a need that animated me like primal fire, and it sparked the hero in me. Maybe it was because she was younger? I was only three years ahead of her in age, and four behind The Artist, so the gap she'd bemoaned between this girl and her brother wasn't something that truly applied to me. Or, it could have been that unlike The Artist, she hadn't called me every insult in the Profane Glossary. I wasn't harboring a crush, exactly – more like a platonic, sometimes warmer, protective instinct. Regardless, The Chef was nothing but a father to her, and he doted on her so well I was jealous to see it. It taught me what fatherhood looked like, and I practiced at home with my red-haired partner. She was honestly impressed with my newfound caring, even if it seemed rehearsed, and I began not just meeting her needs in groaning agony, but anticipating them with zeal. It became fun for me to guess what she'd need next, and have it ready – like I could see her very future.
She asked me, "Do we have the crib built yet?"
"The Jack will have it here by tomorrow," I nodded.
"And the nursing blankets-"
"Sewn by next week, one of the sister cat, and one of the ghost monkey." The monkey was something I'd been trying to popularize, but he wasn't as beloved as the cat, even after making his debut as a wise spirit in the third tale. If only people knew.
She sighed with exasperated relief. "You didn't have to... thank you, honestly. Why don't you start the-"
The kettle cut her off by whistling.
She grimaced, brows darted, and cracked a smile. "Tryna outdo me, are we?"
"Just stepping up," I grinned.