While the World Burns

The room at the heart of the labyrinth was indescribable. No one inclined to describe it could reach it, and the one hiding inside had no need. The rooms that surrounded it also defied description, but only because there was so much to describe. They were crowded with tawdry gimcracks, figurines and ornaments, shabby upholstery whose stains were not quite hidden by a tasteless multiplication of quilts and blankets. Chipped dinnerware lay on every available surface. Most of it was dirty.

It was hard to imagine anyone living in this mess. It was hard to imagine the mess coming about without anyone living in it.

Harder still to imagine was that the house could still be standing. The storm that raged outside had already torn down bigger buildings and stronger. It aspired to destroy mountains. It stole entire rivers to make waterspouts. Its antics exposed the fault lines in reality, and its winds wedged into the crevasses to lever them wide open.

It was only a small world. Worlds that small came and went without notice. And yet the death of a world is never a small thing. They cry out in their death throes, and they are often heard.

"Angela? Hello?"

There couldn't possibly be anyone out there, on the other side of the door. No one could walk alive through that storm. And yet, here she was, turning the knob and letting herself in. Here she was, standing in the mud room, strange precipitation running off her shoulders and soaking into the rag rug.

"Angela, I know you're in here. It's me, Constance. We need to talk."

There was an umbrella stand by the door, as though an umbrella could possibly do a lick of good in that apocalyptic weather. Constance let her coat fall beside it, then stepped out of her shoes and into the labyrinth.

She walked among the knick-knacks and jumbled furniture like a shopper at an antique sale, examining this, appraising that. Certain things, seemingly at random, caught her eye for longer than others. This closer investigation nevertheless ended, every time, with a shake of the head, this is not it, as she moved on once more.

The pattern changed when she came across the tea cup. It was one of many drinking vessels grouped precariously upon a side table too small for the collection. When Constance picked it up, a coffee cup with the motto World's Best Auntie fell off the edge and smashed on the floor. Constance didn't give the shards a glance. All her attention was on the cup she had selected.

You wouldn't trust it to hold anything liquid, not with that crack down the side. Even if it were whole, you'd want to give it a thorough disinfecting first; a used tea bag makes an excellent mold farm. Constance, however, knew protective coloring when she saw it. She lifted the tea cup to her lips without outward sign of disgust and closed her eyes, the better to watch memory unfold.

After long moments, Constance opened her eyes and continued her wandering. She brought the tea cup with her.

A similar scene ensued when she reached the plush toy mob barely contained by an armchair that had moonlit for years as a cat's scratching post. Constance peered at each small animal in turn, looked right into their eyes, before selecting a tattered bear in a tuxedo. One of the bear's eyes was missing, marking him as particularly beloved during his heyday. That heyday was long past, however, if the fossilized cat feces matted into his fur was any indication. Again, Constance ignored the defiling details. She squeezed the bear to her chest and closed her eyes again, conjuring moments of shared history into her arms.

Now she roamed the house to find, in three separate rooms, the three large, square sofa cushions that she needed. Even with the tea cup in her sweater pocket and the bear shoved into the waist of her jeans, it was difficult carrying them all. But she knew that if she put anything down before everything was found, she'd have to start all over again. So she persevered.

The final object of her search was a crocheted afghan, huge, bedspread-sized, a project that had spanned more than a decade during which she and her sister had vied to outdo each other with their additions and innovations. There was every variety of art yarn, fuzzy or glittery or knobbly. There were strips of cut-up infant dresses, an act of unthinking desecration which had left their mother in tears. There were gold chains and bracelet charms and even Mardi Gras beads. Constance leaned into the blanket's bulk and remembered every treble-crochet she'd stitched.

At last she set everything down and assembled the blanket fort. It didn't take long. "Angela," she called down the tunnel of cushions and cloth, "I'm coming in."

She crawled through the fort and entered the heart of the labyrinth.

It was dark inside, but the sisters could see each other's faces as though in full day. It sounds impossible, but when you are a god, you can make all sorts of things happen.

"Why are you here?" Angela demanded.

"Because out there," Constance said, "you've let everything go to hell."

Angela sighed. "The whole point of all that—" and she waved her hand in the dark, in a way that somehow indicated the outer labyrinth, "was to keep out anyone who didn't understand me completely. And anyone who really understood me would know enough to leave me alone."

"Oh, I understand. Doesn't mean I agree." Constance passed the tea cup to Angela. As it passed from one sister's hands to the other, the crack mended itself and the moldy tea bag disappeared. The fragrance of a perfectly steeped second-flush Darjeeling wafted out. "Look. I get it. You did something stupid, despite your good intentions, and now you're hiding away to avoid damaging things further. But don't you see?" Constance hugged the little bear tightly. "I can't fix the world without you. I need you, sis."

"But I can't fix it, either, Connie. I can't."

"You idiot. Of course you can't. Because you need me, too." She held out her hand, offering the bear. "Let's fix it together."

Angela took the teddy bear and handed her the cup. Sometimes you need a sip of tea; sometimes you just need to hug something. The sisters took turns doing both until they both felt ready. Then they left the labyrinth and walked out into the storm to mend the world that they had made together.