Old men riding in baby carriages. Well dressed apples dancing in the square. A mermaid. Muriel has Reality Issues.
Wintertime is the worst, especially right around Christmas, because the snow and fog blurs the edges, and the fairy lights cast strange shadows. Muriel isn’t surprised when the buffalo she thought she saw charging down the street is, in fact, a horseless carriage holding two very fat passengers, or when at second glance her fairy turns into a moth. Strange to see a moth in the dead of winter, but she doesn’t think much of it.
When she’s in a hurry, Muriel does not stop for second glances, and then she is surrounded by all sorts of fantastical things. As she bustles along the crowded street, she doesn’t stop to stare at the flying turtles or earwig colony that is taking over Mrs. Pettigrew’s head. Muriel is a girl on a mission.
She settles down in her regular spot, pulls her shawl around her. She doesn’t bother to call out or advertise her wares. Everyone here knows who she is and where to find her, if they want to.
Mr. Ashburrow hands Muriel a tarnished copper coin and nods. Mr. Ashbrow never speaks. Sometimes Muriel makes up stories about him. His throat was damaged in an alchemy accident. He is possessed. Maybe he just doesn’t have anything to say. Muriel doesn’t care. She likes Mr. Ashburrow. She hands him a box of matches and tucks the coin into her pocket. The whole affair is silent and utterly devoid of meaning.
This is why Muriel hates the Real World.
Hours go by. Pilgrims on ships, beetles with knives, pirates with stars in their eyes. Muriel is getting cold.
Against her better judgement, she takes a match, a match that she is supposed to be selling so Mr. Abernathy can afford liquor.
Muriel loves fire, because she sees the pictures more clearly, and when she goes back for a second glance, they’re gone, replaced by a new dancing image. All of this is going through her head as she strikes the match, but the thoughts vanish right away when the flame begins to burn.
This is what Muriel sees:
Grandma is there, playing the cello. This is strange, because Grandma has never been musically inclined. Grandma has always had the same relationship with the cello that cats have with falling anvils; that is to say, it isn’t pretty. Another thing is, Grandma died when Muriel was very young.
There is a table set with turkey and oranges and warm hot chocolate. Muriel keeps her eyes very still, looking just to the left of the flame, because for once she is not keen on taking a second glance and spoiling the vision.
But Grandma is smiling like she’s the happiest person alive, hugging the cello, and Muriel can almost hear the music.
And in spite of herself, Muriel looks.
It’s just a flame.
Ye Gods, Muriel hates the Real World!
She tries staring into the distance, but it isn’t quite the same. She sees an obese kitten, and what looks like a snake charmer balancing on a lady in a fur coat, but nothing so pretty as what the match had to offer.
It takes her all of two seconds to make up her mind, and she strikes another one.
This time, Muriel could swear Grandma is trying to tell her something, but Muriel can’t make out what. Sir Capulet is curled up at Grandma’s feet. His coat looks healthy and glossy, and it looks like he has his tail again. He’s snoring peacefully.
Once again, Muriel is careful not to look at the flame full on. She keeps one eye trained on the road ahead of her, so as not to lose the vision.
All of a sudden, out of nowhere, a boy is running toward her. Muriel’s age, maybe a little younger. Red scarf, plaid coat, bare feet. Muriel sees him with the corner of her eye, and can’t help but turn to look at him. She curses under her breath. Another match wasted.
The boy comes up, running closer and closer, and in one fluid move bends down and steals the shoes off of Muriel’s feet. It’s easy for him to do, because the shoes are too big. Muriel stole them off a sleeping hobo not too long ago, but it still hurts to have them taken from her.
“Come back!” Muriel shouts, but the boy is halfway down the block, disappearing fast behind an elephant checking her stopwatch. It’s hopeless trying to run after him. Oh well. The shoes were too big anyway, and snow keeps piling up inside them. Come to think of it, maybe her feet really are a tad warmer. Not noticeably so, but Muriel is sure of it.
Who is she kidding? Muriel loathes the Real World with a fiery passion.
This is Muriel’s last match, so she has to use it wisely. This is unfortunate, because she is getting a very unwise idea. She takes off her threadbare shawl and lights it.
This time, Muriel can hear Grandma talking, telling her what a “Dear” she is. Grandma always called Muriel “Princess”. Muriel could never decide whether she liked it or not, but now her mind is made up. She loves the pet name.
“Muriel!” Grandma’s face is getting smaller and smaller. “Princess, the fire!”
Sure enough, the fire is dwindling. The shawl has almost been reduced to ashes, and Muriel doesn’t have another match. Without thinking, Muriel takes off her apron and thrusts it onto the flame. The fire roars back to life, illuminating Grandma’s face.
“Princess, baby... I missed you.”
“Me too.”
Grandma smiles sadly. “How are things there? In the Real World?”
“I hate it here,” says Muriel. “I’ve just about had it with this place.”
Grandma gazes at Muriel sympathetically. “Princess. There’s nothing keeping you here.”
“Yes there...” and then Muriel thinks about it. Oh. Grandma is one hundred percent right. As usual. “What do I have to do?”
Grandma smiles, and Muriel can see behind her the hearth and table, set just for her. And Muriel knows what to do. She steps into the fire, warm and clean and bright, and hugs her Grandmother.
As she looks back one last time, Muriel thinks she sees a figure lying at the side of the road, barefoot and blue, but she can’t be sure. Maybe it’s just her Reality Issues acting up again.
