Matilda, Child of Fire

MMV: Epicenter Solitude

16 MMV: Epicenter Solitude

"I know we will never look back/You say you wake up crying/Yes and you don't know why/...Yeah, I guess I'm doing OK.../I will buy you a garden/Where your flowers can bloom..."

–Everclear, song "I Will Buy You a New Life"

9 am, Week 8, Saturday Morning, Front Garden, Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 23

Matilda brushed away a stray tendril of curly hair, beads of perspiration dotting her forehead, as she continued clipping zucchini blossoms for the evening's dinner of Fiori Di Zucca Fritti, Italiano-style. She recalled the words just days before, "until we meet again," that she had whispered in Wyatt's ear as they embraced each other one final time before she traveled back to Vera Manor via her mother's backyard laboratory portal.

Her waking hours were as normal as one might expect. Had Camp Wanaka really happened? Sometimes while she read an e-book upstairs in her bedroom atop the second floor, staring out into the verdant wilderness to the glimmering distant stars while surrounded by the hum of fireflies, cicadas, and waterbugs, she wondered. Then as she drifted off to sleep, she would imagine herself back on the gently-swaying Bayliner in the cooler climate of Aetearoa, enmeshed in her lover's arms.

It had only been five days since she'd departed, but it felt like a lifetime.

Was she emotionally attached? No, not exactly, she kept telling herself as she constantly found reasons to prune the front garden, play with Aunt Maggie and Uncle Jordan's cat Coquito back at Vera Manor, and go jogging through the neighborhood at odd hours of the morning for far longer than was wise, passing the tiny villages, the expensive gated micro-mansions, the apartments, the cobblestone drives. Like her mother Macy who often showered at 2 am, she too was a nocturnal creature who found a sense of freedom, wandering the darkness in utter solitude.

True, there were moments when she cried in the shower, as she silently berated herself for her sudden show of sappy weakness, rivulets of fluid salt intermingling with the tumbling droplets from the showerhead above. But it was a one-time instance, and she had bigger fish to fry.

Including figuring out what came next.

Matilda had spent the past three evenings typing away at her phone, creating a "Career Ideas" notes section (she never used actual journal paper, for fear of accidentally setting it ablaze).

Ideas: Parisian sous-chef, being an extra on Hell's Kitchen, seasonal temp work at Burning Man, Renaissance Fair fire dancer, PR consultant (color symbology, fire??)

She sighed. Most of the jobs she wrote down were temporary/seasonal or high-pressure. She knew being a published author was out of the question, as this meant subjecting paperbacks to a conflagration risk, and she couldn't work in any of the typical trade industries—most of which used fire in concentrated amounts, or sought to stem the use of it in entirety. The only logical solution seemed to become a consultant. It seemed like a catch-all-type role that she could grow into, provided a livable wage, and didn't involve screaming at people as much as the other roles (so she thought, anyways). Consultant it was, then.

Her parents were thrilled at her proposed career choice and had received a satisfactory report of her exemplary work at Camp Wanaka; her community service requirement was lifted, though she secretly wished she could return. Why hadn't she chosen to? She didn't want to seem the clingy type, and she figured their summer romance was that—a summer romance. Besides, if she went back a year later to surprise Wyatt and he was off to another locale, she would be stuck in the middle of New Zealand, virtually cut off from civilization. Plus, she'd look stupid, besides. A girl chasing after a guy. Definitely not a good look for the likes of Matilda Valensi.

9:15 am, Front Garden, Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 23

Matilda had neatly clipped seven zucchini blossoms approximately the size of the palm of her hand, when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned around, finding herself face-to-face with the older visage of none other than Morgana herself.

"Morgana!" she exclaimed, as they excitedly embraced. "You're home!" They both began to tear up despite themselves.

"I couldn't stay far from my little juvenile delinquent, now could I?" Morgana remarked, tapping the girl's nose affectionately. It seemed like yesterday that Matilda's mother Macy was gardening in the very same jardin, when Morgana had honed her emerald eagle-eyes on Macy's abdomen and found herself with child for a second time—with twins, no less—one of which stood before her today, bright red curls and all.

"You got my letter then," replied Matilda, both embarrassed and relieved. Morgana nodded. "It's been an insane summer—"

"I heard," chuckled Morgana. "How about you leave your gardening tools in the shed and I fix you a nice cup of iced tea in my kitchen? I'd simply love to hear all about it..."