“Port,” says Ms. Kidney. “Not you, Dorcas. My Pachydum-pling. My Heliport, my love.” Dorcas doesn’t want port anyway. Another cup of punch.
[:]
From his garage, Mr. Henderson can hear the shrieks of children and the lowing of beasts. He can hear the ringing bass of the Strong Man. Mr. Henderson removes the bronze mignonette from the kiln.
“It is imperfect,” he thinks. “It is unbeautiful.” He is reminded of the physical universe, how it caves in on itself, how it is always collapsing, everywhere at once. Why did he think this was a good idea?
“I should have made a glass flute,” thinks Mr. Henderson. “A glass fiddlestick.”
He walks slowly through the trees. The bronze mignonette is unbearably hot. Mr. Henderson is wearing oven mitts. The bag of marshmallows is tucked beneath his arm. Has he brought a little muesli for the birds? There are no birds. The birds have been frightened away by the acrobats. Creaky trapezes swing back and forth above Mr. Henderson’s head. The Misses Fibonacci are having a leaf fight. On the upswing, they grab fistfuls of dry leaves. On the downswing, they hurl the leaves, laughing. Mr. Henderson is covered in leaves. It is like a sky burial in the woodlands, the spirits trapped in the canopy, a rustle, and falling back to earth.
[:]
Mr. Zimmer and Ms. Kidney have made their own punch. It is port, schnapps, and whisky. They are roaringly drunk.
“Done much apple-knocking?” roars Ms. Kidney.
“I’ve knocked a few,” roars Mr. Zimmer.
“Oranges?” roars Ms. Kidney.
“Oranges,” roars Mr. Zimmer. He can’t remember what they’re talking about. He does love oranges. He sits down heavily on his delivery, a big cardboard box.
“Oranges,” roars Mr. Zimmer.
“It’s hard to shave an egg, dear baldy,” roars Ms. Kidney. “But you’re an honest shaver.”
“Yes, sir,” roars Mr. Zimmer.
“A decent man,” roars Ms. Kidney.
“I am descended from James K. Polk,” roars Mr. Zimmer.
Who did Ms. Kidney vote for, those many years past? Why, she voted for James K. Polk, even though she is a Canadian citizen.
“A hickory stick on the pyre,” roars Ms. Kidney. “And hazels,” calls the truck driver, who lives for love. “And honeysuckles.”
[:]
The sun has disappeared. Is it nighttime already? The morning star is brighter! Could it be? The star of Bethlehem shining overhead?
“It is a rocket,” says Mrs. Borage. She is standing by herself on the sidewalk. She waves at the sky.
“Safe travels,” says Mrs. Borage.
“Where’s the gandygirl?”
“Where’s Mrs. Borage?”
Ms. Kidney and Agnes have come around the house. There is Mrs. Borage, silhouetted against the red bricks of the Security Spray Complex. Agnes would like to run towards her, but the ground is surging. She takes a step forward but the ground pulls away. She watches it roll back like the tide.
“Gulp o’ buoy,” offers Ms. Kidney. She holds up the bottle.
“No, that was the last of it. Shame.”
[:]
Bertrand is swimming in the Gulf of Salerno.
It has grown chill. She is the only person on the sand, but, looking up at the white houses, she sees that all the saints are out on the little balconies. Some have oranges in their upturned palms.
“Goodbye!” whispers Bertrand to the white houses, the saints, and the oranges. The sun is disappearing into the sky. She sits down on the sand. Where to next?
She thinks about the world around her. Every particle is magnetic. Every particle is opening, everywhere at once, dark and translucent; all of the capital cities are visible, and the people moving back and forth in brightly colored clothing. Bertrand sees the distant pink light of a faraway circus, another bright and impossible object. She counts star after star.
[:]
It is time for the procession.
“To the six-sided crystals that scatter light around the moon,” toasts Agnes. “And to Mrs. Borage.”
Mr. Henderson lowers his glass. Where did he put the bronze mignonette? Bryce is holding it, walking towards the pyre. She’s filled it with batter.
“Wait,” says Mr. Henderson. Waiting — a relic of common time. Bryce gives Mr. Henderson a resplendent smile.
She nestles the clay heart inside the pyre.
[:]
Who is allergic to the herring? It is poor Mr. Lomberg. Bring him marshmallows! Mr. Lomberg is glad that he’s retired. The pyre doesn’t have a permit. Does it have wooden skis? Yes, it does. It does now.
[:]
Ozark shakes her flashcards onto the grass. She sorts through the diamonds.
“I’ll make a quilt,” says Ozark. “A quilt of knowledge!”
Mariner’s Compass
Job’s Trouble
Orange Peel
Pine Coffin Housetop
Burgoyne Surrounded
Bricklayer
World Without End
Crazy
She likes “Crazy,” but also “World Without End.” She can barely see her golden thread flashing up and down, up and down, in the darkness.
[:]
Mrs. Borage climbs into the funerary craft. She has taken off her wig and her bluchers. Now she is wearing her moccasins, her fawn-vest, her sagathy breeches. Her hair fans out in the wind.
“Huzza!” cries Mrs. Borage. “Huzza!” Ms. Kidney lashes the dogs. They will have a very hard time pulling the craft through the dirt, amphibious or no. Why doesn’t Fiona weld on runners?
“Fiona?” roars Ms. Kidney.
“Shhhh,” whispers Bryce.
What about the Strong Man? Couldn’t he push? Mr. Henderson follows the ringing bass through the crowd. Abruptly, the voice disappears. The World’s Smallest Boy is about to win a pie-eating contest. His mouth is filled with lemon meringue.
The ground is whitening.
“Gervais!” cries Mrs. Borage. Has he brought the frost? A lorry pulls into the driveway. Better! He has brought snow-making equipment from the mountains. A whole fleet of lift operators in red winter jackets pushes the snow-making machines down the metal ramp.
Suddenly the yard is covered with snow. Is Mrs. Borage howling at the moon? Ms. Kidney’s sixteen dogs have opened their toothless mouths and they sing into the frozen gale. Who are they calling to?
Dorcas hooks her fingers through an oarlock. Ms. Kidney hooks her fingers through an oarlock. Helena lowers the great dome of her head to the back of the craft. Everyone is slipping and falling. The schnapps. The ice.
“Hugues de Payens!” gasps Mr. Henderson. Helmeted figures are gliding towards him. They close their ranks around the craft. Dorcas and Ms. Kidney step back. Across the yard and through the trees, down the hill — the craft doubles its speed. The kinetic energy increases, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144, and the children are racing behind.
Mrs. Borage stands tall in the prow. She looks behind her. She ponders the biomass of children. How much water would they displace? More than Lake Chargoggagoggmanchauggag-oggchaubunagungamaugg? More than Hudson Bay? There are so many children in the world. More than ever before. More than have ever died. The dead are overwhelmed by the children. No wonder they are afraid to show their faces.
Up on the hill, Bryce lights the pyre. A spark leaps from the fire to the house. The house is burning. The barn stars glow, eight-pointed rosettes. They shower down. From the corner of her eye, Bryce sees the red and purple rickshaw moving away, rolling down the sidewalk, faster and faster. Bryce looks at Dragomir. He’s standing beside her. He takes her hand. She is many, many years his senior. They wave to Hildegard.
“Goodbye, Hildegard!” calls Bryce, but Hildegard is already miles away. She is riding up the entrance ramp. The ramp inclines quite steeply. Just a little faster, and Hildegard will launch into the air.
[:]