Edith
has followed hares with brightly lit tails, like streetlamps, out into scrub,
into warrens that somehow shift to accommodate her bulk. The warrens are tallow
lit and lead through blackberry bushes deep into the earth, into sets of animal
bone, human bone. A smell of rot. Old women with heron feet and gopher bones in
their hair sit in these caverns, singing in high, high voices while heating
animal fat in iron pots. Long cotton wicks are dipped into the fat, then hung
on a series of bone racks, then dipped again, again, until the racks are heavy
with candles that smell of oil and meat. The room is lit with a thousand
candles, along the ceiling, like hard constellations. Edith is led by many
black-tailed hares, sometimes coyotes that croon and howl tales of death,
heroism, mischief. Unlike the hares, they never wait and lead Edith back out
again, so she is left with the singing old women and their tallow and stink of
meat.
More of this world to be found here, at the end of the Douglas fir posting.
Sylvia, this is lovely writing.
ReplyDeleteThanks so much Terri, and for you kind words over at my otter post. I'm so thrilled you enjoyed both. This was just enormous fun to write-- I'm planning to work it into a whole tale soon, though I'm not sure where its path will lead yet! I always love that process of following your nose as a story takes you off into fox dens and who knows where else!
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