Black Locust Letters by Nicolette Jinks Page B

discovered
the cause for her admittedly self-induced malaise: A letter,
cottonwood paper, sap ink, brilliantly fresh burst of sweet black
locust. She took it with her to the kitchen, dropping the letter on
her window seat as she made coffee in her perculator—which she
realized she had to first make a fire to boil the water
with.
    Her
toes had gone numb and when she poured water into the tin
perculator, it was cold as well water. While the fire smouldered
into life, Betty watched it with disgruntled unamusement from her
perch on her mattress, wrapped up in a blanket with her fingers
cupping her toes, feeling like a slug or caterpillar.
    She
glared at the letter, but could hardly blame it for merely
existing. After all, it had been made by others, ink pressed upon
it, hands delivered it, all independent of the will of the letter
itself. It wasn't as though the letter had done anything. Then all
at once, she realized she, too, had been made, delivered, and
written upon, used as a tool, a method of communication. But the
letter hadn't a mind, hadn't a will. Betty had both, didn't
she?
    The
smoke began to drift up the chimney instead of filling up the
house. Whatever would the landlord say if she offered to put up
half the cost to install a gas oven? Clarkin's report about
electric pyros had her frightened of wires and chords, but being in
Geri's house with the gas oven had given her a taste for the
wonders of instant flame.
    At
last with coffee, Betty sat in the living room with the letter and
flipped it open.
    My
dearest singer, you sounded forlorn today, as though adrift in
nearly forgotten memories. It is a day of remembrance, and while I
can not suppose to imagine what your recollections are, I can share
mine.
    Betty frowned, trying to think of which day this could have
been. Was this from her morning of the Carnival? It was the most
recent Remembrance Day, the last one was back in May, and she
hadn't been receiving the letters then. His calling her forlorn—she
presumed the writer was a he—surprised her, but as she thought upon
it, she had been distracted on that day. Had her thoughts been
turned towards Tom? She couldn't recall. So she read,
intrigued.
    Today I remembered the various missions I have served, so
unlik e the common soldiers orders to go
here or go there, where they have a hope for rescue by
Valkyries-you see, for me there was no such hope, as I was among
the Valkyries (though it must be said I do not make an attractive
face for the role, yet none who I saved expressed much
disappointment in the discovery).
    We
were all of various forms and abilities, a big pool who operated in
two or more smaller units. I also worked as a Will-O-the-Wisp,
there were not many of us in that section, and I would tell you
more of what I did if only I could. Were it not for my anonymity, I
would not even reveal the term.
    How,
then, to relate what I wish to without speaking of what I should
not? We had a saying, that any place you could use a foggy mist,
you could use a Will-O-the-Wisp. Whatever you are imagining, it
could not be far from the truth. My most thrilling times, sorry I
cannot help but admit to my enjoyment, were the Cuckoo
missions.
    It
was an insurmountable danger to be in the nest of the enemy, but
such a sweeping victory. It came at great cost, for I could little
resist, or afford to resist, meeting so many good people and
securing their friendship, only to betray it. I fancy that a number
of them owe to me their lives, though I have not seen them since.
When I could, I was as Loti, though this did not please my
superiors and more than once I came to regret my mercy.
    She
read this paragraph over a few times, puzzling it out. From her
memories, Valkyries were beautiful maidens or sometimes ugly hags
who swept down from the heavens to carry away the viking men who
died valiantly in battle, to take them up to Valhalla where they
would live in an endless circle of glorious battle and great
feasts.
    The
way it read