showed pictures. I don’t even remember all the kinds of machines there used to be, Merciful. They all went away years ago, or fell apart. We didn’t need them anymore after the Last War. Why do you want one now?”
“Why didn’t you need them after the war?” Gospel asked. It was all stories to him, and to me, those terrible days when folks fought and killed and died for reasons that never much made sense to us. But Gospel, he liked guns and fighting, and he was always keen to ask a question if it might have anything to do with the war at all.
“They never did anything good for us, that’s why. We only needed God and each other. We saw what all those machines led to: foolish wickedness, wars, and killing. Now come on, tell it. What do you want with a machine?”
“I can’t tell you that,” I said, and Gospel sighed loudly, thumping his hand on the table. “Well, I can’t. You probably wouldn’t believe me if I did.”
“Maybe I would and maybe I wouldn’t, but until you tell me we won’t know.”
“Can you just say if you’ve got any around here? I need to find one very desperately, Miz Cally.”
She narrowed her eyes to slits and stared at me, her face hard. I don’t suppose she liked to dance and jump for a girl who couldn’t say what it was for, but I guessed she was going to give me some leeway same as she gave Gospel, ’cause of Mama dying and all, and I was right. Miz Cally nodded her head at last and stood up, walking back to the sitting room.
“Why didn’t you just tell her you talked to the angel, or whatever it was?”
“’Cause she wouldn’t’ve believed me. You said so yourself, and you’re right. It sounds foolish.”
“Ain’t all that different from how you normally sound to me,” he said, and leaned back in his chair.
I wanted to kick the legs out from under him, but Miz Cally came back just then with a dusty little box in her hand. It was a pretty thing, made of metal and covered with sparkly bits of glass in all kinds of colors. On the front side, where the lid opened, there was a little metal piece sticking out that I couldn’t quite place. The Widow set the box down on the table and then took her seat again.
“I don’t suppose there’s another machine in the whole village that works. But this one still does, or I expect it should, at least.”
“It’s so pretty. How come I’ve never seen it?”
“There’s plenty here you two’ve never seen. This thing I kept tucked away because I didn’t want it to get broken. It’s very special to me, come down to me from my mama, who died a long time ago, and it was her mama’s before that from when she was a little girl.”
“Well, what in tarnation is it for?” Gospel said. “Ain’t machines supposed to do something?”
“They are, and it does.” Miz Cally bent her head in its knit cap over and puffed air across the top of the box, scattering dust. Her long fingers lifted up the lid, which was tall and left a lot of space under, and inside there was a little tiny girl in a frilly dress up on one toe, her arm bent, and a tiny crown on her head.
“What is that?”
“That’s a ballerina, a little dancer girl. And this is a music box.”
A music box. It seemed magical: all the music I had ever heard was hymns and prayers that we sang with the Minister to guide us, and lullabies, only those I didn’t really want to ponder about too much just then. “I don’t hear any music,” I said.
“Course you don’t. It’s probably broken.”
“Gospel, you can head on home if you don’t want to be civil. I’m sure the Minister’s got a big long bit of talk saved up special just for you.” The Widow stared at my brother, and he stared back. I didn’t think they’d ever break it up, so I set my hand on Miz Cally’s and shook it gently until she turned her eyes my way.
“How does it work?”
“You just turn the key a few times and then let it go.”
A key, that was the metal bit in the front! I knew
“Why didn’t you need them after the war?” Gospel asked. It was all stories to him, and to me, those terrible days when folks fought and killed and died for reasons that never much made sense to us. But Gospel, he liked guns and fighting, and he was always keen to ask a question if it might have anything to do with the war at all.
“They never did anything good for us, that’s why. We only needed God and each other. We saw what all those machines led to: foolish wickedness, wars, and killing. Now come on, tell it. What do you want with a machine?”
“I can’t tell you that,” I said, and Gospel sighed loudly, thumping his hand on the table. “Well, I can’t. You probably wouldn’t believe me if I did.”
“Maybe I would and maybe I wouldn’t, but until you tell me we won’t know.”
“Can you just say if you’ve got any around here? I need to find one very desperately, Miz Cally.”
She narrowed her eyes to slits and stared at me, her face hard. I don’t suppose she liked to dance and jump for a girl who couldn’t say what it was for, but I guessed she was going to give me some leeway same as she gave Gospel, ’cause of Mama dying and all, and I was right. Miz Cally nodded her head at last and stood up, walking back to the sitting room.
“Why didn’t you just tell her you talked to the angel, or whatever it was?”
“’Cause she wouldn’t’ve believed me. You said so yourself, and you’re right. It sounds foolish.”
“Ain’t all that different from how you normally sound to me,” he said, and leaned back in his chair.
I wanted to kick the legs out from under him, but Miz Cally came back just then with a dusty little box in her hand. It was a pretty thing, made of metal and covered with sparkly bits of glass in all kinds of colors. On the front side, where the lid opened, there was a little metal piece sticking out that I couldn’t quite place. The Widow set the box down on the table and then took her seat again.
“I don’t suppose there’s another machine in the whole village that works. But this one still does, or I expect it should, at least.”
“It’s so pretty. How come I’ve never seen it?”
“There’s plenty here you two’ve never seen. This thing I kept tucked away because I didn’t want it to get broken. It’s very special to me, come down to me from my mama, who died a long time ago, and it was her mama’s before that from when she was a little girl.”
“Well, what in tarnation is it for?” Gospel said. “Ain’t machines supposed to do something?”
“They are, and it does.” Miz Cally bent her head in its knit cap over and puffed air across the top of the box, scattering dust. Her long fingers lifted up the lid, which was tall and left a lot of space under, and inside there was a little tiny girl in a frilly dress up on one toe, her arm bent, and a tiny crown on her head.
“What is that?”
“That’s a ballerina, a little dancer girl. And this is a music box.”
A music box. It seemed magical: all the music I had ever heard was hymns and prayers that we sang with the Minister to guide us, and lullabies, only those I didn’t really want to ponder about too much just then. “I don’t hear any music,” I said.
“Course you don’t. It’s probably broken.”
“Gospel, you can head on home if you don’t want to be civil. I’m sure the Minister’s got a big long bit of talk saved up special just for you.” The Widow stared at my brother, and he stared back. I didn’t think they’d ever break it up, so I set my hand on Miz Cally’s and shook it gently until she turned her eyes my way.
“How does it work?”
“You just turn the key a few times and then let it go.”
A key, that was the metal bit in the front! I knew
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