from his blouse.
"Stand aside," said the cat. "Let me lead!"
And arriving at the grave with the pale stone, as smooth as a maiden's cheek, Timothy knelt and put that ear with its invisible weaver against the cool marble, so both might hear.
Timothy shut his eyes.
At first: stone silence.
And again, nothing.
He was about to leap up in confusion when the tickling in his ear said: Wait.
And deep under he heard what he thought was the single beat of a buried heart.
The soil under his knees pulsed three times swiftly.
Timothy fell back.
"Father told the truth!"
"Yes," said the whisper in his ear. "Yes," echoed the fur-ball thing in his blouse.
Anuba purred.
Yes!
He did not return to the pale gravestone, for it was so terrible and mysterious that he cried, not knowing why.
"Oh, that poor lady."
"Not poor, my dear," said his mother.
"But she's dead !"
"But not for long. Patience."
Still he could not visit, but sent his messengers to listen and come back.
The heartbeats increased. The ground shook with nervous tremors. A tapestry wove itself in his ear. His blouse pocket squirmed. Anuba ran in circles.
The time is near.
And then half through a long night with a storm freshly departed, a lightning bolt stabbed the graveyard to invigorate a celebration
And Angelina Marguerite was born.
At three in the morning, the soul's midnight, Timothy looked out his window to see a procession of candles lighting the path to the tree and that one special stone.
Glancing up, candelabra in hand, Father gestured. Panicked or not, Timothy must attend.
He arrived to find the Family around the grave, their candles burning.
Father handed Timothy a small implement.
"Some spades bury, some reveal. Be the first to shovel earth."
Timothy dropped the spade.
"Pick it up," said Father. "Move!"
Timothy stuck the spade into the mound. A trip-hammering of heartbeat sounded. The gravestone cracked.
"Good!" And Father dug. The others followed until at last the most beautiful golden case he had ever seen, with a Royal Castilian insignia on its lid, came into sight, to be laid out under the tree to much laughter.
"How can they laugh ?" cried Timothy.
"Dear child," said his mother. "It is a triumph over death. Everything turned upside down. She is not buried, but unburied, a grand reason for joy. Fetch wine!"
He brought two bottles to be poured in a dozen glasses that were lifted as a dozen voices murmured, "Oh, come forth, Angelina Marguerite, as a maiden, girl, baby, and thence to the womb and the eternity before Time!"
Then the box was opened.
And beneath the bright lid was a layer of
"Onions?!" Timothy exclaimed.
And indeed, like a freshet of grass from the Nile banks, the onions were there, spring-green and lush and savory on the air.
And beneath the onions
"Bread!" said Timothy.
Sixteen small loaves baked within the hour, with golden crusts like the lip of the box, and a smell of yeast and the warm oven that was the box.
"Bread and onions," said the oldest near-uncle in his Egyptian cerements, leaning to point into the garden box. "I planted these onions and bread. For the long journey not down the Nile to oblivion but up the Nile to the source, the Family, and then the time of the seed, the pomegranate with a thousand buds, one ripe each month, surrounded by encirclements of life, millions crying to be born. And so … ?"
"Bread and onions." Timothy joined the smiles. "Onions and bread!"
The onions had been put aside with the bread sheaved near them to reveal a gossamer veil laid over the face in the box.
Mother gestured. "Timothy?"
Timothy fell back.
"No!"
"She's not afraid to be seen. You must not be afraid to see. Now."
He took hold and pulled.
The veil plumed on the air like a puff of white smoke and blew away.
And Angelina Marguerite lay there with her face upturned to the candlelight, her eyes shut, her mouth enclosing the faintest smile.
And she was a joy and a delight and a lovely toy crated and
"Stand aside," said the cat. "Let me lead!"
And arriving at the grave with the pale stone, as smooth as a maiden's cheek, Timothy knelt and put that ear with its invisible weaver against the cool marble, so both might hear.
Timothy shut his eyes.
At first: stone silence.
And again, nothing.
He was about to leap up in confusion when the tickling in his ear said: Wait.
And deep under he heard what he thought was the single beat of a buried heart.
The soil under his knees pulsed three times swiftly.
Timothy fell back.
"Father told the truth!"
"Yes," said the whisper in his ear. "Yes," echoed the fur-ball thing in his blouse.
Anuba purred.
Yes!
He did not return to the pale gravestone, for it was so terrible and mysterious that he cried, not knowing why.
"Oh, that poor lady."
"Not poor, my dear," said his mother.
"But she's dead !"
"But not for long. Patience."
Still he could not visit, but sent his messengers to listen and come back.
The heartbeats increased. The ground shook with nervous tremors. A tapestry wove itself in his ear. His blouse pocket squirmed. Anuba ran in circles.
The time is near.
And then half through a long night with a storm freshly departed, a lightning bolt stabbed the graveyard to invigorate a celebration
And Angelina Marguerite was born.
At three in the morning, the soul's midnight, Timothy looked out his window to see a procession of candles lighting the path to the tree and that one special stone.
Glancing up, candelabra in hand, Father gestured. Panicked or not, Timothy must attend.
He arrived to find the Family around the grave, their candles burning.
Father handed Timothy a small implement.
"Some spades bury, some reveal. Be the first to shovel earth."
Timothy dropped the spade.
"Pick it up," said Father. "Move!"
Timothy stuck the spade into the mound. A trip-hammering of heartbeat sounded. The gravestone cracked.
"Good!" And Father dug. The others followed until at last the most beautiful golden case he had ever seen, with a Royal Castilian insignia on its lid, came into sight, to be laid out under the tree to much laughter.
"How can they laugh ?" cried Timothy.
"Dear child," said his mother. "It is a triumph over death. Everything turned upside down. She is not buried, but unburied, a grand reason for joy. Fetch wine!"
He brought two bottles to be poured in a dozen glasses that were lifted as a dozen voices murmured, "Oh, come forth, Angelina Marguerite, as a maiden, girl, baby, and thence to the womb and the eternity before Time!"
Then the box was opened.
And beneath the bright lid was a layer of
"Onions?!" Timothy exclaimed.
And indeed, like a freshet of grass from the Nile banks, the onions were there, spring-green and lush and savory on the air.
And beneath the onions
"Bread!" said Timothy.
Sixteen small loaves baked within the hour, with golden crusts like the lip of the box, and a smell of yeast and the warm oven that was the box.
"Bread and onions," said the oldest near-uncle in his Egyptian cerements, leaning to point into the garden box. "I planted these onions and bread. For the long journey not down the Nile to oblivion but up the Nile to the source, the Family, and then the time of the seed, the pomegranate with a thousand buds, one ripe each month, surrounded by encirclements of life, millions crying to be born. And so … ?"
"Bread and onions." Timothy joined the smiles. "Onions and bread!"
The onions had been put aside with the bread sheaved near them to reveal a gossamer veil laid over the face in the box.
Mother gestured. "Timothy?"
Timothy fell back.
"No!"
"She's not afraid to be seen. You must not be afraid to see. Now."
He took hold and pulled.
The veil plumed on the air like a puff of white smoke and blew away.
And Angelina Marguerite lay there with her face upturned to the candlelight, her eyes shut, her mouth enclosing the faintest smile.
And she was a joy and a delight and a lovely toy crated and
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