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.
[:]
“She loves me,” says Mrs. Borage, and stops. Why not?
[:]
“There’s always the orange harvest,” says Ms. Kidney.
“There’s room in the equipment trailer,” says Mr. Fibonacci. “For front-folders.” Is Mrs. Scattergood a front-folder? She takes a half-step forward. She is!
Ms. Kidney kisses her hand.
“My Belle,” says Ms. Kidney. “My Belle Lettres.”
Mrs. Scattergood looks up at Ms. Kidney. Her heart beats faster. Mr. Henderson is not a front-folder. He’s so thin, though. Isn’t there room along the axle? There is!
“If the wind changes direction,” thinks Mr. Henderson. “The fire will come through the trees. My house. My garage.” He thinks of the unformed clay, centered on the wheel. He imagines the sublimation of clay, the cycle of clay, the clay raining down on the rooftops. He supposes it is just as well.
Ozark has run up the hill to smother the fire. Is the quilt of knowledge flame retardant? Alas.
How can Dorcas have lost a pie-eating contest to the World’s Smallest Boy?
“Trickery,” thinks Dorcas. The pie was yellow. Yellow tastes different than pink. It has a sharp, sad taste. Still, it was delicious.
Dorcas won’t fit in the equipment trailer. “I wouldn’t mind riding with Helena,” says Dorcas. “If Helena doesn’t mind.”
“What about Mrs. Borage?” say Agnes.
[:]
Mrs. Borage is looking at the burning house. She takes one deep breath. She blows. The wind
“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.
[:]
“She loves me,” says Mrs. Borage, and stops. Why not?
[:]
“There’s always the orange harvest,” says Ms. Kidney.
“There’s room in the equipment trailer,” says Mr. Fibonacci. “For front-folders.” Is Mrs. Scattergood a front-folder? She takes a half-step forward. She is!
Ms. Kidney kisses her hand.
“My Belle,” says Ms. Kidney. “My Belle Lettres.”
Mrs. Scattergood looks up at Ms. Kidney. Her heart beats faster. Mr. Henderson is not a front-folder. He’s so thin, though. Isn’t there room along the axle? There is!
“If the wind changes direction,” thinks Mr. Henderson. “The fire will come through the trees. My house. My garage.” He thinks of the unformed clay, centered on the wheel. He imagines the sublimation of clay, the cycle of clay, the clay raining down on the rooftops. He supposes it is just as well.
Ozark has run up the hill to smother the fire. Is the quilt of knowledge flame retardant? Alas.
How can Dorcas have lost a pie-eating contest to the World’s Smallest Boy?
“Trickery,” thinks Dorcas. The pie was yellow. Yellow tastes different than pink. It has a sharp, sad taste. Still, it was delicious.
Dorcas won’t fit in the equipment trailer. “I wouldn’t mind riding with Helena,” says Dorcas. “If Helena doesn’t mind.”
“What about Mrs. Borage?” say Agnes.
[:]
Mrs. Borage is looking at the burning house. She takes one deep breath. She blows. The wind
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