piled with blankets topped by pillows; scarves over purple lamp shades over tinted bulbs; rugs askew atop other rugs. Color upon color upon color. The air too was almost liquid with incense and wood smoke and the smell of strong coffee.
Too much. Too much.
She began to sweat. In front of her was a low cloth-draped table, perhaps a storage trunk, upon which were set nine or ten candles, burning in small glass cups of green and purple and yellow. The little flames seemed to fill up the room with heat. On the other side of the table was a huge armchair that Greta assumed belonged to Aunty Siddra. The arms of the chair had once been upholstered, but now they were bare wood, scorched black. The velour seat cushions, however, looked new.
The curtain moved, and it was as if an oven door had opened. Hot air swept over her and made her shrink in her chair.
Aunty Siddra appeared. She was a collection of spikes and angles, like a burnt tree still standing after a forest fire. And she was marked, too. Candlelight limned every ridge and scar.
Greta started to get to her feet and the old woman waved for her to sit down. She moved slowly, as if her limbs might snap under her own weight. She settled into her throne-like chair one bone at a time.
The woman wore a sleeveless shirt and a skirt that hung to her knees, so arms and hands and shin bones were visible. Every inch of visible skin mirrored Greta’s; the designs were the same. They were two copies of the same document, penned decades apart.
No, not copies. Not exactly. The woman’s forehead was branded, where Greta’s was unmarked. The top scars made a jagged line, as if a serrated knife had sawed away at her skull, and that line curved inward at each end.
Aunty Siddra smiled. “Candy?”
“Pardon?”
The woman held out a glass bowl full of what looked like dusty marbles. “Go on,” she said.
Greta did not want any candy, but she took a reddish brown lump. The surface felt crusty, like a sugar cube. She held it to her nose, then put it in her mouth. It tasted of some spice she didn’t recognize, like licorice but not.
Aunty smiled as if she’d trapped the girl. “I bet you don’t get much candy in this shit hole,” she said.
“Not much,” Greta agreed.
Aunty popped a candy into her mouth. “I didn’t expect a white girl. But I guess vanilla is the hot new flavor.”
Greta didn’t know what to say to that.
“Do you know why you’re here?” Aunty Siddra asked.
“I think so.”
“Hmm.” The woman leaned back. “Guess my age.” When Greta said nothing she said, “Go on. Don’t be shy. Sixty-five? Seventy?”
Greta shook her head.
“I’m fifty-two,” she said. “Fifty- two .” She looked at the ceiling.
Greta sat still for a minute, two. Suddenly Aunty Siddra looked at her. “There was supposed to be a revolution. We were supposed to form our own society. And the Hidden Ones would be our nuclear deterrent. You know what a nuclear deterrent is?”
Greta nodded, though she wasn’t quite sure.
“Yeah, well, the revolution’s always around the corner. We just wanted to have our weapon in place. And once we made our deal with foreign powers—well, you know, don’t you? One from our side, one from theirs.”
“‘A bridge and a bond,’” Greta quoted from her lessons.
“Right,” Aunty Siddra said. “But that doesn’t mean you have to do everything the other guy says.” She sat up straighter. “Listen to me, this is important. Don’t ever let go. Hold tight to the reins. You can do this, yes? Because we need a woman who won’t flinch, who can take it. Who can hold on to that son of a bitch, no matter how much it makes you hurt.” She gripped the sides of the chair. “Are you that woman?”
“Yes,” Greta said. “I am.”
“Thank God,” Aunty Siddra said. “I don’t think I can hold out much longer.”
A final step was required, Greta told the group. She was to come back in an hour after they prepared the bus for
Too much. Too much.
She began to sweat. In front of her was a low cloth-draped table, perhaps a storage trunk, upon which were set nine or ten candles, burning in small glass cups of green and purple and yellow. The little flames seemed to fill up the room with heat. On the other side of the table was a huge armchair that Greta assumed belonged to Aunty Siddra. The arms of the chair had once been upholstered, but now they were bare wood, scorched black. The velour seat cushions, however, looked new.
The curtain moved, and it was as if an oven door had opened. Hot air swept over her and made her shrink in her chair.
Aunty Siddra appeared. She was a collection of spikes and angles, like a burnt tree still standing after a forest fire. And she was marked, too. Candlelight limned every ridge and scar.
Greta started to get to her feet and the old woman waved for her to sit down. She moved slowly, as if her limbs might snap under her own weight. She settled into her throne-like chair one bone at a time.
The woman wore a sleeveless shirt and a skirt that hung to her knees, so arms and hands and shin bones were visible. Every inch of visible skin mirrored Greta’s; the designs were the same. They were two copies of the same document, penned decades apart.
No, not copies. Not exactly. The woman’s forehead was branded, where Greta’s was unmarked. The top scars made a jagged line, as if a serrated knife had sawed away at her skull, and that line curved inward at each end.
Aunty Siddra smiled. “Candy?”
“Pardon?”
The woman held out a glass bowl full of what looked like dusty marbles. “Go on,” she said.
Greta did not want any candy, but she took a reddish brown lump. The surface felt crusty, like a sugar cube. She held it to her nose, then put it in her mouth. It tasted of some spice she didn’t recognize, like licorice but not.
Aunty smiled as if she’d trapped the girl. “I bet you don’t get much candy in this shit hole,” she said.
“Not much,” Greta agreed.
Aunty popped a candy into her mouth. “I didn’t expect a white girl. But I guess vanilla is the hot new flavor.”
Greta didn’t know what to say to that.
“Do you know why you’re here?” Aunty Siddra asked.
“I think so.”
“Hmm.” The woman leaned back. “Guess my age.” When Greta said nothing she said, “Go on. Don’t be shy. Sixty-five? Seventy?”
Greta shook her head.
“I’m fifty-two,” she said. “Fifty- two .” She looked at the ceiling.
Greta sat still for a minute, two. Suddenly Aunty Siddra looked at her. “There was supposed to be a revolution. We were supposed to form our own society. And the Hidden Ones would be our nuclear deterrent. You know what a nuclear deterrent is?”
Greta nodded, though she wasn’t quite sure.
“Yeah, well, the revolution’s always around the corner. We just wanted to have our weapon in place. And once we made our deal with foreign powers—well, you know, don’t you? One from our side, one from theirs.”
“‘A bridge and a bond,’” Greta quoted from her lessons.
“Right,” Aunty Siddra said. “But that doesn’t mean you have to do everything the other guy says.” She sat up straighter. “Listen to me, this is important. Don’t ever let go. Hold tight to the reins. You can do this, yes? Because we need a woman who won’t flinch, who can take it. Who can hold on to that son of a bitch, no matter how much it makes you hurt.” She gripped the sides of the chair. “Are you that woman?”
“Yes,” Greta said. “I am.”
“Thank God,” Aunty Siddra said. “I don’t think I can hold out much longer.”
A final step was required, Greta told the group. She was to come back in an hour after they prepared the bus for
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