Mayflies Read Online Free Page B

compare. I pull my hand away.
    My ladies are there with us. They have begun a game with shells. One makes a pattern in the sand with them and the others have to try to guess what the pattern means. Before they make their guess, they perform a kind of jitterbug. Then they sit down, rather hard, and place a finger to lips, ponder, then look up brightly and give their answer. They don’t often guess correctly, it seems, as they usually stomp off with a pout and frown.
    The light begins to fade and the clouds roll in and we gather our things. It has been another afternoon that was both pleasant and uncomfortable.

    They have heard of the woman who walks the riverbeds, who paces the bridge. Some say they have seen her with other women who wear long flowing gowns. Some say they do not believe she is real, say she’s made up, that her feet have never touched solid ground. They say she’s a vision, a shade, an appearance, unknowable. Believers are thought to be deluding themselves, wasting their time by the river, but superstitions always arise from truth. The ones who believe are affected. They make pilgrimages to the water. They bring jars in which to put the river. A river of their own to keep them safe. They believe she keeps them safe.

    Her emergence into the world was aided by the encouragement of her ancestors, who appeared for the occasion wearing forget-me-nots in their hair and lapels but who remained unnoticed by the parties involved as there were too many other things happening at the same time. For example, her father was busy throwing the dozens of snakes out the window that had appeared out of nowhere.

    â€œSo, you thought you were drowning?”
    â€œI couldn’t be sure. It was unclear which way was up, how to move, where to go. It was a strange perambulation. I heard some sort of water bird, I saw many gliding along the periphery. There was an undertow; I knew this from what everyone said about moving bodies of water. The currents seemed to me like a train or bus you would wait for and get onto. But of course it wasn’t like that. I was seeing all kinds of blue, I was trying to emerge.”
    â€œHow did you get away?” Her ladies leaned forward. They held their chins in their hands and sat cross-legged on the floor in dresses made from pale chiffon.
    â€œTo leave a place is difficult. I understand motion, but am unclear about how to ignite it. Most places are like others. I often feel as if I were somewhere else. As if one city grid were placed on top of another, inserting its atmosphere as well as its architecture. I’m not sure how else to explain it. It’s not me that is displaced, but the landscape.”

    Place a loaf of bread with a quantity of quicksilver within. Place a loaf of bread with a lit candle embedded within it. Place a shirt there. Listen for the change in the sound of the drum beat. Float chips of wood. Wear an earring. Row in a boat with a rooster. Place a straw or bundle of straw. Insert a paper with the name written upon it. Throw a lamb or goat there. Fire a cannon. Ring the bell. You’ll hear her voice before a storm: a crier who returns as a bird. Use a fetish of fishbone, wear a ring of coffin nail, wear a ring of seahorse teeth, a fillet of green rushes tied to the calf. Carry a knee bone, a black key. Come into the world at the rising of the Dog Star. To appease, to make sure, throw salt into the river.

    I do not know what it is I am waiting for, if I am waiting for anything. It seems I am. I have been here so long. There was a time I was elsewhere, my dwelling a private district of gravel. Solid ground. A frame house. Windows and curtains. Eggs and tea. I appeared alone in the meadow, ran reckless through the prospect. My outlook was extensive and naïve. At night, the river whispered and I was its likely customer. Whichever direction I faced was water. It was inevitable.

    If they could see her, they would feel something sharp between