The
women of the village
Have
no sense of humor.
They
live their lives for
Gossip
and rumor.
And
here’s some gossip
Some
rumor I have heard,
That
in this village
Something
horrible once occurred.
It
involved four village women who had lived there forever,
And
four newcomers who wished they had come there never.
1.
Sophistication
had chosen not to visit this bucolic outback. Rain too had stayed
away this season and the women of the village were as physically and
emotionally parched as the drought dry land.
Maggie
had a mashed face, small mouth with tiny pointy teeth and small dark
eyes that maintained an even dullness. No glimmer of the light of
laughter or love ever shone within those orbs. Her stomach was her
favorite friend, it’s protuberance a twin self. Her body had the
shape of a crab shell. Her flabby arms extended outward like the
skinny legs of crustaceans. As a teenager, growing up in this tiny
village, she had been nicknamed Frumpy, Lumpy, Dumpy by the other
teens at the local high school. The many years in her rural home had
severed her from cultural, intellectual or philosophical progress,
leaving her a backward thinking hick with a mean, narrow disposition.
Her dim wit required the chemical reaction of being with other mean
spirited women to set even a slow fire ablaze within her.
Mary
was like water. Tasteless. She was a babbling brook of inappropriate
silly giggling. Her contribution to conversation usually consisted of
“and whatever” followed by a high pitched shrill cackle and an
enlarging of pale blue eyes as if she had surprised herself with her
own brilliance. Her raucous giggle seemed deliberately employed to
make others feel foolish for whatever they had just said. More likely
it was simply hollow and hateful. Her skinny body held up a head of
white hair close cropped and a face full of wrinkles like desert dry
canyons. Her whole persona gave off a sense of being acidic, no
longer fresh.
2.
It
had been only six months since blond haired Ashley Allen had arrived
in the New Mexico village where she had set up a painting studio. It
was a village of small square cottages sitting in weedy lots where
stacks of logs cut for long winter fires leaned against hand made
fences. Deer chewed grass in the yards in early morn, ravens flew
overhead, and the light was made for a painters eyes. Anything the
sun touched was brought to life in brilliant color. Friendships in
the village had eluded Ashleigh until one day she had met Ella, a
writer. “C’mon over for some some herbopathy,” Ella had said.
Herbothapy is a healing practice involving herbal tea. I’ve invited
a couple of the town women to join us. The only two I’ve been able
to strike up a conversation with around here. I think you’ll like
them.”
3.
With
the relaxing herbal tea and shared conversation at Ella’s house, a
friendship had been formed amongst the four women, tenuous but
hopeful.
Dee,
dark haired and muscular answered her. “I used to be overweight and
when I took up physical training, got in shape, a lot of the women
seemed to hate me for it, even though I’ve lived here for ten
years.”
Isabel,
tattoos on her arms and a patterned scarf around her green and purple
tinted hair, leaned forward and said, “You know that woman with the
man’s haircut who works at the food co-op? Not the giggling one,
the other one. She looks at me as if she dislikes me. Oh, I don’t
know, maybe I imagine it. I don’t know how to explain it. She gives
me the creeps.”
Outside
the cozy living room, a sudden rough wind leapt up, searched up and
down the village streets for garbage cans to knock over then left
town leaving only a dreary silence. In the dry thin air there was a
sense of conscious watchfulness and of ears listening.
4.
Mouse
droppings and cobwebs hid in dark corners of the one room village
women’s club building where the four silhouettes entered, lit
candles and struck matches to kindling and logs in a wood burning
stove in the center of the room, then sat in a circle around a table
littered with old magazines, scissors, glue sticks and other cheap
art supplies. Orange tatters reflected in four sets of eyes as a
meager flame rose from the stove. From the half shadows the women’s
faces appeared weirdly distorted.
“Who
are you cutting today, dear?” Maggie asked Mary.
“That
pretentious archer Dee, and whatever,” Mary giggled.
“That
writer, thinks she’s so smart,” Priscilla said. “Thinks she can
run around the country free as a bird, no tethers. It’s not right.
Look at me, the very pillar of the community. Here every day for
twenty years. Don’t see me running around. My hubby would never
allow it.”
“That
housewife with tattoos and green hair,” Jane said. “No one should
look like that. She should hide her bosom, wear plain clothes. And
those tattoos! NO! She gets cut!”
“I’m
cutting that artist,” said Maggie. “Thinks she’s so smart with
all her murals. Anyone could do it if they had enough energy.”
Hands
lifted, fingers cut, snip, snip with curlicue handles of crafting
scissors. Teeth, eyes, hands and hair were cut from old magazines
cluttering the table where the grinning, squinty eyed old women sat.
Arms, legs and feet heaped up in piles.
A
malevolent mist rose in the room as the women began to chant, “Snip,
Snip, Cut N Paste. Hurry, hurry, make some haste. Make ‘em ugly,
pay em back. Whack, Whack, Whack.” Louder
and louder and faster and faster they chanted as they cut images from
the magazines and began to paste them onto cardboard female shapes.
“Name
them, name them,” Maggie screeched, the orange fire tatters roaring
to bonfire heights in her eyes.
With
a high pitched piercing cackle, Mary shrieked, “Dee,” as she
pasted together a likeness of Dee out of the pile of cuttings, but
with the right thigh attached to the ankle. The left leg became ankle
and calf only, attached to a hip now protruding crookedly. She
cackled “and whatever, someone’s guts,” as she glued the right
arm onto the left side of the body and glued the right arm into the
middle of the back.
Priscilla
made a loud belching sound and with it breathed out the name “Ella!”
as she pasted both arms on one side, a nose on the fore-head, made
the face oblong with no neck and covered the mouth with an ear.
“Isabel,”
growled Jane as she pasted together a body long and straight, with
the head attached to the right knee and the arms protruding from
where the ears should have been.
“Ashleigh,
that golden haired painter,” snarled Maggie. “ She will never
paint again!” She pasted together a face with no mouth, the five
fingers of the right hand protruding from the forehead. There were
only stubs where the left and right arm used to join the shoulders.
5.
Twilight.
Isabel
felt an excruciating horror of pain. Her body was stretched long and
straight, her feminine curves gone, her head stuck to her right knee
and her arms struck at the air from where her ears should be.
Dee’s
archery arm wiggled uselessly at her back. She spun around her room
in a limping circle, her left hip protruding crookedly.
Ella
tried to speak but could only hear from her mouth a skunk’s rabid
cry.
Ashleigh’s
useless fingers clenched and grasped spastically from her forehead as
she struggled mute, kicking over cans of paint. Her silent shrieks
broke against her rib cage. She fainted.
6.
It
was midnight and coyotes prowled the rural streets.
Cold
moonlight seeping through hospital curtains illuminated the mirror
across from Ashleigh Allen’s bed. She saw a deformed creature
wearing her face. Fingers on its forehead, no mouth. A violent shock
of cold fear ran through her blood. Something lurched forward from
the dark hospital hallway into her hospital room.
A
dark hunched figure leaned over her, whispering. “It’s them, Ash.
The women’s club women. They cut us, Ash. Ash. It’s not a virus.
It’s them Ash. Bitches. They cut us, crafted us back like they
wanted us to be. They hate us. Ash. Wake up, Ash. Wake up.”
7.
It
had been six months since the local newspaper had run the headline:
VIRAL
STRAIN DEFORMS VILLAGE WOMEN. Women hospitalized as unidentified
virus causes deformities.
Shunned
by the villagers, the four women now resided within the walls of a
nursing home on the outskirts of town where they were tended to by
bent, aged women who also lived as outcasts upon the nursing home
grounds.
Dee
sat crookedly, one hip protruding over the edge of her chair. She had
learned to use the right arm and hand attached to the left side of
her body though not the left arm and hand attached to the middle of
her back.
Ella
had become adept at using both her arms and hands even though they
were both on the same side of her body. Though her mouth was covered
by an ear, she found she could still make humming sounds.
Ashleigh,
through hard work, had learned to use the five fingers of the right
hand protruding from her forehead. Though she couldn’t speak, she
found that she could make audible humming sounds using her throat and
her breath.
9.
“Today’s
the day,” Dee whispered to each woman when they gathered finally
one day at a table in the recreation room of the drab nursing home.
Ella
started humming softly as she took up scissors at the crafting table
and began to cut a figure from paper.
Ashleigh
joined the humming as she bent her head to the table and used the
fingers in her forehead to cut, snip, snip. Isabel and Dee cut and
chanted to the strange melody Ashleigh and Ella hummed. They cut and
pasted figures of four women into a circle, their hands bound
together. They chanted the names Mary, Maggy, Priscilla, Jane as they
passed the glued circle of figures to each other, crumpling, crushing
and wrinkling the figures as much as they could.
Isabel
and Dee were chanting as loudly as they could now, a high-pitched
weird rhythmic chant. The chanting and humming grew louder and
faster, louder and faster. The humming of Ashleigh and Ella resounded
and followed, creating an undercurrent of sound like a nest of angry
hornets.
“Effigy
of our enemies, bind them together the ring of four. Crumple them up
and crumple them more. Forever wrinkled, bound round and round. The
hags together forever, never free and from their wretched lives now
may never flee.”
10.
Maggie,
Mary, Priscilla and Jane found themselves spastically dancing in a
circle in the street in front of Jane’s house. Their hands had
flown together, sticky and hot, binding them together. They screamed
accusations at each other as they tried to break from the insidious
circle.
“Let
go of me you hag,” Priscilla shrieked at Jane.
“No
you let go of me. You’re the one holding on,” Jane howled.
“Why’d
you get so fat and whatever,” Mary shrieked at Maggie.
“I
don’t have the energy for this, let go,” Maggie screamed.
Maggie,
Mary, Priscilla and Jane cried out as they watched each other wrinkle
and take on the look of crumpled paper.
They
stumbled, pulling one another into Jane’s house where it is said
they lived for months eating what was left of food in Jane’s
larder, bumping it from shelf to floor with their wrinkled faces,
pushing one another out of the way in a fury of hunger with swine
like grunts.
Jane’s
house is still there in the tiny village. The yard is over grown with
weeds and the windows are grey with dust. The villagers say they can
sometimes hear curses of blame coming from within the walls of the
house. But this is gossip. No one dares to go near the place so no
one really knows for sure.
No comments:
Post a Comment