Dark Shimmer Read Free Page A

way is better than being worse than them in every way.
    But, oh, I have a trade. That makes me better, too. And being a monster made it happen. Ha!
    A breeze comes off the water. It ruffles the edges of the wool that stick out from under the bricks. My mirror cooks under there, like rolls in an oven. I won’t own that mirror, I won’t even ever look in it—after all, mirrors just show how ugly I am—but it’s mine all the same.
    I stand and stretch to get the kink out of my neck from working bent over for so long. Then I slowly head into the center of town.
    Voices come from the other side of the wall beside the path, from Bartolomeo’s garden. I stand on tiptoe and peek over the wall. The pink oleanders are odorless, unlike the heady red roses. You’d never know from their mild aspect that chewing any part of them can kill you. Bartolomeo is a physician, and he uses the oleanders to fix women’s problems and calm the heart. Poking up through the bottom branches are purple flowers on long stalks. That’s monkshood. A mountain plant, it can grow in shade. Bartolomeo brought it here from Austria. The leaves are hairy and poisonous to the touch. But monkshood lowers fever and stops the horrible coughing that torments old people in winter. This is Bartolomeo’s medicine garden. I call it his horror garden, and I love it. No one’s allowed in without him. Bartolomeo doesn’t like me any more than anyone else does, but he takes me into his garden often because he’s flattered by how closely I listen to him.
    The voices hush for a moment, but here they come again. I peer beyond the bushes and see Mella. Druda, Bartolomeo’s wife, huddles beside her. Bartolomeo is nowhere to be seen. So they’re here secretly. Mella’s shoulders shake with sobs. Druda puts a hand in the center of Mella’s back and waits. They talk, but I can’t make out their words.
    The visible sadness brings tears to my eyes. If Mella were alone, I’d go to her. She needs a kind word.
    Mella steps away and I can see…a baby. Druda takes the baby from her arms. Mella lets out a cry of despair. She grabs for the child.
    For an instant I see naked flailing. What? I bite my tongue to keep from calling out.
    Druda quickly wraps the baby up and walks off.
    Mella drops to her knees and holds her face in both hands. She rocks forward and backward, moaning.
    She’s alone now. But I don’t go to her. My insides have turned rock hard. Finally, she stands and smooths her dress and leaves.
    I lean back against the wall and my eyes burn. It occurs to me that this wall is absurdly high. If someone wanted privacy, they could have made a wall that came up to my chest. That height would have served perfectly. It’s as though this wall is trying to keep out taller beings—monsters like me.
    I walk on. When I reach the church of Santa Maria Assunta, I go inside, straight to the casket of Sant’Eliodoro, and look down through the glass top. He’s wrapped like a dried-out caterpillar in his cocoon of clothes, nothing of him visible but his old brown skull, turned the wrong way, as though he’s trying to suffocate himself. His clothes…they’re squashed into a heap, so who knows, really, but they seem…long enough for someone tall…maybe taller than me. I always figured they dragged on the ground behind him. I leave, shaking inside.
    Soon I’m standing beside Mamma in the kitchen. She drops
moscardini
whole into wine and water in which potatoes and garlic are already boiling. She stirs, then scoops everything into our bowls. All the while, she talks on and on, but I don’t listen. I can’t.
    Mella’s baby was different.
    That night I lie awake and look up at the stars through the open window. I can see the constellation of the harp. It’s usually dim, but right now it glitters bright. I imagine it playing. I’ve never heard a harp, but Mamma says it sounds like angels singing, and that’s easy to imagine. I sit up and listen hard.
Please, angels, sing