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by Rachel Rodman “King Schrödinger,”
I said, “I have brought you a present.” “Should
I open it?” he asked. Eyes to mine: a spark. But
he was not to be my lover. # “A
pie!” he cried, opening the box. And, with a slightly dazed smile, he accepted
the utensils I offered. “An
odd flavor,” he said, chewing. So
I explained. “A
cat!” he snorted, while wiping his lips on his sleeve. “But
why is it not moving?” # “It’s
dead, your Majesty.” I said. “What
is ‘dead’?” asked King Schrödinger. # But
King Schrödinger heaved a regretful sigh. And he let the box sit, unopened. “I
feel no need of food, just now,” he said. “I’m not…” and here he gestured
emptily, as if struggling for the word. “...hungry?” I said. # And,
when he burped, a small “Meow” escaped his lips. # “What
is ‘hungry’?” he asked. # And,
for a weird moment, I thought: “I can’t.” I
can’t, this time. So
I snatched it away, pie and cat together, though I risked offense. Because
kings feel entitled to presents, once they are offered. # “But,” said King Schrödinger, chewing, “It’s missing something.” “A pocketful of rye?” I suggested. # And
once, I had exited the castle, with the unopened box, I ran back to my ship,
which still stood in the harbor. People were looking at it curiously,
smilingly, even if none of them, yet, had dared to touch it. # “Delicious!”
shouted King Schrödinger. # And,
once inside, where the map was, I crossed it out; I crossed out King
Schrödinger’s homeland, like a lie. # “Pie
is fine,” said King Schrödinger, looking rather dubiously at the confection,
from which a cat’s head partially protruded. “But
I rather prefer music.” # And
then, clearing my throat, I commanded, “Next destination!” # So
I sang for him, a Song of Sixpence. And, as I sang, he began to eat. “That
was lovely, maid,” he said to me--the now very familiar gleam. “It
fills me with...a feeling,” he said. I haven’t the word, but I… # “Hope?”
I suggested, a little savagely. # And
so, because King Schrödinger wasn’t hungry, he took me, instead, to his
counting house. “What
a lot of money,” I said. “Muh-Knee...”
he said. And then he shrugged and smiled, and he tossed a two-handed heap of
coins from the table, so that they emerged in a spray, and then came down
again, together, in a bright clatter. “I
just call them shinies!” he said. # He
ate the pie, all of it, including the short-haired calico that had been baked
inside. Every
crumb, I noted. Then, a smile of satisfaction spread across his face, as if in
reflection of mine. As
if he understood. # Then,
with a little push, the king propelled a pile of “shinies” in my direction, so
that I, too, could play. # “I
feel...” he said, and he burped sourly, his face confused. “I feel...” “Ill?”
I asked him. # So,
I kissed him. # “What
is ‘ill’?” he asked, with an uncomfortable smile. Fork to his mouth--one more bite. # “Try
it!” he invited. # Something soft and strange in me; something still there. # So,
because he had shown me his counting house, I showed him my ship. # Something cruel. # “Tell
me of your homeland, maid,” said King Schrödinger. “It
is miserable,” I told him, not blinking. # Because I wanted to show him. # “Misherbull?” King Schrödinger said, trying to repeat the
word. “Is
that a sort of cat?” he asked, teasing a bit of brindled tabby from out between
his teeth. # Because I wanted him. # “This
is an odd ship you have,” said King Schrödinger unsteadily, looking a little touched,
already, as a result of what he had eaten. “Does
it even...float?” # “Sorrowful,”
repeated the King thoughtfully. “Is
that the cat’s name?” he asked, and stroked the long-haired Siamese, which
purred within the circle of crust. # And
because the king could not eat, and because he would not open the box, I showed
him my ship, and the storage hold, too, which was filled with boxes. # Something stupid. Why
Why Why. # I
told him. With the intonation of a minstrel, I delivered the ancient verses:
“These pies, O King, are baked in my homeland...” # “I
like your throne!” he laughed, pointing to my pilot’s chair. # “Where suffering is pressed into the very cats, into the very food,
into the very ovens!” # “This
is a not entirely...pleasant ship,” said King Schrödinger with a strained
smile, as if embarrassed for me. # “We
package them into boxes, O King.” # “I
love the window, too!” he said, hopping towards the control panel and taking a
delighted look through the ship’s viewing screen. # “And
we load them onto ships, in search of Paradises.” # “Paradise?”
he asked with wide, clear, innocent eyes, wiping a spray of whiskers from his
mouth. # “Where nothing lasts, O, King! And where
we are always angry!” # “Do
you have any blackbirds in your homeland?” asked King Schrödinger with
an unhappy burp, disgorging a bit of fur into his palm. As
if he might have preferred feathers. # “And
we come through the gaps, all the bright gaps, between dimensions; we claw our
way, through the cracks, between, in order to to share...” # “Paradise?”
he asked, and took my hand. # “To share!” I cried. # “Leave
my land, maid,” the king whispered. # “To share!” # Crumbs, close to his chin. And a little blood, around his lips, from where a claw had
scratched him, going in. # “How
many lands?” asked the king. # “4
and 20,” I lied. # “King
Schrödinger,” I said, “I have brought you a present.” “Thank
you,” he smiled. And
he put the box on a shelf beside his throne; he did not open it. # “4
and 220,” I lied. # “Across
the universe, manifesting, again, and again, into lands like yours, to
disseminate what we carry. To
show you what we are.” # Crazy
king, I thought, watching him re-seat himself. Maddening king. Would
he really never open it? # But
I shook my head; I did not say. And simply gestured, wordless, to the map, and
to all the X’s marked--dark lines, hewn into brightness. # “Maid,”
winked King Schrödinger, setting the box aside--another invitation. “My
queen is in the parlour, eating bread and honey...” # Then
I parted my robe, in order to show him what was beneath, the mess of it-- That I was no maid. # “And
she will never know...” # His eyes, so wide. “It
is age,” I rasped. # And
out the pie, that cat: an orange tabby--which was still alive--emerged,
springing from the crust, and it scratched off the king’s nose. # His eyes, so wide. “It
is called ‘pain’,” I told him. # Through
the palace windows, looking out, I could see that the fields, once perfectly
green, were now splotched with drabber colors. # “4
and 20 trillion,” I said, with an approximating shrug. # Yellow and brown. # And
sometimes I think, descending from my ship: This will be the time, this, when I
do not share my wares. # Viewed
from the throne room, the roads outside the palace were sprinkled with prone
figures. Some
were still. Others were vibrating weakly, back and forth. # When I lock them in the hold, all those yowling pies, with just
myself, and my lonely Song of Sixpence. # And
others, more vigorously, were fighting. # But
it never seemed to be. # “Betrayal,”
I said. # Withering,
shriveling. # And...how to explain? What it is like, to emerge from the
heat and darkness, with all these cats. Into a place like this, of unremitting brightness, where people
have never hurt. And to have nothing but--everything and--the inclination to share. # His eyes, my eyes--again. But the look was different now.
The spark was different now. # How
difficult it is, not to share. # “Who
are you, maid?” he demanded. # “No one,” I
said. # “I
work at the bakery,” I said--no answer at all. # And I
thought, instead...I thought, for a moment, that I would give to him my
spiritual name: Purveyor of Pies, Conveyer of Boxes, Destroyer
of Worlds. # But
instead I pushed back the lid of the bakery box. And I brushed the remaining
crumbs through the open window, which overlooked the palace garden. The
crumbs commenced to blow away. Diffusing thinly, widely,
minutely. Soil, water, and air--over and through. # And wasn’t
that a dainty dish to set before a king? # “My
name is Pandora,” I said. Rachel Rodman (www.rachelrodman.com) is the author of Exotic Meats and Inedible Objects (Madness Heart Press). Her work has also appeared in Bending Genres, Why Vandalism? and our LAROLA #13. |
