OBADIAH AND THEM ILK

--for Sarah

      They were a nasty tribe, them ilk. Oh, they were a piece of work. They plundered the tundra. They drank whole rivers. They smoked innocent Esquimaux over musty peat fires. They took no prisoners.
      Their teeth were sharper than the icicles they used to stir their cool gruel. Fearsome of aspect, they clothed themselves in the pelts of pneuk who were plentiful in these high north regions, big oxenish animals, dim of wit and slow of gait, and easily slain by slayers as slaying as ilk. And, as ilk had appetites as big as icebergs, many was the poor pneuk that fell prey to a pack of them during the winter to which I make my reference in telling my little tale.
      Picture an igloo alone on the ice. Picture contentment, if you would. There I was sitting by my small fire, roasting up a wee bit of seal flank, minding my own business after the long day at hunt- ing, and outside the wind was whipping, and my dear babes were fast asleep under their piles of pneuk skins breathing their darling baby breath, dreaming their dreams in their mother's arms in the certain knowledge that I, their papa, would protect them from the wolves and white bears and treachery that stalk under the crisp polar stars of our icy district.
      Then I heard a sound that broke my peace like the arctic gull breaks the shell of a ming mussel. It was a yowl unlike any I'd ever heard before.
      "What on God's white earth were that, Obbie?" I asked myself, as I looked to see that my family slumbered on. Being as I was born in this ice-block hut and have never ventured farther than the need for food has taken me, I know the sounds and smells and sights of my particular cranny in the world, and I thought back in my mind to what all I'd ever heard before, and having done that, I told myself, "No snow musk ever bayed like that, no sea weasel chanting at the comets -- as is the sea weasel's wont -- ever sang that strange a song. That was neither a freak of wind, nor a crack of berg. No, Obadiah," I reasoned with myself. "Them is ilk."
      Now, I have always prided myself for my being a humble sort of fellow. I'm eager to please and I'm honest, as were my mother and my father and for that matter were all we Obadiahs stretching back into time immemorial before this land was sheathed in ice. And your Obadiah knows his measure, and knows that while he may not be possessed of schoolbook wisdom, he can show at times a certain courage. So when the yowl, like a screeching or scratching, kept coming, I thought of my pretty babes and my faithful wife, and I knew what I must do and set down my seal en brochette and donned my warmest pneuk djellabah.
      The night was a half-light night. My igloo shimmered like pink roe under the moony brilliance. I walked forth, my sharpest knife in hand concealed beneath my heavy furs, and trained my eye over the wide flat land.
      It didn't take them ilk too long to find me. As I say, ilk know their business, and they're forever in a rush. Them ilk was upon me before I could say blizzard, and a fouler lot you'd never want to meet.
      How can I describe what I saw and smelled? I'm not certain my powers and capacities are equal to the task. When it is cold as it was that fearsome night nothing has the right to be rancid, and yet the breath of an ilk could only be described as rancid. When you are as terrified as was your honest raconteur, the blood in your body should not beat so hard without breaking your heart, and yet, somehow, I held my own, in my own fashion, as I am about to relate.
      They was circling and laughing and cursing in their ilkish manner and, listening to them as best I could, my teeth chattering and my knees knocking, I was given to understand that they thought of me as not a man, but some helpless pneuk who'd lost his way from the herd, an easy snack for the taking.
      "Well," thinks I. "Here's my only hope. Ilk!" I says in what pluckiest voice I could muster, "You can eat me if you like, but you'll never eat again if you do, for tonight you have not just met your match, but your master!"
      Them ilk ceased circling, and fell quiet, and edged away, and hung there hovering. In a voice that seemed as one, they said, "What kind of pneuk are you that you can talk to ilk in ilk?"
      It was then I sensed that, yes, I had them. My mind raced. I knew at once what next to do. Huddled inside my massive pneuk pelt coat, I raised my arms, making myself seem much larger than I am, in the same manner the polar puff frogs do. I shook my pneuk djellabah and took a few steps forward, hiding my head deep under my furry hood.
      Them ilk began to cower and shake. "A talking pneuk," they marveled.
      And now my fate was set. In order to protect my babies and my faithful wife, I led them ilk far away from my friendly igloo. It was your own Obadiah who was in charge now, and though I would have to make the sacrifice of leaving my happy home in order to save its inhabitants, I did take a certain pleasure in knowing that I'd prevailed without there having been a single drop of ilk spilled that frosty night.
      The rest is history. Sometimes I tire of wearing my now quite ripe pneuk djellabah. Sometimes I long for a bath. Sometimes I would give anything to cast off this pretense and return to my family, who are so far away from me now. Your Obadiah never wanted to be a hero, but I had no choice. And I must say, with all modesty, that I've made substantial progress with them ilk. They don't yowl so at night the way they used to. They've become all but vegetarian, feeding on tufts of tundra grass, and politely sipping a cup of tea from time to time. I have warned them not to question my authority, and to date they've been pretty good about it all. In some strange way, I think I've become their religion, and have even managed to train them to cook my seal meat for me in the proper fashion.
      But still, when the moon makes the ice floes glisten pink, and I think of my dear ones, my loving wife and pretty babes who must all be grown up by now, honest and humble as all their ancestors ever were, I, Obadiah, wish my fate had been other than that which I've just related to you.



THE FAITHLESS

--for Malachy, who's faithful

      We used to live in the land of the faithless. The sky was yellow from cowardice, the grass was blue from melancholy, our homes were green from envy. We believed in nothing and in no one. Our skepticism did not even allow us to believe in our lack of belief. When it rained, many of us, myself included, would walk outside without our raincoats, so sure were we that it was, in fact, not raining at all. When it was warm, we bundled up. When we were paid for our labors, we knew that the money we'd been given was worthless, and thus many of us neglected to spend it. Having no faith in the laws of our land, we freely stole from our neighbors, and did not bother to voice complaint when our neighbors took from us. In the night, which was red from anger, we never bothered to go to bed, knowing that sleep would be denied us. In the day, which, as I have said, was yellow, we slumbered fitfully, knowing in our hearts that there was nothing better for us to do. Not trusting one another, we slept with one eye open. We all knew the proverb about how in a country where everyone is blind the man who has one eye is king, and so when we slept, in the light of the bright yellow sky, we dreamt, as best we could, that we all were kings. But on awakening, we knew better. We knew that we should never, ever trust our dreams.



CHILI PEPPER MAN

--for Sophie

      Molleno was known far and wide for his skill in the art of eating chilies. His small white adobe was nestled in one corner of the canyon, and many were the afternoons when you could see Molleno sitting on his patio, in the shade of a trellis so laden with the bright red chilies that you would fear for his safety lest they all come tumbling down, a mountain of hot red peppers, on his head. And there he would sit, old Molleno, and sure as chaparral he would be engaged in eating chilies from one of the great big jars filled with pickled peppers he kept there by his favorite sitting chair for that very purpose.
      Though he lived alone, he was not a hermit. All were welcome to dine with him, to make their way up the stony path through the chili fields to Molleno's adobe, and sit by him on the pinon bench that ran the length of his patio, and watch the clouds build and make all kinds of different shapes out over the distant mountains -- now a lizard, now a mesa, now a purple chili pepper -- and sample the fruits of his fond obsession. If it so happened that you were a traveler, and had no place to spend the night, Molleno would, with the most gracious smile, invite you to join him for dinner and to sleep in the simple guest room in the back of his adobe.
      And oh, the meal you would eat! It was well known among those who lived not just in this canyon, but on the buttes and out in the vast desert, that a chance to dine at the table of the chili pepper man, as old Molleno was known, was an experience you would not soon forget. There was nothing he could not make with his chilies. The fare ranged from simpler dishes such as chili tandoori and escabeche of chili, to more mysterious and complicated offerings such as chili sweetbreads perigourdine and oysters chawanmushi of chili. It was beyond anyone's skill of reason to figure out how Molleno could produce such a succulent lamb chop, for he owned no lambs. And whence the mint sauce that was served with the chop, when the only ingredients at his disposal were his beloved chilies? And yet he was a wizard at everything he made. His English custard with poached pears was a work of art. His eggs in aspic were never less than delightful. Even a humble dish such as chicken in champagne sauce au Pavillon came forth from his small brick oven as if sent from heaven, it was just that delicious.
      Now it so happened that one such traveler, a young girl whose name was Juana, was offered a meal and a night's rest at the home of old Molleno, as had been so many others before her. It was a warm evening, and the stars burned like glazed onions out over the great distances of desert, and the old man took it upon himself to produce for Juana a grand paella the likes of which the poor girl had never beheld, let alone eaten, in her life. Juana feasted on the paella with a kind of enthusiasm her host had never witnessed. She supped with an indefinable understanding, as Molleno saw it, of the spirit and richness and glory that was the essence of his cherished chilies. They finished their supper, and Juana helped him clean up, and afterwards they sat out on the patio and watched for shooting stars, occasionally sampling a chili from one of the jars there.
      When he went to bed that night, Molleno knew that finally someone had come to him who would be able to solve his problem, the problem that had haunted him throughout the course of these last years of his very long life. He said his prayers, and thanked the Lord, and soon drifted off to sleep with a smile on his tired face.
      Upon waking up the next morning, Juana was overwhelmed by the smells of breakfast that filled the adobe. She could hear old Molleno whistling in the kitchen, and she smiled a smile that perfectly echoed Molleno's own of the night before, a smile that a wandering orphan such as she had never smiled before. When she got dressed and came out into the little cooking room, she was amazed by what she saw. There were custards and kippers, there were omelettes and oranges, there were waffles and sausage. A cup of espresso di chili was waiting for her at her place at the table. She and old Molleno ate their fill, and hardly a word was exchanged between them.
      By siesta time, Juana knew that long after old Molleno --who rested his head on his chest next to her, snoring mildly and now and then twitching his whiskers --was but a memory, she would still be here, in his house, growing old herself and taking in strangers from time to time to feed them magical meals and offer them a safe place to pass the night.



NUMB

      There was once a young bird who went by the name of Numb.
She was a pretty bird, and whistled and flew and got her share of worms and lived in the tidiest of nests.
      Her life was perfect.
      So perfect that about her there is no story to tell.