TWO STORIES THE BLIND MAN TOLD

1

The woman who had lost her way placed the jar on the table. The lid was sealed with green wax. A lightning bolt was painted on the side. She cut the seal and pried open the lid. Wind rushed through the house. Thunder rumbled in the cellar.

Someone uncorked a bottle in the kitchen. Oil sizzled in a skillet, and the smoke of onions and sweetmeats drifted down the hall. The woman grew drowsy, overcome with dread. She closed the jar and the thunder faded.

On the road that wound past the house, cattle were bellowing, jostling, on their way to slaughter. Whips cracked over their backs. The lights in the house went out. The woman wanted to leave, but instead curled up on the floor, covering her ears.

Out in the world, across oceans and deserts, a cry went up. Cities caught fire. Rivers rose. Entire populations embraced sleep, knowing they would not awaken. The tongues of rulers and beggars alike fell silent, and the prophets became as children, busying themselves in corners, hearing nothing, saying nothing, their toys clinking in the darkness.

2

The contralto in the back row sprouted wings through her burgundy robe. A silver barrette shone in her hair.

She scanned the statues of angels that lined the mezzanine. Their marble robes were translucent, thin as silk. Their haloes were silver.

Mist hung in the rafters. Snowflakes stuck to the windows. A fat man on the aisle mopped his brow. A woman in green taffeta crumpled her program.

The concluding chorus was sung allegro spiritoso. The audience shivered as the second violins veered off, the oboes following them, then the cembalo, played with flying fingers by a red-haired boy.

When the final note sounded, the contralto extended her wings. All eyes turned upward as she flew through the skylight, into the clouds, emanating brilliant rays. Only when the cathedral had emptied did she return and take her place in the mezzanine, her barrette a halo now and a smile on her lips.