Desdemona by Tag Cavello (love books to read txt) 📕

“I don’t read comic books, Dad,” Dante protested.

Mr. Torn grinned. “How sheepish your face suddenly looks. Would you care to show Miss Desdemona some of the posters in your room?”

“Yeah, Dante,” Sunny came in, voice purring. “Show me your room.” Then the flare in her eyes dimmed a little. “I’d love to see your posters.”

“Wasn’t there some excitement at your school last month?” Mrs. Torn asked. “A student disappeared?”

Sunny took a sip of Diet Coke before answering. “That’s true,” she said. “Billy Large. Funny name for a kid so short.”

“Did you know him?”

“A little. Dante knew him, too.” The green eyes flared again. “Didn’t you, dear?”

“I sure did—“

But his mother’s face had burst into joy before he could finish. “Oh my goodness, Sunny, are you calling him dear, like he’s your husband? That is so, so cute!”

Dante dropped his fork. “Mom! We’re only thirteen!”

“Sunset Desdemona Torn,” Sunny said, nodding thoughtfully. “Yeah. It sounds nice!”

“It sounds beautiful!” Mrs. Torn gushed.

“Yes, Dante,” Mr. Torn arrived with his two cents. “Perhaps Captain America can be your best man at the wedding. The Fantastic Four can cater.”

Sunny began to giggle.

“The ice is getting thin, people,” Dante warned, though he too had begun to laugh. “Time for my good deed for the day. I’ll fetch dessert.”

His mother rose to help. Dirty plates were cleared away. Clean, small plates took their place. Sunny offered to put on coffee. Mrs. Torn sniffed and said she would have none of that from a guest who had been so pleasant to spend an evening with. Sunny’s response was somewhat cryptic, and cast a strangeness over the table that would not lift until, an hour later, she went back home.

“But I can’t leave Dante to be punished all alone for his good deed,” she said.

“Who said he’s going to be punished?” Mrs. Torn asked, filling a decanter with water.

“All good deeds get punished, Mrs. Torn. I think they do anyway.”

“Oh, pish-posh!”

But Sunny was insistent. As the smell of coffee permeated the room, and ice cream was scooped into pretty little parfait glasses, she told a story about two brothers who loved each other dearly. They lived long ago, in a time of peace between two great wars, in a city of corruption. Whilst growing up their parents taught them to care for one another, and to never betray the family, nor honesty, nor valor and courage. It was a lesson easily learned, as each brother seemed to naturally love the other. Favors passed between them like flower petals between two gardens, caught up in the trees with their lovely scents of lilac and primrose and sweet alyssum. They loaned each other money. They helped with choosing gifts for their ladies. One brother proved quite adept at repairing automobiles, and would always make certain his sibling’s Jordan ran smooth. The other was a gifted painter whose works sold well. He did many pieces for his brother, never once charging him a single cent.

Things went on this way until the end of that wondrous, lost decade, or close to it, for the stock market had not yet crashed when one brother, the auto mechanic, decided to open a small café in a district of the city lacking such. He asked his brother the painter for a loan, and you can just guess what that brother said. The café opened not a year later. It served coffee, cake, pie, tea. A little pasta, a little ice cream. Tomato soup with delicious sprinkles of oregano.

But it didn’t last. Oh, no no no. Most business go under five years or less after opening day. For the auto mechanic brother it was less. One evening, six months after the café’s ribbon cutting ceremony, a robber came through the door. He pointed a gun at the brother and demanded he empty the cash register. The brother complied. It did not matter. The robber smiled and shot him in the head, killing him instantly.

News of this incident absolutely crushed the painter brother. The blame was his. All of it. Had he not given that loan to open the business, you see…

Well, tragedy would have been averted. Both brothers would have lived full, happy lives. Instead, the painter began to drink, which was really too bad, since all of this happened during an era of prohibition. Alcoholic beverages were not only hard to come by, but quite illegal. The brother was eventually caught and arrested. Wracked with guilt, sick from withdrawal, he died miserable in prison. One good deed was all it took. The perfection of love gleamed perfect no more. Or rather love, it seemed, had died by its own hand.

“Suicide,” Dante said, thoughtfully poking a spoon into his ice cream.

“That’s how it played out,” Sunny agreed. “And then there’s the story of Breezy, the little fairy who tried to steal back her friend’s pearl from the bottom of a giant’s fish aquarium. Things did not end well for her. Oh no.”

“Tell it,” Mr. Torn said. “I’d like to hear.”

And Mrs. Torn: “I thought you said you didn’t like fiction.”

“I don’t,” replied Sunny. “But what happened to Breezy isn’t fiction at all. My father insists it happened for real.”

“To a fairy?” Mrs. Torn asked. She was smiling. Maintaining her politeness.

But if Sunny noticed such condescension, she didn’t let on. “To a fairy,” she said. “Breezy Woods was her name. She lived near a farm just up the road from here, a long, long time ago…”

∞

Spring swept through the trees in bright petals of pink and yellow. This because a garden near the edge of the wood was in bloom, as the warm winds of May had arrived, and the flowers were spreading their joy. And if one were to follow these petals into the woods, leaving footsteps in the moist, rich dirt from last night’s rain, he or she would most assuredly never find, even after hours of brooding, patient pursuit, amongst the squirrels and the chickadees, a tiny, winged creature, such is so often described by that gifted Scottish author who once told of little lost boys, and iron bars which closed out dreams. No, never. Never once would one come across a fairy.

But of course they exist. And yes, most of the things you’ve heard about them are true. For instance, they are quite mischievous. They love to play tricks on humans, some of which are indeed nasty. I once knew a female fairy who managed to sprinkle a rather sweet-smelling and delicious detergent in with a farmer’s cat food. The cat became poisoned and died horribly, while that fairy’s friends all laughed.

Female fairies are generally smarter than the males, but also much smaller, as well as considerably weaker. They cannot fly as fast, nor lift heavy stones. However their leadership skills, as you may imagine, are superb. They love to plan out projects, then put the males to work, bossing them all over the grove. Nor do the males ever mind. Most of them are in love, even to this day, for female fairies are like those petals that sweep in the spring, colorful and dainty and ever so pretty. And when a female fairy gets an idea in her head…

Oh! Oh, they are even more so!

Her eyes become as slivers of snow, all alight in a blizzard caught up in the rage of that great thunder god. And her cheeks flush with the glow of our fifth planet’s red storm, and her tiny, devious mouth curves into a smile that speaks tomes about plots conceived at midnight, where candles burn in basement rooms, and whispered words slither from oak beamed shadows.

These things happened to one particular female fairy quite often. Her name was Breezy Woods. She was, of course, small and pretty. She had short, brown hair with locks that sliced through the air, especially when she flew. She wore a pink top and skirt, stolen from the cloth of a child’s nightgown one night, whilst the child slept in that very same gown, to wake up next morning with holes along the hem, which her mother took to be the work of bed beetles. Breezy had brown eyes the color of moist acorn. The freckles on her cheeks were like sprinkles of warm cinnamon. And please let us not forget her wings, which were slightly longer than most, and more slender, and when in the light captured similar hues to that great bow laid down in peace long ago by the god of Israel.

She was gorgeous, is what I’m trying to say. A lovely, lovely little lass. And her pretty head was so full of ideas on how to improve the grove where she lived. And she implemented them often. And what’s more, she didn’t like to lose.

“Breezy! What are you thinking of now?”

These words came from her friend, Taxi, who liked to fly into childrens’ rooms at night to steal the tiny stuffed toys they sometimes collected.

Breezy smiled. It was a pretty smile, yes, but also rather serpentine. “I’ve made up my mind,” she said.

“Not again?”

Breezy had been sent to the square to fetch water from the well. Not looking at her friend, she lowered the bucket until a faint splash echoed from below. As I recall, that morning was quite lovely. Fairies walked in droves along the streets of their little wooden village, enjoying the sun. Birds twittered from on high. And happiness, at least for the time being, seemed to glow from every obscure place that happened to catch the sun’s rays.

“Again and again and again,” Breezy sang. “At which it stays until I change it. But not this time. Goodness, no.”

“What are you on about?” Taxi demanded to know. She was somewhat taller than her friend. More gangly. Breezy loved her because many times, whilst trying for those stuffed toys, she got caught, and came home with the wildest stories to tell.

Breezy began to crank the bucket back up. Weighed down with water, it strained her puny arms, and she grunted as she spoke. “I’m on about the pearl. Mmph! The pearl at the edge of the forest, where the giant—gn!—lives.”

“Oh, that,” replied Taxi.

Gritting her teeth, Breezy gave another pull on the handle. This time it wouldn’t budge. Her muscles were utterly spent. “Get a boy,” she groaned. “Now.”

Her friend dutifully fetched one of the passing males, who had no trouble pulling the bucket up. Afterward, Breezy’s eyes flared. “Yes, that!” she gushed. “The pearl of the southern sea! The one stolen from our great-great-grandparents by his great-great-grandparents!”

“Breezy, we’ve been daring each other for years to steal it back. We both know it’s too dangerous.”

“Too dangerous,” huffed the haughty sprite, “for some. As in, girls who tend to bump their hips against dirty dishes, or trip over piled carpet.”

“Ladies?” the male fairy cut in. “Am I done?”

“No, you’re not!” Breezy snapped. “Carry the bucket to Gossamer Gwendolyn’s house! She’s the one needs water!”

“Yes, ma’am.”

When he’d gone, Taxi repeated her fear about stealing the pearl. “It’s at the bottom of his fish aquarium, you know,” she warned.

Breezy folded her arms over her chest and nodded.

“And how long can the great Breezy Woods hold her breath underwater?”

“Almost half a minute,” she said proudly.

Actually, it was more like twenty seconds, with some kicking and squirming thrown in.

“And besides,” Breezy went on, “if I run out of air I can just swim to the top.”

“He keeps two black convicts in that tank. They’ll eat you.”

“Not if they’re busy eating something else.”

“Breezy…”

But Breezy’s cheeks were red. Her eyes looked cold and cutting. In a word, she was determined.

“When are you going?” Taxi asked.

“Tonight.”

“Take one of the men with you.”

Breezy stamped the ground with one of her little brown boots. “No. The men are clumsy and noisy. They’ll wake up the giant.”

“What if he wakes up anyway?”

“Now I’m offended. I’ve never woken up anybody. You know that.”

“Sorry. Can I see the pearl when you come home?”

“Everyone will see it, my dear,” replied Breezy, standing on tip-toe to hug her friend. “Everyone.”

∞

She used a