The Sundry Worlds of Fiona

Songe

Chapter 1

Crash! Shatter! Clatter! struck the flower box a second before the ball smacked it: shouts of boys and a girl outside, chairs scraping the floor down below, a door slamming, yelling (I told y’all not to play so close to the house!), murmurings of boys’ protests and apologies and a justification (Grammie’s yard isn’t big enough!), and then silence. The silk flowers inside the box whispered amongst themselves, startled at first; when no threat ensued, all but one of them drifted back to limbo, because the light that shone through the broken window fell most loudly on a beautiful silk daisy and awakened her.

Fiona stretched her silky leaves, high and low, as far as they could go, and, pressing on the stems of a lily and a tulip, pushed herself upright. She trod upon the stalks of her brothers and sisters with the tips of her lowest leaves; two high leaves pointed at three and nine o’clocks. At the foot of the box, she peered through the V between a long and a short flap. Shards of glass dusted with dirt and pollen lay scattered on the floor. A small ball, gray with grime and battering, rested against the flower box. One of Fiona’s high leaves glanced over the ball and rolled it from side to side. She spun it ’round, its red stitching zipping up and down and back and forth, like train tracks over and around hills.

Other boxes, full of various things unknown to Fiona, shared space in the attic with her and the other flowers. Mrs. Neuvelle, who had taken care of the flowers for many years, had moved here after divorcing. The bouquet had ridden to this house in the box on the passenger seat of her car. During the trip, the flaps of the box had fluttered like wings, allowing light to fracture inside and strike the flowers like lightning.

Fiona had never seen the house itself because Mrs. Neuvelle had taken the flowers right to the attic after the move. As soon as she set down the box, the flaps popped open almost all the way, but for little good. On her way out, Mrs. Neuvelle had pulled the chain that doused the light. For a long time Fiona lived, crowded with the rest of the bunch, in the long carton. Rumpled petals and bent stems tangled with each other at times, trying to adjust to their new environs. Fiona had made certain to stay near the top of the heap of the myriad colors just in case some light might break through from somewhere and bestow an idea upon her.

Sometime soon after the move, someone or another had come up to the attic and rummaged the flower box. A single red poppy—Crimson—was taken away. In the search, Fiona had landed on the bottom of the bunch, but she used the glimmer from the bulb left burning to work her way back to the top and begin to explore. Someone must have become aware of the light after a couple of days and had come up and pulled the chain at the fixture. No one, however, returned Crimson, the silk daisy’s most lively, lovely, entrusted sister.

On occasion, a shovel ripped through roots and soil, and ruffled Fiona’s petals. She suspected that the reason for the exile of the silk flowers was the growing ones being planted below. Each cut into the earth gashed her heart. She could’ve tossed us, Crimson had once suggested. But her words gave Fiona little comfort. At the same time, the silk daisy wanted to meet those that grew from the earth, felt drawn to the out-of-doors, wanted to feel the sun on her face again.

With so little light, Fiona had difficulty measuring time and so had little idea how much had elapsed between the last snap of the chain and the ball crashing through the window a few minutes ago. The moment of joy at the light that roused her had fled. Mrs. Neuvelle might replace the cracked glass at any time, possibly this minute, and dimness would descend again, perhaps forever. Unbearable! The scant light afforded through the dusty window and around two spinning turbines had barely sustained Fiona during her mostly still life in the attic. There had been no play and no work, only torpor. Most of the other flowers, whom she had known for almost sixty seasons before their exile, had no longer seemed to need or want the sun. Light is for growing things, Gus, her brother crocus, had declared. He often deferred to Fiona and Crimson; they took care of things swiftly and decisively. But, in this matter, he dug in his low leaves, and, except for the silk daisy and the silk poppy, the other flowers agreed. They occasionally visited and conversed together; otherwise, they barely moved.

After Crimson had disappeared, Fiona had responded to the gloom by muddling back and forth, back and forth. Some of the flowers grumbled, You’re disturbing our rest! and Please go to sleep, Fiona! and You’re stepping on my head! Finally, she had pulled herself out of the box and paced a beam in the attic, fuming, We’re not shiny like the planted ones but we are bright and resilient, dammit! That last word she had learned from Annie Neuvelle, the little girl who picked Fiona and her siblings from a fabric shop. Fiona could tell by the way Annie said it, and by the way her mother soaped her mouth for it, that the word had plenty of color. So, she used the heck out of it. Dammit! Dammit! Dammit! The feel of the syllables running together made her laugh, which gave her a momentary boost of energy, but, afterward, her light had flickered. She became more and more drained as her ideas for a way out came to naught. Finally, she had had just enough energy to hoist herself up between two flaps on the box and fall in.

The hinges and springs of the attic ladder creaked and let out a long, low annhhhhh as the door opened. Two sets of footsteps took the rungs one after the other. Fiona released the ball, which rolled to rest at the window. The silk daisy quickly picked her way through stems and leaves and pushed her fringe of white petals between the flaps on the other side of the box. She half hoped that Mrs. Neuvelle would see the box of flowers and take them down into the house, and half hoped that she would ignore them, would quickly survey the damaged window and leave, which would give Fiona time to form a plan.

Dark brown hair and then a man’s head appeared above the rectangular opening. He turned toward the window. They cracked it alright. The man held fast to a wooden beam at his shoulder and pulled himself up through the opening. He tugged on the light chain and then extended a hand to help the woman who followed him. Fiona dropped back onto the bunch of flowers and faced upward. Her siblings stirred again and Rose whispered, What’s going on Fee? Fiona murmured, Shhhh, they’re about to pass.

The daisy’s eye rolled upward, following the two as they picked their way around boxes to the shattered window and stood just beyond the flowers. They messed up the frame, too. The woman pulled out a few remaining pieces of glass.

We can put some plastic over it ’til we get it repaired, the man said. It’s going to come out of their allowance.

This woman looked nothing like Mrs. Neuvelle, but the man was surely Paul, Annie’s brother, a year older than she. As children on the farm, both had done their homework at the dining table, where Fiona and the other flowers had learned, too, year after year, looking on from the wicker basket in the center.

Let’s go give your Mom the news. We’ll have to call somebody to come and fix it. The couple resolved to return, but Fiona sensed no urgency as they discussed their options on the way out of the attic. They came back an hour later and taped a translucent plastic sheet at the top of the window. Paul handed the baseball to the woman, who must have been his wife, and led the way out, carrying a brown shopping bag filled with the broken glass that the two had picked up. The covering allowed in some light, and new glass would too, but Fiona wasn’t taking any chances. She chafed at the thought of returning to the gray life she’d had before. When the attic door shut, the silk daisy lifted her body to the side and slid down a flap.

Are you leaving? Teresa, an orange cosmos, had popped up within the same V as had Fiona and held onto the two flaps of the box. Phyllis, a white calla lily, cut from the same cloth as Fiona, appeared at her side. The silk daisy moved toward them, the reality of leaving them behind starting to sink in.

Watch out for the glass, Fee. They didn’t get all of it. Teresa straddled an edge of the box and tilted over, landing lightly on a beam, and Phyllis followed her. Are you leaving? she echoed the silk cosmos.

Yes, do you want to come with me? Fiona regretted the invitation as soon as she got to me, but she was struggling with thoughts of separating from her silk family.

I don’t think so, Fiona, Phyllis said.

I don’t see how you can leave, said Teresa. You don’t know what’s out there.

Fiona gazed at the broken window where a cool April wind blew in and puffed out the plastic sheet. Once they repair the window, we will go back to languishing with no way out. That’s why I have to leave! I want my own home with plenty of doors and windows where I can wander in and out as I please.

My leaves are so short. Teresa held out several high and low leaves. I’m not an acrobat like you. I’m afraid I wouldn’t make it out there. I would hold you back. The cosmos wept from her center.

You’ll dry to ashes. Phyllis caught her teardrops in two cupped leaves and emptied them back whence they came.

Fiona touched one of Phyllis’s leaves and turned to Teresa. "We will see each other again." But the silk daisy spoke with a catch in her throat.

Phyllis shifted from one low leaf to another. I’d like to be down in the house with Mrs. Neuvelle, but I don’t want to be out there. She pointed at the window. Too much trouble. Outside is for planted ones, not those of us fabricated. The calla lily gestured with two high leaves shaped like shields—or hearts, Fiona never could decide. Her own leaves were long and slender and notched.

Please come back soon! Teresa pressed two high leaves together with her plea.

But Fiona’s spirit was already sailing out the window. She did not remind the cosmos that once Mrs. Neuvelle had the window repaired it would be difficult for her to return, or for them to leave. The turbines above offered a hazardous but possible way in but verily no way out.

It’s all so uncertain. Maybe you both will join me later. The silk daisy turned and dove headfirst into the flower box, whose top flaps displayed a picture of a silk bouquet, split in half long ago.

But how would we ever find you? Teresa called after her sister.

I don’t know. Fiona’s muffled voice came from the depths of the box she was burrowing through. She moved aside the stems of her brothers and sisters as she searched.

What’re you looking for? Phyllis held onto the daisy’s stem.

Fiona lifted her head. I’m trying to find some tools I can carry. She fumbled around some more and finally pulled out a green Styrofoam brick; she tossed it out of the box. You can let go now, Phyllis. Her sister released her, and Fiona kicked for momentum, flying backward onto the floor of the attic.

Teresa picked up the brick. This is a tool? One tear still rested like a drop of dew on her broad, orange petal.

Yes. It will get me to higher places. The silk cosmos and the silk lily looked askance at their sister. Fiona shrugged her two highest leaves. "I don’t know what I’ll need. I’m just setting the stage for something to happen. It could be that I’ll be discovered and thrown away, and end up in a garbage heap."

Teresa dropped the brick. There’s a good reason to stay!

No, I can get out of a predicament like that. At least I’d be alive. I’d rather be poor than bored.

"I’d rather you were alive and well and here!"

Phyllis turned toward the expanse of the attic, away from the window. I’ll go and look for Augie.

No!

But why not? Phyllis extended a leaf to the silk daisy and helped her up.

August was a sunflower who had lived with his brother and parents at the Neuvelles’ farmhouse. Standing in their forest green pail just inside the door to the carport, they greeted everyone who walked into the house. Augie often came for Fiona whenever the Neuvelles were outside working on the farm, and at night as the family slept. He wooed her and sang Australian folk songs and Tom Jones tunes to her. Oh, she had adored him.

Too sad to draw out the Goodbyes. Fiona shivered. There’s just no point. It takes so much energy. She pulled out a long piece of string hanging from the flower box she had just raided and tied it around her green brick.

But you loved each other. You’ll spoil your past! Teresa wailed.

I’ll spoil it if I say Goodbye! I don’t see any good reason to hurt. My memories are beautiful pictures now, and I don’t want to sully them. Anyway, I haven’t seen him for a long time, even before we left the farm. I don’t think he’s up here. I’ve looked. Crimson either. She’s not in the box.

How do you know that? Phyllis cocked her head to one side. "Do you ever rest?"

Fiona shook her head, not in response, but absently, surveying the attic and planning her route of departure, avoiding the rush of feelings within her.

Phyllis crossed her high leaves over her chest. Where do you think Crimson might have gone?

I don’t know, Phyl. She was taken a long time ago, I think.

It was the lily’s turn to burst. All this talk of leave-taking is like watching a needle stitch a petal. Come here. She hugged the daisy and said in her best brogue, May the sun shine warm upon your face, Fiona. The lily got a leafhold in a small puncture in the flower box, went over the side, and dropped out of sight.

Teresa pressed her cheek against Fiona’s. May the wind be always at your back. She broke away, her tears falling again, looking like seeds until the drops disappeared into her leaves. I will miss you, my sister.

The silk daisy swallowed the sob in her throat and gestured toward the box. Tell them I said Goodbye. The seam wherein Fiona’s higher leaves met ached as if it were twisted.

Teresa walked backward toward the box, keeping her eye on the daisy all the while. I wish I could go with you Fee. One of her low leaves found the same cleft on the box as had Phyllis’s, and she climbed up to sit on the edge. The cosmos waved at Fiona and let herself fall backward.

That night the silk daisy practiced lifting, pushing, and throwing the green brick and building up her leaves and stem to prepare for her escape. She felt weak from the years spent in limbo, and she drove herself. Fiona never understood the sometimes madly tumbling tides inside her, and the need to keep moving and absorbing. Crimson had once told her, You and me, we have souls like the planted ones but without the roots, so we have to explore and express. It is in our seed. The silk poppy had begun to speak of leaving even while they were living on the farm, of discovering where they came