The Midnight Circus, стр. 47

TheWheel Spins

I amthe spinner

of the yarns

thatkeep you warm

each night.

I amthe weaver

of the dreams,

thathelp your heart

take flight.

Handoff the wheel,

Islow the tale

thestrand that pulled

you in.

Idraw the pattern,

for the day

andthen begin

to spin.

Iknit your bones,

I fill the hole,

Istart the stitch

that sews your soul.

TheWhite Seal Maid

“TheWhite Seal Maid,” one of the many selchie stories and poems I havewritten over the years, was first published in my own fairy talecollection called The Hundredth Dove and Other Stories, 1977.Selchies are folk tale creatures from Scotland and the Scandinaviancountries. They are seal folk, but when they come ashore, they shedtheir sea skins and dance upon the sand. Though they dance joyously, atthose moments they are incredibly in peril from humans who fall in lovewith them, steal their shed skins, and force them into marriages of asort. I guess I am as obsessed by selchie stories as the humans whosupposedly steal their skins.

Thepoem that follows has been turned into a gorgeous song by Lui Collins. We havesince written many songs together. Here is a link to Lui singing it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KbfhOJyL8Is. We ended up in a band together: ThreeRavens. My grandson said to his father, “Nana’s in a band? What doesshe play?” And my son Adam, a musician himself, never missing a beat,answered, “The audience.” The poem was first published in my collectionNeptune Rising in 1982.

Balladof the White Seal Maid

Thefisherman sits alone on the land,

hishands are his craft, his boat in his art,

The fisherman sits alone onthe land,

arock, a rock in his heart.

Theselchie maid swims alone in the bay,

her eyes are the seal’s, her heartis the sea,

Theselchie maid swims alone through the bay,

a white seal maid is she.

Shecomes to the shore and sheds her seal skin,

she dances on the sand andunder the moon,

her hair falls in waves all down her white skin,

onlythe seals hear the tune.

Thefisherman stands and takes up her skin,

staking his claim to a wifefrom the sea,

heraises his hand and holds up the skin,

Saying: “Now you must come homewith me.”

Weepingshe goes and weeping she stays,

herhands are her craft, her babes are her art,

a year and a year and ayear more she stays,

a rock, a rock in her heart.

Butwhat is this hid in the fisherman’s bag?

it smells of the ocean, itfeels like the sea,

abony-white seal skin closed up in the bag,

andnever a tear more sheds she.

“Good-byeto the house and good-bye to the shore,

Good-bye to the babes that Inever could claim.

Butnever a thought to the man left on shore,

For selchie’s my nature andname.”

Sheputs on the skin and dives back in the sea,

The fisherman’s cry fallson water-deaf ears.

Sheswims in her seal skin far out to the sea.

The fisherman drowns in histears.

TheSnatchers

Iwas reading some Jewish history as I worked on a book about my father’sfamily, especially his oldest brother, who had been sent to a Russianmilitary academy because he had been such a scoundrel as a teen. Andwhat I found out was that Jews were rarely sent to such places, whichfed directly into the Russian army, because of three factors: The foodwould not be kosher. They would have to march and do maneuvers on theSabbath. They would probably never get to return home. Ever. But thearmy never conscripted an only boy child, leaving a family without ason. Nor did they take anyone who was in some way maimed, incapable ofholding and shooting a rifle, or with foot or leg problems that wouldpreclude walking many miles a day.

TheJewish answer to this was twofold. First they adopted out all but oneof their sons to son-less members of their community. And if thereweren’t enough son-less members, they would cut off the boy’s finger,or toe, effectively maiming him enough so as not to be army material.The army’s response to that were the Snatchers, bounty hunters(sometimes Jewish themselves) who snatched up the boys before either ofthese things could occur.

Iwas so surprised by this information, I knew I had to write the story.It was published by F&SF Magazine in 1993, and later wasreprinted in the anthology Masterpieces of Horror.

Thepoem comes from a book of poems I wrote about my father’s family in theUkraine and their immigration to America, a memoir in verse called Ekaterinoslav,published in 2012. Lou was the bad boy sent to the militaryacademy, and in the end sent across to America to anchor the familythat would come a few years later, in two waves. My father, the secondyoungest, came in the last wave.

LouLeaving Home

Wedo not know how easily he leaves,

escaping his father’s wrath,

hismother’s tears,

hissisters’ casual relief,

theyounger children’s disbelief.

Does he turn and smile? Blow kisses?

Doeshe use the front of his hand, the back,

as if leaving takes no courageat all?

Oris he already far-seeing,

like a sailor well used to travel,

eyessquinting into the sun;

imaginingthe road to the big ship,

plotting the route across the waves,

dreamingof America’s streets

shining in the sun like gold.

Surely,he’d already counted

the cards to be played,

havinglearned in his old school,

to gamble the Russian way:

nomercy given, none received.

Wilding

Iwrote this story for an anthology, Starfarer’s Dozen, 1995, andit is driven by three things. The first is New York City and theapartment house I grew up in on 97th and Central Park West. Not onlydid I play in Central Park with friends, take my younger brother Stevefor walks and games in the park, but I was transfixed by the largebuilding next door, “The First Church of Christ, Scientist,” though Inever went in.

Second,I am fascinated by tales of creatures/humans who can shift shapes, bethey vampires, werewolves, superheroes, or in this case those kidswho go out “wilding.”

Third, I am a huge fan of Maurice Sendak’spicture book Where the Wild Things Are, which had a lot ofinfluenceon this short story. The picture book begins with a boy—Max—who goeswilding in his wolf suit with actual Wild Things before sailing home tohis supper, which is still hot.

Howeverthe actual term “wilding” had hit the news around the time I wasworking on the story (in the 1980s). It was used to