The fog? Yes, it’s one of the things others have heard about our valley — that and the sharing. We’re at home with the fog, I guess, much like the drapes and blinds of our houses. It’s part of the fabric of our lives, a barrier separating us from those who would pry and judge.
Despite what you see around us, the fog isn’t constant — not entirely. Perhaps five to seven days of the year we lie exposed to the sun’s harsh glare, wondering if our shelter has ended and our lives changed. But the fog returns by morning, and we remain sheltered in plain sight.
I am the Crone. Not what it sounds, perhaps. Not necessarily the oldest, though I’ve seen far more seasons than you. Nor am I the wisest, or the strongest. I’ve worn my ceremonial robes to greet you, but spells and potions are not my stock in trade — I could scarcely separate eye of newt from mother of pearl buttons — still I know more about the life of this valley than anyone. Think of me as mayor, that’s close enough.
But you had questions for your college paper, child, let me try to answer those if I can. How long have we been here? The earliest building in our valley was about 100 years ago. As a community we’re younger than that — perhaps 75 years or so.
The sharing? Perhaps our central mystery. I’m not entirely sure of its origins, though the oldest tell stories, perhaps true, of its beginnings. Still the tales all soon become skeins of friends past, and of friends of friends, and the relationships, blood and bond, and then dissolve into laughter and reminiscence.
Some insist it was a banker, Claude Atkins, and his wife Maude, the seamstress, who started it all, on a warm evening near mid-summer. Claude, they say, slept buck naked, and would sleep walk at times. On this particular night he wandered out of the house in the fog, where Maude, scurrying out in her robe, found him and his erection standing on a platform in the town square, both seemingly staring, transfixed, at the soft glow of a street lamp through the fog. And they say Maude went to stand directly in front of them, and that Claude’s gaze drew gently down from the shrouded street lamp to Maude’s beaming smile, and that he reached out and put his hands under her robe, and she shivered like a startled fawn, but never lost that adoring smile. And they say Claude and Maude made love so beautifully that they were like two dancers, unaware that others had gathered around the platform, transfixed. And when they finally lay exhausted on Maude’s robe on the platform, the others patted the ground with their hands, unable to stop the feelings welling up from the beauty they’d just seen, but not daring to disturb them.
Others say it was John and Betty Smith, who later had the general store, who left the party on their wedding night with blankets and a kerosene lamp, giggling as they walked up to a clearing on the hill. And they say the fog was thick that night, and that the lamp threw off a pearly glow, as they spread the blankets out and set the lantern just behind. John in his red muttonchops, and Betty with her long auburn hair stood together for a fevered kiss, then slowly undressed each other, backlit by the flickering lamp. And when they at last stood bare in the swirling fog and lantern’s glow, they kissed again more slowly. Then Betty clasped her arms behind John’s neck and jumped up to wrap her legs around his back, and John held tight beneath her legs as they looked deeply into each other’s eyes, and Betty descended slowly around, and John rose slowly within, and they swayed together, and the shadows danced and the fog swirled. And they say that as they met the Ah… heard from the dancers was echoed by the charmed party goers, and by the animals around and by the trees themselves.
Well, that all seems staged just a little too perfectly, so the tales may have grown in the telling. Claude and Maude and John and Betty have all lived out their lives by now, of course, so there’s no asking them. They did live in our valley, though, or so the census records tell us. They may have been proud of the stories, or wise enough to see that the stories told more about what our community had become, than about its history. I can’t say.
So what is the sharing? All of those things that have you sitting on the edge of your seat with eyes like saucers, child — and none of them. It’s a ceremony of love, a bond of community, and a celebration of the dancers. It’s also my one ceremonial office as the Crone — to preside over the sharing.
We meet in the lofted room on the third floor of City Hall. Yes, child, the City Council chamber on nights when it meets, and our chamber of sharing on nights of ceremony. You’ve seen the room, I take it? Entirely carpeted, with the floor inclining gently upward to a raised platform in the center of the room — the parade platform, perhaps, of Claude and Maude’s tale. The platform is covered with soft blankets, and there are low lights at either end, and the chamber is flooded with fog — as John and Betty’s tale might set it. And the celebrants sit all around the platform on the carpeted floor, as both tales would have it.
Only the Crone speaks — a politician’s dream indeed, my child — to welcome, to introduce, to adjourn. Sometimes the room is crowded, especially at times of celebration or sorrow, sometimes very few attend. The dancers for each night are known, but only to me. As I speak my welcome, the first two dancers retire to one of the changing rooms to prepare, and emerge as I finish. Sometimes wearing light robes, and sometimes not, they walk hand in hand to the platform, and share their love with us.
Ah, you see it as another tiresome enshrinement of youth and beauty — nothing could be farther from the truth, my child. Let me tell you of David and Mercy Rothman, perhaps the oldest of the dancers among us: in their eighties, I would guess. Often they are the first dancers of the evening, and somehow they set the tone. They walk out of the changing room — David clad only in joy and a broad smile, and Mercy in a quilted teal robe — and slowly walk hand in hand to the platform, with a dignity only time and experience can bring. On the platform, they turn to face each other, clasping hands together and looking deep in each other’s eyes, through decades of shared lives. Then Mercy touches David’s cheek, or brushes one of his errant white hairs back into place. And David gently puts his hands on either side of her face and draws her to him for a long and thoughtful kiss. When they part from the kiss, David unclasps her robe and slowly pushes it back across her shoulders, until it falls to the floor of its own weight. And each time, David stares in wonder at Mercy, and Mercy returns a shy, happy smile. And they stroke and they play, and sometimes Mercy hums parts of an old tune, until at last they climax together, deep in each other’s arms, and enfolded in their own shared world, accompanied by the awed patting of the floor by the celebrants, like muffled applause through the fog.
For us the “love of a lifetime” is the work, and the joy, and the sharing, of that whole lifetime, not just the spark that ignites that fire.
When the dancers have finished their sharing, the celebrants pat the floor with their hands, much like the story of Claude and Maude, and I introduce another pair of dancers, until all who wish an audience have shared.
Then I speak the words of adjournment, and we pass from the fog into the fog, secure in our shared community, and our celebration.
You seem disappointed, my child. It was an orgy you were expecting, I suppose. As shocking as the world might find our celebration, we’re remarkably conventional in that way — the dancers are all married, and to each other. That’s not a judgment upon others — just our way.
So you see, I do know of a great and powerful magic, and I direct, from here within the fog, forces more stunning than my robes of office — without the need for eye of newt.
