“Did you know there are silkworms that can build a shirt in one piece?”
“Why would they do that?” Marma was making the face.
“Because they’re artists! They can do whatever they want.” That seemed to suffice. Morning Glory continued, “But that’s not the point. The point, dude. Silk.”
“The point is that silkworms can make whatever they want? Into silk.”
“Right. So they could make anything, anything we make right now in itchy polyester and shitty cotton.” Glory felt the usual internal glee that came with letting out a Mature word. Her glee was immediately doused:
“What do you have that’s polyester?”
“You know what I mean. The point, for real is: they’re smarter than us. Don’t you see? They can make something with their bodies–” she paused and inhaled dramatically, used the Bug-Eyed Serious face and said “–they can make something with their bodies, that we cannot make. There are creatures that make silk, Marma! And honey. And webs. And houses–”
“My dad makes houses!”
“MARMA! Not my point! Does he cut the wood with his teeth?”
Marma stared up into the space between her eyebrows. For a bit too long. Finally: “No. But that would be weird.”
“You see. Exactly. And it’d be weird if I could weave a sparkly web with long sticky threads coming outta my butt! Dancing in some kinda aerial math-and-gravity-enthusiast’s dream–“
“I have that dream, Glory. I’m an enthusiast.”
“Marma!” Morning Glory almost cried. She could not fathom why, but she was spiritually serious right now in a way that required acknowledgement, and Marma did not seem to be catching on. She sat for a moment fuming in the timespace marathon that language required, trying not to be disappointed that ESP was not more openly accepted as valid communication, when suddenly Marma broke her sulk:
“Glory. You know what would be great? Being silked into a warm tube.” She looked so dreamy that MG burst out a giggle. Marma turned with undaunted solemnity in her direction. “By the silkworms.”
Glory thought for a moment. Then her eyes slowly lit into Marma’s with joy. “YES.” Marma totally got it. She wanted to find out, too. MG beamed a white rabbit of light straight into the holes of Marma’s irises, watched the bunny tail disappear, then looked both ways and leapt into the open tunnel.
“Yes. We have to learn! Let’s learn from them. So then we can come out new like the butterflies and moths do. So we can bust outta crackly back skin like cicadas & creepy silverfish. So we can evolve, Marma. On purpose.” She’d dropped her voice, spinning a little wind storm with her words. Leaves swirled wildly by the tree where they crouched, exactly when Glory inhaled. Marma noticed silently. Marma noticed everything. “And Marms: you start by learning how to hold very still for a long time. So you can hear how they do what they do. They’ll tell you…” Glory was glowing, practicing holding very still already, “If you hold very still.”
Marma nodded. “I’m good at that.”
Glory snorted, shoving her friend with one paw. “No you’re not! You’re awful.” Marma gaped. She had been serious. No matter. “But so am I!” laughed Glory. “Terrible. No good at all, really. We have to train. Seriously. Like ninjas.”
Marma shook her head. “Like Sikhs. Ninjas move around a whole lot.”
“Oh, you’re right. Okay. Let’s start. Our first training… Can’t be silkworms, cause we don’t know any.”
Marma was taking out a notebook and pen. Good, MG thought, we’re on board. Worth documenting, like all good adventures. It’s official. She closed her eyes for a moment, relishing the drumroll of anticipation. Wait for it.[1] She inhaled deeply and spoke through fluttering eyelids:
“We go lay in the grass next recess and let the ants crawl on us.”
There was a pause. A long pause. A long, pregnant pause. Glory wondered if Marma was breathing. She opened her eyes. Marma was staring at something invisible, inches from her face. Glory tried to get in the shot. She blinked a lot and raised her eyebrows, trying to make obscenicons squiggle from her face. Marma didn’t notice, but as soon as MG gave up, there was a joyful squeal from inside the far-off reverie. Morning Glory knew that noise. Marma was in.
“Yes! Glory. Let’s do this. We’re going to get so good.”
“Yaaaaasssss!” MG kicked her legs. Marma’s choices were always a good surprise either way they came out. Worth the wait.
Another good surprise: the bell rang just then, shepherding the two inside with the rest of the sheep-training crew, but therefore pressing pause on exactly that moment in time, destining them to think about it for another couple of hours before actually lying down in the ants.
By the time they were getting on the bus that afternoon, they were buzzing with chatter, planning for the next experiments. They had laid on the grass playing Anthill for at least 30 minutes in all, separated only by giggles and classes. It was exhilirating. Terrifying. Tempting. There were so many more ways to play this game. Perching cross-legged in the bus seat, Marma was saying,
“So I think silkworms take like 3 or 4 days to finish. And they would cost money to have as pets. So we have to work out in a step-wise function toward that goal.” Marma was so good at these things. She relished showing it. A real silkworm in her trade. [2] “So we need to try for a whole hour next time. Then two.”
“Yeah, I think so too. But with something else. Not ants again. Something…” Glory frowned. “More like silk. Actual silk. But we don’t have much of it at my house. Hmm. Oh! Marma! Do you have any duct tape?”
“We have tons of duct tape. Tons.” Marma twiddled her fingers. “You know who my mom is? Tons.”
“Sweet. Well good thing it’s my night to come over. Dad’s gonna pick me up after bedtime. Let’s do this, Secret Ninja Marmalade.”
“Shh! Don’t call me that!”
“It sounds really good with ‘Secret Ninja’ before it. Don’t you think?”
“Well, yeah. But you can’t say that in public.[3] Every single one of those words is secret. We have to be more careful now.”
Glory was dumbstruck for a moment. “You’re right, you’re right. What was I thinking.” She shook her head disapprovingly, then brightened. “Whoa, see? This is really good training! Those ants, Marma. Those ants worked miracles already.”
Marma grinned. “Good at what they do.”
“You said it.” She plucked one off Marma’s hairline and put it on the windowsill. Its tiny antennae waved just moments before it was sucked out into the autumn breeze. “Hope it’s okay!” Glory whipped her head out the window after it.
“Don’t worry,” Marma chortled. “It’s a ninja.”
The two little birds exploded into twitters, which progressed into frenzied belly laughs, which continued until they descended down the bus stairs toward the Vouvray residence.
It was going to be a good night.
**
2. Her trade being patterning and organizing things. Any things. All things.
3. For clarification: Marma would allow very few humans to use her full name, for reasons that made perfect sense in her cosmology. For a taste of said cosmology, that of a future-master-patterner: Marmalade Camembert Vouvray has the initials MCV, which according to the Romans stands for 1105, which, numerologically reduced in conjunction with the Major Arcana of the Tarot, equals the Chariot: meditation of total commitment, the internal stillness required for fruitful motion. (High math: Lust + Fool + Hierophant = Chariot… or Magus + Fortune + Hierophant = Chariot… or 2 Magi, a Fool, and Hiero = Fucken Chariot any way you slice it.) This concludes your glimpse into the invisible Doozer crew of Marma’s inner workings.