Wasps were all around, a thousand stick-like legs scratching my face and neck, paper-thin wings transparent before bogging down with the darkness.

I held my breath as I plunged face-first, face-down into frigid water. People laughed, and I thought I saw them moving or were they marionettes? Part of the show? The woman stood near as I tried hard to grab an apple with my teeth; oh they had wanted to tie my hands, restrict me, confine me. But we will use the soft silk cords, she said. Try them, you will see. Will not be so bad. I said that cords are cords be they silk or rope, real or figurative, and none shall bind my hands. So I clasped them behind my back of my own power, and then things went dark as the water rushed in, rushed past. The last things I saw were the scintillating lights of a million stars dancing on the horizon, diamonds spilling like souls upon black velvet. And it all looked beautiful at first, until I dipped below the surface.

The horizon was actually the rim of the large clay vat brought in from the yard and the lights came not from stars or diamonds, but from the wet, glistening thoraxes of hundreds of black and white wasps, floating dead in the water. Each was still, its jointed legs folded back to its body as if in prayer and the candlelight from the room bounced off the hard backs of each one as they brushed my face, filled my mouth, and danced the minuet with my eyelashes.

It was New Years and I was supposed to be bobbing for apples at a party, a festive social function based on local customs and fertility rites but instead of apples, I was bobbing for wasps.

And as I was under the water, searching, searching for the way out, I felt wasp wings tickling my cheeks in a creepy-crawly sort of way, and I felt mandibles scraping my forehead as I tried to stay calm, struggling to recall what my tutor had taught me about wasps. We had watched them beneath the cherry trees that one lazy summer day, as they flitted and crawled, sucking fruit. Wasps are parasites when they are young. They must be cared for and coddled. Many wasps are predatory, hunting other insects. Killing one wasp at a time is not as effective as killing the entire hive. Had someone tried to drown this hive? Is that why it was here in the vat on New Years Eve?

There were no apples under the water, only more and more wasps. I felt a big one lodge in my right nostril as another jammed in my ear. I rose screaming to the surface, frantically brushing and scraping the wasps from my skin, ready to dig them from my wig, only to find none. I panted, panicked and pale.

I was dry and clean albeit a bit sweaty and nervous.

Across from me sat the gypsy lady.

She smiled and fanned the sweet-smelling incense.

She gestured behind me to the street show and carnivals.

Down the center marched a band of harlequins, people dressed as giant wasps wearing pied tights and costumes.

Black, she said as she rolled the dice and fanned the cards.

-.-

I had no worry of my future; it was my past of which I was uncertain. It returned from time to time, in bits, in chunks, in storms roaring from a babys cooing and following the path of mid-morning sun across a whitewashed wall. I did remember some things, both happy and sad: sweet cookies straight from the oven, the death of a childhood pet. I also remembered other things that made me fearful: grey skin jammed beneath fingernails, barred windows, and ratted hair.

The gypsy girl shook a cup, dumped some items on the cloth-covered tabletop between us and bade me select three. I had the choice of: a back stone shaped like a raven, a metal nail, a tiny cup-shaped button, a small wedge of dried root (hemlock), a painted coin worn smooth, a tooth, and a claw. The table spun and I couldnt decide. I tried, and tried and I looked and looked as the gypsy waited and the room seemed to be a bit too close. Her eyes were perfectly almond-shaped, large and beautiful. I could feel the curtained walls closing in and felt her watching me as if in a fishbowl and I grew uncomfortable because the items were all so similar and yet all so different. Why are you rushing? she asked without emotion. There were too many choices yet only seven but that was six too many; I had to choose three and eliminate four. Do not be overwhelmed, she crooned. As I poked at the items with my smallest fingers, aligning them and never once touching them with my thumbs; I thought of my sisters, my sorrowful sisters and I knew that each of my choices represented each of them and which, I wondered, which item represented me? This set me to tapping my forehead with my fingers.

But, the gypsy reminded me as if she could read my thoughts, You are not here to find yourself. You come seeking information on another, unless that someone is really you. How should I know? I came seeking answers, not riddles, I snapped. She smiled at me. Often the riddles are the answers. The answers can be new ideas. Instantly I became mad, wanting to scream at her, but all I heard were my own screams bouncing off the walls of my soul. She remained motionless, still as a statue.

I tossed the raven-shaped stone, the tooth and the metal nail back into the cup.

She nodded and turned over the next card.

Jealousy. Uncertainty. Confusion. The gypsy glanced at me and then not-so-subtly, inched her seat in the other direction. Is a problem of extremes. Is a situation with a rope, you see. You are the rope drawn tighter and tighter as the lead end moves on. Finally, the tail end must be loosened and whips forward in one great motion. This can hurt.

Or kill, I replied.

She narrowed her eyes appraisingly and said nothing, ready to turn the next card.

Dear Millicient,

Thank you for information about proper church etiquette; it was helpful this weekend when I attended church with my new friend Marquis Auguste Baptiste de Fines.

My dear friend the Marquis is a good host and a charming companion. He is talented and plays the harpsichord very well. We spend time dancing in his home and having tea in the garden with his cat. Something has come over my friend as of late, and it concerns me greatly. He drank some wine last night, a lot of wine, I believe, and he injured himself. His doctor seems to think that he should avoid the wine for some time, but what do country doctors know? All men require some relaxation to calm the mind and heart. I believe that one of his servants may be trying to poison him, so I took it upon myself to fasten lead strips inside the wine casks to test for poison. In a few weeks, if poison is present, the lead strips will be bubbly, crusty and white; if not, the wine is safe to drink. I have also left a small packet of mustum and sapa with his servants with instruction to blend these things into his drinks, should he request more wine. I have left the directions with the servants:

Put the mustum in leaden vessels and by boiling reduce it by a quarter, others by a third. But, before the mustum is poured into the boiling-vessels, it will be well that those which are made of lead should be coated inside with good oil and be well-rubbed, and that then the mustum should be put in....The vessels themselves in which the thickened and boiled-down must is boiled should be of lead rather than of brass; for, in the boiling, brazen vessels throw off copper rust and spoil the flavor of the preservative.... To make very sweet mustum , boil down to a third of its original volume.

I am confident that my friend will be well quite soon, as mustum is sweet and shall restore his vigour.

Give my regards to the little ones,

Love, Renonys

I trust this letter finds you well. You will be pleased to hear that upon your advice, I have begun attending church in my new home of Provence. The church is small and led by a handsome young parson, the shepherd of a fine flock. I believe him to be holy and virtuous but somewhat misinformed. Today they discussed the death of one of their brothers who killed himself in a great sacrifice to his father. The parson continued to refer to the deceased as your brother and our brother and the father of the deceased as our father. Naturally, I grew quite concerned as these poor people were obviously confused about my lineage. I ascended the pulpit to set the story straight: my father is dead and buried in Paris, not alive here in Provence, and my brother certainly did not sacrifice himself to him, for he is, by no help of mine and to my great disappointment, still alive. Close examination of my visage and family name should reveal that I am not related to any of them. Upon vacating the pulpit, I made my rounds to the membership and offered my condolences to each and every one individually, on the death of their sibling. The water in this town must have something in it or the people must be naturally fertile for them all to be related. One can only wonder what transpires at family reunions.

The sermon moved away from the death of the family member and there was much talk of good harvests and reapers. They seemed preoccupied with filling the granaries of their lord. (The only lord I know of in these parts is Lord Bedrich Panacek and I believe that he oversees the lands of the entire duchy.) I could only assume that these people are the tenants of Lord Bedrich and his wife. They seemed to be quite enthused to turn out and work their peasants even harder to bring in a bountiful harvest. Lord Bedrich must have keen eyes, for the good Parson advised that he was always watching and sees all of our actions and even our most secret thoughts. (I do hope that he was entertained and has a good sense of humour as I shared a fortnight with my bele chose and the team of jolly coachmen! My dear friend, let me tell you, those coachmen were indeed well-travelled. If you should happen upon an opportunity, I suggest that you take a very long trip by coach if you should ever require entertainment and distraction.)

The congregation kindly passed a plate to collect the lords rent and I thought it interesting that his tenants make their payments in this way. As I pay my rent in full each month, I did not feel it necessary to add funds on his money plate. In fact, I found it quite convenient as I had already paid my rent this month and Lord Bedrich had not the correct change. I exacted that amount from the money plate and now consider us to be even. It wasnt until halfway through the passing-of-the-plate that I realized, with shock and horror, that these good people were not receiving receipts for their payments! How would Lord Bedrich know who to credit with the exact amount? This system is clearly open to suspect and corruption. My dear friend, you shall know that I took it upon myself to intervene! I grandly strode forth, stopped the service and intercepted the money plate. Announcing my concerns and intentions, I fetched some parchment from the great book upon the altar, stole a feather quill from my coiffure, used the parsons cup of wine for ink, and wrote receipts for all. My spirit is at rest knowing that these goodly people will not be taken advantage of for their kind generosity.

In all, I found the Sunday to be a rewarding, uplifting event and nurturing for my spirit. Thank you so much for your direction.

Please give my regards to the little ones,

Much Love,

Renonys