Is it insensitve to suggest what seems so reasonable--that these are the bastard sons of witches and St. Nick? Where else would Santa take his indiscretions but aloft? Witches are a tempting lot--or at least a welcome change from the Pillsbury softness to which he would be accustomed--thorny and wild, legs wrapped around straw and stars and not much else, and not exactly discriminating when it comes to love. An oddly appropriate, if ill-fitting pair. And the mythologies (if not quite equinanimous) share similar leylines.
Of course, the offspring of these blasphemous unions would always be out of step. Stout believers of Kris Kringle could never bear the implications, and the chambers of a witch's heart are tenanted only by her cats, her owls, her faithful toads. So, orphaned and forgotten, their children would be relegated to the the frilled outer edges of each world--the rooftops.
And so become the sweeps.
In grace and appearance they well resemble their mothers, but their temperaments are much more cheery. They are on friendly terms with the sky but are content with small plots of brick and tile, and they travel the chimneyways with inherited ease. Prim, fastidious, and the perfect caretakers of the supernatural highways, they sweep the hearth, clear the stacks, scuttle the vapor trails, and buff that raw coppery line where city meets sky--smoothing all roads for their absentee parents.
And of course, close the days with a bit of mending:
hemming the skirts of Great Auntie Horizon where they peep up around her red stockinged ankles.
In essence, they are the interworldly janitors, but it's a lofty custodianship.
No comments:
Post a Comment