Fire and Ice

“What’s all this business about a volcano in Iceland blowing up?” Margaret, visiting from the Moon in the Mango Tree, lounges in a chair by the window, in the most appealing light. Ted eyes her, as always.

“Thousands of people are grounded in airports,” Emily from Walk Back The Cat, and soon, Secret of the Shroud, says. “It’s a catastrophe.”

“Fire and Ice–it’s very poetic,” Barbara Perkins says. “Apparently a volcano exploded beneath a glacier in Iceland.”

Margaret flips her hand in the air. “Who goes to Iceland anyway?”

Barbara eyes her and continues. “A plume of ash spewed five miles up, then spread over the U.K., Europe…all the way down to Italy. Airplanes were grounded. Flights cancelled around the world.”

“The ash will settle when the glacial ice melts and lava begins to flow.” That from Martin, Emily’s friend in our book. Martin is a scientist. He turns to me. “I don’t think it’ll disrupt our trip though, Leo.” He knows I’ve been waiting all my life to see the Shroud. I nod my appreciation. Martin is considerate…unlike some others in our book…the Archbishop, for instance. I look around, but he’s not here. Haven’t seen him in a while.

“I’m hoping that The Writer has the courage of her convictions and doesn’t let a little thing like this plume of ash halt our trip to Turin.”

“It’s not a small thing,” Martin adds. “The ash contains small particles of glass and rock and who knows what else in the mix.”

“Well, keep that to yourself if she shows up here behind the Mirror, please.” We don’t actually let her back here very often. But, if she doesn’t go, we’re stuck here too. I have to see the Shroud. I spread my fingers and look at the damage I’ve wrought upon my nails, cuticles chewed to the bone. worrying over this. Not the greatest look for a pianist. But, the Shroud Exhibition is in Turin, and Turin is one hour from Milan, and the airports in Milan are closed because of that volcano, that plume. I’m counting the days until The Writer gets on that plane for Italy. I must see the Shroud. I must!

“Fire and ice–nail polish and lipstick. Made by Revlon Company.” Margaret murmurs, touching her pinky to the corner of her red, red lips. “I wore that color years ago.”

“Excuse me?” There’s a disconnect in this conversation. Not unusual with Margaret.

Ted’s disgruntled. “Margaret, you’re a hard lady, made of solid ice.”

If the volcanic ash continues they could shut the Shroud exhibition down. The live volcano is adjacent to another one, I heard yesterday. Things could get worse. I freeze at the thought, wishing that I was at home, playing the piano. Something bold, passionate, something demanding.

“You think I’m made of ice?” Margaret gives Ted a slow smile and he seems to melt. “I’ll tell you a secret.” She leans in his direction and whispers. “There’s fire underneath.”

“Ah, I loved those colors–fire and ice, cherries in the snow.” Barbara sighs. “But I could only dream of using those kinds of colors in Siam. They were fantasy, pure and simple.”

I can’t help myself. “What if we can’t see the Shroud because of the volcano’s fire and ice?”

“Oh Leo,” Margaret says to me with a deep little chuckle. “You’re so serious about everything. Laugh a little.”

I look down. She’s right. I’m used to being alone, plus I have a one-track mind when it comes to the Shroud of Turin.

Margaret heaves a sigh. “Well I did look nice in those colors way back when, if I do say so myself.” She whips a small mirror from the purse she carries, clicks it open, and inspects her reflection, then presses her lips together. “Hmmm. Maybe I should try it again.”

“I thought we were talking about that Icelandic volcano,” Martin, the scientist, says to Emily. She rolls her eyes.

Ted grins at Margaret.” She smiles.

Good grief.

“Speaking of volcanos. Robert Frost wrote a poem titled Fire and Ice,” Barbara says. She closes her eyes, leans her head back against the cushion of the chair, and touches fingers to her forehead, as if pulling the poem from her mind. “It goes like this: Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice. From what I’ve tasted of desire…” here she pauses with a significant glance at Dr. Perkins…Harvey…he’s said to call him…”I hold with those who favor fire.”

“That doesn’t surprise me a bit,” Amalie Breeden snaps. She sits upright.

“But if I had to perish twice,” Barbara goes on, with a touch of amusement. “I think I know enough of hate to say…that for destruction, ice is also great, and would suffice.”

TeeBo quirks his brows and looks at Barbara. “Why are we talking about hate? And why are we talking about the end of the world?”

“I’m not. Robert Frost was.” Barbara smooths her hair.

“Because of a volcano?”

“No, of course not, silly. That poem was written long ago.”

TeeBo quirks his brows and looks at Barbara. “Maybe we should give that fact some thought.” He chews on a piece of straw stuck in the corner of his mouth before going on. “I mean, here we are innundated with fire and ice, and no choice between them. Something to think about, no? How often does this happen!”