Milford Shack's Muse

Milford Shack's small, two story house sat quietly on the west side of the village square, nearly but not quite surrounded by trees and a low iron fence.  A half dozen sleek and colorful cats prowled the grounds and soft lamplight spilled from each of the downstairs windows.  There was nothing spooky or forbidding or even mildly interesting about the place and Uncle Milly - a travel writer by trade - was remarkable only for the fact that in all his sixty some years and despite a number of successful books and glossy magazine articles about the incredible beauty of all the provinces, he'd never actually set as much as a foot off the island.  That, and of course, the fact that he was a self-proclaimed fortune teller.

He was a small man, almost fragile looking and inclined to be fussy in his appearance and speech.  He favored jackets with elbow patches and muted wool vests worn over pin striped shirts.  You could cut bread by the crease in his trousers, Nana said, and his only concession to comfort seemed to be his casually scuffed loafers.
He was what my grandmother - when in a charitable mood - called "affected" although with what I was never sure.  His exaggerated gestures and accent (brazenly and openly copied from Miss Hilda as everyone knew) got on her nerves and when he grew a pencil-thin mustache and cultivated a pointy little goatee, it was more than she could bear.

I declare, Milly, she said sharply after an afternoon of banana cream pie and tea liberally spiked with whiskey,
I cain't decide iffin you look like an undersized Basil Rathbone or an overgrown Mickey Rooney, but it don't
suit you a'tall.

Uncle Milly smiled,

Leave me my illusions, dear Alice, he said smoothly, the muse suggested them and my public enjoys them.

Uncle Milly's muse, his inspiration and guide as he called her, came only at night and rarely took physical form.

But when she does, he assured anyone who would listen, she is golden haired like the sun and moves with the grace of clouds and moonlight and speaks only in whispers and only to me.

Where does she come from, Uncle Milly, I wanted to know, What's her name?

Her name is Drinelda, he told me with a wink, and she comes from a world just past the moon.  She's full of secrets.

And you're full of what makes the grass grow green, Milford Shack, my grandmother snapped impatiently, don't be fillin' the child's head with your fool nonsense.  She's already got imagination enough for two!

I thought maybe this wasn't the time to tell her that after much coaxing and pleading, Uncle Milly had finally agreed to tell my fortune for my birthday.  It had seemed like a glamorous and grownup idea at the time - who knew but that the muse might even drop by - and I didn't want Nana's cynicism to spoil the plan.  The idea of a fortune teller was no less plausible than a travel writer who didn't travel, I thought and the whole village knew that it was Uncle Milly's daughter who actually visited all the places and took the pictures while Uncle Milly added the words.

Not to mention, Milly, my grandmother was adding, You and your fool muse ain't nothin' but a fraud and you know it.  Fine thing for a grown man to playin' at, I declare, you oughta be ashamed.

When I repeated this conversation to Ruthie - the thought that a fortune teller might be a waste of a hard earned quarter being at the back of my mind - she reminded me that grownups don't know everything like they think they do and what my grandmother didn't know surely wasn't going to hurt her.

Besides, she said reasonably enough, We ain't gon' get caught.  And 'sposin' we see the muse?

We didn't see the muse, of course but Uncle Milly did his best.  He appeared in a celestial purple floor length robe with matching turban, dimmed the lights and dealt the sinister tarot cards with a dramatic flair.   The air in his parlor was faintly smoky and mysterious in a shadowy, catlike way.  Now and again the night breeze would stir the tree branches against the curtained windows making a raspy, eerie sound that sent a chill all the way up my backbone.  When an unseen cat slipped beneath the table and brushed against my ankle I thought for a second I would scream.  Ruthie sat frozen, so frightened she forgot to breathe, her normally tanned and healthy looking skin the color of watered down milk.

The spirits are with us, dear children, Uncle Milly intoned in a voice fit for the grave, and the muse is watching.  Have no fear.

Ruthie and I shared a shiver.

The fortune telling itself was pretty mundane - long and happy lives, handsome men, many children - nothing we would remember for long.  

It's the delicious sense of childhood terror that I remember.  For a few precious moments - muse or no muse - the whole world was haunted and the kind of fear that only children seek out and appreciate was everywhere.