In a house of sticks sat a marchioness and two of her maids. They went there Sundays.nIsolde had to be a fancy lady. She had a manor specially built for tea.nPolly was a doll, Wendy a felt horse. They sipped with their pinkies up, of course.nIsolde’s friends would say, in a candid way, her society was improving, most days. nnIsolde in her hidden house, off in a copse while mother slept. Father gone in a pinstriped suit and a governess hanging clothes, singing Irish.nIsolde had a dirty cheek; blackish loam smeared on pretty white birch bark and because of the low light, stinging, not seeing, ‘twas a splinter buried... nIn the dappled shade, spinney leaves will fade. They hid behind an old wicker chair-seat front gate.nShe must drift outside; dainty, lilting strides, and by fairy craft give her teahouse eyes. nnIsolde wants window light! She dislikes parasites! Open the walls and oh, my dear, well that smells lovely!nBut do you hear the sound of a dead and wood bone cracking? There’s a foot upon the ground without and the birds have left off laughing!nStay within thy castle and mute thy ladies’ thread and cotton tongues. Their songs, if sung, would bring the broken stick foot hither!nAnother step draws near! Thy ladies shake with fear! Don’t make a sound! Tendrils run along the ground, they’re searching, searching!nIs it alive or dead? Does the footfall have a head? Is it a face with eyes, and has it spied Isolde small and pale with dread?nAnd then sepulchral breath slips past teeth all wrong from death. That crooked air won’t linger there, it drips and drops on Isolde’s hair… nnIsolde tumbles out and away, gone from the woods and into the daylight. She will sip her tea with the governess and listen to mother sleeping!nIsolde doesn’t need a special secret wooded teatime retreat! There’s nothing restful about a parlor rank with rot and loud with needlefeet!n
Needlefeet
Cinema Strange
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