Tales of Wonder by Jane Yolen Page B

and breathed heavily, his chin resting on his left hand. He didn’t yet completely trust his right. After all, he had only been awake and moving for ten minutes.
    Something materialized across the table from him. It was a tall, gaunt old woman whose hair looked as if birds might be nesting in it. Nasty birds. With razored talons and beaks permanently stained with blood. He thought he spotted guano in her bushy eyebrows.
    â€œSo,” the apparition said to him, “ hands are the topic of our discussion.” Her voice, now that she was visible, was no longer melodic but grating, on the edge of a scold.
    â€œAren’t you a bit old for such tricks, Baba?” asked Boris, trying to be both polite and steady at once. His grandmother, may she rest in pieces on the meteorite that had broken up her circus flight to a rim world, had taught him to address old women with respect. “After all, a grandmother should be …”
    â€œHome tending the fire and the children, I suppose.” The old woman spat into the corner, raising dust devils. “The centuries roll on and on, but the Russian remains the same. The Soviets did wonders to free women as long as they were young. Old women, we still have the fire and the grandchildren.” Her voice began to get louder and higher. Peh , she spat again. “Well, I for one, have solved the grandchildren problem.”
    Boris hastened to reach out and soothe her. All he needed now, on top of last evening’s disastrous performance, was to have a screaming battle with some crazy old lady when Uncle Misha and his parents, the Famous Flying, were asleep in the small rooms on either side of the trailer. “Shh, shh,” he cautioned.
    She grabbed at his reaching right hand and held it in an incredibly strong grip. Vised between her two claws, his hand could not move at all. “This, then,” she asked rhetorically, “is the offending member?”
    He pulled back with all his strength, embarrassment lending him muscles, and managed to snag the hand back. He held it under the table and tried to knead feeling back into the fingers. When he looked up at her, she was smiling at him. It was not a pretty smile.
    â€œYes,” he admitted.
    She scraped at a wen on her chin with a long, dirty fingernail. “It seems an ordinary-enough hand,” she said. “Large knuckles. Strong veins. I’ve known peasants and czars that would have envied you that hand.”
    â€œ Ordinary ,” Boris began in a hoarse whisper and stopped. Then, forcing himself to speak, he began again. “Ordinary is the trouble. A juggler has to have extraordinary hands. A juggler’s hands must be spider-web strong, bird’s-wing quick.” He smiled at his metaphors. Perhaps he was a poet-clone.
    The old woman leaned back in her chair and stared at a spot somewhat over Boris’s head. Her watery blue eyes never wavered. She mumbled something under her breath, then sat forward again. “Come,” she said. “I have a closetful. All you have to do is choose.”
    â€œChoose what?” asked Boris.
    â€œ Hands! ” screeched the old woman. “Hands, you idiot. Isn’t that what you want?”
    â€œ Boris ,” came his uncle’s familiar voice through the thin walls. “ Boris , I need my sleep.”
    â€œI’ll come. I’ll come,” whispered Boris, just to get rid of the hag. He shooed her out the door with a movement of his hands. As usual, the right was a beat behind the left, even after half a morning.
    He hadn’t actually meant to go anywhere with her, just maneuver her out of the trailer, but when she leaped down the steps with surprising speed and climbed into a vehicle that looked like a mug with a large china steering rudder sticking out of the middle, his feet stepped forward of their own accord.
    He fell down the stairs.
    â€œPerhaps you could use a new pair of feet, too,” said the