As stories go, that of Elsie Charmed and Eilsa Strange is not that vast in scope or range. Nor is it a rhyming tale, which should be clearer, now. It’s simple in so many ways, though hard to see in others. But where it starts is where it stays, because it starts with mothers.

Alas, when Magrid Strange met Melvin Charmed, her twin sister Andi did not approve. She approved still less when the two were wed, swore she’d see the bastard dead—forgive me…let’s try that again. She approved still less when the two were married. She approved still more less when Magrid moved from the big blue house of their parents to the much more yellow one across their narrow lane. Said parents had sworn that the girls would stay close, that twins they had been and forever would be, but Andi heard little truth in their claims. For the first time since before she’d been born she found herself alone and forlorn, and so she reckoned she’d stay ‘til the end, if Melvin Charmed had his wish.

Absent her double, Andi behaved in ways that seemed odd to her parents, given her age. She spent considerable hours in the basement, for instance, and spoons began to vanish from the family service with greater and greater frequency. They used so much time in talking to this person or that person about their odd little bird that there was hardly a moment for sparing a word of compassion, concern, or even of glee for Magrid, the daughter unseen. It seems they thought all was quite well in the Charmed house, and why shouldn’t they? Melvin had been named Dealer of the Day for three-hundred-sixty-two days, and that meant he was a shoe-in for the “Man of the Year” money bonus. They had no idea that his drinking had become a violent problem. They had no idea that in the little house just opposite theirs, their not-so-odd daughter was spending much too much time in her basement, or that there, too, there was a matter of missing spoons. Times were different back then than the times of today. People kept to their own business and let lying dogs stay.

Andi cried throughout the night when she heard of Magrid’s pregnancy. Her parents attempted to console her, but they were of little help. She’d slid so far from them that the three had no common words. Magrid made no such attempts, which was hardly suspect. The twins hadn’t spoken, not once, since the marriage, and, if rumors are to be trusted, they never would again, as long as they both should live. Their father on this subject would grumble, quite assuredly, that no matter the twists and no matter the turns, and despite the heartaches or occasional burns, and despite all fighting over girls or fine toys, they’d have no such troubles if they’d just had twin boys.

And perhaps their father was correct. For, while there was assuredly sadness on Andi’s part, it seems her sobbing was tied to quite another problem. Astonishing to all in the big blue house, the subject of the astonishment included, Andi, too, was pregnant. Her mother thought the worst, while her father thought not a lot, at all. A mouth to feed, of course, but at least the girl would have something to occupy her time, a special thing that breathes and grows, a thing with fingers, arms, legs, and toes, a thing that smiles and, within said smiles, constantly, consistently smothers.

A fair time passed for both of the homes, silences maintained. When Melvin Charmed had run away (a fact disputed in some neighborly circles, though the evidence of his fear of being a father was tall when stacked) neither sister crossed the lane. For his abandoned accounts held hefty amounts, exceeding the creditor claims. Still, too, upon the deaths of mother and father Strange (a mechanical failure in their automobile, it seems) the twins spoke not a word. Each round with child, they stood at opposite sides of freshly dug graves. Neither was observed to cry.

Along came daughters. We know their names: Elsie Charmed and Eilsa Strange. With some surprise, they were born the same day, at the same hour, at the same quarter past. Less surprising, they came into the world within the same hospital walls. Only a curtain separated the sisters Strange as they endured the pain of labor, but it proved enough to maintain the wall between them. Neither the doctors nor the nurses noted the remarkable similarities of the newborns. This is unsurprising, considering the nature of newborn babies. Likewise, there would be few occasions in the coming years for appraisals on the subject to be made. For this reason, the most surprising fact of the day, the fact that the two were identical, was the one no one thought to convey.

Alike, so similar, and close to the same, the girls proved lovely things with which their mothers could play. Thin and fair, with girlish hair, each was given gifts of dresses and combs and made to listen endlessly to tales of youth gone by. Questions from either regarding great fights, rifts, or splits were quickly dismissed with quiet waves in favor of words on subjects more pleasant. Butterflies, despite their absence in either yard, were a favorite topic; so, too, tulips and bees.

At ages six, the cousins, having never met, despite the scant distance from door to door, were enrolled in school. Elsie, being on the Languine County line, attended Languine Primary, the top in the district. Eilsa, on the other hand, planted on the Russock County side of the lane, attended Jakobson Elementary, which made up the district’s bottom. Differences in testing scores aside, the girls excelled in all tasks. Yet, in the realm of making friends, they were poor achievers. Neither Andi Strange nor Magrid Charmed were ever met with requests by their daughters for sleepovers or visits of any kind, a turn which pleased each so.

Around ages ten, the girls had wearied of the rooms they’d rattled, thus far, and so it became natural that they should seek new places within their homes. The basements of each, basements being dark places for the storing of unwanted things, had been off limits, of course, and so it became natural that these should be the places sought, flashlights in hand. It is unknown which of the girls had been first to go below, but it is held to be true that each found the same strange scene. There were boxes, to be sure, and plastic wrapped furnishings—all of things a girl might expect—but along one wall (the southern in the yellow house, the northern in the big blue one) a thick cloth had been hung. Beneath the cloth: a crude hole in the blocks. Beyond the hole: a tunnel littered with bent and blunted spoons of every shape and size.

And at the end of each tunnel, having passed over the ruined ladles of soup kitchens, collectible baby spoons from such far off places as Seattle’s Space Needle or The Grand Canyon, and all of the more common utensils between, each arrived with disappointment at a simple earthen wall, her heart still pounding with the excitement of it all. Which girl held her breath and was first to hear the other’s breathing seems insignificant now. What matters most is that the breathing was heard, that a light was then shined, and that, through the slightest of slight pinholes, that light was observed. A string was soon threaded. We know of that, too. They chose to thread string over spoon-digging through. Then to that string each attached a tin can, and such was the point when their talking began.

Across the string the two shared it all, despite their mothers and despite the wall. But, as I said, this is not a rhyming story, and I intend to keep it that way. In the damp basement tunnels of their respective houses, the girls found something special. People who know better have been known to call it a feeling of completeness, some missing piece having been discovered by a fortunate turn and placed within a puzzle that’d never been aware of the hole at its center. They came to know one another in thoughts and in words. They came, also, to know themselves, the turns of their peculiar minds made visible by newfound perspective. It was a grand time for Eilsa Strange and Elsie Charmed, but, like all grand times, it ended as suddenly as it had begun.

Although careful and cautious and punctilious, to boot, the girls could not hide their distraction from their mothers. Saddened, the women searched their homes for the sources of their daughters’ distances, and it was then, if ever, that the two said their only words to one another in the many silent years that had passed or the seven coming nights that we know as their last. Whoever was first to find her daughter’s strung can was the one said to say, “This was not in the plan.” Whether the string was held taught at the other end and whether the words had been heard is a thing outside of our knowing. The string was cut, though. The cans, too, were crushed. Some things are unknown, but we know this much.

As a man outside of a place in space and in time, it is sometimes easier to spy certain courses and trends, and while it may have been a surprise to certain neighbors, if not friends, the course that began that night seems as inevitable to me as the course of an ant in a line. The girls were not grounded, but simply forbade. They were offered some gifts and great dinners were—well, special meals were, indeed, prepared. But no amount of kindness seemed enough to undo the friendship’s undue undoing. The mothers, if only to themselves, denied the drift. They ignored the grim faces, the temperament shifts. To themselves each insisted her girl would stay close, that mother and child they’d remain, but the girls saw things differently after that day, that a twin each had found and that twins they should stay.

Average evenings are seldom times seen. It’s said in some circles they’re dangerous things. Take the averagest evening you ever could dream, and there, some will tell you, hides a dangerous scheme. So some would say, and some would be right; for from predictably average came two fires, one night. Some say Andi, not Magrid, first felt the burn, but Charmed or Strange, each had a turn. Neither, however, was reported to scream. There are rumors, in fact, that each woman stood silently in her window and stared out at the other. That each made confession through eyes long downcast, and though they’d been forever apart, they were reunited at the time of their deaths. I’m sorry to say this was not the case. Fire is a killer of dignified and meaningful moments, and their final phases were more consistent with fright than repose. Still, it’s romantic; so we’ll keep it, I suppose.

As for Eilsa and Elsie, each strange and each charmed, having set two great blazes, they skipped arm in arm. The last thing we know, we know by hearsay, but it came from the widow just up the way. She said she heard singing down the lane that odd night. Because of the body, I’d reckon she’s right. Once and for all, this tale should not rhyme—the turns are not planned, not most of the time. Damn it… OK… I’ll end it in plain. The body in question, a third on the scene, was found in the basements, rather, the tunnels, or, rather, the wall in between—mostly just bones, fire-licked, clean. In the skull was a knife, rusted and bent, and between the earholes a string had been sent.

And as for myself, I sleep well at night, but I hear two girls singing if the wind is just right. A nursery rhyme, a chorale or a curse—to me it’s uncertain. I just hear the words. “In one ear, and out the other. So it goes. So says mother. To tell him why, she tried and tried, but he couldn’t listen, and so he died.”

Timestamp: 05.09.07 at 12:09 PM. Filed under: Fiction.