Our Father Who Art a Mystery Part One
They were all her children, the ones who lived in the house built in the trees and hidden from the world (or as hidden as it could be, with such a large extended family). They had different interests, different ideas about the world, different dreams. But they were all her children. And when they all gathered and told stories to each other, the older ones continuing tales they had started long ago, the younger ones creating new stories or building on the old, she smiled on them, and if they were very good, she would tell a story of her own. Their stories were the ones recorded in the family book. Their pictures were the ones pinned on the refrigerator until space ran out, when they would be filed neatly. Their news was shared throughout the Treehouse.
They came and went, as all children do at some point or another, the older ones seeking out new lives and rarely coming back to the Secret Treehouse, the younger ones running off to have adventures, some falling out with their brothers and sisters and being shunned, others eloping (sometimes with each other) and starting afresh. But they were still her children, and Zelda was proud of almost every one of them.
Not all of her children gathered at once, of course. They were all busy with other things, some not willing to see their sisters and brothers, but there were always a good number of them around, sharing stories, exchanging news, excitedly discussing new shows, teasing their youngest brother. They always came back, moths drawn to the light, children running home.
And tonight, more of them than usual had been drawn home. Zelda had sent out the call in the form of messages run through her extensive network, pulling the ones who could come back to the Treehouse. They did not know why she called them. They only knew that she had an important message to tell them, and they thought they knew what it was.
For as long as the children could remember, they had asked after the identity of their father-or fathers, as the case may be, there were so many of them. But Zelda had never chosen to tell them, had only given vague hints, had let them guess and speculate and wonder for years on end, until most had grown up and stopped caring.
But the ones who came to her that night still cared, and as they waited for their darling mother, they whispered among themselves, trying to determine who it was.
Was is the Sage, the strange, frightening man who often come and teased their mother, who retold her stories to the world at large, and who Zelda, in spite of herself, showed a certain fondness for?
Was it the Critic, the snarky man who paid the child support, but who didn’t interact with the children any more than strictly necessary, despite the fact that they all loved him?
Was it the Snob, the sultry man who, it was rumored, could impregnate a woman just by talking to her for fifteen minutes?
Or was it one of the many other men who flitted in and out of their lives, the ones who they all loved in one way or another, but who never stayed for too long, who disappeared in a haze and were the subjects of more of the stories late in the night? Linkara, Jaeris, Rob, Insano, Spoony, Joe, Nerd, Nash, Oan, Welshy, Mike … any of them, or none of them?
None of them knew, but they wanted to find out.
After a long wait, Zelda finally came down the stairs. In spite of having so many children, and in spite of all the years that had passed, she still gave the illusion of being young. As she stood in the open living space, she surveyed the ones gathered with some disappointment. Thirteen. Only thirteen out of the one hundred and eighty-eight had answered her summons. True, they would pass the message on to the others. They had a way of making sure everyone knew anything that had happened within minutes, no matter where they were. And more may have been coming, having to battle through the forest full of trolls to reach the Treehouse. But it was slightly disheartening.
“Mommy?” Sci Fi said gently. “What’s wrong?”
Zelda stood for another minute. “My children, I am afraid I have bad news. I will be leaving the Treehouse soon. If there is anything you require of me, speak now.”
There was an immediate outcry as all of them leapt to their feet, asking what was wrong, how they could save her, their darling mother, that they did not require anything, but did she need something, that they would retell her stories to anyone who came…
But then one voice piped up out of the cacophony, a lower voice than the others, which made it easier to hear. “Mother,” Rampant said deliberately. “Can you tell us who our father is?”
There was a deafening silence as Zelda considered this. “I can tell you all have questions,” she finally said. “As such, I will see you all one at a time and you may each ask one. You may decide on an order yourselves.” With that, she swept up the stairs.
There was an immediate argument over who was to go first, but then Amy, who was both very loud and very authoritative, quieted them and pulled out a piece of paper. “We’ll draw numbers,” she said. “That way, no one can be accused of being unfair.” She sat down and wrote out numbers, one to thirteen, neatly in a column. Then she tore the paper into strips, found a plastic bowl from the kitchen, folded each strip in half, and put them in. She took one paper for herself, then passed the bowl around to her squabbling sisters and brother.
They each took a number in silence. “That everyone?” Amy asked. They all nodded. “Good. Who’s first?”
“I am,” Diskette said. No one spoke as she went up the stairs to their mother.
II. Lady Diskette
It wasn’t the identity of her father that truly interested her. After all, if it was that important, Zelda would have told them long ago.
And what was a father, anyway? Someone who made babies. No, Diskette was more interested in the other people who came round to the Secret Treehouse, who told them more stories to build on. Who were they to them, the children? Diskette had called them “aunt” and “uncle” growing up, though she didn’t know if that was their real relationship or just an honorific.
She just knew that she loved them all. Panda, who brought the wonderful, exotic gifts. Linkara, who told the best stories and hugged all the children and gave them Cybermats. Spoony, who brought Oreo along and played with them for hours. Nella, who watched movies and squeed with them.
So when Diskette reached Zelda’s room and knocked on the door, she knew what her question would be. The mystery of the family could be solved, or at least worn down, if Diskette asked this question.
“Come in,” Zelda called, and Diskette entered the room. She stood before her mother, looking at her with gentle eyes. “Well, Diskette? What is your question?”
“Mom,” Diskette said quietly. “The people in your stories… are they really our aunts and uncles?”
Zelda seemed mildly surprised, but she answered. “Some are,” she said. “Some are merely friends. Some have a different relation to you. But for all intents and purposes, you may think of them as that.”
“But who’s-“
“One question, Diskette. That was the limit.”
Diskette pouted slightly, putting on the face of a disgruntled kitten, and Zelda relented. “I will tell you that most of the people in the stories are your aunts and uncles, with a few notable exceptions. It is up to your own heart to decide which are and which aren’t.”
Diskette wanted to ask more, but she knew that her mother’s patience for this topic was at an end. So she merely nodded and said, “Thank you, Mom.”
Zelda nodded back as Diskette left the room. The girl stood in the hall for several minutes, trying to decide which of the people were her aunts and uncles, and whether one of the notable exceptions was her father.
And she smiled, because Zelda was right. Her own heart told her who was who in the family.
Still smiling, Diskette went downstairs to her siblings.
“Did she tell you who our father is?” Butterfly asked.
“No,” Diskette answered. “I already knew.”
And she didn’t say any more as Sci Fi got up to take her turn.
III. Lady Sci Fi
Sci Fi was one of the fastest rising stars of the family, able to tell long, complex stories that would keep her siblings on the edge of their seats, crying whenever something bad happened and begging to hear more. And when she ran out of stories, she drew pictures that hung on the fridge for months before they were reluctantly filed away in Zelda’s special box. (Sci Fi used her prowess to her advantage, asking Zelda for expensive gifts as often as she could.)
And yet, now that she had the chance to ask just one question, Sci Fi found herself unable to come up with the words. She had always had a sneaking suspicion as to who her father was, but she wondered if she should confront her mother with the information or ask the broader question. After a good minute of deliberating in the hall, Sci Fi made up her mind and knocked on the door.
“Come in.” Sci Fi opened the door but did not move into the room. “Hello, Sci Fi. What is your question?”
“Mommy,” Sci Fi said. “Why does Critic pay for all of us?”
Zelda smiled and nodded. “I thought that would come up,” she said. “Well, Sci Fi, that’s a bit of a long story. The short version is that I was married to him, briefly, before… well, things happened involving Plot Holes and Muppets and lord only knows what else. And when I told him that I had so many children, hidden away here out of harm’s way-he does attract an unusual amount of trouble-he told me not to worry, that he would support us. And he has been very good and done it.”
“So is he our father?”
Zelda only looked at her. Sci Fi mentally scolded herself for asking another question and hurried away, thinking hard.
Only when she was on the stairs did Sci Fi know the answer. She smiled to herself as she rejoined her siblings.
“Did she tell you who it is?” Xena asked.
Sci Fi settled back onto the couch. “What do you think?” she asked.
IV. Obnoxious Amy
She had often wondered, as one does, if Zelda had been genuinely upset when Amy had eloped. True, her mother had never said anything about being upset, but Amy couldn’t help but wonder.
Not that she regretted it. She knew that some things were just meant to happen, and that was one of them. In a world full of uncertainty, some things had to be certain, and she was certain that she had done the right thing.
So when she approached the door, Amy knew that the direct approach probably wouldn’t work on Zelda. And she knew the question she wanted to ask wasn’t about her father, not really. That wasn’t terribly important to her. It was about her, and her husband, and Zelda.
She barely hesitated before knocking on the door, and only waited a second for Zelda to tell her to enter. “Yes, Amy,” Zelda said. “What is your question?”
“Mother,” Amy said carefully. “Have you ever been in love?”
Zelda stared at her daughter for a few minutes before nodding slowly. “Yes,” she said. “I have been in love before.” She looked Amy straight in the eye. “And there is nothing wrong with that. After all, I got all of my darling children from loving.”
Amy nodded. “So when I ran away …”
“Being in love isn’t wrong, Amy. You might regret it some day, but you shouldn’t. Not if it makes you happy. It is only when that love stops making both people happy that you should move on. Lord knows I did.” Zelda looked distant. “I want all my children to be happy. And if this is what makes you happy, who am I to disapprove?” Amy almost asked who Zelda had loved, but knew that she wouldn’t get an answer.
So Amy only smiled. “Thank you,” she said.
She didn’t say a word as she went back downstairs, only shaking her head at her siblings’ questioning looks as she sat down and listened to the story Kay was telling.
They came and went, as all children do at some point or another, the older ones seeking out new lives and rarely coming back to the Secret Treehouse, the younger ones running off to have adventures, some falling out with their brothers and sisters and being shunned, others eloping (sometimes with each other) and starting afresh. But they were still her children, and Zelda was proud of almost every one of them.
Not all of her children gathered at once, of course. They were all busy with other things, some not willing to see their sisters and brothers, but there were always a good number of them around, sharing stories, exchanging news, excitedly discussing new shows, teasing their youngest brother. They always came back, moths drawn to the light, children running home.
And tonight, more of them than usual had been drawn home. Zelda had sent out the call in the form of messages run through her extensive network, pulling the ones who could come back to the Treehouse. They did not know why she called them. They only knew that she had an important message to tell them, and they thought they knew what it was.
For as long as the children could remember, they had asked after the identity of their father-or fathers, as the case may be, there were so many of them. But Zelda had never chosen to tell them, had only given vague hints, had let them guess and speculate and wonder for years on end, until most had grown up and stopped caring.
But the ones who came to her that night still cared, and as they waited for their darling mother, they whispered among themselves, trying to determine who it was.
Was is the Sage, the strange, frightening man who often come and teased their mother, who retold her stories to the world at large, and who Zelda, in spite of herself, showed a certain fondness for?
Was it the Critic, the snarky man who paid the child support, but who didn’t interact with the children any more than strictly necessary, despite the fact that they all loved him?
Was it the Snob, the sultry man who, it was rumored, could impregnate a woman just by talking to her for fifteen minutes?
Or was it one of the many other men who flitted in and out of their lives, the ones who they all loved in one way or another, but who never stayed for too long, who disappeared in a haze and were the subjects of more of the stories late in the night? Linkara, Jaeris, Rob, Insano, Spoony, Joe, Nerd, Nash, Oan, Welshy, Mike … any of them, or none of them?
None of them knew, but they wanted to find out.
After a long wait, Zelda finally came down the stairs. In spite of having so many children, and in spite of all the years that had passed, she still gave the illusion of being young. As she stood in the open living space, she surveyed the ones gathered with some disappointment. Thirteen. Only thirteen out of the one hundred and eighty-eight had answered her summons. True, they would pass the message on to the others. They had a way of making sure everyone knew anything that had happened within minutes, no matter where they were. And more may have been coming, having to battle through the forest full of trolls to reach the Treehouse. But it was slightly disheartening.
“Mommy?” Sci Fi said gently. “What’s wrong?”
Zelda stood for another minute. “My children, I am afraid I have bad news. I will be leaving the Treehouse soon. If there is anything you require of me, speak now.”
There was an immediate outcry as all of them leapt to their feet, asking what was wrong, how they could save her, their darling mother, that they did not require anything, but did she need something, that they would retell her stories to anyone who came…
But then one voice piped up out of the cacophony, a lower voice than the others, which made it easier to hear. “Mother,” Rampant said deliberately. “Can you tell us who our father is?”
There was a deafening silence as Zelda considered this. “I can tell you all have questions,” she finally said. “As such, I will see you all one at a time and you may each ask one. You may decide on an order yourselves.” With that, she swept up the stairs.
There was an immediate argument over who was to go first, but then Amy, who was both very loud and very authoritative, quieted them and pulled out a piece of paper. “We’ll draw numbers,” she said. “That way, no one can be accused of being unfair.” She sat down and wrote out numbers, one to thirteen, neatly in a column. Then she tore the paper into strips, found a plastic bowl from the kitchen, folded each strip in half, and put them in. She took one paper for herself, then passed the bowl around to her squabbling sisters and brother.
They each took a number in silence. “That everyone?” Amy asked. They all nodded. “Good. Who’s first?”
“I am,” Diskette said. No one spoke as she went up the stairs to their mother.
II. Lady Diskette
It wasn’t the identity of her father that truly interested her. After all, if it was that important, Zelda would have told them long ago.
And what was a father, anyway? Someone who made babies. No, Diskette was more interested in the other people who came round to the Secret Treehouse, who told them more stories to build on. Who were they to them, the children? Diskette had called them “aunt” and “uncle” growing up, though she didn’t know if that was their real relationship or just an honorific.
She just knew that she loved them all. Panda, who brought the wonderful, exotic gifts. Linkara, who told the best stories and hugged all the children and gave them Cybermats. Spoony, who brought Oreo along and played with them for hours. Nella, who watched movies and squeed with them.
So when Diskette reached Zelda’s room and knocked on the door, she knew what her question would be. The mystery of the family could be solved, or at least worn down, if Diskette asked this question.
“Come in,” Zelda called, and Diskette entered the room. She stood before her mother, looking at her with gentle eyes. “Well, Diskette? What is your question?”
“Mom,” Diskette said quietly. “The people in your stories… are they really our aunts and uncles?”
Zelda seemed mildly surprised, but she answered. “Some are,” she said. “Some are merely friends. Some have a different relation to you. But for all intents and purposes, you may think of them as that.”
“But who’s-“
“One question, Diskette. That was the limit.”
Diskette pouted slightly, putting on the face of a disgruntled kitten, and Zelda relented. “I will tell you that most of the people in the stories are your aunts and uncles, with a few notable exceptions. It is up to your own heart to decide which are and which aren’t.”
Diskette wanted to ask more, but she knew that her mother’s patience for this topic was at an end. So she merely nodded and said, “Thank you, Mom.”
Zelda nodded back as Diskette left the room. The girl stood in the hall for several minutes, trying to decide which of the people were her aunts and uncles, and whether one of the notable exceptions was her father.
And she smiled, because Zelda was right. Her own heart told her who was who in the family.
Still smiling, Diskette went downstairs to her siblings.
“Did she tell you who our father is?” Butterfly asked.
“No,” Diskette answered. “I already knew.”
And she didn’t say any more as Sci Fi got up to take her turn.
III. Lady Sci Fi
Sci Fi was one of the fastest rising stars of the family, able to tell long, complex stories that would keep her siblings on the edge of their seats, crying whenever something bad happened and begging to hear more. And when she ran out of stories, she drew pictures that hung on the fridge for months before they were reluctantly filed away in Zelda’s special box. (Sci Fi used her prowess to her advantage, asking Zelda for expensive gifts as often as she could.)
And yet, now that she had the chance to ask just one question, Sci Fi found herself unable to come up with the words. She had always had a sneaking suspicion as to who her father was, but she wondered if she should confront her mother with the information or ask the broader question. After a good minute of deliberating in the hall, Sci Fi made up her mind and knocked on the door.
“Come in.” Sci Fi opened the door but did not move into the room. “Hello, Sci Fi. What is your question?”
“Mommy,” Sci Fi said. “Why does Critic pay for all of us?”
Zelda smiled and nodded. “I thought that would come up,” she said. “Well, Sci Fi, that’s a bit of a long story. The short version is that I was married to him, briefly, before… well, things happened involving Plot Holes and Muppets and lord only knows what else. And when I told him that I had so many children, hidden away here out of harm’s way-he does attract an unusual amount of trouble-he told me not to worry, that he would support us. And he has been very good and done it.”
“So is he our father?”
Zelda only looked at her. Sci Fi mentally scolded herself for asking another question and hurried away, thinking hard.
Only when she was on the stairs did Sci Fi know the answer. She smiled to herself as she rejoined her siblings.
“Did she tell you who it is?” Xena asked.
Sci Fi settled back onto the couch. “What do you think?” she asked.
IV. Obnoxious Amy
She had often wondered, as one does, if Zelda had been genuinely upset when Amy had eloped. True, her mother had never said anything about being upset, but Amy couldn’t help but wonder.
Not that she regretted it. She knew that some things were just meant to happen, and that was one of them. In a world full of uncertainty, some things had to be certain, and she was certain that she had done the right thing.
So when she approached the door, Amy knew that the direct approach probably wouldn’t work on Zelda. And she knew the question she wanted to ask wasn’t about her father, not really. That wasn’t terribly important to her. It was about her, and her husband, and Zelda.
She barely hesitated before knocking on the door, and only waited a second for Zelda to tell her to enter. “Yes, Amy,” Zelda said. “What is your question?”
“Mother,” Amy said carefully. “Have you ever been in love?”
Zelda stared at her daughter for a few minutes before nodding slowly. “Yes,” she said. “I have been in love before.” She looked Amy straight in the eye. “And there is nothing wrong with that. After all, I got all of my darling children from loving.”
Amy nodded. “So when I ran away …”
“Being in love isn’t wrong, Amy. You might regret it some day, but you shouldn’t. Not if it makes you happy. It is only when that love stops making both people happy that you should move on. Lord knows I did.” Zelda looked distant. “I want all my children to be happy. And if this is what makes you happy, who am I to disapprove?” Amy almost asked who Zelda had loved, but knew that she wouldn’t get an answer.
So Amy only smiled. “Thank you,” she said.
She didn’t say a word as she went back downstairs, only shaking her head at her siblings’ questioning looks as she sat down and listened to the story Kay was telling.