Mandira Pattnaik
Signedora
Signedora can feign sleep, fit into a coffin in her wedding dress, parts of her spilling out of it, tresses tamed with a butterfly hairpin, and act a girl who’s been dead a thousand years, and who appears only in fairy tale.
She must sleep, her mother says.
She’s awake when she’s sleeping, says her grandmother.
Her eyes are closed shut for the Maesoon tribe, but she’s watching the clouds, and dreams for ye’ all, for that ye’ all bring her, says her great-grandmother.
And all three ladies surround her like farm hen, and twist the rug, fold the blanket at her chest, straighten her crooked arm, and nudge her head on the pillow and tell the people to go.
The Maesoon tribe doubt. The people linger by the chestnut-colored carved door; hiss but they can’t do a thing. They peep at the windows, crane their necks but they can’t detect a movement though they think it’s all a bluff.
So the days go by. The men trudge the fog hills and bring in buckets of mist. The women light home fires with twigs and punk and catch the rising smoke in bulging cloth bags. They ferry the buckets and bags to Signedora at day’s end, waiting in the shed if it’s raining, or shivering in their woollies at the fence if they won’t open the door.
They come back in the mornings to hear what varied promises their benefactions yielded, what dreams Signedora had, for she speaks in her sleep says her mother, and none except us are allowed to hear.
So beneath the fretwork of a plumeria tree, heavy with white fragrant flowers, Signedora’s mother recounts the night that just passed. Does that every morning, however dull or windy.
The tribe now has the opening drama of it by heart: When I, her mother, pour out the mist buckets, Signedora’s grandmother hurries to empty the cloth bags, and her great-grandmother waves a uchiwa to spread it all evenly, so Signedora can breathe in the lingering incense, eyelids heavy in deep sleep, and then she’s more than she is, revels at her own elevation.
You know, this day, Signedora dreams her name, for Signe is new victory, her mother tells the people. It is yours—triumph of the people. You’ll be rescued from evil.
Next day, the mother is ecstatic: She dreamt the other half, dora. Dora is a gift, and like all gifts, is an act of giving, the other form of rendering, a woman making sacrifices.
She dreams colors, her mother would say another day. Men think it might mean the rainbow and heavy showers for a great harvest. Women sing and dance.
Signedora dreams of birds, and the tribe believes it means freedom from the oppression of the tax collector. They cheer and clap.
Sometimes she dreams of healthy babies, or a stubborn calf; sometimes a milky river that breaches its banks.
It’s all so nice, the grateful tribespeople say, for Signedora dreams for us!
They all agree on what the dreams mean, and how indebted they are and how good to have Signedora in the stone house in the neighborhood just where they can call upon her.
The Maesoon tribe reaps a bumper harvest, the cattle are healthy, everyone’s prospering, and they think, Signedora might be a deity we never thought we had. They repent for their follies, for having suspected her.
It’s something every girl needs to endure, the ladies say in unison, Signedora is a woman on a pedestal, like wives and mothers and daughters-in-law; only she needs to keep feigning she’s asleep, keep thinking she’s dead to herself, stupid to her own joys or pains.
When many months pass, Signedora gets a color, her skin like rust. Her face appears dull, her hands bony, feet drained of blood.
All day she sweats, the water flows out beyond the door. Then her wedding dress begins to rot, and her body begins to stink.
Her mother and grandmother report she is having dreams of rattlesnakes and wildfires and a handle and a knob that she dreams of pulling with all her weight.
The tribes are sorry this is happening to her, for they’ve finally believed in the being of her. She’s a goddess and they’ve started worshipping her.
If I may— If I may—
They ask, trying to help the ladies, and hoping to make better fortunes for themselves with loads of offerings.
They bring in chocolate boxes, baskets of strawberries. They pool their money to buy gold bracelets and silver anklets and even a tiara that is diamond studded.
Nothing helps Signedora. She continues to wither, her mother moves her pillows, her grandmother seals the windows, her great-grandmother lights scented candles but nothing charms her.
One night, Signedora says, I am not feigning anymore. I have done this so long. The ladies gawk at her, sit astounded at what she might do.
Signedora wipes the sweat off her forehead, brushes the wrinkles in her wedding dress, lowers her feet, and with all her residual strength, stands on the stone-cold floor. Commanding her bones to shake themselves alive, she says, I’m awake, I’m awake to my body, I’m awake to myself. And, since the prince, who ye’ all promised will kiss me awake, shall never come, let me put on my shoes and off may I be gone.
Signedora helps herself to the door and grabs the knob, and breathing in the breeze of a warm summer night, out she runs before anyone can catch her.