The Thackery T. Lambshead Cabinet of Curiosities

“My name is Ironton,” said the gentleman, removing his hat and setting it and his black bag on the seat next to him. “I’m a traveling businessman,” he said. “My work takes me everywhere in the world.”

“What is your business?” asked the father.

“Trade,” said Ironton. “And that’s what I was engaged in at Hotel Lacrimose, up in the north country. I was telling an associate at breakfast one morning that I had plans to travel next to the end of the world. The waitress, who’d just then brought our coffee, introduced herself and begged me, since I was travelling to the end of the world, to bring you a message.”

“Sister North is a waitress?”

“She’d sadly run out of funds, but intended to continue on to the beginning of the world once she’d saved enough money. In any event, I was busy at the moment, having to run off to close a deal, and I couldn’t hear her out. I could, though, sense her desperation, and so I suggested we meet that night for dinner at the Aquarium.

“We met in that fantastic dining hall, surrounded by hundred-foot-high glass tanks populated by fierce leviathans and brightly colored swarms of lesser fish. There was a waterfall at one end of the enormous room, and a man-made river that ran nearly its entire length with a small wooden bridge arching up over the flow in one spot to offer egress to either side of the dining area. We dined on fez-menuth flambé and consumed any number of bottles of sparkling Lilac water. She told me her tale, your tale, about the sacred foot in your possession.

“Allow me to correct for you your impressions of Saint Ifritia. This may be difficult, but being a rationalist, I’m afraid I can only offer you what I perceive to be the facts. This Saint Ifritia, whose foot you apparently have, was more a folk hero than a religious saint. To be frank, she went to the grave with both feet. She never lost a foot by any means. She was considered miraculous for no better reason than because she was known to frequently practice small acts of human kindness for friends and often strangers. Her life was quiet, small, but I suppose, no less heroic in a sense. Her neighbors missed her when she passed on and took to referring to her as Saint Ifritia. It caught on and legends attached themselves to her memory like bright streamers on a humble hay wagon.”

“The foot is nothing?” asked Father Walter.

“It’s an old rotten foot,” said Ironton.

“What did Sister North say to your news?”

Ironton looked down and clasped his hands in his lap. “This is where I must offer my confession,” he said.

“You didn’t tell her, did you?”

“The story of her search for the missing toe was so pathetic I didn’t have the heart to tell her the facts. And yet, still, I was going to. But just as I was about to speak, beside our table, from out of the man-made river, there surfaced an enormous purple fish with a human face. It bobbed on the surface, remaining stationary in the flow, and its large eyes filled with tears. Its gaze pierced my flesh and burrowed into my heart to turn off my ability to tell Sister North her arduous search had been pointless.”

Father Walter shook his head in disgust. “What is it she wanted you to tell me?”

“She wants you to write a sermon for her,” said Ironton.

“Yes,” said the father, “the news preceded you. I finished it this evening just before your arrival.”

“Well,” said the businessman, “I do promise, should I see her on my return trip, I will tell her the truth, and give her train fare home.”

For the remaining hours of the night, Father Walter and his visitor sat in the church and drank whiskey. In their far-flung conversation, Ironton admitted to being a great collector of curios and oddities. In the morning, when the visitor was taking his leave, the father wrapped up the foot of Saint Ifritia in its original soiled towel and bestowed it upon his guest. “For your collection,” he said. “Miracles.”

They laughed and Ironton received the gift warmly. Then, touching his index finger and thumb to the brim of his hat, he bowed slightly and disappeared up over the rim of the dune.

More time passed. Every grain of sand, a minute. Days, weeks, seasons. Eventually, one night, Father Walter woke from troubling dreams to find Sister North in bed beside him. At first, he thought he was still dreaming. She was smiling, though, and her cat eyes caught what little light pervaded his room and glowed softly. “Is it you?” he asked.

“Almost,” she said, “but I’ve left parts of me between here and the beginning of the world.”

“A toe?”

Sister North’s Sermon