5. In the Court of the Butter Cow
In the Court of the Butter Cow
Luna had three seconds to appreciate the cosmic joke of escaping the death trap of Tout le Temps only to plummet into a new one.
She hit the funnel cake cart with the grace of a meteorite, sending clouds of powdered sugar exploding across the midway. The impact coated her from head to toe in about ten pounds of confectioner’s sugar.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” shouted the vendor, a middle-aged woman in an “Iowa Nice” apron who was now staring at Luna as if she’d materialized from another dimension. Which, technically, she had.
Luna sat up slowly on the asphalt midway, spitting out powdered sugar and trying to assess the damage.
Her hair looked like she’d been caught in a blizzard; her clothes were likewise dusted with white.
And when she blinked, sugar cascaded from her eyelashes.
Around her, fairgoers stopped to stare: children pointing in delight, teenagers pulling out phones, adults looking concerned and confused.
“I am so sorry,” Luna began. “I can pay for the—”
“Honey, are you okay?” The vendor had moved from shocked to concerned, which Luna decided was probably a good sign. “Did you fall from the sky? How did you— Were you on the Ferris wheel?”
Luna looked around, taking in her surroundings properly for the first time.
She was definitely at a state fair—the sounds of carnival music, the smells of deep-fried everything, the cheerful chaos of thousands of people having aggressively wholesome fun.
To her left, she could see a row of carnival games with oversized stuffed animals hanging as prizes.
To her right stretched what looked like livestock barns, and beyond that, the towering outline of a Ferris wheel against the August sky.
“I’m fine.” Luna struggled to her feet and immediately slipped on funnel cake debris. “Just a little . . . portal lag.”
The vendor caught her arm, steadying her. “Portal what now?”
“Nothing! I meant . . . uh . . . jet lag.” She reached into her pocket and was relieved to find her wallet had survived the temporal journey. She pulled out what she hoped was enough cash to cover the damage, then decided to be safe and doubled it. “Here, this should cover everything.”
The vendor stared as Luna handed her a small fortune in crumpled bills. “Oh, honey, this is way too much. I mean, the cart’s fine, it’s just some spilled—”
“Please keep it,” Luna insisted. “I really need to find the butter cow. Can you point me in the right direction?”
The vendor was still staring at the money as if Luna had handed her the deed to Iowa.
“The butter cow? Well sure, honey, that’s in the Agriculture Building.
You just head down the main drag here, past the carnival games—which are all rigged, by the way, so don’t bother—then past the pork chop stand and the deep-fried Oreo booth—can’t miss it; there’s usually a line—then hang a right at the giant slide.
The Ag Building’s the big white one with all the flags. ”
“Thank you so much,” Luna said, trying to brush powdered sugar off her clothes and only succeeding in creating small white clouds around herself.
“You sure you’re okay, dear? You look like you’ve had yourself quite a day.”
She looked down at herself. She had just fallen from the sky, was covered head to toe in white powder, and was about to go have a conversation with a cosmic deity disguised as a butter sculpture. “I’ve had easier ones. But I’m fine. Sorry again about the mess.”
Luna marched past the carnival games, ignoring the stares of fairgoers who were clearly wondering if she was covered in cocaine.
She passed a Whack-a-Mole game with an enormous stuffed rabbit as the grand prize.
And the deep-fried Oreo booth did indeed have a line; Luna made a mental note to visit later .
. . assuming she survived her divine encounter.
The Agriculture Building was a massive white structure filled with displays of prize-winning vegetables and educational exhibits on soil science, all punctuated by the gentle lowing of cattle from the livestock area.
Luna’s attention was immediately drawn to the crowd gathered around a refrigerated display case in the center of the building. She steeled herself as she approached.
Louise was clearly scared of Myrna, and Louise was the scariest person Luna knew. Which, by the transitive property of scariness, must mean . . . Luna didn't want to think about what that meant.
There, behind thick glass, sat the butter cow.
The sculpture was enormous, a larger-than-life-sized cow carved entirely from butter, and so realistic it looked like it might moo at any second.
Incongruously, the cow was surrounded by a crowd of smaller butter sculptures, commemorating the fiftieth anniversary of The Muppet Show: a butter Kermit with his banjo, a butter Miss Piggy in full glamour-swine pose, and a butter Fozzie Bear frozen mid-“Wocka Wocka.” A butter Animal sat behind his butter drums and Butter Gonzo was surrounded by adoring butter chickens, while a butter Dr. Bunsen Honeydew showed off a collection of test tubes, his butter assistant Beaker at his side.
Children pressed their noses against the refrigerated case, leaving little foggy breath marks.
I always thought gods wanted temples, not livestock and corn dogs.
“Temples fall, dearie,” came a voice in her head, warm and folksy as a grandma’s kitchen. “Temples are forgotten. Once I’m rooted in a child’s memory, I’m worshiped forever.”
Luna nearly jumped out of her skin. She spun around to see if anyone else had heard the voice, but the crowd continued chatting and taking photos, oblivious.
“You can hear me, can’t you? Only magical beings can. You’re a long way from home. And looking for something, I’d wager.”
Luna stared at the cow in utter bafflement.
This couldn’t be right. The voice was gentle, grandmotherly, with that particular Midwestern lilt that made every sentence sound like an invitation for pie.
This was the chain-smoking, foul-mouthed crone from Oak Haven?
The one who told visitors to fuck off while mechanical reindeer pranced around her yard?
“Are you . . .” Luna cleared her throat softly and spoke under her breath. “Myrna? From Oak Haven?” She could have sworn she saw the butter cow’s expression shift into an amused smile.
“Oh my stars, you’re familiar with one of my winter aspects! Well, isn’t that delightful. Bit of a grump, isn’t she? It’s all that holiday stress, you understand. Enough to make anyone a little cranky.”
Luna’s brain struggled to reconcile the sweet-as-pie voice with her memories of Myrna screaming obscenities at carolers. “You’re . . . you’re much nicer than I expected.”
“Well now, that’s the sweetest thing! Different seasons, different moods—you know how it goes. Summer’s my restful time. All these kind folks here, happy just to appreciate me. Much more pleasant than December, when every Tom, Dick, and Harry demands a miracle for Christmas.”
Luna took a steadying breath. “I need help getting into the Void. There’s someone trapped there who helped save my mother’s life, and I have to rescue him.”
“Oh my.” The voice maintained its sweet tone, but there was something steel-edged now. “The Void, you say? Well, honey, that’s quite the request.”
“I know, it’s a big ask.” Luna spoke quietly, keenly aware of the families nearby. “But he’s been helping people for decades while being completely alone. It’s not fair.”
“Fair?” The word seemed to echo strangely, and butter Kermit’s expression shifted toward the disapproving. “Oh, sweetie, bless your heart. You think cosmic justice runs on fairness? That’s fucking precious.”
Luna felt a chill that had nothing to do with the refrigerated display case. There’s the Myrna she’d expected.
“But,” the voice continued, “I do admire the sentiment. Loyalty’s a fine quality, and sacrifice for others . . . well, that’s downright admirable. Tell me, dear, what exactly are you prepared to offer for such a monumental favor?”
“Offer?” Luna’s stomach sank. She’d been so eager to get here, she’d forgotten Louise’s instructions about an offering. “I . . . I didn’t bring anything.”
“Oh honey.” The disappointment in Myrna’s voice was devastating in that special Midwestern way. “You came to petition a goddess without so much as a casserole? Well, isn’t that just like your generation. All impulse, no preparation.”
“I can get something,” Luna said quickly. “What would you like?”
“Well now. I’ll need a proper offering, something with real meaning behind it. And since this is such an unprecedented request . . .” Then an ominous pause.
“I’ll need you to put something of genuine value into it. Something that costs you dearly.”
Luna’s mind raced. “What kind of something?”
“Oh, don’t you worry your pretty little head about the mechanics, dear.
” Myrna’s voice took on a particularly condescending sweetness that made Luna’s teeth ache.
“Any carnival prize will do for the vessel. But your real offering to me is not the vessel, it’s what you place inside: a memory.
A cherished one. The kind of memory that makes you who you are. ”
“A memory . . . of mine?”
“That’s right. Something beautiful and irreplaceable. A moment of true love, perhaps? The last time you saw someone dear to you? Passage to the Void is no minor matter. It requires a sacrifice that actually hurts.”
Luna’s mind immediately went to Papa: his laugh, his terrible jokes, the way he’d made everything seem manageable just by being there.
“Now then,” Myrna continued cheerfully, “you go win yourself a nice prize, pour that precious memory right into it, and we’ll get you sorted out. Easy as pie!”
Easy as pie. Luna wanted to laugh or possibly scream. She headed back toward the midway.
* * *
A precious memory, the cow had said. The kind that made me who I am.