Helena and her daughters Taylor, Britney, and Dana prayed a great deal on their flight to the Ivory Coast. They wore matching OIL SPILL RELIEF t-shirts. Helena was a maturely beautiful nutmeg-colored woman with long silver hair. Her daughters were all paler than she, some more attractive, some less, all between late forties and early thirties. Their faces mixed excitement with sorrow.

“I’m not sure how much good you’ll be able to do,” said the man sitting next to Helena and Taylor. “It’s the worst oil spill in history. Even with those special oil-eating bacteria that the scientists bred for stuff like this, lots of wildlife is going to die, and lots of people who depend on fishing there are going to starve.”

Instead of immediately replying, Helena unwrapped her foil lunch. It contained a lump of low-quality rice and some listless chicken and vegetables. “I think I’d prefer filet mignon,” she said, placing her fingers on the chicken. It glowed briefly and turned into beef.

“That’s amazing! So you’re going to –“

“Yes. On my own I wouldn’t have the power, but my daughters share this ability. There’s a price, though.”

“I saw you wince as you did it.”

“There’s a physical toll. The greater the change and the more volume transmuted, the greater the pain; we’re not sure what this mission will do to us.”

“But you’re still doing it.”

She looked at him with eyes like a German Shepherd determined to go in a flaming building to rescue of child. “Of course.”

Taylor squeezed Helena’s hand. “I’m scared.”

“So am I.”

It was a public affair. At first the authorities wouldn’t let the four women go into the sickly iridescent water, but Helena showed her passport. When the leader of Greenpeace saw that she was Helena Jangoral, granddaughter of Derrick Jangoral who had helped save humanity; and daughter of Amaranth Jangoral, one of the greatest environmental warriors of all time; he bowed his head in respect and let her through.

The four women formed a circle waist-deep in water. They had not told their spouses, children, or friends what they were about to do. Each placed her hands on the filth in front of her. They made eye contact with Helena.

The whole slick seemed to be on fire, but with white flames. The women cried and screamed. People tried to pull them away but an invisible barrier stopped them. Dozens of film crews kept their cameras rolling.

When the light died down, where there had been oil, there was water. Where there had been four women were four bodies. The funeral beat Princess Diana’s on the TV ratings. The Catholic Church canonized them, the Nobel committee gave them posthumous Peace Prizes, and accolades poured in from many nations.