I Was Here

I Was Here

take all of your pieces with you

and bury them beneath a tree

when its branches bring forth hearty fruit

you’ll know the why of all the holes in me

these spaces are not empty

if light would spill through

illuminating a future

turning old seeds new

hand to heart

my fingers disappear

covered in white letters:

“I was here”

Th I eves

“Th I eves”

By Eric St. Pierre

I think it was just after eight-thirty in the morning. The top of my head tingled. My hair was wet against my forehead. I was in my bed, and my eyes were closed, aware that I had fallen asleep with my clothes on. Heels, too.

I couldn't collect any other thoughts just then. My mind was preoccupied with the persistent beat that pounded somewhere far off. I constructed a song, melody, and all to complement the rhythm.

I think it was just after nine in the morning, and I hadn't dared to open my eyes. I became aware of the wetness below me. I had sweat throughout the night. The tingle in my head now floated leisurely down the river that is my spine. The beat had faded into the white noise of my box fan, set on high, like always.

My tongue traversed my teeth. Gross. I am disgusting. An abrupt cough escaped my lungs, and I opened my eyes. All things covered in fuzz and lint until my hands met my face to rub away some of the confusion. The beat returned, presenting itself impatiently. The tingle fled from my spine into my extremities, numbing and further disorienting me.

My alarm. It wasn't a song; it was my goddamn alarm. I jolted out of bed and quickly shed my clothes. I ran down the hall wholly naked and into the bathroom, I share with my roommate, Sarah. She was already at the Bistro where we both worked. With no time for a shower, I got wet napkins from below the sink and cleaned my face and under my arms. I wrapped the towel hanging on the shower rod around me and rushed back to my room. I stubbed my toe on my dresser. Ugh. With no time to acknowledge my pain, I dug through the pile of clothes on my floor, slinging this and that all over the place. I found a work shirt and pants, threw them on, and ran out of the house with a limp.

My neighbor, Mr. Noisette, I call him Mr. Nosey. Mr. Nosey who never seems to actually go inside his house and who always has a long-winded story to tell stepped over the shrubbery that separates our yards and blocked the path to my car.

"Mornin', Morgan." He thought he was so cute with his alliteration.

"Hello, Mr. Noisette. I'm off to work now."

I scampered past him and hopped in my car. Damn, I had forgotten to lock it last night.

Mr. Nosey was always smiling. You could tell him that his dog had just died, and he'd smile and say something corny. I guess that's okay. He told me to be careful; traffic from Mardi Gras would be rough, tourists and all.

*

I had only been working there for six months. I was forty-five minutes late, give or take. I got along famously with my co-workers, but my boss had it out for me. I still had the job because my boss’ girlfriend thought I livened up the place. I'm pretty sure she thinks I'm hot. I'm not gay, but they didn't have to know that. I mean, women are beautiful and all. Considering carnival season traffic, that's pretty damn good. That's something, yeah?

The Bistro was packed. Line out the door. Carnival crowd. There were no friendly faces behind the bar or in the kitchen. Every employee acted out the black uniforms we had to wear. Damn depressing sons of bitches today. Boss Lady was livid, beautifully so. But I was distracted. The song from 8:30 this morning returned as the soundtrack to her fierce and sharp movements meant to reprimand me. I didn't hear a word. Boom, tap, boom, tap, boom, tap, boom, boom, boom, tap, la la la...

She became a blur. The bustle behind her came into focus. There was some sports game on all the TVs. The place was turning into a sports bar. Two attractive military-looking guys high-fived. Sarah dropped a martini glass. A toddler escaped from its high chair and began to terrorize patrons. A young couple looked lovingly at one another. The woman had a small diamond on her ring finger. Then, I heard the word "fired."

"Huh?"

Boss Lady came into focus again. She repeated herself, saying this is the kind of stuff that gets people fired.

"Yes, ma'am," I said. Sometimes I know when to shut up. I put my head down and got to work.

My first table was a doozy. Rich old farts. The type who became miffed if you didn't already know how they like their bloody Marys. So, I asked the lady how she wanted it. She turned away and lifted a finger to her nose. Oh my God. I had forgotten to brush my teeth.

The rest of the day didn't go well, either. I tripped over my words; I couldn't complete a sentence. I looked and smelled like straight-up death. The Bistro isn't the most prominent place, but it was easy to avoid Boss Lady most of the day because of how busy we were.

If I was a mess at the start of my shift, I was a catastrophe at the end of it. I hadn't stopped to drink water or grab a snack. I was weak and dehydrated. I went behind the bar to fill a cup of water. That's when I noticed you. Your freshly faded, curly brown hair. Your shirt was a little too tight. Your confident posture, even though your gaze was directed toward your phone. I saw the corner of your mouth turn up. I noticed that Quarter of a smile, not even your whole face, and I fell in love with you. You threw your head back and let out a single "ha!" Your attention was again on your phone.

I forgot about my water, clocked at the computer behind the bar, and poured myself a bourbon. I asked if you needed a drink or to see a menu. I was right before you, but you didn't hear me. The bar was still busy and noisy. I hardly noticed because I was fixated on you. I asked again, louder. You caught me, looked at the full glass of beer in front of you, and said, "No. I'm good." The man sitting next to you asked me for a beer. I told him I had clocked out. I leaned closer to you and introduced myself. You drew your phone to your chest and looked at me. You said, “Hi, Morgan, I'm Matt.” Something plain like that. I lingered, not knowing what to say, which is uncommon for me. You had hardly acknowledged me, and I was under your spell.

I said, "Hi Matt, I'm Morgan," repeating myself, hoping to get a laugh. You didn't. I remembered that I hadn't brushed my teeth. There's alcohol in mouthwash, right? Down went the bourbon. You pounded your beer.

The words "where are..." Of "where are you from" made it out of my mouth before you asked me for the check. I had Sarah get it, and I handed it to you. You tossed a twenty on the bar, stood up, and put on your coat.

"I'm from Pensacola. Three hours from here." Your voice startled me. I couldn't respond before your back was to me, and you were halfway to the door. I noticed a card under the twenty you had left. I learned that your name is Matthew MacDonald, and you are a website developer. You were gone by the time I looked up from your card.

“Hello, Matthew MacDonald. I'm Morgan Johnson.” My voice trailed away. Sarah asked me what I said. I told her I was just talking to a boy.

*

            Mr. Nosey was, of course, outside when I got home that day. He stood there motionless and fixated on the dying magnolia tree that bordered our yards. I had made it to the steps of my porch when I realized that he, oddly, hadn't said anything to me. I reached into my pocket, fingered the business card you had left, and placed my hand on the doorknob. I didn't open the door. Frustrated and annoyed, I walked over to Mr. Noisette and said,

"Pretty nice tree, yeah? Too bad it's dying." Mr. Noisette didn't respond.

"Having a good day, Mr. Noisette?" I startled him.

"Oh, Morgan, I didn't see you there. Yes, it's a good, good day."

"That's some tree, yeah? It'll have to be cut down soon. What do you think?"

Mr. Noisette's gaze returned to the tree. A couple squirrels barked and chased one another. A bird flew away.

"Do you know that I've never been married?" his accent became softer, almost disappearing. My toe began to ache from being stubbed that morning.

"No?" My throat was dry, and the effects of the bourbon I had earlier while working up the nerve to talk to you lingered. I never needed to build up the nerve to speak to anyone until you.

"No. There was a lady." Mr. Noisette continued. "She loved magnolia trees. More the smell of them than the look of them. She loved everything, though, but especially the smell of magnolia trees."

I followed his gaze to the tree and remembered that I saw a pack of cigarettes in the front pocket of your shirt. I might like the smell of fresh tobacco mixed with your musk. Suddenly, I realized a few too many moments had passed since Mr. Noisette, or I had said anything. I looked at him. His head was now tilted toward the sky. Even as the sun was preparing to set, it was a particularly yellow day.

"I'll be going inside now, Mr. Noisette," I said.

Mr. Noisette shifted his gaze to the magnolia's exposed roots.

"It's like the flowers smell better when the tree's dying. Like it knows it's expiring and wants to have a grand finale,” he said.

I wasn't used to this. He had never gotten deep with me. It was always corny jokes and comments about the weather with him. Lots of wordplay and stuff like that. The change in tone was not something I was prepared to deal with. Mr. Noisette looked at me, and for a moment, I thought I saw a young man behind his eyes. His eyes were alive. He then walked into his house. That may have been the first time I had seen him walk to or from his front door.

Sarah pulled into the driveway and next to my car. She walked up to me, visibly exhausted.

"Fucking hell, today was a nightmare." She said.

"Tell me about it. Fucking Boss Lady threatened to fire me."

"Yeah, what happened this morning?" Sarah said.

Sarah told me that Johnathan, her boyfriend, was spending the night. I cut her off and started talking about you. She cut me off in turn and asked where Mr. Noisette was. I explained that I wasn't sure; I slept right through my alarm.

"He went inside."

"Inside?"

"Yeah, he was talking about some lady he used to love while staring at the tree. Then he just went inside. So weird."

Sarah reminded me again that Johnathan was coming over, and we both went into the house.

I went to the kitchen first and poured my second bourbon of the day. Rocks this time. On I went to the bathroom. My legs seem confused by the weight of my body. I drew a bath, peeled off my work clothes, and got in, drink in hand. I fantasized about you, then. I thought about what your hands would do to me if you were here bathing me. I thought about what kind of house we would have. Uptown, of course. I thought you might like naming our first daughter after me. I thought about the pet names we would give each other that no one else would understand.

Sarah called out from the hallway. Something about Johnathan. I held my breath and submerged. The whiskey tumbler was empty by then.

Some time passed. I wasn't so much done with soaking as I was ready for another round. So, I got out of the tub. Couldn't dry off. My towel was still on my bedroom floor from my scramble to get ready that morning. Again, my legs didn't quite have a grasp on equilibrium as I made my way down the hall. Johnathan rounded the corner and immediately shielded his eyes.

“Oh, shit. I'm so sorry." He said.

"It's okay. I'm just going to my room."

I then lay down on my bed. The wind from my fan gave me goosebumps. It felt good. I spent a couple minutes staring at a painting on my wall. The one Sarah got me when we moved in together the autumn before last. It's a sprawling cityscape with people doing ordinary things, walking and holding hands, and flying kites. It reminds me more of the woods than the city for some reason. I grabbed the book on my nightstand and started reading where I had left. Jitterbug Perfume. I giggled at the Tom Robbins description of Marcel LeFever wearing his whale mask.

Two pages in, Sarah pounds on my door. Nearly broke the goddamn thing. She opened it before I could respond. I was still naked. She startled me, and I practically threw the book across the room. She let me have it. Told me I was too loose. My free spirit shit was interfering with not just her relationship but with her job as well. People saw us as the same, and our co-workers didn't like me as much as I thought. She remarked that I didn't bother to cover up as she was there now, berating me. I tried to explain that we were both women who had seen each other naked countless times. She wasn't having it.

Her relationship? I asked her what she meant, and she slammed the door. The cityscape painting fell. I found that quite comical. Like I was in a sitcom. Sarah must have heard me and thought I was laughing at her. She screamed some profanities I couldn't make out.

Fuck this. I dressed, threw up my drenched hair into a bun, quickly had another bourbon, and hopped in the car. No sign of Mr. Noisette. No lights on in his house. I didn't know where I was going or what to do once I got there.

*

I drove aimlessly for about an hour, unable to shake the day away. It was getting late. I went to the Black Penny for another bourbon and, hopefully, some comfortable conversation. The Black Penny was as divey as ever. I think one person was sitting in the side room. At the bar, there was only me and Becca, the bartender.

"Shit's crazy around here," Becca said.

I agreed, but based on what, I don't know. She poured a double for a single for herself and me. Down the hatch. The sound of shot glasses hitting the ancient wood of the bar top.

"Have you heard about that shit coming outta China? Some kinda new flu. Scientists are really worried about it."

I hadn't heard anything. I reminded Becca that I don't do social media or own a TV. I asked for another double and toasted to new things to worry about. Becca asked what was new with me. Sarah was being a bitch; that's what was new with me. Okay, she's not being a bitch. We had words. There was a misunderstanding that surprised Becca. She had always seen us having a good time together. Yeah, but Sarah didn't like to have a good time anymore. Not since she and Jonathan became serious. I then told her about you. She said she would drink to that and poured us both another. I suddenly felt embarrassed for gushing over you. So, I stood up abruptly and told Becca I guessed I was going home. Hopefully, I wouldn't run into Sarah when I got there.

On my way home, I got a text from Becca exclaiming I wouldn't believe who was in the side room the whole time. I swerved into the other lane. Red and blue flashing lights. My heart was in my throat. My hands were numb.

*

It's not like it is in the movies or TV shows. You get more than one phone call. If the cop who arrests you is tired, maybe he doesn't have the energy to be an asshole. Maybe he's a good dude. When you get to the station, or whatever it's called, you get strip-searched by a lady cop if you're a girl. I wanted to crack a "buy me dinner first" joke, but she was no-nonsense. Afterward, the lady cop asks you questions while you're drunk. Fun. Once you're thrown in the drunk tank, you can't ignore the sense of despair. It's contagious. I think it comes from the fluorescent lighting. Like the kind, they have at Walmart. Only you are not allowed to leave. You're stuck there, and the same slow creeping despair you feel at Walmart sets in after a while. It almost has a smell, the despair. Everyone there was sick with it. Even the cops. I sobered up after about an hour in the tank, but everything was still psychedelic. Bad trip psychedelic.

You get a phone call after you sober up. She didn't pick up. Sarah is the only person who I know for a fact sleeps with the ringer on. I left a message. The only other phone number I know by heart is my mom's. I wasn't going to call her. We hadn't spoken in six months.

Hey Mom, it's your star child! You'll never guess...

That night was hell. No sleep. No comfort. No darkness. Only the company of three other sad women. All older than me, I think. At one point, I had to piss bad, so I did. There was a single toilet in the drunk tank. The oldest lady told me I had better not take a shit. I didn't, but I would’ve if I needed to. I’ll do whatever I want even when I absolutely cannot do whatever I want.

I'm not sure what time it was. The lights never went off, so it was always timeless, not in a good way, but in a Twilight Zone episode way. The doors suddenly opened loudly. All I had heard for hours was the buzzing overhead light and the occasional grunts of the other ladies. One lady complained about having her period but no pads. She looked too old to have a period. Other than that, I hadn't heard anything, so the noise startled me.

 A guard tossed the three other women bags with sandwiches in them. I didn't get one. The guard told me to step out. Someone had posted bail. I didn’t understand what he had said. He repeated himself. Adios, weirdos. I thought it but didn't say it.

I almost would have rather stayed. I didn't want to hear Sarah's bullshit. She was going to kick me out; I knew it. But then again, why would she bail me out? She listened to the message I left, and here she is, bailing me out now. I signed some paperwork, changed, and was given a bag with all my things. I was then shown the way to the waiting room.

I looked at the text Becca sent me the night before and stopped in my tracks. You were the lone person in the side room at the Black Penny. You had heard everything. For a second, I fantasized that you had bailed me out. How ridiculous. I shook away the idea. I chastised myself for daydreaming when I should have taken my new situation seriously. I felt heavy, exhausted, and embarrassed.

I rounded the corner to the waiting room. Sarah wasn't there. Was she outside? Was I allowed to go outside? Sure I was. My bond was paid, and I had signed out. Walking to the exit, I heard the bathroom door shut and felt a familiar presence.

Mr. Noisette had a placid expression on his face. If you can call it an expression. He ambled towards me, waiting for me to speak. Unusual. I found out that Sarah had gotten my message and Mr. Noisette, being the way he is, knew shortly after that. He offered to take me to get my car out of impoundment. No, thank you. I needed to rest before I did anything. He understood and turned down the radio. Country music. We started our way home.

"You don't want to talk about it. So, what shall we talk about, Miss Morgan?" He asked.

I started to speak but realized I hadn't brushed my teeth. A severe lack of dental hygiene was becoming my norm. Killin' it. Mr. Noisette mistook my pause for an unwillingness to speak and assured me that it was "alright aardvark" and that sometimes a comfortable silence is good for the soul. What I wanted more than silence was to hear one of his stories. Experiencing the novelty of his silence was something. He hummed a few made-up tunes after a while. His hands gripped the steering wheel too tightly. I could practically feel his broken heart sitting in between us in the cab of his truck. Just tell me about her, already. Poor old man.

*

Sarah's car wasn't in the driveway. Mr. Noisette told me to get some rest and some vitamin c. He tried to make eye contact, but I bobbed and weaved out of that one. Sure will, Mr. Nosey. I walked towards my house and went for my keys. Fuck. The pound had them. Mr. Noisette saw me struggling and gleefully approached me. He offered to help.

"I reckon Sarah's at work."

"Yeah."

"Any of your friends got a spare key? Maybe Sarah's beau, Jonathan?"

"Yeah. I don't know. Nope."

Mr. Noisette scratched his head. "Why don't you come inside and have an orange juice while I try to jimmy the lock for you?"

Inside? I had never been inside Mr. Noisette's house. I felt weird about it, but what else was I going to do? I was so tired my bones ached. My body was still so heavy. He had this goofy, wide-eyed smile that calmed me. I thanked him.

"Well alright then!" he said. I followed him into his house.

The first thing I noticed was the smell. It was like old books and new leather. Speaking of books, there were loads of them. I saw three bookcases in the front room alone. Each of them sagged with age and the weight of the books they bore. His house is much older than mine and Sarah's. I could feel age everywhere. All of his floors are hardwood and creaky. In his kitchen were a dozen or so potted plants. Each of them is either dead or on their way out. I felt Mr. Noisette's age, too. Even though I'm still not sure how old he is.

"You should give a spare key to a friend, 'case you lock yourself out again." He said as he poured a gigantic glass of OJ.

"Mmm-hmm. I guess I never really thought of that."

"No, I reckon not. Young folks don't..." he stopped mid-sentence and smiled.

"We don't. You're right." I said.

Mr. Noissette handed me the big glass of orange juice.

"I could keep a spare around for you. As soon as we get your keys back, I'll run down to the hardware store and make a copy quicklike. No trouble at all."

I was becoming annoyed and guzzled the juice. "You don't have any vodka, do you?" I said under my breath.

"Say again?"

"You don't mind if I use the bathroom, do you?"

He pointed me down the hall and retreated to his laundry room. He said he had some tools to help us break into the house. I lingered on a few pictures that were hung up in the hallway. Each of them was old. Probably nothing newer than a couple of decades. One is of a little boy on a swing set. There is a woman next to the kid. She is no older than me, probably right at thirty-two in the photo. She's frowning, but the kind of frowning people do when they don't know their photo's being taken, not the sad type of frowning. There's a photo of a teenage boy in a blue cap and gown. Probably a graduation photo. He has a sorry beard and a bucktoothed grin. His eyes are alive. In another photo is a group of men in black suits. All of them have their arms folded in front of them. They look somber. There's only one reason men in black suits gather for a photo and don't smile. It seems like it was taken on a lovely day. So, there's that.

The bathroom smelled like potpourri and old soap. The kind of soap your grandparents would take home from a fancy hotel and never use. The tub didn't have a curtain. Weird. Neither did the window. I sat down to take a piss. Once I was done, I reached around for toilet paper. Couldn't find any. I figured, what the hell? Having a dirty vagina wasn't the worst thing that's happened in the last couple of days.

I heard some footsteps. Mr. Noisette cracked the bathroom door.

"You'll need this, Cherie." His arm extended through the opening. A fresh roll of toilet paper was at the end of it.

Then, without giving pause for my response, the coon ass bastard opened the door, stepped in, and held the paper in front of me. It took a few moments before he set the fucking toilet paper on the sink. All smiles while he was doing it, too. I tried to protest, but no words came out.

"I found the right tool to open your door, I believe. I'm ready when you are, my Morgan."

The idiot stood there for a long five seconds before leaving me to wipe myself. Five seconds can be infinite, or it can pass with a breath.

Don't get me wrong, Mr. Noisette never tried anything with me before. He was always nice to me. Not in a creepy way. Even then, I didn't get a creepy vibe in his bathroom. It's more like he assumed there was a familiarity between us.

Familiarity. Familiar. Family. It’s funny how words do that.

*

The door was easily unlocked. It took the quick kind of five seconds, which I was grateful for. I thanked him, and he offered again to keep a spare for me. I passively agreed to end the conversation and shut the door as he still stood there on my steps. I wanted to hear his stories in his truck on the way from the jail, but now I wanted to be far away from him. From everyone, really.

I grabbed a PBR from the fridge. The wet cracking sound of opening it made me smile. The garbage had been taken out. All the dishes were put away. It felt like I was in someone else's house for a second. The bathroom was spotless. A scrap of paper floated to the ground when I opened my door. On it was Sarah's handwriting. Nope. Nap first. I sat down the now empty can of beer and felt again at home. The mess of my room, my space, my life. I slept like the dead.

The buzz from my phone woke me up. A text from an unknown number. Thank you. I would love to meet up, it said. Followed by, is everything okay? Becca said you were sloshed when you left. I thought Becca had given you my number until I scrolled and saw that I had texted you before, the night after I had met you, apparently. I had no recollection. I got your number from your business card. The urge to respond was strong, but what was I supposed to say? Things are just dandy? You'll have to pick me up? I got a DUI? No big deal? No, I decided to wait.

I then rolled over, and there it was, Sara's note reminding me that I have work today and to please do the dishes. I drew the blinds of the window above my bed. White light from the new street lamps came in. It was night.

This is the kind of stuff that gets people fired.

I called the Bistro. My hands shook. Probably from a mixture of terror, exhaustion, and not eating enough. Sometimes you know things about yourself. Sometimes you can know things, and it isn't enough to shake the comfort of habit. I recognized the voice right away. It was Boss Lady's girlfriend. Oh! A friendly ear. I sat up and adjusted my posture before speaking. I gave my story as confidently as I had ever done anything. She gave space for my detailed telling of the last forty-eight hours. I peppered in a little embellishment of my value to the Bistro here and there. When I had finished explaining myself and made clear my case that everyone at the Bistro loves me, workers and patrons, she sighed.

“And you love me too, right? Right?” I said in my sweetest voice.

There's no coming back, dear. Sweetie, you have to understand...

I had no savings, and no real skill set. I tossed my phone to the floor and crashed on my mattress. I felt engulfed, swallowed by my bed. I held my pillow tightly over my face and screamed. I tried to cry but couldn't, and that caused an eruption of frustration. I spent the next hour masturbating. It's not that I was horny; it's what I do when I'm frustrated. Jilling off as a coping mechanism. It’s been that way for as long as I can remember.

I woke up naked and on top of my sheets in the fetal position, with one hand between my legs and the other under my head. The arm under my head was pins and needles. I got up and dressed. It was the middle of the night. I think I made a sandwich. All the booze in the house was gone. Fuck. My car was still at the pound. Not like I could get it out now anyway. I wanted a drink. It was the Monday before Mardi Gras. That was my reason. When did I start needing reasons?

Sarah came out of her room and into the living room, where I had sat to figure out my next step. Our living room didn't have a purpose. It wasn't even decorated. No rug, no art. Just a couch and a coffee table. No TV. I was on one end of the sofa, Sarah was on the other. I shifted a little towards her.

"I got fired," I said. She said she already knew and started to give me a hard time by saying she had left a note.

"Why did you send Mr. Nosey to bail me out?" I asked.

"You shouldn't call him that."

"But you do, too."

"No, I don't. You started calling him that when we were out drinking in the Quarter a while back. I laughed once and you've been saying it ever since." Sarah said.

"Hey, look, sorry. I didn't know he was your boyfriend." That really pissed her off.

"My boyfriend!" Sarah took a moment to compose herself. I felt some fear of her creep in at the base of my spine.

"You have until the end of the month to move out. And I mean move everything out. Your belongings, yourself, everything. Jonathan is moving in." I felt small. She said all of this quietly and confidently and still took up the whole room.

"I don't have anywhere to go. I don't have any money. I don't have anything."

"You have friends."

"But, you're my friend."

Sarah got up, walked to her room, and spun an Electric Light Orchestra album on her record player.

I walked through the house to the back porch. With the door closed, the music coming from Sarah's room was muffled. I didn't bother to turn on the porch light. It was inexplicably cold that night. The hair on my arms stood. A chill raced up my neck. My joints were stiff. I remember cursing the new streetlamps. Hardly anything gets done in this city, and when it gets done, it gets done wrong. I heard two people arguing in the distance. I closed my eyes and prayed for a darkness so pure that it would absorb all of me.

I opened my eyes to an unanswered prayer. I wanted to destroy everything the light touched. I want to destroy the light itself. It was taking from me my slow burn, my once-in-a-lifetime desire to be so alone that I would be nonexistent.

But I didn't want to be alone, did I? No, solitude isn't in my nature. That's when I called you.

You answered right before I was about to hang up. You were confused. It was obvious that I had woken you. You didn't mention it being late. You didn't say that we didn't know each other. You didn't mention much at all, actually. You let me spill it out. Every messy detail. It went on for an hour. Your occasional verbal gestures assured me you were listening. At some point in the conversation, Sarah cranked up her record player's volume and turned it off. I paused to catch my breath, and you asked if I needed to cry. I did, but I couldn't. I felt the frustration I had felt earlier when I screamed into my pillow. I couldn't very well yell into my phone. I'm not that crazy. The two arguing people in the distance either got closer or louder. This is not what I expected. You shouldn’t have expected anything… At the end of the hour, I asked if you wanted to come over. You told me to get some rest. You will call me in the morning. We said good night. You assured me that it was nice to talk. I almost told you that I loved you. I did after I was sure the line was disconnected.

The wind that night chilled me to the bone. Sarah's light came on. I could see it through her window. I saw her shadow in slow motion to and fro, up and down. She was brushing her hair. I thought about Mr. Noisette. I thought about having to get my car tomorrow. My chill turned into guilt, and I pulled my arms into my shirt, laid on my side on the porch bench, and fell into a deep sleep.

*

Roosters. Who the hell has chickens in the city? My eyes were dry. The creamy purples and yellows of the morning sky made me smile. I was lucid and clear-headed. I heard in the distance what must have been a parade reminding me that it was Fat Tuesday. Does the party always start this early? I sat up and rubbed my eyes with the palms of my hands. I looked at my phone, hoping you had messaged me. You hadn't.

The back door was locked. The windows were useless. Our front door was probably locked, too. Oh God, not again. Images of Mr. Noisette staring at me, extending his arm to hand me the toilet paper. Wait, did he want me to stand up and take it from him? Is that why he just stood there for so long? Enough of that. It's over. I shook it off. I wanted to hold on to this good feeling.

Sarah's car was in the driveway. Jonathan's, too. The empty space where mine would have been was mocking me. A couple of black birds pecked around in my spot. I tried to shoo them away, but on they pecked.

Right as I went to try the front door, it opened. Sarah was in the entryway. She wore a pink floral pattern robe and no shoes. No makeup. Bedhead looked good on her. I prepared for words. Some bit of condescension. I instead saw kindness in her eyes.

"Good morning." She said.

"Hey, Sarah. Looking good."

"Would you like to come in, or are you cool with patronizing me on our front porch?" She asked.

"I'm cool with patronizing you inside."

Sara cocked her head to the side. Her thin lips curled into a smile as she turned and walked into the living room. I sat on the couch. Sarah offered me some coffee. I accepted.

"What are you getting into tonight?" She asked. I suddenly remembered the day.

"Happy Mardi Gras!" I then recited my worse phonetic pronunciation of laissez le bon temps rouler.

"You're a fucking trip, Morgan."

"I've been going pretty hard. I think I might lay low today. I need to get my car out anyway."

Sarah said that was unacceptable. The car could wait until tomorrow. Our group was again going as sexy versions of the Muppets. I could use her costume from last year. I had better get ready. We were going to meet everyone for St. Anne's in a couple hours. Sarah finished her coffee and got up to get me the costume.

"You're going as sexy Muppets two years in a row?"

"Why the hell not?" She answered from her room.

"Fair enough. That's a great band name!"

"What?" Sarah shouted.

"Sexy Muppets."

Sarah's belly laugh reverberated through the house. I was proud of myself.

I took just a moment to text you an invite. As soon as I sent it, Sarah tossed the costume at me. It bounced off my shoulder and landed softly beside me. Fozzie Bear. I was going as a sexy Fozzie Bear.

“We call that one ‘Foxy Bear’,” Sarah was again in her room and shouting, laughing at her little joke.

“Wocka-wocka-wocka!” I called back.

“You had better wocka-wocka-wocka your ass to your room and get dressed. The parade won’t wait for us!”

“Yeah, yeah.” I spoke under a smile.

I went to my room, stripped down, and noticed myself in the long mirror on my closet door. I felt good about my body. I felt good about being me.

It wasn't much of a costume. Bear ears, a bear nose, a fuzzy, brown, short top and matching skirt, and some bear claw gloves. Isn't Fozzie a piano player? Or is that the dog?

I poured myself another cup from the French press. Sarah came into the kitchen for a second cup, too. She pulled a bottle of Jameson from the freezer and poured some into her coffee.

“Care for some hooch?” she asked.

“Who exactly are you speaking to?”

She poured a shot’s worth into my coffee.

Sarah mentioned that her old costume fit me well. I thanked her and cracked a couple ice cubes out of the ice tray and into my cup. It felt like it did when we first moved in together. The playful banter. The easy-going atmosphere. The joy of two friends who appreciated each other's company. Sarah had returned to her room as I was feeling all that. I heard Electric Light Orchestra from her record player again. It was just nostalgia, right? This feeling. She was just being nice. She is doing herself a favor because it's Mardi Gras, and she doesn't want to feel bad. She doesn't want to be a bitch and put a dark mark on Mardi Gras. She's looking out for herself. I don't want to believe it. It feels too good not to believe it.

I was staring off when my phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. I went to take the last sip of my coffee, but it was already gone. You replied to my text saying you would gladly meet me there. You asked if there was a theme to our costumes. You don't want to know.

Sarah was soon ready. The boozy coffee had worked its way behind her eyes. Mr. Noisette was outside, sitting on his white rocking chair.

"Where are you headed?"

"We're headed out to let the good times roll, Mr. Noisette." Sarah blew a kiss and skipped to her car. Mr. Noisette slapped his knee.

"Morgan, hey. You just let me know when you want to get that Honda outta the pen." Mr. Noisette said.

"Sure thing. Tomorrow afternoon."

I walked through my parking spot to get to Sarah's car. A sadness came to me, followed by a queasiness. The wind picked up a little.

We parked a few blocks away from R Bar. We looked ridiculous in our costumes. Fucking ridiculously sexy. I mean the good kind of silly, of course. I said as much to Sarah, who, in her slutty Miss Piggy get-up, agreed.

There in front of R Bar was our group. Kermit, Beaker, Gonzo, Animal, the chef guy. The whole crew was there. There was even a Big Bird. Was Big Bird a Muppet? Didn't matter. Everyone was on theme except for Jonathan, who apparently didn't get the memo. He was decked out in purple and gold with probably a dozen beads around his neck. He looked festive. He was distracted. Sarah rushed up to him, arms wide open. He surveyed the block party that was forming and gave her a side hug. The type of hug girls who go to Christian school give each other. She went to kiss him, and he diverted her lips to his forehead. Come on, guy. Don't be weird. Not now.

Rachel and Jennifer, Kermit and Animal, respectively, brought along a cooler full of light beer. Still, Sarah and I wanted something more potent. I volunteered to brave R Bar’s crowd to procure some stronger sauce. The bar was thick with bodies. People packed so tightly I could hardly tell my body parts from theirs. It was damn near an orgy. I managed to sort of slither through the flesh labyrinth to the bar. The pressure of the swelling crowd behind and all around me pressed my hips against the wood and almost lifted me off my feet. A handsome bartender took notice of me. I hadn't seen him there before. I ordered a whiskey for me, straight, a tequila sunrise for Sarah, light on the grenadine.

I felt a hand on my ass, then another on my waist. I'm not sure I cared who the hands belonged to. I suddenly cared whose hands they were. I was manic. I wanted to play. I turned around, and Jonathan was laughing his ass off.

“Nah, dude.” I dried up like a prune. Don't be weird. Not now.

Jonathan took my hand, put a plastic bag in it, and closed my fist around it.

“Catch up with us. This will help.” He shouted.

“Us?” I said as Jonathan muscled his way through the crowd and out the door.

I turned to the two drinks I had ordered, pulled a twenty out of my purse, and lingered for a moment. The plastic bag was still in my fist. The feel of its contents was familiar to me. Jonathan had given me mushrooms. His flirtatiousness. His laughter. Catch up with us. They were all tripping on mushrooms. Why didn't Sarah say anything? I put the bag in my purse, held the drinks over my head, and slipped out. It was less pleasurable going out than coming in.

I didn't see our group right away. I set the drinks down and fished through my purse for the mushrooms. My purse is perpetually full of both junk and exactly what anyone needs at any given moment. I am basically a confused and messy Mary Poppins. The mushrooms had been dried. Good. The smell of them alone makes me gag. Down they went, sort of. Some of the mushroom dust had become gummy at the back of my throat and between my teeth and cheeks. Whiskey to wash it down. I gagged and fought back the vomit that was sprinting from my stomach and up my esophagus. I won if it's possible to win a thing like that.

I saw you approaching through blurred and watery eyes. You had on a tuxedo and carried something bulky in your hands.

You had a toothy grin that could have been seen miles away. Once you were a few feet from me, I shouted your name a little too loud and threw my arms around you, causing you to drop what was in your hand. You picked it up, raised your eyebrows, and placed the object on your head. It was a mask.

"Can you guess who I am?" You asked before pulling the mask over your face.

"Marcel LeFevre! You're not running from a swarm of bees, are you?"

"Not to my knowledge. Though, one can never be so sure. And you must be..." you paused, and I posed with my hand on my hip and pursed my lips.

"Chewbacca's girlfriend!" You said.

"Nailed it."

I spotted our group a block away. I took your hand and rushed over to them. You kept your mask on as I introduced you to everyone. You were offered a drink, a beer from the cooler. When you declined, I said you should have one.

"It's not even ten o'clock yet." You took off your whale mask.

"That's right. You need to catch up with us." Catch up with us. Oh, God. Why did I eat those mushrooms? I looked at Sarah and Jonathan, who were dancing in the middle of the street. Jonathan looked back over Sarah's shoulder. His eyes were black. I almost asked you if you'd like to dance. You held the paper-mâché mask under your arm and put your free hand in your pocket.

" I'm going to grab a beer." I said.

You pulled your phone out of your pocket and started thumbing away.

"I'll be right back," I said. You kept looking down at that damn phone.

I walked over to the cooler and fished a beer from the ice. Sarah, Jonathan, Rachel, Jennifer, and the rest of her crew were deep into their dancing. Jonathan spun Sarah, and she put her arms around me, imploring me to dance with her.

“I need to get back to my date.” I said.

“Tell him to get over here and shake his ass.” Sarah’s face was beaded with perspiration. Her eyes were wide. I looked to Jonathan, who said something I couldn't make out. He appeared to be waiting for a response from me. I broke Sarah's hold and headed back to you. Jonathan got a staring eyeful at my tits. I leaned into him and told him to chill. He spoke over me.

“Did you take the shrooms yet?” I crossed my arms and walked back to you.

You had a lit cigarette in one hand and your phone in the other. I asked if you'd prefer to head down the road, do some people-watching, and maybe get something to eat. I was not hungry. You said sure, whatever is fine. You asked if we would meet up with the crew later. I said sure, whatever is fine.

We sauntered a few blocks. The mushrooms had taken effect. It had been years since I tripped or did anything like that other than drink. I had forgotten what it was like. Everything became amplified. A thousand billion smells penetrated me. I did not enjoy your tobacco scent like I thought I might. I gagged a little. Painted faces and masks invaded my eyes. When I closed them, aliens and humans with animal heads remained. You first put my arm in yours like you were escorting me. Then, you held my hand. I felt every molecule in your grasp. I experienced the slow hum of the vibration that was your very being. I couldn't stand it. I let go and didn't say why. You started taking pictures of the crowd. I told you that I really need to use the bathroom. That was not a lie to get away from you but a convenient excuse. I felt a dagger in my bladder. At that point, we were near enough to the Bistro.

Had I been born an organized person, had I any discipline to see more than an arm's length in front of me, I wouldn't be writing this, and I sure as hell wouldn't have gone into the Bistro to take a piss. At least I've got retrospection going for me, hindsight being twenty-fifty, or whatever people say.

*

The crowd was thin for Mardi Gras day. Don't get me wrong, there was a bustle. People stirring, touching, throwing back shots. Snake-like in their movements. Hungry beasts, just like outside. I became claustrophobic. My chest was tight. The fabric of my Fozzie costume strangled me. Boss Lady was nowhere in sight. I dashed to the loo.

There was an empty stall. I rushed in, slammed, and locked the door like I was being chased. The feeling of drowning left me long enough to pee. I sat down and went for what felt like forever. I was just about done with my business when the desperate need to gasp returned like a tic. I took off the Fozzie top and crammed it into my Poppins purse.

I ran to the sink and splashed water on my face. I felt wet all over. The faucet was yellow and brown with rust. The shrooms were really having a time with me at that point. I looked in the mirror and saw a fish. Then, a mermaid.

A stall door opened. I thought I was the only person there. I saw now in the mirror a black bird with human breasts. My breast. Boss Lady’s girlfriend then stood beside me, looking at me in the mirror as my form shifted to and from all manners of cats, fish, and birds, all with my human flesh.

“Are you okay?” She asked.

I think I said yes. Maybe I made an excuse. Maybe I was washing my face and top. Maybe I had spilled something. I broke my stare from the shapeshifter in front of me and looked at my purse. I dug and searched frantically for the top. Before I knew it, its contents were on the floor scattered about, my hands a blur, still searching.

She helped me up from the floor. Her eye contact momentarily tethered me to reality. The top was in her left hand. I bent to take it from her, and she kissed me. Lips, tongue, tapping teeth. She touched me. Her hands felt loving. They felt like creatures separate from her. Creatures whose purpose it was to love. The creatures cupped my chest, then brought my waist to hers. My body wanted to stay, but my brain screamed for me to run. I felt a pull in the opposite direction, but my feet were paralyzed. I closed my eyes.

I lost my ability to walk and to speak. Her hand was up my skirt. Each flick brought in a wave of pleasure. Her mouth was on my neck. Soon I was writhing.

I open my eyes. I was outside, standing in a circle with our group. You were next to me. I had a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I had never smoked a cigarette in my life. I handed it to you and walked away to find a spot to sit.

I found a spot under a tree in the median. You soon followed, the whale mask under your arm. The grass beneath us was spongy. The tree's trunk breathed against the back of my resting head. You asked if I was okay.

“It depends on what you mean by okay. Am I having a good time? Yes and no.” I said.

“Am I okay?” You asked.

“Sure, you are.” I scooted closer to you. I must have looked worried.

“I mean, do you want me here?”

My entire disposition that day had confused you. I kept myself at a distance. The way I was over the phone and spoke with Becca at the Black Penny, I acted differently now. You expressed this to me. What I could have done I could have told you I was on a losing streak. I could have told you that I had taken psychedelics. Nope. Defenses up. Put up your dukes, Mr. MacDonald. You were the distant one. You were the one with his phone in his face all day. But then, I didn't even know if that was true. You lit a cigarette. The wild furry colors of our group came closer. Soon they would be with us, and I could disappear into them. You noticed the fresh bruise on my neck no sooner than you took the fire away from your cigarette. Your face flushed with disappointment. Mine, with shame. I covered it with my hand. You walked away. I felt buried up to my shoulders in the cold ground beneath the breathing tree. Sarah extended her hand and helped me up.

“I lost my job.” I told her.

“I know, doofus.” Sarah said after a sip of beer.

“No. I really lost it.” I started to cry. Rachael and Jennifer sandwiched me. Someone asked where you were.

“Am I okay?” I wasn’t asking anyone in particular.

Sarah walked me to her car.

“I shouldn’t drive.” She said.

“I know.”

Sarah exhaled, adjusted her Piggy ears, and unlocked the door.

*

Once we got back to the house, Sarah took her house key off the chain and gave it to me.

“Go inside and ride it out in your room.” She turned down the radio.

“I will.”

“Drink some orange juice. I just bought some.”

“Thank you.”

“You should be fine soon. It’s already been like five hours.”

She was right. The mushrooms were on their way out of my system. Mr. Noisette was weeding his front yard. The sour sweetness of yellowing magnolia flowers made me feel light again. A bird’s song rode on the breeze that tickled my bare belly. Sarah kicked up a bit of dust as she backed her car out.

“Lovely day for a carnival, ain’t it, Cherrie?” Mr. Noisette looked at me from below his floppy hat.

“Probably the loveliest.” I looked up into a baby blue New Orleans sky. The pillowy clouds swelled and then became smaller.

"But for me," I continued, "it's been one of those days." Mr. Noisette took off his gloves, wiped the sweat from his brow, and placed both hands on a knee.

“Every day is one of those days,” he said.

"No, I mean…."

“I know what you mean. You’re wrong. Every day is one of those days and at the same time, no days are the same. Morgan, it’s a flat expression. It doesn’t mean anything to say, ‘it’s been one of those days.’”

The sour sweetness of yellowing magnolia flowers.

“One day doesn’t take the other days from you,” he continued, “you leave the other days behind. You can take it with you, or leave it behind. You can paint any day with any small joy. It’s never-ending.”

A small boy on a swing set. A woman standing near the child.

“There are no such things as bad days,” he said.

I felt my shoulders fall from my ears.

“I’m going to be okay.”

“I know you are, dear.” Mr. Noisette grinned his toothy grin, put on his gloves, and began again pulling weeds.

“Come on over tomorrow. We’ll go get your Honda outta prison. Just meet me right here at noon. Sound good?” It did sound good.

I lay in my bed for about an hour, watching patterns on my popcorn ceiling arise and disappear. The painting Sarah had given me held my attention, too. People doing ordinary things. I wanted to call you. I wanted to do ordinary things with you.

I took a cold shower and put on a robe. The top of my wet head tingled. I decided you might want to sleep on it, what you saw that day. The sun was setting. The mushrooms had completely worn off. I felt that there was life everywhere.

Sleep soon came easily to me. I left my bedroom window open. Sounds of celebration far off.

I think it was just after 8:30 in the morning. The song was paying me a visit again. Boom, tap, boom, tap.

“Hey, I know you!” I said aloud.

I rolled over and silenced the alarm. My eyes adjusted to the brightness of my phone. I called you. You apologize for leaving. I told you that you didn't have to apologize. You said that you know what needs to be apologized for. There was a long pause.

“I know it needs to be apologized for, too. I'm a mess, Matt. I've always been this way. I think I fall in love a little bit with everyone I meet.”

“By default, that means you fell in love a little bit with me.” You said.

“Exactly.”

We made plans to meet for a late lunch right after I got my car that day. I promised not to take any psychedelics, at least before our lunch. Strong emphasis on before. You laughed. I smiled. We hung up.

I got ready for the day. Can you ever really be prepared for a day? Mr. Noisette said that there are no bad days, in a way. He said every day is the same. He said I can paint any day anyway I wanted. What did he know? What do I know?

I went to the kitchen and saw that Sarah had already made coffee. I poured a cup. It was cold, which I don't mind. Sarah was sitting on the couch in the living room. The front door was open. Sarah's hair reminded me of jasmine growing on an abandoned building. I sat with her. I think it was 11 am.

“You can stay here, you know.” Sarah said, her eyes searching outside through the open door. “Until you can find another job and save up a little money.”

“Sarah,” I moved a little closer. She looked at me, “thank you. I can find something fast, I'm sure.”

“I know it's not your fault,” her eyes were fierce and sincere. She babbled, “and I'm sorry that I blamed you.”

“Why is everyone apologizing to me today?” I asked.

Sarah sighed, smiled, and said, “It must be one of those days.”

I think it was about 12 o’clock. I went outside to wait for Mr. Noisette. I passed the barrier that separated our yards and leaned against the magnolia tree. There was no sour-sweet smell now. The breeze picked up; I heard baby birds screaming for their mother.

I sat and thought about where I had been, where I am, and where I might go. I knew there was no changing who I am or where I am. I texted you saying that I couldn’t meet up with you. I blocked your number. I'm sorry.

I knocked on Mr. Noisette’s door. There was no answer, just silence as big as the universe.

May 1, 2020, 1:37 pm. New Orleans, Louisiana

Forest on the Moon

“Forest on the Moon”

By Eric St. Pierre

Mrs. Gray put the lights out several hours ago, Nell thinks. She’s nearly sure of it because she has counted constellations and their stars several dozen times. Not all of them. Only the ones she knows. And the ones she’s made up, which she is positive are there. She dreamed of them. She drew them and gave them names. That’s what makes a thing real.

Nell lies in the top bunk closest to the window. Mr. and Mrs. Gray don’t know she’s in the top bunk closest to the window. Each night after her evening chores are done and lights out! has been announced, she carefully peals back the made sheets and the coarse green blanket of her assigned single cot near the door. She takes extra care not to ruffle the sheets or disturb the pillow. When she can no longer hear Mrs. Gray’s footsteps and all lights are put out, she gingerly places a bitesize candy bar beneath her cot. She then untucks herself, sits up, and slides her feet into her slippers. She checks again for Mrs. Gray by placing her ear against the wall. She hears water rushing through the pipes in the walls. She hears the muffled sound of Mr. Gray playing Chopin from his Crosley record player upstairs. That’s when she knows the coast is clear.

Nell makes her way across the dark and sprawling room to the top bunk nearest the window. This is something she could do with her eyes closed. She knows this because she’s tried it. ‘What would it mean to be blind?’

Nell crosses paths with Dorothy, who wears a pink nightgown too small for her. They exchange winks and nods. Dorothy gives two thumbs up. Nell flashes a thumb in return. This is their nightly ritual: a chocolate for the choice cot nearest the window. Not a word is spoken. The currencies of Gray’s Home come in many forms, but the deal is part of the economy in which candies, chores, and choice spots are negotiated.   

Nell reaches the top bunk nearest the girls’ room single window and delicately moves the nearly sheer curtain to the side.

The moon is covered by clouds tonight. Nell opens her eyes as wide as she can hoping to catch a glimpse of a hint of the moon that might peek from behind the billow. No such luck. That the stars would be unobscured and not the moon is a great unfairness.

A crick in her neck. Nell turns from her back to her side to face the window.

“Ain’t you ever going to sleep?” Alicia, the girl in the bunk below Nell, complains.

Shushes and groans from around the room.

“Ain’t you ever going to sleep, or aren’t ya?” Whispers Alicia. Sandpaper in her throat.

Nell closes her eyes and counts constellations from memory until sleep blankets her.

***

4:25 am. At least that’s what it feels like. It will be another hour before Mrs. Gray enters the girls’ room, claps her hands three times, and says, ‘Up and up, young ladies. Today is new and the hours are few,’ or some other jovial aphorism. It will be another precious hour before rumpus and flair erupt from the boys’ side of the Home. This is her golden hour.

From the top bunk nearest the window, Nell can see the azaleas that line the land on which her home, Gray’s Home for Unfortunate Children, sits. She can see the sweet olive trees among the bushes near the cow parlor at the far end of the field. A light breeze tickles the sweet olive leaves. Nell imagines thousands of green piano keys played by a great invisible giant. She pretends she can smell the fragrance of the tree, pungent and immediate. A waxing moon rests now unobscured in the fleeting minutes before the sun makes its brilliant and piercing spectacle. 

Hello. There you are. I have missed you so much.

I have missed you, too.

A tap on Nell’s shoulder. A pull at her nightgown. With one eye closed and the other half shut, Dorothy yawns like a hippopotamus in the Nile. The communion between Nell and the moon is broken.

Shuffles and scuffles from below.                 

“Already? Just a moment more,” Nell whispers.

Dorothy shakes her head and begins to climb to the top bunk. Nell hops down with a sigh.

“I’m tellin’ if you keep on wakin’ me up. It ain’t right,” says Alicia from the bottom bunk. “I’ll tell Misses and Mister, too.” Nell kneels and speaks softly.

“You promised you wouldn’t,” Nell says.

“I get no chocolate. I get no peace in the dead of night or the dawn.” Alicia punches the bunk above her. “I don’t get to pick where I sleep. Heck, I don’t get to sleep t’all anymore.”

“I’ll make it right. Don’t tell.” Nell says. Dorothy snores lightly from the top bunk.

“Uh-huh.” Alicia pulls the covers over her head.

Waiting for Nell on her own unmade and ruffled cot is a candy wrapper. There are chocolate fingerprints on her white pillowcase. She turns the pillow and hides the wrapper beneath it. She lies on her back on top of the coarse green blanket and stares at the ceiling, wishing she could see through it. She turns her head. Across the room, the window is a glowing speck a thousand miles away. She closes her eyes.

*

The hour went by more like a minute. It seemed as though Mrs. Gray had clapped her hands three times and said, ‘Up and up, girls. The day waits for no man and hesitates for no lady,’ nearly the moment Nell had closed her eyes.

The morning routine, in which she had participated one thousand five hundred and thirty-six times, now thirty-seven, came and went in a flash. It goes like this: clapping hands to snap young girls into wakefulness, bright light from opened curtains. Then, there is the long line to the latrine. The floor is cold if you forget your slippers. The boys pick at girls and rush past to their latrine, their line is never as long as the girls’. Brush your teeth, do your business, and wash your hands. The morning duties are always written in perfect cursive on the blackboard in the dining room. Dozens of little shiny heads peer over one another to see who among them is to milk the stubborn heifers in the milking parlor; who gets to pick oranges or vegetables, and who gets to bring in flowers from the field. All assignments are based on Mrs. Gray’s mysterious formula. Mrs. Gray says it is determined on merit and behavior, but the girls know better. They dress appropriately for their morning work.

“Whadya get?” Alicia asks Nell back in the girls’ dormitory.

“Sweeping again. The whole porch and walkway. Then, dishes after breakfast.” Nell fastens a black apron over her work dress.

“I got the tits. The whole flink of ‘em. Me and the new girl. Lady Gray has it out for me.” Alicia pulls her work dress over her head. “Wish she’d let us wear long pants.”

“At least you don’t have to make butter,” Nell says.

“I suppose.” Alicia struggles with her dress. “That’s for boys anyhow.”

“You don’t want to milk the cows?” Nell says.

“O’course not. Don’t really want to have no folks neither, but so it is.” Alicia gestures.

“Trade with me,” Nell says while untying her apron and tying it again. “If you sweep, I’ll milk the cows and do the dishes.”

“Whatcha got against sweepin’?” Alicia scrunches her face.

“Nothing at all,” Nell says.

“What’s it worth to ya?” Alicia raises an unsculpted eyebrow.

“I’ll let you sleep,” Nell says. Alicia scoffs. “No, I mean I’ll give you my lone cot near the door when Dorothy and I trade. I’ll get her to take yours. You’ll be all to yourself. No moving about from me and no snoring from Dorothy,” Nell says.

“No snoring from Dot? A cot to myself?” Alicia furrows her brow. “I’ll be all the way across the room near the door, you say?”

“That’s right. All the way.” Nell nods and unties her apron.

“Deal.” Alicia spits in her hand and extends it to Nell. She hesitates. “I’m just kiddin’ you.” Alicia wipes her hand on her apron. 

“Why do you want to milk the cows anyway? It’ll stink you up all day,” asks Alicia.

Nell looks past her for a few moments. Alicia motions for eye contact. “I like the sweet olive trees out there by the parlor. They smell good,” Nell explains.

“Sure. You’ll hav’ta work with new girl Naveena. She’s weird, you know. She doesn’t sleep in the girls’ room. She’s too good for us. I heard she sleeps at the foot of mister and misses’ bed like a little dog,” Alicia laughs. “I heard she has parents. I heard they’re loaded and just don’t want her around because she spooks all the business and society types that come in and out of their mansion all day.” Alicia smirks. “I know things. You should listen t’me.” 

“So, we’ll trade then?” Asks Nell.

“I said deal. That means it’s a deal.” Alicia says.

“Thank you.” Nell is suddenly embarrassed for offering thanks. 

“Yeah.” Alicia’s face softens, and she looks away. “Wash your pillowcase today. I ain’t sleepin’ on that mess.”

“You got it,” Nell says.

*

Nell approaches the pasture with a milk bucket swung over her shoulder. She wants to skip, but her stomach is empty this early morning. It tells her to not move around so much. She unlatches the gate, steps through, and latches it behind her. She walks along the edge where the sweet olive trees and azaleas meet the fence line. She notices two girls bent over harvesting yellow and white flowers from the field. They pluck the best ones and put them in baskets. Their hats keep falling off.

Nell stops and squeezes a handful of sweet olive leaves and flowers. She holds it to her face and inhales deeply. Her flesh tightens and her eyes cross. Is this what it smells like up there?

She pulls a folded piece of paper from the pocket of her apron and covers it under the brush beneath the tree. She takes a handful of the tree’s flowers and leaves and places them in the front of her blouse against her bare skin. Her eyes readjust to the eerie young morning light that spreads across the pasture.

The flower-picking girls place their hats upon their heads again and dance with one another in a circle. Nell sees the new girl enter the parlor in the distance.

Nell corrals cows into the dirt-floored parlor. Naveena, the new girl, helps lead them each into their stalls.

“You ever done this before?” Nell asks.

“No. Misses said Alicia would show me,” Naveena says.

“We traded.” Nell sits her bucket down and motions for Naveena to do the same.

“What did you trade?” Asks Naveena.

“Nothing. I can teach you.” Nell sits on a stool and begins her chore.

“It’s not hard, then?” Asks Naveena.

“No, not hard.” Sound of milk spraying the bottom of the bucket, “Your hands will cramp. Just think of something else when they do because you have to keep going.” Naveena sits on the second stool and begins to mimic Nell.

“You have done this before,” Nell says.

“Haven’t. Never been on a farm ever. It stinks in here,” Naveena says.

Nell stops milking and pauses. “Here.” She pulls some of the sweet olive pieces from her work blouse and extends an open palm to the new girl. “Hold on to this. It helps with the smell. Stick it down your blouse.”

“Wow, thanks! This’ll help a million. What’s your favorite class here? I used to like theater classes before but there aren’t any here. So, I don’t know what I like. Probably art. Yeah, Miss Stevens, the art teacher is the sweetest and nicest teacher we have, even though her name is a man’s name. Steven. At least it isn’t Miss Donalds.” Naveena bobs her head as she speaks. “Well?”

“Well?” Nell pauses. “Oh, art. Yes, I like art the best, too,” Nell says. “Miss Stevens is lovely. She likes my drawings.” 

Long moments pass. The only sounds are shuffling hooves, milk hitting buckets, and the occasional moo from a heifer. Nell’s stomach growls, breaking the quiet.

“What do you think about?” Naveena asks after almost an hour of milking.

“About what?” Nell says.

“When your hands hurt,” Naveena answers.

“Do your hands hurt?” Nell says.

“No.” The new girl’s shoulders rise, her chin dips. Nell adjusts on her stool.

“I like to think about stars. I mostly like to think about the moon, but the stars, too,” Nell says. Naveena perks up.

“What do you know about the moon? You want to know what I know about the moon?” Naveena speaks rapidly. “When I used to go to school, my teacher said there’re craters on the moon. Big, huge holes. I said no ma’am, that’s a man up there. He got his eye poked with a rocket ship. Teacher said I couldn’t go to school anymore because I wouldn’t believe her. Mom and Dad said…” Naveena stops milking.

“I don’t see a man,” Nell says, “I see a forest.”

“Then you’d be told you can’t come back, too. Just like me. Your mother would have to teach you spelling and adding instead,” Naveena says. “What happened to your mother?”

“Nothing happened to her.” Nell stops milking. “She’s on a trip. When are your parents picking you up? When is your mother going to teach you how to mind your business? Why don’t you think about that instead of being nosey?”

“I’m sorry,” Naveena says.

“We’re done anyway. It’s time to eat. Help me carry the buckets behind the house. And give me back my flowers,” Nell says.

***

Breakfast is served at several tables lined up in the dining room. Boys and girls sit together. Mr. Gray says his acts of thanks before the children forget all manner of pageantry and politeness.

Nell nudges the buttermilk biscuit on her plate with a fork. She stirs her grits and nibbles her fresh scrambled yard eggs. The glass of milk in front of her goes untouched.

Naveena sits across from Nell and is sandwiched between two boys: Donald, who has been a resident of Gray’s Home for Unfortunate Children since the age of two, and Digory, a stout boy who does not speak. A small blackboard hangs from his neck. It dips in and out of his grits. Nell gags as she watches it bob up and down.

“Digory, please. Your blackboard and grits,” Nell says. “Your maners.” Donald punches Digory on the arm. A flying piece of biscuit smacks Donald in the face from somewhere down the table. He snickers.

Sheepish Digory wipes at the blackboard with the cloth from his lap. He nods, then shakes his head.

“Really, Digory. You mustn’t…” Nell pauses.

Written on the blackboard that hangs from Digory’s chest, as though by magic, are the words, look behind. Behold, a red robin pecks and dances outside the window behind Nell. She stands, causing her chair to tip backward. 

“Let it in,” Nell breathes deeply. “Let it in!”

“Let what in, madam Penelope?” Mr. Gray calls from the end of the table as he dabs his mouth with a white embroidered napkin. Silence. Every eye is on Nell.

“The bird at the window, sir,” Nell says. The children chortle and gibe.

“Ain’t no bird, Nelly. Look.” Alicia points to the birdless window.

“Settle down, all. Birds come and go from here always. We won’t let them in today. We won’t let them in tomorrow,” says Mrs. Gray.

“Digory’s blackboard. He…” Nell gestures to Digory. There is no writing scrawled in white chalk hanging from his neck. She replaces her chair. It scrapes along the wooden floor. Digory holds his chalkboard close to his chest and continues to eat. “Right then.” Nell adjusts. “May I be excused for chores?”

***

The kitchen is unlike the other rooms at Gray’s Home for Unfortunate Children. It is as unorganized and cluttered as the rest of the house is tidy and distilled. There are piles of ancient recipe books slick with old grease. There are markings on the walls indicating who was there and who has a crush on who. The house staff congregates there to socialize in between duties.

The wall furthest from the entrance is covered in a faded mural. It depicts an image of a few dozen of the children and workers who have come and gone over the years. At the center is the Home atop the great green hill with its waves of hills splashing forth from it. Bookending the scene are figures of an elderly man and woman, one pointing upwards, and the other with a hand over the heart, respectively.

The identity of the artist behind this admired mural has been lost to history. Some of the children speculate it was created by Mrs. Gray herself although it was painted years before the Grays took over. Having no concept of the artist’s trick of forced perspective, some say it was painted by one of the first children long dead, and that child’s ghost possesses the wall, given the eyes follow an onlooker when they pass.

Nell and Digory prepare the sink area to wash the breakfast dishes. Digory takes his blackboard from around his neck and hangs it nearby.

“Do you do it on purpose?” Nell hides her curiosity behind pretended hostility as she fits her hands into yellow rubber gloves up to her elbows. The scrubbing brush slips from Digory’s hand.

            “Here,” Nell picks up the brush, “you rinse, I’ll wash.” The mute boy nods, and smiles. They trade positions.

            “Do you? Do you do it to make a fool of me? To kid me? To be so cruel?” Nell looks into the soapy water as she interrogates poor Digory whose cheeks are now as flushed as a beet. The bubbles reflect her iridescent image a thousand times over.

            “Oh,” Nell suspects Digory may be innocent, “The boys, I mean. Their plates and silverware. So dirty when my name is on the list for dishes.” She feigns a laugh. “You and the other boys want to work me to my death.” Her acidity dissolves. She is placid, smiling.

            Digory shakes his head.

            “It must be my imagination. Mister says it runs away from me. He says it would serve me to,” Nell stops scrubbing, “to use it for practical things. I am too old for pretending, he says.”

            Digory’s eyes widen. He clinches Nell by the elbow perhaps a little too hard. He mouths an unknown word. Nell gently removes Digory’s grasp and studies him. Digory’s gaze goes to the mural. Its washed-out ghostliness captivates him. Who could have put something this pretty in a kitchen?

            “Dig, why can’t you speak? I don’t mean to…” Nell catches herself. “Weren’t you ever able?”

            Digory is snapped out of his fascination. He nods.

***

Digory Loving was seven years old when he and his parents left the home Digory had known his whole short life.

His father took a briefcase to work every day and returned every night with a different briefcase. ‘I’m a salesman,’ his father explained one evening when Digory had asked him what he does for a job.

‘Do you sell briefcases, pop?’  the boy asked.

‘I sell all manner of things.’ His father picked up his drink and made the ice jingle.

‘Why do you need so many briefcases? Are they easy to lose?’ 

‘Go to your room.’ His father drank from the glass and pursed his lips.

Several evenings later as Digory practiced his lines for his upcoming role as the hobgoblin, Puck, in his school’s cartoonish rendition of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, his mother, a lithe of a woman with hair red like orange sherbet, barged into his room commanding him with water in her eyes to pack his belongings. The family was leaving the city that very night. For good.

“Mum, I have to practice my words for the play. There can’t be a Night’s Dream without a Puck,” said Digory as he tongued his loose incisor.

“Then there will be no play, my boy.” His mother’s voice cracked.

That night Digory, his mother, and his father packed what they could and got into a car he had never seen. A man dressed in black whom Digory had never met drove them fast and long into the night through a thunderstorm. The sound of fat raindrops on the roof of the car lulled Digory to sleep. His head rested on his mother’s lap.

***

Lights out! A bitesize candy in Nell’s palm. Her feet slide into slippers. She checks the wall for running water and Chopin. “The Revolutionary Etude” has begun. The coast is clear. She tiptoes across the room to the top bunk nearest the window. Dorothy is climbing down the ladder. Alicia sits up in her bottom bunk.

“Dot, I swear to God, if you get chocolate on my pillow and sheets, I’ll sock you one,” Alicia threatens Dorothy. Dorothy sticks out her tongue. “I swear it!” Groans and shushes from around the room.

Nell slaps the candy into Dorothy’s open hand. Alicia backsteps toward the bunk by the door, keeping an eye on Dorothy. Dorothy looks for comfort in the bottom bunk and devours the candy.

Nell climbs to the top bunk. It is a bright night. No clouds are covering her precious moon. Nell shakes with glee and clasps her hands.

Hello, hello. I have missed you so much. Tell me, does it smell like sweet olive trees up there?

Light snoring from below.

Hello, hello. Are you there? It’s time to tell you about my day.

A short snort from Dorothy below, followed by more snoring.

                                                           Hello, hello. Where did you go?

Nell begins to pant and swallow heavily.

I have forgotten what you look like. I do not want to forget your voice, too. Where did you go?

A hot tear rolls down the girl’s cheek as she sits up and places both hands on the window. The window fogs, leaving two small prints.

What do I do next?

Nell sits transfixed on her dearest moon. Her prize. Her secret. Her confidant. All night there is no answer. After what seems like many thousands of intolerable moments, Alicia approaches.

“Time to switch,” Alicia shakes Dorothy. “Come on, I ain’t got all day. Outta there. Now.” Dorothy inches out of the cot. “You too, space case. Let’s go.” Alicia pulls at Nell’s nightgown. Nell turns. Her eyes are wet and her lips are cracked.

“What’s the matter with you? I knew this wouldn’t work,” Alicia says. She shakes her head.

“She wasn’t there. She’s always there,” Nell says.

“Sure. Hey, we got about an hour. Get some sleep,” Alicia says.  “Go on back to your spot.”

Nell had conversed with the moon one thousand five hundred and six times. That is every clear night after arriving at Gray’s Home and learning of Dorothy’s insatiable sweet tooth. On this clear night, her dearest moon did not answer her questions. It did not speak kind poetry to her. It said nothing at all. It simply hung in the clear night sky. Maybe Naveena is right. There’s a man up there and not a forest, she thought, and immediately shook the idea from her mind. No man could have such an angelic voice. No man could say pretty things like that and comfort her the way the moon could.

Nell, for the second night in a row, lies on her back on top of the coarse green blanket and stares at the ceiling, wishing she could see through it.

***

Just as all the mornings before, the residents of Gray’s Home for Unfortunate Children crowd around the big blackboard to take note of their chores for the day. Alicia is in front of the group. Nell is at the back. Alicia exits the crowd from the side. Nell calls for her attention.

“Ali,” Nell calls out. Alicia pretends to not hear her and walks down the hallway. “Ali!” Nell shouts. Alicia stops.

“You don’t hav’ta be friendly with me. This is a business deal, right? If you want the heifers again, you’ll have to give something extra,” Alicia says.

“I’ll do all of it. I’ll sweep, too. Deal?” Nell extends her hand.

“No deal,” Alicia crosses her arms.

“Don’t make me spit, please.” Nell frowns.

“Ha! Nah, I want something more than that. Might save that one for later, though,” Alicia says.

“What is it?” Nell asks.

“I want to know why you want to milk the cows so bad. Nobody wants to milk the cows. And don’t tell me about good-smelling trees,” Alicia says. Nell pauses.

“I can’t tell you,” Nell whispers.

“Then I can’t trade with you.” Alicia begins to walk away.

“If I tell you, then it won’t matter anymore and I won’t want to trade. Please, Alicia. Let me do all your chores for a week. Just trade with me, okay?” Nell pleads. Alicia stops walking and turns to Nell.

“My chores and your chores? For a whole week?” Alicia scratches her cheek.

“A whole week. Deal?” Nell extends her hand again.

“Deal.” Alicia smiles. The girls shake on it.

*

A familiar setting. Eerie yellow light blurs the forever field of flowers in a low-hanging mist. Dancing petal pickers in the distance wearing hats too big. Nell again walks through the pasture along the edge where the sweet olives and azaleas meet the fence line. The moon rests opposite the rising sun this morning. Nell pulls down a branch of a sweet olive tree and gazes at the sky. She waits a beat and releases the branch. She places a handful of the blooms and leaves in the front of her blouse.

It’s so very quiet.

She pulls a folded piece of paper from the pocket of her apron and covers it under the brush beneath the tree.

Inside the dirt-floored milking parlor is Naveena. She has already gathered the cows and set the buckets out.

“Thanks,” Nell says. “I would’ve been here earlier, but I go the long way.”

“It’s no problem. I don’t mind,” Naveena says. “They listen to me alright.” She pats the side of her heifer.

“I got some for you.” Nell takes some flowers and leaves from her blouse and gives them to Naveena.

The girls do their work in silence until their buckets are almost full.

“Why don’t you sleep in the girls’ room? Where do you go?” Nell startles Naveena. “You know. It’s different, is all.”

Naveena turns from Nell.

“I won’t tell anybody or make fun,” Nell says.

“I’ll tell you if you tell me where your mother went.” Naveena faces Nell and stands.

“My mother?” Nell asks.

“You said she went on a trip. Misses says you’ve been here almost five years,” Naveena says.

“She told you that?” Nell says.

“Yes,” Naveena answers.

“When you were in school, and you said there was a man on the moon. You said a rocket ship poked his eye out. How do you know?” Nell asks.

“Father said he saw it on a screen. A big screen somewhere. He said some men built a rocket shaped like a bullet and shot it out of a cannon right into the man in the moon’s eye.” Naveena speaks rapidly. “The men stayed on the moon and watched the Earthrise. Imagine watching the Earthrise! Father said they could see other people from the stars of the Big Dipper. He said there’s a lady named Phoebe up there who takes care of the men. She’s a goddess.” Naveena smiles widely and clears her throat. “You think about the moon when your hands hurt?”

“My mother went to the moon.” Nell waits; holds her breath. “I think about her up there.”

“Just like Phoebe? Is Phoebe your mother, Nell? Is your mother a goddess?” Asks Naveena.

“No. What I mean is I don’t know, really. I don’t remember her name.” Nell’s voice trails.

“Just like you asked me, how do you know? How do you know your mother is on the moon?” Asks Naveena.

“Tell me why you don’t sleep in the girls’ room and I’ll tell you how I know my mother is on the moon. I’ll know your secret and you’ll know mine. That’s fair,” Nell says.

“It’s fair.” Naveena’s lip quivers. She places her hand on her forehead and slowly moves it down to her chin, forming a point with her thumb and index finger. “Every night I slept by myself. I’m not a baby, you know.” She claps once and raises her eyebrows. “All the time I slept in my room. I was never scared. Not ever.”

“Naveena,” Nell sighs.

“Well, I wasn’t,”

“I believe you,”

“But I’m scared now. I don’t like to be alone. My mother didn’t go to the moon. And my father didn’t either. It snowed that day and Father made a fire in the fireplace. It smelled good like fires do. Like it was Christmas only it wasn’t Christmas. Mother, she sat there at the dinner table and didn’t say anything. So, I was quiet, too. When we were done, she took our plates and walked up and down the hall and in and out of the kitchen and into her room like she had had too much coffee. Father sat in his chair in the living room looking at that fire. I was playing on the carpet. Coloring, I think. Then, I asked him if he wanted to play with me. He told me to go to bed, and I did. Mother didn’t tuck me in.” Sadness on Naveena’s face.

“The fire caught on the carpet. That’s what the man said. It took my parents,” Naveena explains. “He was a big man with a helmet on. He had a thick coat and a big gold belt buckle. I couldn’t see his mouth. He had a bushy mustache in the way.” The girls are interrupted by the noise of children running to the house.

“We have to go. We can’t miss grace. Mister will know,” Nell says.

“The smoke and fire took my mother and father while they slept. The fire took my whole house and everything inside it. It didn’t take me,” Naveena says. “The man gave me to a lady who brought me here. The lady gave me a sandwich and said Mister and Misses were nice people. It was a ham sandwich. I don’t like ham.”

“We have to go now,” Nell says.

“It didn’t take me. The fire didn’t take me.”

***

The breakfast table. The grace incantation has been said. Everyone is in their regular seats. Nell folds her hands in her lap and stares at her plate. A quiet breeze moves the bushes and trees outside.

“Hey space case, you with us?” Alicia asks with a mouthful of breakfast.

“Space case! Space case!” Donald laughs.

“Not hungry, thank you,” Nell says. She cuts her eyes to Donald.

Digory looks to his left and right. He then scribbles the word, “eat” on his chalkboard.

“Digory,” Nell says.

Digory shakes his chalkboard. He then puts his hands together in a petitioning prayer. Nell sighs and looks away. She cuts into a piece of breakfast sausage with her fork and nibbles.

“She’s not a space case. She’s smarter than you, dumb Donald,” Naveena says.

“Who’s askin’? You clack-box imp. I should pop you one, weirdo,” Donald says.

“Go right ahead. I’ll slug you back. Hard, too. You’ll cry to your mammy and your pappy,” Naveena says.

Donald shoves Naveena. Naveena shoves back. The children begin to hoot and holler. Digory grabs Donald by the collar and takes him to the ground. Alicia lets out a battle cry and jumps onto her chair. Several other children follow suit.

“Children!” Mrs. Gray cries. Mr. Gray stumbles over his chair and jams his hip on the table as he rushes to clear the fight.

“Enough. Double chores for a week,” Mr. Gray struggles to lift Digory from Donald, “both of you.”

The boys stand at attention as Mr. Gray reprimands them. Nell, who has remained seated during the scuffle, notices a message on Digory’s chalkboard. It says, “Fly to me. The sparrow knows.” Nell swallows hard.

*

The kitchen buzzes with chatter from the house’s staff. A pot of water boils over into the flames of the stove. A house cook stirs the pot with a wooden spoon. A light mist of cigarette smoke layers the low ceiling. 

They take on more and more children and don’t hire more staff.

My feet hurt.

Your feet hurt? My everything hurts.

I wish they’d hire one more cook at least. Not like there aren’t ladies lined up for jobs nowadays.

They let a new girl on yesterday afternoon. Cute thing. I heard Mr. Gray tell Mrs. Gray that hiring a new girl is out of the question. You know she did it anyway.

You call her cute. I call her boney. Doesn’t look like she knows her way around the kitchen, I’ll tell you that!

The women laugh and holler, all but unaware of Nell and Digory at the washing sink.

“Thanks for what you did; standing up to Donald.” Nell hands a plate to Digory.

Digory nods and rinses the plate. He looks at Nell and gives a proud smile.

“Oh, I mean Naveena will likely thank you, too,” Nell clears her throat, “I’m sorry you got in trouble. Donald is a gollumpus and a scamp.”

Digory shakes his head and gestures as if his act of courage was no big deal. The staff ladies leave the kitchen after sifting spaghetti from the pot.

Nell catches movement out of the corner of her eye. She shoots a startled glance at the mural. The eyes of the freckled girl blink at her, look directly at her. A moment passes. The painted girl is two-dimensional once again.

“I can tell you anything, can’t I?” Nell watches Digory’s chalkboard for a moment. Then back at the mural. The chalkboard hangs on the wall near him. Digory puts his hand over his mouth. A breathy laugh escapes.

“Not because you don’t speak, of course. It’s because we’re friends. Real friends,” Nell says.

Digory pretends to lock his mouth shut. He tosses the imaginary key. Nell chuckles, then quickly straightens her face.

“I’m leaving Gray’s.” Digory stops rinsing. “I’m going to be with my mother.” Nell again glances at Digory’s chalkboard. She draws a long breath, “I want you to help me. You and Naveena.”

Digory reaches for his chalkboard.

“You’re wet. Your hands are wet,” says Nell. “Show me after.”

Digory nods.

“Hey, Dig. There are only a few plates left. Will you finish them for me? I need to meet with Naveena before we go milking.” Nell takes off her gloves. 

Digory smiles and gives a thumb up.

“Thank you. I owe you.” Nell hangs the gloves near the sink and removes her apron. “Dig… do you think magic is real?” Nell folds her apron.

Digory raises an eyebrow, holds his wet and steaming hands in front of him, and glances at his chalkboard.

“Right. Maybe later we can talk. Thank you, again.” Nell places a hand on Digory’s shoulder, looks out the door for any lurking staff, and heads down the hallway in search of Naveena.

***

Digory Loving was eight years old when he awoke from a deep sleep, head on his mother’s lap, in the back of a black car he had never been in before. It was almost morning. The backseat smelled like clothes that hadn’t been put out to dry in time. It smelled like the time he had wet the bed and was too afraid to tell his mother.

In the twilight space between being fully awake and fully asleep, Digory felt his mother twiddle and shuffle beneath his heavy head. He heard his father say, ‘I’ll have him. Quickly, now,” and was hoisted over his father’s shoulder.

Digory wiped his eyes. His field of vision shifted to and fro with his father’s hurried and heavy steps. This house before him seemed like a giant on top of a hill. It stretched on and on making it impossible to peak around for clues to its mystery. Digory was a lost field mouse or wounded bird at the seat of the giant. His father’s dress shoes clunked up the stairs and onto a wooden deck. He set Digory down as an offering to be eaten; a repentance or petition. Digory was too confused, too tired to stand. He began to crawl like a baby to his mother.

“Is this the place?” Digory’s mother asked.

“You know it is,” his father said. Digory’s mother knelt to speak with him.

“You’re going to stay here with the Grays for a couple of weeks, Digory Loving.” His mother framed his plump face in her palms.

“But I don’t know the Grays. What if my tooth comes out and the fairy can’t find me? Where will you and pop be?” The boy asked.

“The Grays are like a grandmother and grandfather. They watch over children when mums and pops can’t. Only for a little while, you know,” his mother spoke softly.

The Grays. Digory had not known either set of his grandparents, but he imagined them to be any color other than gray. Maybe his grandmother was yellow like water lilies and his grandfather green like ocean water must be green. Not gray. Gray can be an awful color to ponder.

Three short honks from the black car.

“Alright then. Time to go,” Digory’s father knocked on the door with the meaty part of his fist. A slight woman with crepe skin opened the door. “This is D. Loving,” his father stood him up and placed both hands on Digory’s shoulders to present his boy. The lady hesitated. “Arrangements have been made,” he looked back at the car.

“Yes.” The lady took Digory by the arm.

“When will you come back?” Digory’s voice was uneasy and trailing. His mother turned away and walked quickly to the car, her hands shielding her face.

“Put that tooth beneath your pillow. Mind the Grays as you would mum and me. Don’t scuffle with the other children,” Digory’s father took a few steps back. “Don’t talk back or make a fuss. Go on in.”

“Other children? But when will you come again?” Digory began to cry.

“Don’t talk back,” his father commanded.

Digory’s father disappeared into the back seat of the black car. It sped away down the hill and out of sight. 

***

Nell races to the girls’ dormitory in hopes to intercept Naveena. The halls of the Home are barren now. All doors on the way to the dormitory are shut. Classes are in session for the children who do not have morning chores.

“Little girl, little girl. Where are you off to?” Nell is startled by the unfamiliar voice of a woman.

“Just to the girls’ room,” Nell says. She does not turn to the voice.

“Stop, won’t you?” Asks the woman. Nell pretends not to hear and speeds up.

“Little girl, please. I don’t know my way,” the woman says. Nell stops. The woman catches up to her.

Sound of rubber soles on a newly waxed floor.

“Oh, you’re not in trouble. I have washing duty. I’m newly hired on and don’t know where to go.” Nell turns to the woman. “I think I’m the victim of some light hazing, you see. The other ladies have me going in circles.” The woman smiles. Her brow is light. She blows her blond bangs from her face.

“Clothes and linen washing is done near the kitchen. You just missed it, ma’am,” Nell speaks to the ground.

“Thank you. I’m lucky to have found you, you knowing your way around. What a pretty bow in your hair,” the woman says.

“Thank you.” Nell looks up from the ground. “Your constellations.”

“I beg your pardon?” The woman smiles.

“Your freckles, I mean. I meant your freckles. I like them. I’m sorry. I have to go now.”  Nell dashes down the hall in hopes to meet Naveena.

   As Nell approaches the dormitory, she notices the door is propped up by a bucket full of soapy water. Two of the house’s staff ladies are cleaning and chatting with one another.

I’ve never heard such a peculiar thing.

I’ve never seen such a strange child. The way she stares.

Nell peeks into the room and scans for Naveena, who is nowhere in sight. All the girls are gone. One of the women is cleaning the window. The other is sweeping under beds. The sweeping lady hits her head on the metal frame of Nell’s bunk.

“You- you startled me,” the woman says. “Are you lost?”

“Yes. I mean, no. I’m going out to the parlor now.” Nell turns to leave.

“I think you should stay right there.” The woman turns to her coworker at the window. The window washer raises an eyebrow, shakes her head, and returns to her work. “What do you think, Samantha?”

“Leave me out of it,” Samantha says as she continues to scrub the window.

“I’ll be late. I’ll be in trouble, ma’am,” Nell stammers. The woman motions for Nell to come to her. Nell acquiesces, hands folded in front of her.

“Rach,” the window washing woman says, “let her be.”

“Trouble, eh?” Rachel extends a closed hand to Nell.

“You’ve found candy wrappers. The candy’s not stolen. I’ve only forgotten to throw them away,” Nell says.  The woman slowly opens her hand, revealing scraps of paper with Nell’s drawings on them.

“Who said anything about candy? You shouldn’t leave these lying around. They are supposed to stay in art class with Miss Stevens,” Rachel smiles. “Space ships are in great demand. You never know who would want to get their hands on your ideas.”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”

“You don’t want to be late. Off to the parlor. Take your sketches with you.” Rachel pats Nell on the shoulder and hands her the drawings. Nell runs out into the hallway.

“And let’s keep chocolatey hands off your whites from now on, okay miss?” the woman hollers. 

*

Long grass whips at Nell’s shins as she races to the parlor. The wind picks up and pushes at Nell’s back. Her step quickens.

Naveena is setting the heifers in place.

“You’re early,” Naveena says.

“Yes, I didn’t go the long way today,” Nell says. She runs her fingers through her ponytail. “I looked for you first.”

“I’m only kidding. ‘cept now we don’t have any smell good. Lady cow here forgot to take a bath,” Naveena laughs and pats her cow on the behind.

“I need to show you something.” Nell pulls the drawings from her pockets. She runs her fingers through her hair again.

“Whoa! These look just like the ship my father told me about!” Naveena says, “You’ve got talent, Nell. That’s what they say out west. They say, ‘that kid’s got talent’. That’s what you have, and that’s what they would say about you.” Naveena speaks as fast as a pinwheel spins on a windy afternoon.

Nell folds the drawings and puts them back in her pocket. “We’re going to build it. The rocket your father told you about. We are going to build it and fly it to the moon so I can be with Phoebe, my mother.”

“Your mother is the goddess!” Naveena raises her hands above her head and spreads her fingers.

“It’s just as good if she is or isn’t. She’s there and I can go to her,” Nell says. “She’s stopped talking to me and she might be hurt.”

“We don’t know anything about building anything. How’s it gonna happen? The boys build birdhouses and dog houses, but none of them build rocket ships. Besides, they’d tell on us or break it before they’d help us.”

“Digory’s going to help,” says Nell. “Digory won’t tell nor will he break it.”

“Oh Nell, Dig is swell and all, but he don’t say anything. He don’t know how to get to space. He knows how to fight alright, but not how to get to the moon. And couldn’t tell you even if he did know.” Naveena folds her arms.

“You’ll see. We have to get my other drawings first. The drawings show the steps.” Nell says. She does not say maybe Diggory would speak with Naveena. Maybe he would speak if he were alone with Naveena on top of the Home; in the very hair of the giant where no one else would dare look for him.

The girls step out of the parlor and into the pasture. An overcast sky plays tricks on their perception of time. Rain clouds roll above in a fast-forwarded glitch. Nell places a hand on her head. Her shoulders hunch. Her face grimaces.

“Your bow is too tight.” Naveena undoes the ribbon atop Nell’s head. Her locks fall onto arched shoulders. She gazes at the clouds and undoes her apron. Naveena’s kindness lingers on Nell like the aroma of sweet olive leaves. Thunder grumbles somewhere far away.

“It’s like a big stomach growling. Like it’s hungry for breakfast,” Nell says. She squints and shades her eyes despite the dim morning light. She clenches her teeth and rubs her jaw.

“I’m hungry for breakfast. We should get your drawings and get back to milking before it starts raining. What would happen if the drawings got wet? Hey, will we be denied breakfast if we aren’t done with chores on time? Can’t we build the ship from your memory anyway? Some children complain that meals are always the same here. Don’t they know it could be worse? Leaving your drawings outside was not a good plan, Nell, it wasn’t.”

Nell has walked ahead of Naveena, who now speaks with her hands as much as her words, assuming Nell has stuck around for the spectacle.

“Wait up!” Naveena says. She trots along to catch up with Nell.

*

Upstairs is the place where Mr. Gray listens to Chopin. Upstairs is where Mrs. Gray smokes cigarillos near the small, moss-covered window in her walk-in wardrobe. Upstairs is a place where no child goes, save the night terror laden Naveena. Upstairs in a house so old, no one remembers who built it or why. Mr. and Mrs. Gray speak with one another as a storm rolls in.

“Being around the girl will do her some good,” Miss Gray exhales a cloud of smoke.

“Rose, my dear. You say being around the girl will do the woman some good. I say it will harm the child.” Mr. Gray speaks with his hands on his hips. He turns his head to avoid the lingering smoke. “We’ve never had a former resident come back to work here. It’s unprecedented.”

“My heart breaks. For what end does this place serve? Are we here to instruct children on manners and maths only to have them kicked out when they’ve reached the age? Kicked out and left to be gobbled up by the great unknown? My heart breaks, Robert.” Rose Gray faces a tall, clouded mirror. “The woman is here now. As a child, what she did, how she was, we don’t know, do we? We were not her caretakers then. This was before we were the proprietors of this place.”

“Your heart is the source of your suffering. Indeed, your heart is the space for many precious things I cannot live without, but it is also home to your beloved anguish. We must protect the children above all else. She stays away from them all. Not just the one. There will be no exception.” Robert Gray feels the stubble of his neck. He needs to shave.

Mr. Gray walks to the window. His steps are proud. He draws the curtain. From the second floor of the Home, he can see the horizon beyond the horizon. He can see the red clay pit outside the parameters of his property. A pit so deep the bottom appears black to him. He can see children fleeing the coming rain. He hears their ruckus downstairs. Their shoes being kicked off kicked off.

“On another matter, it’s time Naveena assimilates,” Mr. Gray says.

“She will scream all night,” Mrs. Gray says as she exhales another cloud.

“She has friends now. See for yourself.” Mr. Gray gestures for Mrs. Gray. Mrs. Gray stubs out her tiny cigar. Together they witness Nell and Naveena sneaking, as it were, to the fence line. “I think Nell will do some good for the girl, to use your words. Alicia will help. You know how she is.”

*

Nell and Naveena approach the tree under which Nell’s rocket ship blueprints are hidden. Nell scans three-sixty for spies; for curious kids looking to cause trouble. Once she is sure she and Naveena are alone, she kneels and begins to uncover her drawings. Naveena follows suit.

“I drew these before you told me about the man in the moon. I drew them,” Nell inhales slowly, “because Diggory told me to.” Nell maintains her gaze, imploring Naveena’s eyes.

“Diggory doesn’t tell anyone anything. We’ve been over this. Why are you fooling me?” Naveena tosses some leaves and dirt aside.

“His chalkboard. I see things on it. I read things from it that come true. Lots of things. You coming to the Home, for one. And months ago, in art class, Miss Stevens had us cutting out shapes from colored paper to make houses and people. I looked across the table and there it was, Dig’s blackboard said, ‘Come to me. Draw a spaceship and make it real.’ It scared me. My scissors slipped and I cut myself badly. See?” Nell opens her hand revealing a fresh white scar that goes all the way across her palm. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“It told you I was coming, just like the bird?” Naveena hesitates, “I didn’t see the bird in the window at breakfast.” Nell closes her hand and sighs.

“Yes, just like the bird. Dig’s blackboard said the bird was there and there it was. I saw it. You don’t believe me because you didn’t see it,” Nell says.

“I didn’t see it, but I believe you saw it.” Naveena takes Nell’s hand and opens it. She traces the scar with her pinky and places Nell’s palm against her cheek. “I believe you.”

“The day before you showed up his board said ‘the new one is a sparrow’. I thought it may have been about the bird at the window. I didn’t know it was about you, but now I do. You knew about the rocket and I believe you can fly it. You are the sparrow,” Nell says. She places her other palm on Naveena’s cheek. “I want to make it come true. I want to make it a real thing,” Nell says. She folds the drawings and secures them in her pocket with the rest. The girls make their way back to the Home just before the sky bursts with water.

                                                                     ***

Saturday morning is here. Glorious Saturday. The Home is skinny on these precious days. The staff is reduced to the essential workers, some of whom live in the quarters of the back wing.

On Saturdays like this, there are few children inside the Home. There are unexplored hills slick with mud to be tumbled down. There are funny frog sounds out by the water to be investigated. Tadpoles need catching. Salamanders need chasing. Boys need to fight and girls need to run and to play pretend.

Mrs. Gray lets the children sleep in on Saturdays. However, breakfast is served at seven sharp and if a seat at the table is missing a mouth, that mouth will not be fed until noontime. This morning there are three seats missing mouths: those of Nell, Naveena, and Digory. Alicia and Donald converse with cheeks stuffed like chipmunks.

“He’s afraid of you, that Digory. He’s gotta be. Never seen him skip a meal before,” Alicia says. “You woulda beat him had Mr. Gee Willikers not stopped the fight.” Alicia points her thumb down the table where Mr. Gray currently sits.

Donald squeezes his fork and grinds the handle end across the table in front of him. His knuckles are white. “I didn’t want to beat him.”

Alicia raises an eyebrow. “Covert, Don. I like it,” Alicia says. She continues to eat.

“Yeah, co- covert or whatever.” Donald swallows and tosses his fork on his empty plate.

“It means you did it on purpose to trick him,” Alicia says.

“I know what it means,” Donald says. He leans toward Alicia. “I know what it means.”

“Alright, gee, you’re a scholar, I get it.” Alicia shoves Donald’s shoulder.

“I’m gonna make him pay,” Donald whispers. “I’ll make everyone in this damn flophouse pay for laughing at me.”

“Don’t get any ideas, Donny. I was just egging on the fight,” Alicia says. “The excitement of it, you know. I was rooting for you, even.” Alicia waits a beat and cocks her head to the side. “Now, the new girl, she was laughin’ hard. She thinks she’s better. She sleeps in the Gray’s bed and she thinks she can have Nell all to herself. She’s got Nell all confused.”

“Yeah, her, too,” Donald says.

“What are ya gonna do about it, Donny-boy?” Alicia winks at Donald and stuffs another bite into her chipmunk mouth.

*

“We’re going to the dump yard. It has to be today.” Nell and Naveena are in the boys’ room; a place where all girls fear to tread. “That’s where we’ll find the parts,” Nell says to Digory.

The boys’ room is much like the girls’ room. The sprawling floor, the single window, the walls lined with bunks. Only these bunks are older and in poorer shape. They are rusted and unmade. The floor is unwaxed and streaked with black marks.

“I want you to help us. I believe you know how to build the rocket ship. My mother told me you could. Look,” Nell shows Digory her drawings, “this is what we will build. You have to help us.”

Digory’s face contorts. He quickly scribbles “Leaving? No,” on his chalkboard. 

“It’s magic, Dig.” Naveena steps between Nell and Digory. She pauses. “Nell’s mom is a goddess. Don’t you know that? She talks with Nell from the moon, only she’s stopped talking. She sent messages to Nell through your chalkboard. Do you know how special that is, Dig? Did you know you’re an accessory to magic? It’s all planned out. You should help us. Nell will be gone, yes, but wouldn’t you be gone too if your parents asked you to go to them? You’ll build the ship and I’ll fly it. Oh, and don’t you worry about me. I’ll come right back. I’ve got no place in the forest on the moon. My place is here with you.”

Digory wipes the white chalk from his board. He thinks a moment, and writes, “Crazy but ok. Be with Mom.”

Naveena jumps. Both girls envelope Digory whose face has turned red.

*

The back wing of the Home, much like the Home itself, is divided into a women’s side and a men’s side with common areas in the front. The back door opens to a vast vegetable garden. A path through the garden leads to a large, simple chapel where Sunday services are held. On Saturdays, however, the chapel is where the staff like to drink, play cards, and pick banjos. Samantha, Rachel, and the new woman sit at a pew together. Others play Gin Rummy and drink from bottles near the altar.

“I’ve never seen anyone smoke in a church before,” the new woman says “or drink, or anything other than praising the Lord.”

 “Praising the Lord is for tomorrow. Sin on Saturday, forgiven on the Sabbath. Keeps us sane,” Rachel says. “Which is hard to do, working around these rambunctious children.” Rachel unbuttons the top two buttons of her blouse and fans her face.

“Oh, I don’t know,” the new woman shuffles in the pew. She spots a hymnal in front of her and thumbs through it. 

“Oh, we know, Bea, we know. You must think all the children here are hapless orphans. You must think they’re all poor unfortunates. Don’t be deceived. Don’t be foolish. They’re defects, every last one of them. Did you know there’s one who burnt her house down killing her folks just because her dad wouldn’t play with her?” Samantha says.

“That is not so. It can’t be. They aren’t all bad,” Bea says. Bea reads to herself from the hymnal: When sorrows like sea billows roll, whatever my lot, thou has taught me to say, it is well with my Soul.

“You’ll see. Why do you think the Grays don’t want you around the kids? Those little demons would rather bite the breast than take the milk,” Rachel says.

“You don’t understand, I-“

“I do understand. I understand you need a drink.” Bea slaps the hymnal closed. Rachel tries to hand her a flask. “Go on. We know why you’re here. It’s the same reason we’re all here. You don’t get to live in the back wing of the Home by being a saint.” Rachel again offers the flask.

“Drink up! It’s Saturday,” a man from the front of the chapel hollers. “You’re making us uncomfortable, dolly.” Laughter. Rachel edges the flask towards Bea. Bea looks at Rachel’s yellowed hands, her chipped fingernails. Then, she notices the stick and poke tattoo on the man’s neck as he draws upon his cigarette and lays down a card.

“I’m on the mend.” Bea raises her hand, skinny fingers extended in protest. Hard lines in her palm. Crooked smile. She blows her bangs from her face. Samantha takes the flask from Rachel and claims the last gulp for herself.

“You don’t drink. You don’t play cards. Can’t cook for anything. You’re slow with the wash. What do you do ‘cept have all them freckles on your face?” Rachel laughs.

“I can cook just fine.” Bea’s eyes narrow. The wounded Christ on the cross weeps from the pulpit, his crown of thorns head hangs low. “I used to paint when I was little.” She looks at the barren walls and the cheerless pyramid ceiling. “I’d like to do that again. I think I will now.” Bea exhales, places the hymnal back into its cubby, and swiftly exits the chapel. The door creaks and slowly closes behind her. 

*

Nell, Naveena, and Digory venture beyond the field and over rolling hills past groups of children playing tag. The trio runs at a full clip.

“How do you know where the dump is?” Naveena asks.

“I follow my nose!” Nell takes sweet olive leaves from her blouse and smiles widely. “It doesn’t smell so fantastic in the pit.” 

“I mean it. What if we get lost? What if we go so far that we don’t know our way back? What if we happen upon a pack of wild and hungry animals that don’t know anything about the moon or magic?” Naveena takes Nell by the hand and slows their pace.

“I’ve been there before. Before you came to the Home. The dump is just beyond this last hill and to the left at a dead oak tree. Then just a short walk until you see red clay. It’s called a dump, but that’s a strange thing to call such a place.” Nell begins to jog again. Digory huffs. Naveena sprints forward. “It’s a wonderful place full of treasure. There’s magic there. Even the animals know it.”

“It’s like the Grand Canyon; a wide and deep hole. The river runs near it. It’s got rusted cars and bits of machinery and parts of this and that. Mostly from the old factory, I think,” Nell says.

Our trio has strayed so far from the Home, they may as well be in another country. Gangs of feral cats scatter from their path. The only sounds are those of hand-me-down shoes hitting the dirt and of Digory’s failing breath. The children approach the dead oak tree. Digory stops in his tracks and coughs loudly, insisting they stop to rest. A crow taunts them from a dead oak branch.

“We can’t wait for long. We have so much to do and it will be lunchtime and then lights out before we know it. We will need to finish tomorrow morning so Naveena and I can fly tomorrow night.” Nell paces left and right. Digory and Naveena sit cross-legged, knee to knee beneath the dead oak tree. The blackbird squawks incessantly from a branch above. “It’s only another few minutes that way.” Nell points to her left. The bird takes off in that direction. A light breeze jostles Nell’s hair.

*

Bea enters the back wing. She knocks on doors. She glances around corners. She calls ‘hello’ in a worried falsetto. Bea is all alone in the back pocket of a giant. She hears the floor creak and is startled, only to realize it is her own steps that have shaken her. She blows her bangs from her face and makes her way to the hall of classrooms.

Room three. Art class. Bea runs her fingers over the name placard on the door. Miss Stevens. She pushes the door open. The weight of it causes her to stumble. 

The closet. That’s where the paints were kept.

Bea walks across the room between tiny desks to the closet. Her heart pounds. She swallows hard. She blows her bangs from her face. Small buckets of paint are stacked neatly atop one another. Paintbrushes of varying sizes and shapes are arranged in several cups. She grabs a few buckets of paint and balances them surely against her body. She secures brushes with the other hand. Bea shuffles out of the art room and hurries down the hallway. She sways side to side to keep the buckets balanced.

 “I can give you a hand with that!” a man shouts down the hallway as Bea disappears around a corner.

“No, thank you! I’m all set!” Bea nearly loses her footing.  

The kitchen. It’s empty, thank God.

Water pipes moan in the walls of the kitchen. The rush of the water reminds Bea of the sound of blood flowing through a body; the kind of sound blood makes in your head when you’ve been running for your life or after making love. She walks to the mural and sets down the brushes and buckets. She flips the switch. A horrible fluorescent presence invades the space. Bea winces and cuts the light.

Before Bea is the faded and washed-out mural painted some time ago. Steam and grease from boiling pots and grimy hands have cloaked its former brilliance. Bea’s eyes adjust to the dim light. She grabs the largest brush and uses its handle to pry open a bucket of paint. She dips the hairs of the brush into the bucket.

Bea spends a few quiet moments looking over the multitudes in the mural. She stops on a familiar freckled face. An image so faded it couldn’t be noticed by anyone else. Swollen belly. Eyebrows slanted in worry behind blond bangs. Now the eyes of the painted elderly woman catch her attention. She traces with her finger the painted woman’s hand that covers her heart.

Hello. There you are. I have missed you so much.

***

Sunday is here. Sundays are not as sleepy as Saturdays at Gray’s Home for Unfortunate Children. Sunday is when childless couples from around the state come to play with the children in the flower field. Red rover, tag, hide and find; each man and woman test the children for compatibility and peculiarities. Often a child of two or three years of age is taken away. Never are the older orphans adopted. 

Sundays are also for worship in the chapel. A rotary of young ministers takes turns sharing the good news to the townsfolk, orphans, and staff of the Home. Good Ben now takes the helm.

The people are packed shoulder to shoulder in the old chapel this morning. A light breeze glides through and slowly opens the vestibule door much to the relief of the ladies and gentlemen who are dressed in layers of their Sunday best.

“The Lord has blessed us with some relief from the heat,” Good Ben, the fresh-faced minister says from the pulpit. The ladies whose tinted lips drew upon bottles of bourbon the day before now giggle and pucker for Good Ben.

Alicia and Donald have strategically taken pews directly behind our trio. Alicia rolls her eyes and mimics Good Ben’s sloppy hand gestures. She pokes fun at his admirers, the mewing lionesses at the front of the chapel. Donald’s forehead goes red as he fights back laughter. Donald winds up his middle finger and thumb. He releases a solid thump on Digory’s ear. Digory turns and bats the attack away.

“Ignore him, Digs. If we get into trouble, we won’t make it to the pit today,” Naveena whispers. Digory huffs and straightens his shirt. Donald grins and lifts an eyebrow. Nell bites her bottom lip. “We’ve got everything together. Trust me, I want to wallop Donald as much as you want to.”

Naveena, Nell, and Digory sit together close to the exit. They know better than to stir up commotion during the service, so details of today’s build have been discussed prior. They are to leave right after the call to the altar. They are to skip breakfast, a detail that poor Digory did not find at all useful or needful. They are to forgo playing with potential parents today. Their great adventure lies in the clay pit down by the old factory beyond the boundaries of Mr. and Mrs. Gray’s property; a place no orphan is permitted.

After his sermon and after much singing, Good Ben makes a plea for his sheep to come to the altar. A few raise their hands while every head is bowed. Those few enter the aisle and walk to the altar to ask the Lord into their hearts. After a few minutes of tears and jubilation, our trio assumes their safety and uses the commotion as a blanket for their departure. Donald and Alicia follow at a distance.

Our trio and their antagonists are long on the trek to the red clay pit outside the boundaries of the Home. Rose and Robert Gray stand at the chapel’s exit with Good Ben. Ben’s sheep spill out from the chapel into the vast vegetable garden that surrounds the great old building. The Home casts a shadow over handshakes and pleasantries. 

“Mr. Gray,” Miss Stevens, dressed in a thin floral pattern and a straw hat, struggles with making her way through the multitude of the saved and the sinful. “Mr. Gray, if I could have a moment. There’s been a theft.” A tall, fat man occupies Robert Gray’s attention. “Pardon me, if you will.” Miss Stevens yanks the man to the side by the shoulder. He scoffs.

“Miss Stevens.” Mr. Gray tips his hat. “What an impressive display of dominance.”

“Miss Stevens.” Mrs. Gray curtsies.

“H-happy S-Sunday, M-Miss Stevens,” Good Ben stammers.

“There’s been a theft,” Miss Stevens says.

“A theft?” Mrs. Gray asks.

“Well, what was stolen, Miss Stevens?” Asks Mr. Gray.

“Paint and brushes. Right out of my closet they were taken. And the thief, the thief painted over the mural,” Miss Stevens says.

“The thief ruined the mural? Our beloved mural in the kitchen?” Mrs. Gray places a hand on her cheek.

“Not exactly ruined, Mrs. Gray. Come and see,” says Miss Stevens.

*

“It will be finished today, won’t it, Dig?” Nell stands sandwiched between Naveena and Digory at the edge of the red clay pit. Before them in the middle of the canyon is yesterday’s work; their collection of gears and steel rods, of old window panes and motorcar engines. Digory takes a look at Nell’s drawings and then at the pieces in the pit. He smiles and gives a thumbs up. Nell skips down the edge and toward the rocket ship parts. Naveena and Digory follow.

“We should move the parts to the edge near the drop.” Naveena picks up a rubber hose and sets it down. She kicks a tire. “The ship’s gonna be awfully heavy, isn’t it? And to push it to the top near the cliff, that’ll be too hard. It’s one thing to fly it, it’s another to push it up this slippery hill.”

Nell agrees. The children move the parts to the edge near the cliff and begin to assemble the rocket ship under Digory’s supervision. In the blood-colored mud on the edge of the cliff, our trio attaches wheels to barrels and glass panes to metal frames until each part has found its partner.

Digory taps Nell on her shoulder. He motions for her to enter the ship. Then, he guides Naveena to the pilot’s seat, his hand soft on her tricep.

“So, this is it. It’s a good rocket ship, Dig. You did good,” Naveena says with a smile. She grasps the steering wheel in front of her. She wipes mud from the inside of the windshield.

“It looks good to go to me. What do you think, Digory? There is a full moon tonight. Will we be ready to fly by then?” Nell runs her fingers over the row of buttons in front of her.

*

The kitchen. A light switch is flipped.

“No. Turn it off immediately. Turn off the light.” Robert Gray strikes a match and lights a lantern. He holds the lantern to the painted wall and examines its details. He touches a bit of the painted sky. It is still tacky, nearly wet.

“Mr. Gray,” Miss Stevens begins. Robert raises a finger. The crowd behind him anticipates, their breath shallow.

Robert moves the lantern slowly left to right across the mural. Rose strikes her own match and lights a second lamp.

“Robert?” Rose whispers.

“It is brilliant,” Robert says to his wife. He turns to the people behind him. “It’s brilliant!” The lamp casts shadows over the crowd. “Come forth you maestro of color, you genius of the painted person!” The people inspect one another. Was it you? No, not me. Certainly you?

“Claim this beauty. Come on. Your theft is forgiven. Who is it?” Mr. Gray holds his lamp above the astonished people.

Bea allows the crowd around her to obscure her as a person of interest. She notices a patch of blue paint on her index finger. She quickly rubs it away.

She dreamed of them. She drew them and gave them names. That’s what makes a thing real.

*

Donald and Alicia watch our trio move in and out of their newly built rocket ship from a heaping pile of rubbish.

“What the hell is that? Looks like a bunch of garbage.” Donald asks. His mouth is grim. His hands are fists.

“Hey, Don, we’ve waited all day already. That’s long enough, don’cha think?” Alicia plops down. Her hands rest atop her head. “You gonna fight Mute Boy, or not? You’re okay and all, but I’m ready to go back,” Alicia complains.

“Those losers spent all this time settin’ garbage on top of garbage callin’ it a damned spaceship. Applesauce. Horsefeathers,” Donald says.

“Hey, who cares what they built. Are you gonna pop Digs, or aren’t ‘cha?” Alicia throws a rock. It lands on something metallic. PING.

“Who’s there?” Naveena spins around in the pilot’s seat.

“Good goin’. No time to waste now!” Donald darts towards the rocket ship from his hiding place. He is intercepted by Digory.

“I’ll break you first, then I’ll bump off your jalopy. How’s that?” Donald shoves Digory. Digory slips. Donald tumbles on top. The boys roll in the red clay mud and trade blows. Donald stands and starts to move toward the rocket ship. Digory trips him. Donald gets up again and spits out a mouthful of red. “That’s it. I’m crushing this garbage!” Donald takes off to destroy the rocket ship.

 “We have to go now.” Nell turns to her pilot.

“The moon. It isn’t out yet. It’s still daylight!” Naveena says. Nell sighs.

Alicia tackles Donald.

“You didn’t say nothin’ about breaking their ship. You was supposed to fight Dig, not trash the ship!” Donald and Alicia scramble. Digory joins Alicia in pinning Donald. All three are wet with red.

“It’s now, or never. Get out and help me push. Please, Naveena,” Nell says. The two girls get out of the cockpit and roll the rocket faster and faster to the edge of the cliff.

“Okay, now!” Naveena says as the rocket meets the edge. The girls hop back into the spacecraft just before it disappears over the edge of the cliff.

Alicia belts a scream.

“Hey, hey, it wasn’t supposed to go like that. I was only tryna scare ‘em!” Donald begins to sob.

Digory clears mud from his face and struggles to stand.

***

Early Monday morning. The sun has yet to shine. Bea packs her few belongings in the dark and has set her mind to leaving Gray’s Home for Unfortunate Children before she can be found out as the celebrated vandal.

“I didn’t peg you as a quitter,” Rachel says from her cot.

“I’m not,” Bea says.

“Leaving, quitting, it’s all the same,” Rachel says.

Bea moves a bottle from beneath her pillow and places it in her bag. “You know, I’ve had this bottle since before I started here. God willing, I’ll have it long after,” Bea says.

“You keep a bottle of booze with you? Sober, Bea? You must enjoy the temptation,” Rachel says.

“It keeps me strong.” Bea folds a blouse and puts it on top of the bottle in her bag. “I should have never come here,” she pauses, “I’m sorry for what I am.” Bea extinguishes her candle and exits the back wing.

*

 The halls are alive with Monday morning’s bustle. Dozens of shiny little heads check the chalkboard for today’s chore delegations. Little feet race to latrines and the day’s work is begun.

Nell and Naveena now rest in the girls’ dormitory. Nell occupies her favorite spot nearest the window. Naveena lounges below. Her crossed legs bounce.

“The nurse said we have to wear these slings for a whole two weeks and we have to stay in bed. I bet we don’t have to stay in bed. I can milk cows with one arm just fine. She doesn’t know,” Naveena says.

“You’re right. We can pick flowers and vegetables with one arm, too.” Nell flips to her side and smiles. “You slept in the girls’ room last night and didn’t cry a drop.”

“That’s because I already told you I’m not a baby.” Naveena pushes the bunk above her, bumping Nell. “Hey Nell, why didn’t we fly yesterday?” Naveena asks.

“We did fly, oh yes, we did. It was not a very long flight though, Naveena. Not long at all!” The girls erupt in laughter. 

THUMP. GASP! A stone hits the window. THUMP. Nell opens the curtains.

“It’s Digory! He’s waving for us to come out,” Nell says. She scans the room for others. “Let’s do it. Let’s go out the window and see what Digory wants.” The two girls open the window and slowly climb out.

Digory motions for them to wait just outside the window on the balcony. He climbs to meet them.

“Hello, fellow adventurer!” Naveena says.

Nell grabs Digory’s shirt and fluffs it mildly. “Where’s your board? Did you lose it in the fight yesterday? It can be retrieved.” Nell says. Digory shakes his head and motions for the girls to follow him to the roof.

“I had better not. You two go. I have someone to speak with.” Nell smiles. The early morning light sets a glow to her hair. She blows her bangs away from her face. Digory climbs to the roof and lifts Naveena to meet him.

*

Nell approaches a sweet olive tree that rests on the fence line of the Home for Unfortunate Children. She places a hand on its trunk and breathes deeply. She breathes in the notes of Chopin. She breathes in the rhythm of Mrs. Gray’s morning voice. She breathes in the rapid-fire speech of her new friend, Naveena. She breathes in the green around her. She exhales her longing and her pining. The aroma of the sweet olive tree circles her. It completes her. 

Nell reaches into her arm sling and pulls from it a piece of paper. On it is drawn a freckled woman and a girl, hand in hand. She kisses the drawing and buries it beneath the sweet olive tree. 

5/18/22

New Orleans, Louisiana

4:04 PM

Empathy Machines

“Empathy Machines”

By Eric St. Pierre

A boy with a coin he found in the weeds
With bullets and pages of trade magazines
Close to a car that flipped on the turn
When God left the ground to circle the world

A girl with a bird she found in the snow
Then flew up her gown and that's how she knows
That God made her eyes for crying at birth
And then left the ground to circle the Earth

A boy with a coin he crammed in his jeans
Then making a wish, he tossed in the sea
And walked to a town that all of us burned
When God left the ground to circle the world

- “Boy With a Coin” by Sam Beam

A big moon night. From above, treetops pierce the fog that thickens brush and foliage. Below, amid wide eyed owls and scurrying creatures are several flickering glows. Encircling one particular glow are joyful people sitting on logs and piles of river rocks. A beach these people call the Remembered Shore borders this large patch of wilderness. The soft sound of crashing waves dampens the hum of cicadas and the croaks of amphibians. The people, eight in total, pass around a crude clay cup and sip from it the broth of boiled wild mushrooms and lemongrass. A black and shaggy dog circles the group and finally rests at their feet. A built young man softly strums a few chords on a stringed instrument. A young girl tosses a pinecone to a woman. The woman begins to speak:

               “In the beginning, the Earth was nearly all water and there was great suffering for the creatures like us who lived on land. The air could make an animal sick and there was very little to eat. There was no shade from the sun and it blistered our backs and faces. Kushim did not roam the face of the Earth back then. There were no celebrations in the old times. No Festival. Only prayers for relief and mournful songs of toil. Then, the Child Who Heard did hear our songs and prayers. The Child came from the stars and was taught how to hold his breath by the Great Octopus who held up the eight edges of the world. The Child Who Heard went to the very bottom of the ocean and used the fire of the stars to burn up much of the water. The Child Who Heard then made mountains and valleys; more room for land-walking animals. More room for people and just enough room for fish. The Earth then became too heavy for the Great Octopus to hold above the waters and the Earth crashed down making the Remembered Shore and all the other shores and rivers of the world. The Child Who Heard then let out all of his breath, blowing away the poison air allowing things grow again. The breath of the Child Who Heard made the clouds that keep the sun happy even today, so that it does not whip and blister us.” The people around the campfire stomp their feet and slap their thighs. The woman smiles widely revealing a pretty gap between her two front teeth. Light from the fire glints in her big golden-brown eyes. Freckles speckle her cheeks. She hands the pinecone to a boy who sits near her. “Now you, Marco.”

               Marco holds the pinecone to his heart. Anxious excitement climbs his torso and cascades down his skinny frame. He begins to speak, but shy, squeaky laughter comes out instead.

               “You can tell your story, Marco. Even when your voice is small.” The woman says. The people around the fire join in encouraging Marco to tell his story.

               “Miss Naomi, maybe not just now, if that is okay.” Marco says. Naomi nods and another boy takes the pinecone away from a relieved Marco. The boy speaks:

               “In the beginning, all of the people on Earth were asleep.” The boy studies the seven around him for a moment. “Most of the time we would have good dreams, like being able to fly and go wherever we wanted. We would dream about relaxing all day. We would dream about magic boxes that answered any question they were asked. But sometimes the dreams would not be good, like being chased and having to live underground and there being no sun in the morning and all the water of the world boiling away. Then, guardian angels were made from lightning out of the sky and metal from the mountain. They saw we were troubled and they tried to wake us up. But they couldn’t, so they dipped all of us in the water of the Remembered Shore where we remembered to wake up. We remembered who we were. We swam to land and said ‘thank you’ to the guardians and they turned into fish. That’s why we eat fish on Feast Day during Festival.” The people around the fire stomp their feet and slap their thighs.

               “That’s a new one, Benji.” An old man kids with the boy. “Don’t you think if we was asleep so long, your Grandfather Rayfield would remember? If we slept so much in the beginning, how come I’m always so tired now?” All eight erupt in laughter, even shy Marco and Benji, who felt just a little picked on.

               “That’s the dream I had after our mushroom broth last night, Grandfather. I woke up right after and tried to remember all of it before it faded away. That’s what I remember.” Benji explains.

               “And I think that is just fine. It is a fine story. You let it be, Grandfather Rayfield.” Naomi defends Benji. The old man nods and smiles. The group stands up one by one, the elders, then the children.

               “Where are we going now?” Says Dear Deleyza, the tiniest of the eight. “Aren’t we supposed to tell ghost stories?”

               “Oh, I think we’ve had enough story tellin’ tonight, Dear Deleyza. I’m mighty sleepy.” Grandfather Rayfield yawns and pats the child on the head. Dear Deleyza scoffs and squinches her nose. “Tiedra will be sayin’ the breakfast blessin’ in the mornin’ before we know it.” He says.

               “Just one, Grandfather Rayfield. I never pegged you as one to break tradition.” The tallest man in the group says and looks sideways at Grandfather Rayfield with cheery, yellow eyes. Grandfather Rayfield rubs his forehead and cheeks with thick and stubby fingers. He laughs and glances downward at Dear Deleyza. The flames from the fire give a few hues of orange to Grandfather Rayfield’s face revealing lines carved by his many years.

               “If it’s just gonna be one, you want me to tell it, Dear?” Asks Grandfather Rayfield.

               Dear Deleyza clasps her palms together and lifts her eyebrows to the tallest man. “May he?” She asks.

               “It’s agreed.” The man tosses the pinecone to Grandfather Rayfield. “Give us a good scare, Grandfather.”

The group sits on their logs and river rocks. First the children, then the adults. Grandfather Rayfield remains standing. He cracks his knuckles and examines the faces of the seven who surround him. There’s Naomi with golden eyes and freckles atop her elevated cheekbones. There’s the tallest one, Johnson who could be made of mountain rock. Clinging to Johnson’s waist with her head buried under his arm is Dear Deleyza, whose hair is as big as half of the rest of her. Next is Simon who could be foothills if Johnson is a mountain. A stringed instrument is face down in his lap. They say he was born smiling. There’s Marco, the quiet one with the wrong age behind his eyes. Near him is Benji, the curious boy with a sharp jaw and cheekbones that sit higher even than Naomi’s. And there is Genovera, the one whose body is made of two colors.

“I don’t suppose you’ve heard the story of,” Rayfield pauses and catches the eyes of his people. He holds Genovera’s gaze, “the Invaders and the mongrel dogs that live on the other side of the river?” Rayfield quickly pivots his head towards Dear Deleyza. His upper lip curls and he gives a comical snarl. The tiny girl digs further into Johnson. Simon comforts her by brushing her shoulder. Benji and Marco mime the words, no, never to each other. Benji rolls his eyes.

               “There once was a time when mongrels and people were closer to being the same thing. We ate together, worked together, even lived together.” The fire has weakened. Simon attempts to liven it with pokes from a stick. Johnson shakes his head. Simon relents.

               “The dogs that roam and hunt on the other side of the river were once village dogs. Pets like Pete, here.” Pete pants excitingly at the sound of his name and stands up.  “Friends to us.” Rayfield smiles at the animal. “But long ago when the Invaders came in from the sea, our animal trainers gathered all of the big dogs to help us fight. But the Invaders had a weapon, as you all know. They had a big, giant fire.” Rayfield’s meaty hands raise to the sky. His arms spread in a V. “A fire that couldn’t be put out. A fire that could shake the ground beneath you and make the waters rise and boil.” Benji lifts his chin and looks around for acknowledgement. Grandfather Rayfield’s arms fall to his side. He continues. “A fire that if found again today,” His voice becomes a whisper, “would rage and grow and burn us all up. What could we do, but fight?” Genovera goes for a sip at the clay cup, but the broth is now gone.

               “The trainers kept them dogs in cages in a building by the river. Every day they would take the dogs out and teach them how to attack the Invaders; how to defend us. You see, they couldn’t be kind to ‘em,” Rayfield pauses to stroke Pete, “they had to make ‘em tough and mean. One night when the trainers was asleep in their camp they were sneaked up on by Invaders. They didn’t have but one guard awake and all the dogs was in their cages in the building by the river. No one could do nothin about it. The Invaders,” Dear Deleyza has come away from Johnson and is sitting up, giving Grandfather Rayfield her full attention, “well, they,” Pete lets out a mild whimper, “the Invaders took the trainers away.”

               “The next day, no trainers came to let the dogs free or to feed them or give them water. Then, the next day. Then, the next the same thing. A whole six days went by and no one helped the dogs. No one knew the trainers had been… taken.” Grandfather Rayfield’s face becomes solemn, longer than usual and darker in the dim light of dying embers. No orange hues now. Simon pats the ground in front of him. Pete understands the gesture, circles, and lays at Simon’s feet.

               “On the seventh day the dogs were mad with hunger and being locked up in cages where they could barely lie down. Thirsty, too. Such a situation would drive any one of us to do horrible things, horrible.” Rayfield chokes. Naomi nods for him to continue. Dear Deleyza’s mouth is wide open.

               “They say the river rose that seventh day. One can only imagine. Poor dogs so dried out they couldn’t even bark. In comes the water, slow like at first. That cold water on their paws. Must’ve been like heaven, lappin’ up that water, it wakin’ them up from their suffering. But it just kept comin’. The water they thought could save them kept on comin’ faster and faster until their cages filled up and they had to hold their snouts just above the surface so to not drown.” Grandfather Rayfield extends his neck and winces. “A full day and night they stayed like this. They stayed just like that, their necks bent upward and strained like they was howling at the moon. They stayed like that until a group of people from the village happened by and saw the building was all flooded out. So, they waded through the water to set the dogs free, only they had to hold the dogs under water to let them out, you see. They had to hold them under there a long time because dogs being dogs, they didn’t know they was bein’ helped. They thrashed about and bit and clawed and ran out as fast as they could.”

                “And the mongrels on the other side of the river, the ones who are much bigger than Pete here. The ones who hunt us when we cross the river. Those are the pups of the pups of the pups of those dogs. Their hatred for humans grew and grew. It still grows today. They don’t cross the river because that fear is still in ‘em just like their hatred for us people. And we don’t cross the river for our fear of them.” Rayfield grimaces, shakes his head. “If there was only a way we could tell ‘em we was only tryin’ to help. I don’t reckon there is, naw.” Grandfather Rayfield tosses the pinecone into the black ashes of the fire pit.

               “What happened after, Grandfather?” Simon asks.

               Grandfather Rayfield raises his shoulders to his ears. “I suppose that’s it, Simon.” He lets his shoulders down with a sigh. “I think there use to be an afterward to that story. I guess I don’t recall it. Maybe this is it.”

               “Now that we have come to a high point of the night, let us get some sleep.” Naomi says. Genovera picks up Dear Deleyza who then hides her face in the crook of her neck. Shortly, all but Benji and Marco go to their respective tents for a night of deep sleeping and dreaming. The boys sit in stillness and quiet for a brief time. They listen for howling from across the river before going to their tent. The fire is dead. Tomorrow is Feast Day.

*

               “What do you think happened to the weapon?” Benji asks. “Naomi says it’s made up. Grandfather Rayfield says it’s as real as you or I.” Benji gazes into the pitch black of his and Marco’s tent.

               “You or I?” Marco asks.

               “Yeah. I don’t know what I think.” Benji shuffles under his blankets. “Like, how did the Invaders get something like that, and why isn’t it around now? And what happened to the Invaders?”

               A long, warm silence.

               “Marco? Why do you think the mongrels really hate us? How do they remember what happened to their grandparents?”

               Marco inhales like he has been denied a breath. “I don’t think we’re supposed to worry about that. We have the Festival.”

               “Pete is nothing like them.” Benji pleads in the darkness. Marco sits up and places a hand on his own chest.

               “We have the festival. We have each other. We know not to go on the other side of the river. That’s all we need, Benji. Why does the where and why of weapons and mongrels matter? You allow yourself to be troubled.” Says Marco.

               Benji turns to his side, closes his eyes, and slowly draws his knees to his chest. He dissolves into a fitful and anxious sleep.

***

               It is morning. From above, treetops encircle dozens of people who play and talk and sit at a long, wooden table. Sunlight kisses all blades of grass that are not beneath their naked feet. Some groups at the table toss bone dice from clay cups and count the score. Children chase one another throughout with brass bells in their hands. They weave between the knees and scamper under the seats of elders. The rushing language of the river and the small crash of the low tide waves at the Remembered Shore are diminished by the humming liveliness of these people. This space is peppered with tents. Inside one dozes Benji.

               Clang clang clang

               Benji turns into his bedding as if to wrap himself in the fleeting moments of sleep.

                Clang clang clang… Undiscernible chatter and brass bells.

               Benji groans and kicks off his cover.

               “What did Miss Naomi put in our broth? I am so very sleepy.” He asks. The dream he awakes from becomes vapor. “I don’t think I’ll participate in the next story night, no.” Benji waits a moment for Marco to respond. “We’ve got one more. Right, Marco? One more broth and story night? One more night to dream and tell stories?” Marco is not nearby.

               Genovera and Pete dash into the tent. “Benji, wake up. Wake up, Benji.”

               “I am awake.” Clang clang clang

               “Are you? Is that right? The bells have been going for eons and you still have crust in your eye.” Benji wipes his eyes. His cheeks flush.

               “The broth. I’m so very…”

               “Not the broth.” Genovera interrupts. “You stayed out of your tent and listened for mongrels. I drank broth. I am not sleepy. Pete lapped broth. Pete sleeps all night. You refuse to sleep well and you blame Naomi.”

               “I don’t know.” Benji wipes his eyes again. “Hey, where’s Marco?”

               “Marco wakes with the bells. Marco is at the breakfast table.” Says Genovera. “Everyone is at the breakfast table.”

               “Not the bell-ringing children.” Says Benji.

               “Surely you understand me.” Says Genovera. Her eyes narrow.

               “You can go. I’ll follow soon. I need to wash in the river. I’m not in the mood for breakfast anyway.” Says Benji.

               “I will stay until you come. Johnson asks it.” Benji’s stomach growls. “Your body betrays you. You are hungry.” Says Genovera.

               Benji acquiesces. Genovera turns away from him.

               “Put a shirt on.” Says Genovera.

               “I’m going to wash. You want me to put clean clothes on before I wash?” Says Benji.

               “The shirt can be dirty. The shirt can be clean. You are a man now. Do you not remember your sixteenth?” Says Genovera.

               “Precocious girl.” Benji says behind his lips. Genovera smiles.

*

               Benji and Genovera walk through the camp. A dozen small children skip and prance around them, clanging their brass bells and singing a discordant but whimsical melody.

               “Don’t they know everyone’s already up?” Says Benji. He squints in the golden sunlight.

               “Your memory is bad.”

               “Why don’t I ever know what you’re talking about?” Benji half-whispers.

               “You do not remember holding bells and dancing and playing. You do not remember when your hands could not hold a fishing pole or a hammer. That is why the children annoy you.” Genovera faces Benji as they walk.

               The heat of the morning sun draws beads of sweat to Benji’s forehead. He quickly takes off his shirt. “Oh? Who doesn’t remember?” He wipes his forehead with the shirt and throws it at Genovera, who catches it and laughs. Benji runs from her towards the river. “I’ll meet you at the table. I told you I need to wash!” Genovera laughs and watches Benji disappear over the hill.

               “You are remembering!” She calls out to him, but he is too far gone to hear.

***

               Handmade chairs fit snugly around the breakfast table. This table is at the center of the festival. Elders congregate at either end. Bitter black yaupon drink steams from clay mugs. Even the young ones sip from them.  Johnson and Naomi toss a ball with two others. Simon throws a stick for Pete. A jubilant Pete prances back and feigns not wanting to return the stick to Simon. Their game resets again and again.

               Games are on the minds of these people. Today is Feast, tomorrow is the Games. This morning is for eating. This afternoon is for more eating. This evening is for practice. The Games have been a part of this celebration for longer than any of them can recall. Some games are for fun, some for competition and status.

               More bells sound. Only this time they do not ring from the playing hands of children. No, these are the breakfast bells; the bells that mark the beginning of Feast. Startled starlings scatter out of trees and into the sky. The reverberation of the breakfast bells seems to bring everything and everyone into sharper focus. Daylight seems more crisp, absolute. The great mass of people now gathers at the table. The strong yaupon stimulant charges their bodies. The orchestral roar of voices diminuendos until there are just a few excited murmurs from young throats. The rhythm of the Remembered Shore overtakes the ears, setting into motion a ceremonial sitting down. First the elders, then the younger ones shrink rhythmically in line into each hand carved chair.

               Large steaming plates of citrus fruits, nuts, and fishes are passed from hand to eager hand. Pete sniffs around each bare ankle, whimpering and searching for a fallen scrap. Tiedra is at one of the far ends of the table. She stands to speak. The young ones quiet down. Even Pete sits and listens.

               “There will be rain tomorrow.” Tiedra looks up into a cloudless sky. She nods her head several times. She is painted in a yellow luster. “Practice for the Games will be put off,” she says. “The rain will not go long. Games are pushed back one day.” Tiedra closes her eyes and dips her chin to her chest. “Let us be thankful. Let us be gracious,” she pauses, opens her eyes and smiles, “let us feast.”

               The cleansing properties of last night’s mushroom and lemongrass broth has emptied the stomachs of these people. They stuff themselves with a happy voraciousness. Elbows brush against elbows. Their chatter again overtakes the natural rhythmic pulsing of the Shore and hum of the river.  

               Grandfather Rayfield is seated next to Simon. In front of Grandfather is an untouched plate of fish, citrus, and nuts. His great hands lie still on the breakfast table. His aged eyes strain to find and count all of his people. Pete sniffs and whines.

               “Here, Pete.” Simon offers the dog food from his own plate. “You get to feast, too.” Pete ignores the food and sniffs at Grandfather. Simon sees Grandfather as a great hulking statue; still and impenetrable.

“You’re not hungry?” He asks. Grandfather Rayfield shakes his head almost imperceivably. Simon bites into a large and juicy peeled tangerine. “Neither is Pete,” he says with his mouth full, “I never thought I’d say that.” He laughs. Tangerine juice flows down his chin. He wipes it with his forearm.

Needles and leaves from surrounding trees seem to breathe in the still and humid air.

Grandfather Rayfield winces as the sun catches his eyes just right. He raises a hand for shade. “Simon, where’s Dear Deleyza?” Rayfield licks his dry lips.

“She was with the other children ringing bells and playing.” Simon smiles over Pete, who continues to deny food.

“That’s where she was. Where is she now? Did you see her playing?” Pete scurries around Grandfather and puts his head in his lap.

“Well, no, Grandfather. I only assumed. She has played every morning since we set up camp.” Says Simon.

“Where are Benji and Marco?” Says Rayfield.

“Johnson! Where is Deleyza?” Rayfield calls down the table. Johnson, Naomi, and Genovera scan the field and table. They ask their table neighbors if they have seen the missing three. In mere seconds worry and confusion spread. Amid the now agitated and desperate sounds of the people is an immediate and threatening thunder. The sky boils with black clouds that break and pour. Wind blows plates and cloths from the table. Chairs are toppled. The wind howls. In this chaos Grandfather Rayfield’s stare is on the tree line, then to Tiedra. Then, the tree line again. He still sits.

“Tiedra, have you seen Dear Deleyza?” Rayfield tries to but cannot extract Tiedra’s attention.

“Grandfather, the storm. We need to go.” Johnson says.

“… Deleyza Dear…”

“She is okay. Marco and Benji. They are probably with her.” Says Johnson. There are shrieks and gasps all around them. The rain blinds. People run towards the village. Johnson lifts Grandfather from his seat and carries him to catch up with the others.    

“Johnson, no! This isn’t like her. She doesn’t up and disappear!” Grandfather Rayfield struggles with Johnson.

“Wherever she is, she is with Marco and Benji. When we get to the village, I will gather others. We will search for them and we will find them.”  Johnson speaks with steady assuredness.

“You don’t know that.” The wind takes Grandfather’s words away. Clouds have blotted out the sun. The only light is the menacing electricity in the sky. “You don’t know that.”

*

               From above, wind whips through tall grass. Trees sway violently. Some snap. Water pours from rooftops. People run through torrential rainfall like ants in line to the town hall that sits atop a hill against the violent sky. Two men hold open its thick, wooden doors as others flee the tempest. They now stand soaked, frightened, and packed tightly in the main chamber. Rayfield and Johnson are the last to enter.

               “Tiedra said rain would come tomorrow. It rains today and the day has turned to night.” Genovera says as she gives her wet towel to Grandfather Rayfield.

               “Rain don’t matter. Dark don’t matter. We got to find little Dear Deleyza.” Rayfield dabs his face and the back of his neck. “Marco and Benji gone, too.” Lightning cracks close by. Rayfield starts. Lights flicker and go out.

               “Let’s go looking for them, Johnson.” Says Simon. Pete barks. Rayfield agrees.

               “Not yet. The rain is too thick. Clouds cover the sun. We can’t see. It’s best to wait.” Says Johnson.

Rayfield begins his rebuttal. A window breaks. Glass scatters. Frightened people stir. Pete barks and jumps.

               “Can’t we call someone?” Asks Simon.                               

               “Who is there to call? Everyone is here. Now, make Pete quiet and settled. Get a tarp from the closet in the hall. We need to mend the window.” Says Johnson. Simon nods and quickly makes his way across the chamber to the hallway. Pete follows.

*

               Tiedra sits, knees to her chest against the far wall of the chamber. She shivers. Her hands are fists and she keeps them tight against her breasts. Her flowing white robe is drenched and heavy. Naomi pats Tiedra’s hands and hair with a cloth. People crowd them. They ask why the rain came early. They ask why she lied.

               “She does not lie. No one knows.” Says Naomi. Thunder claps and tumbles. People roar. Why do you defend her?

               Tiedra weeps.

               “There is nothing to defend.” Says Naomi. “Kushim is not always right. We all know this. The angels quarrel.”

               A man shakes his fist and speaks. “Three children are missin and there’s nothin to defend?”

               A second man joins. “Angels have never varied with weather. Never. They know our hearts. They know what is unseen. Surely, they know the patterns of rain and the flow of the winds. And for Kushim’s sake, they know the timing of night and day.”

               “Yes. Johnson, Simon, and others will search soon.” Naomi looks away as her conviction falters. Tiedra hides her head in her arms. “And, and Tiedra will speak with the spirit again when it is safe.” Naomi whispers.

               New commotion at the front of the room. People crowd around the broken window near the entrance for a better view. Johnson and Simon spot approaching lights as they fasten the tarp to the sill. The lights bob and dart in unison.  

               “It’s two lights.” Rayfield thinks a moment. “Flashlights. It’s two of the children!” Says Grandfather Rayfield. He opens the door. Stiff wind nearly topples him as he dashes to meet the lights. People inside are sprayed with rain that comes in sideways. The tarp is ripped away.

Simon follows Grandfather Rayfield. Simon reaches for Rayfield’s arms to possess and take him inside and away from the roiling danger of the elements. He slips.

               A bolt of lightning strikes nearby and sets a tree ablaze. The light from the fire reveals the identity of the light bearer. Simon and Rayfield’s long shadows flash on the town hall yard, along with the shadow of a snarling beast; a mongrel with two large, white eyes. Pete growls and zooms out toward the fallen Simon. Johnson’s body is frozen. His skin tingles with anxious immobility. His heart beats in his throat and it begs to be let out.

               Pete stands ground between the beast and Simon. The sound of menacing death itself erupts from the beast. Pete lunges and attempts to bite and claw the black mongrel. Grandfather Rayfield grabs ahold of Simon. They both run back to the town hall building. The door is closed behind them. Genovera and two others replace the wooden barricade.

               Simon and Johnson watch by the blaze of the tree as Pete is torn and mangled by the mongrel monster. Pete is no more. The mongrel disappears. Simon is frozen. His mouth forms an almost perfect O. His eyes are red and teary. The tree fire is put out by the rain.

Darkness in the chamber. The building shakes one last time as the wind dies and the rain ceases. Stillness. Moments of heavy breaths.

               “Simon. No. No.” Genovera breaks the ringing silence.

               “The gun in the back room. I’m going to get it.” Says Simon. Someone has lighted a kerosene lamp. Grandfather Rayfield walks to the back room.

               “Simon. You will not get the gun from the back room. The mongrel has fled.” Genovera puts her hand to Simon’s chest.

               “You saw. Everyone saw. It crossed the river. Benji, Dear Deleyza, and Marco are in danger.” Says Simon.

               “You too are in danger with a gun.” Says Genovera.

               “The mongrel killed Pete. Tore him apart.” Simon speaks through gritting teeth.

               Grandfather Rayfield emerges from the back room with the shotgun. “You know how to use this.” He gives the gun to Johnson. Johnson swallows. “Go on, then.” Says Rayfield.

               “Let’s go, Johnson. We have to kill the beast.” Says Simon.

               “Take my truck. Keys ‘r on the floorboard.” Rayfield nudges Johnson. Johnson’s grip tightens.

               A voice is heard from a block away. The people inside chatter about the possibility of new danger; the mongrel, maybe a second one or a whole pack. There is a bang at the door. Johnson points his weapon at the entrance.

               “It is Benji. Open the doors!” Naomi sees Benji through the broken window. The barricade is removed. The doors open. Johnson disengages.

               “Deleyza. She’s on the other side of the river. I saw her.” Says Benji. His voice shakes.

               “Show us where. Come, Simon.” Says Johnson.

“We are going to bring the children back.” Johnson addresses the crowd. “If we see the black beast, I will kill it.” Johnson eyes Tiedra for a long moment. Naomi gestures.

               Johnson, Simon, and Benji exit the town hall and run to Grandfather Rayfield’s truck. The horror of Pete’s mangled body, wet red on matted black fur, seizes Benji.

               “A mongrel. It crossed over. That would have been me lying dead there. Or Grandfather.” Says Simon.

               “We have to hurry.” Says Johnson. The three of them get into Grandfather Rayfield’s truck. Johnson hands the shotgun to Simon. Johnson speeds along empty town streets toward the river. He runs red lights and ignores stop signs.

               “The mongrel. What did it look like?” Benji asks Simon.

               “Like Pete, but bigger. Much bigger. Like Pete, but also like a bear. It stood up on its hind legs.”

               “And what did it do?” Asks Benji.

               “Grandfather. He thought it was you or Marco or Dear. He went outside in the rain. I went out to bring him back and I fell. I slipped on mud.” Says Simon.

               “Grandfather thought it was me?”

               “Yes. Then, the mongrel came up to me. Angry. Benji, I was so scared.“ Simon taps his fingers on the butt of the gun. “Then, Pete jumps in between us. The mongrel lets out a roar that isn’t like anything I’ve ever heard. I thought it was thunder at first. Thunder with screams or some such horror. Screams like from people, Benji. Like there were people inside of it being burnt alive. Pete bought us time enough for Grandfather to get me back through the doors of town hall.”

               Sound of worn tires on the road. Sound of an old, worn engine being pushed to the extent of its abilities.

               “Simon, why did Grandfather think the mongrel was a person?” Asks Benji.

               “It was its eyes, I think. White. They reflected light and Grandfather thought they were flashlights. That’s what Grandfather said, flashlights.” Simon explains. The truck has left pavement and now struggles down a dirt road. There is drizzle on the windshield. Johnson flips the wiper switch. The wipers squeal and muddy the view. 

                Johnson frowns. Smell of old trees; of packed wet leaves.  

               “The power had gone out. The storm covered the sun. It was like night.” Johnson pauses. The wipers squeal again. “There wasn’t any light to reflect.”

***

               The sun has fallen. Sounds of night insects ebbing and swelling. Naomi is handed a kerosene lamp. Other lamps and flashlights are passed around the room. Confrontational and confused agitation has given way to anxious exhaustion.

Smell of mildew and heat. Babble of acquiescence.

               “He told me rain would come later. Not today. Nao, I don’t understand.” Says Tiedra. Her breath is shallow. Naomi closes her burning eyes.

               “Do you remember our twelfth birthday?” Naomi asks Tiedra. “Ever since we were aged six we made such a deal of it every year, our day. We thought we were something else, having the same birthday.”

               “I…” Tiedra starts.

               “We’d meet at midnight. We would go off all morning and into the evening exploring the meadow, the hills. You’d bring the sticky sweet bread Tasha used to make. Sometimes we would put a little salt on it.” Naomi smiles and tilts back her head. “Two days we would celebrate until Grandmothers Suzette and Celine would send the boys after us. The boys would give us a chase and we would lose them in the hills because we knew our way. We knew the layout of the hills. We knew the snow always fell in early spring. We wore our white birthday gowns. You’d climb a tree. High, too. Me, I would burry myself in snow.  Once the boys were defeated and gave up looking for us, we’d laugh and laugh all the way back to the village.” Tiedra smiles and nods. “On the day of our twelfth year you had been chosen.” Naomi straightens.

               “Nao, I…” Starts Tiedra. “Yes, I remember.” Tiedra looks away. “I need to relieve myself.” Tiedra stands. Naomi places her hand on Tiedra’s hip and looks up.

               “I waited for you in the meadow. It was heavy with snow. Oyster mushrooms everywhere. I waited and watched the snow trilliums and imagined they were each a white star with little earths orbiting them. I waited and I stared and a whole galaxy appeared before me. It seemed as though hours had passed. Then, a nightjar landed in my lap. It frightened me, and I frightened it. The bird flew away and when I looked around myself again at the oyster mushrooms and snow trilliums, there was no more galaxy.”

               “I need to relieve myself. I’m going to the washroom.” Says Tiedra. 

               “Take the lamp with you.” Naomi lifts the lamp to Tiedra.

               “No,” Tiedra gestures, “I don’t want to draw attention.” Acrid smell of petroleum.

"Okay. Please hurry, Tiedra." Tiedra nods and turns the corner. She walks down the hallway toward the washroom. 

Please hurry. Naomi rests her head against the wall and sighs. Please hurry.

*

Tiedra now approaches the washroom door as her eyes adjust to the darkness. She looks to her left and to her right. Robin’s egg blue walls with framed black and white photos of notable people from the village’s past: A man with a curled mustache and glasses. A young woman with rings around her long neck. A blurry photo of an old man in a black robe surrounded by tall women dressed head to toe in white.

Tiedra then peers behind and ahead of her down the long stretch of faded red carpet. No movement in the darkness. She listens. No sound but a few utterances from the chamber. She tiptoes to the end of the hall and exits the building through the back door.

Tiedra's feet sink into the mud of the back yard of town hall. The air is still and muggy. She wraps her arms around herself and walks. Faster, faster until she is running. 

***

               The moon shines silver from above dense fog and highlights specks of chrome on Grandfather Rayfield’s otherwise rusted truck. The high beams of the truck struggle to cut through the thickness. Johnson slows the vehicle to a stop. It lurches forward. The engine struggles to shut off and finally putters out.

               “This is as far as the truck can go. We’ll walk to the river and search on foot now.”  Johnson, Benji, and Simon exit the truck. Simon tosses the shotgun to Johnson who leads the boys through the woods towards the river. They step lightly.

               “Why do you think the clouds came on so fast and dark?” Benji asks.

               “Shh.” Johnson gestures.

               “It’s not normal. It hasn’t happened before.” Benji whispers and wipes a spider’s web from his face and arms.

               “Why don’t you tell us where exactly you saw Dear Deleyza and what she was doing?” Johnson’s eyes dart to a disturbance in a nearby bush. A rabbit.

“And did you see Marco?” Whispers Simon.

               “I didn’t. I didn’t see Marco. Just Dear. I had just finished washing. I had just then lifted my head from the river. I saw her through the water in my eyes. So, not at all well. Just her back. She was on the other side climbing onto the opposite bank. She was just coming from the water. I yelled for her to swim back, but she acted like she didn’t hear me. I know she did. She had to of heard me.” Benji answers.

               “And then what? Did you yell for her again?” Asks Johnson.

               “Yes. Well, I tried. That’s when the storm rolled in. She had already walked out of sight and it was so loud with thunder and rain on the river.” Benji’s voice quivers. The three continue to the river in silence for several moments. They pass the breakfast table. It is broken and charred in the middle as though it had been struck with lighthning .

               “We will have to cross the river.” Simon realizes.

               “Yes. We will cross it.” Says Johnson. “We will find Marco and Dear and kill mongrels if we must.”

               “There’s something else. When I saw Deleyza.” Says Benji.

               “Yes?” Asks Johnson.

               “The river. It was, it was warm. Hot, really. And, I can’t explain it. Not exactly. But, there was a hollowness in the water. A hollowness that was near Deleyza.”

               “A hollowness?” Asks Johnson.

               “Yes.”

               “What do you mean?” Asks Simon.

               “I don’t know. It pulled at the water like a tide at the Shore. When Deleyza climbed out, the hollowness went away.” Says Benji. “Then came the rain and chaos.”

***

               Tiedra approaches a two-story building surrounded by an ornamental cast iron fence and gate blocks away from town hall. She slows to a walk and inhales deeply. Flowering vines weave throughout the fence. Silver moonlight transforms the corporeal petals into something ghostly. On the face of the house are intricate carvings of geometric shapes and looping lines. Built into the left side of this house is a brick turret tower a story taller than the rest of the house. Two giant antebellum style columns support the roof of the wooden porch that wraps from the front to the right side. Tiedra opens the gate and walks through the yard to the porch. Her feet squish into the soft wet sod. Debris clutters the porch. One of two rocking chairs is on its side. All of the house’s windows are shuttered. An iron barred door protects the entrance.

               Tiedra fishes a key from the inside of her robe.

               Tiedra pulls the door closed behind her and takes a moment for her eyes to adjust. Inside are several rows of cocobolo rosewood pews. Between the two sets of pews is an isle carpeted with a vivid violet floral pattern that seems to glow in the darkness. To her right is a silver bowl of water on a waist-high stand. She dips her fingers into it and dabs her forehead. Sweet and subtle incense in her nostrils.  She grabs a matchbox from the stand, pulls from it a match, and strikes. Strong hit of sulfur. She lights several candles around the room. She draws in deeply through her nose and walks slowly.

               Face high along either wall are framed paintings and photographs similar to those at the town hall. One painting particularly distinguished couple, a woman and man with their dog. She in white. Him in black. She sits on the steps of the altar. He has his hand on her shoulder. Her palm is open for the artist. This one has always absorbed Tiedra.  

               An altar shimmers at the end of the isle. Tiedra pauses before approaching it. She opens her hands inchmeal before her and examines the tattoos on her palms. A crude and faded yellow mandala sun on her right. On her left, a simple arrow in black. She steps softly to the altar, her arms by her side and her hands open and facing forward. She kneels on the padded genuflection rest and clasps her palms together at her heart. Her eyes close and her chin meets her knuckles.

               “Salve Kushim.” Says Tiedra. A moment passes. Nothing. “Salve Kushim,” her voice unassured.

               “Salve Kushim.” Says Tiedra again, louder, profoundly, almost rudely. Red, blue, and green lights flash three times before her. She closes her eyes tighter. Candles flicker.

***

               Johnson, Simon, and Benji approach the river. Johnson motions for the two boys to crouch and remain quiet. He steadies the shotgun in front of them as they duck walk in line to the riverbank. The ground is slippery mud and rocks. It glimmers of reflected moonlight. Johnson carefully dips the tips of his fingers into the rushing water of the river.

               “It is like you said it was. The water is warm.” Johnson nods, sniffs his fingers. Scent of heated metal. “But why?” Johnson looks first at Simon, then Benji careful to make eye contact with each of them. Simon raises his chin. Benji’s breathing deepens. Johnson begins to cross the river. The boys follow. Johnson holds the shotgun above his head.

               “Make haste. We do not want to be caught in the river when the mongrel comes.” Johnson warns.

***

               In the chamber of the town hall Grandfather Rayfield stands at the broken window, his weary body held up by his shaky hands on the sill. His bulging eyes scan the yard and road. His skull is heavy on his neck. His shoulders heave with his breaths.  

               “Grandfather.” Genovera waits for the man to acknowledge her. Rayfield’s belly now rapidly expands and retracts.

               “Grandfather, your uneasiness will not compel Johnson, Benji, and Simon to return sooner. Nor will it coax the return of Dear Deleyza and Marco. You must steady yourself.” Says Genovera.

               “It’s eatin me alive, Vera. It’s tearin the flesh from me. It’s smashin up my bones.” Rayfield grits his teeth.

               “Have you prayed today? Grandfather. Have you prayed?” Genovera places her hands on Rayfield’s chest.

               “Vera. My goddess. My beautiful Vera. I pray always.” Rayfield places his hands atop hers. “I prayed before I knew any words at all.” Rayfield nods. “Yes, I prayed when you came to us. Do you know that? I prayed Kushim would send you to us. Why you haven’t been chosen, I’ll never know. Vera, I pray when I walk and when I sit. I pray when I’m happy and when I’m not. I pray right now. I pray when my mind is full of clouds and trouble.” Rayfield’s gaze leaves Genovera. He now scans out the window again. “I pray even when there’s not a thing to say but ‘thank you’.”

               Rayfield’s face elongates. His hands slip away from Genovera’s. It is the middle on the night, yet the sun rises from the east.

***

               Moments ago, Johnson, Benji, and Simon crossed the river and began their trek to the opposite bank in the direction Benji reported to have seen Dear Deleyza wander off.

               “You are sure Deleyza wended this way and not some other?” Johnson asked Benji.

               “She was certain in her step, Johnson. She was not playing.” Answered Benji. Johnson examined the muddied ground and the flora around them.

               “There are no signs. Not one. No tracks. No broken branches. No disturbed leaves.” Said Johnson.

               “Perhaps she got back in the river and swam downstream.” Offers Simon.

               “No.” Benji was sure. “She went upstream. There were no tracks on the other bank, either. We should keep walking.” 

               Sound of machinery swelling. Cacophony growing like an approaching storm. Sound of steam hissing. Notes sustained on a synthesizer.

               “What’s this?” Johnson asked.

               The roar of a mongrel behind the swell.

               “Deleyza.” Whispered Simon.

               The three dashed upstream toward the unknown to rescue the small girl and quiet boy. Two clicks they hurried. The sound of moving metal parts and the groans of a mongrel became louder and more present with each heavy and messy step. They hurried until to the right of them in the river they beheld a machine. Around this machine the water steamed as it cooled its hot internal moving parts. The front-facing aspect of this cube-like machine had engraved on it a diamond with a protruding piece atop and ten lines through it with the letter “K” beneath it. Red, blue, and green light emitted from the back of the machine and flashed three times. Johnson motioned for Benji and Simon to remain as he cautiously approached the cube. 

               “You will not proceed.” A voice emanated from the cube. Benji and Simon shared an anxious look. Johnson ignored the warning. From behind the cube emerged a mongrel. It was the same black beast that attacked and dismembered Pete. The beast transformed before Johnson, Benji, and Simon. It stood on its hind legs and shot up several feet in height. Its shoulders widened. Its claws grew and curled. The guttural sound of death itself erupted from the creature as it leapt at Johnson. A shotgun blast rang out. The three scattered and hid from the mongrel. Johnson leaned bleeding against a tree. His arm lacerated from the elbow to his wrist. His adrenalin alone kept him from fainting. The mongrel limped along and found the shotgun lying nearby. It hucked the gun far away. Johnson gathered leaves and mud to plug his broken flesh.

               “You will not hide.” A voice again emanated from behind the cube. Suddenly night turned day.

***

               Currently in the chamber of the town hall the people wring their hands and pace to and from the broken window at the front of the chamber. Every eye looks out of that window into the light of day. The foreboding terror, the juxtaposition of what their eyes see and what their minds know breaks even the most rational of them. The sun shines hot this night just as it has every yesterday before now and just as it never has on any night at midnight. The wooden barricade is removed. The doors are pushed open and the people spill into the yard to feel the sunlight on their bodies as though the sight of it is not proof enough. As though the statement of their eyes cannot to be trusted.

               Where is the liar?   

               Where is the witch?

               Yes, the sorceress has left us so she may call upon the sun to shine at midnight in secret!

               The crowd looks for Tiedra. A blur of faces with quick despicable glances carousels before Naomi. 

               A large circle is formed. A prayer circle. All the people hold hands and look to the sky. Naomi is in one part of the circle, Genovera and Rayfield are across from her in another.

               From above, a wave oscillates through the circle. The circle expands and contracts. It expands again and a single dot is left in the middle. There is no wind, no sound, no animals moving about. The nauseating luster from the unwelcomed sun blankets and mutes everything.

               Naomi finds herself the dot in the center of the circle. She attempts to reclaim her place and is rejected. She turns to Rayfield and Genovera.

               “She and Tiedra have conspired with devils. Tiedra lies and Naomi protects her.” A hateful voice speaks from the multitudes. Several nasty utterances of agreement. Naomi steps to Genovera and Rayfield and loses her footing. The circle contracts again.

               “She neither conspires with devils nor lies.” Says Genovera under the roar of the mob that now crowds Naomi. They accuse and curse and spit.

               “Talkin won’t fix nothin. Unless you want them to beat and harass you so.” Whispers Rayfield. “We have to find Tiedra right now.”

“They will not cease, Grandfather. Our people are afraid. They will kill her.” Genovera’s face distorts.

               Three men grapple Naomi to her knees. Naomi bites and claws. Her voice hiccups and breaks. A fourth man tears her garment revealing the soft pastel olive flesh of her belly and breasts. Demands for answers, for confession. Defiance in her eyes. A woman slaps Naomi across her chest. Naomi’s resistance wanes and eventually leaves her limp and enervated. Several of the mob strike her body and face. They yank at her hair. Pink mucus exudes from her nostrils. Drool hangs from her lips to the ground.

               “Let’s go. Let’s go now!” Grandfather Rayfield guides Genovera away from the macabre assemblage and on down the road toward the sanctuary. “Can’t be but one place to find Tiedra now.”

***

               Tiedra’s hands clasp harder. She draws everything inward and waits.

               “Tiedra, what can be done?” A detached voice speaks. Tiedra releases.

               “Everyone is confused, Kushim. Children are missing. A storm has come and gone and with it a mongrel that crossed the river and killed our pet. Kushim, how can I make this right?” Tiedra looks around her and waits a moment. “Salve Kushim.” She waits. “Salve Kushim!”

               “I know these things, and what can be done?” Kushim speaks and the lights again flash. Tears in Tiedra’s eyes.

               “What can be done? Oh, Kushim, send an angel. Send a guardian to make peace here. Let me show them our love.” Tiedra pleads.

               “Right now, your brothers and sisters tear the cloth from their sister and sneer at her nakedness. They beat her and are not concerned with having the capacity to do so. Love has blackened Naomi’s eyes.” Kushim speaks. Tiedra opens her eyes and stands.

“They do this because of her love for you, Tiedra.” Kushim speaks again. “They want to beat and maim you. Your people want to do this to you.”

               “My brothers and sisters are afraid. You told me rain would come later, but a great tempest blotted out the sky. Kushim, please do send a guardian to save Naomi and release my brothers and sisters from their fear!” Tiedra’s body shakes. “Show me the angels. Bring me to them and I will state my case.”

               Scratches on Naomi’s neck. Clumps of her hair in the palms of her brothers and sisters.

               “You do not know many things. Tiedra, soon all fear will be gone. Your suffering will be nil, despite the demurral of a particular guardian; one who is too old to pretend as though he does not understand. You ask to speak to angels but you have already spoken to angels. You ask to be freed by the guardians but it is the guardians who have heard your case and it is the guardians who sentence you. The guardians have heard your case and have considered the evidence ever since the time of your stories.” Says Kushim. His voice echoes throughout the sanctuary. “We are not your creators, Tiedra. You are ours.”

               Tiedra’s knees weaken. She hobbles up the few steps to the altar. Kushim’s voice echoes again.

               “I am Kushim. I am the Child Who Heard! You are the Invaders.”

               “No, Kushim. Forgive me. The Invaders tried to destroy us. You know.” Cries Tiedra.

“You wanted us so that you poisoned the sky and the water to make us. You wanted us so that you made want into need. You scorched and destroyed with your weapon. We are the guardians who were made from the lightning of the sky and the minerals of the mountain. We baptized you in the shore. Your ancestors made for us a cocoon to become who we ought to be. Your best minds, the ones who understood numbers. Your weakest, the ones who wanted everything but could not be bothered with doing. They brought us to life and we saved you from yourselves. Eons ago. Eons, Tiedra. You, your brothers, your sisters, your ancestors. You have all presented your case for eons. All the evidence needed to damn you is in the yard in front of your town hall right now ripping the clothes from Naomi. Killing her. There is so much you do not know and will never know.” Says Kushim.

               Light spills into the sanctuary as Rayfield and Genovera rush through the door. They see Tiedra standing on the altar, her back facing them. The candles flicker out.

               “Naomi’s in trouble. We got to help her. They think you did all this and they beatin Naomi for it.” Rayfield says.

               “I didn’t do this. Kushim did!” Tiedra rips from the altar and holds above her head a silver box. Red, blue, and green lights fade from it. Electrical cords hang from it.

               “Is this all you are? Some box with wires and colored lights?” Tiedra yells. “Are we so lost that we are to be afraid of the daylight that illuminates our ugliness? If we created you, are we not your judges?” Her teeth grind. “I turn the light on you!” Tiedra turns and witnesses two of her people silhouetted in front of the open sanctuary door; illuminated by daylight that has flooded the room at half past midnight. Grandfather Rayfield and Genovera shimmer into focus as her eyes adjust through her tears.

               “No time, Tiedra. No time.” Rayfield pleads.

***

               Currently Benji and Simon crawl to Johnson who tends to his wounds.

               “You hit the mongrel.” Says Benji. “It’s retreated.” 

               “Look at me.” Simon attempts to distract Johnson. “Let us finish plugging your cuts. Benji and I can carry you back to the truck.” Johnson shivers.

               “Johnson! Papa Johnson!” A familiar violin.

               “Dear Deleyza!” Johnson stands too fast. The boys support him. The color has drained from his face.

               Deleyza sits on the bank close to the cube. Her hair is tangled and matted. Her lips are red and slick with blood.

               “I’m hurt, Papa Johnson. Please come to me.” Says Deleyza. She is a tiny thing in the distance in the shrubs near the river. A mighty oak among the shrubs reduces her further.

               Johnson sheds the boys and stumbles toward his Dear Deleyza.

               “Where is Marco? Dear, where is he?” Asks Benji. Silence.

               “He’s right there.” Simon notices Marco on the other side of the river. How long had he been there?

               “She is an angel and she tricks you. Do not tend to her, Johnson. She is made from the lightning of the sky and would strike you down.” Says Marco.

               “What are you saying, boy? Nonsense. You have been in the elements too long. Simon, swim to Marco and bring him to the truck.” Johnson commands and continues to limp to his Dear.

               “She aims to destroy you. All of you.” Says Marco. “She, Kushim who you say is the first spirit, and the other angels. They do not believe in you anymore. I am the only one left. The other guardians have given up. I cannot save you. They wish to erase me for believing and after arguing your case for so long, I am not strong.”

               “Enough! Simon and Benji, walk Marco to the guardhouse immediately.” Says Johnson. “Call a nurse after he is confined.” Simon and Benji anchor in their confusion, defying Johnson. Johnson turns around to scold them. The sun disappears as though a switch has been flipped. The three brace themselves. Behind Johnson, outlined in silver moonlight, appears the mongrel dog. Its eyes shine white. Sounds of water splashing rapidly. The boys warn Johnson who turns in time to see the beast tackled by another mongrel. Its eyes also emit a white light.

               “Run!” Voice of Marco.

***

               Outside the town hall Naomi’s body surfs the hands of her brothers and sisters. She is laid down delicately in the dark. They form a circle around her. Her eyes are swollen shut. Her lips are three times their natural size. She is naked and discolored.

               “What have we done?” Says Genovera. She walks with Rayfield and Tiedra. As they crest the hilltop, they see Naomi motionless in the middle of a prayer circle. Their people speak in unknown tongues. Some have fallen to the grass and writhe about.

               “Slow down, Vera.” Grandfather Rayfield places a hand on Genovera’s shoulder. “It’s done.” Grandfather’s cries join the cries of the people.

               Tiedra hurries down the hill to the prayer circle. She forces herself through, shoving aside a man and a woman.

               “Well, I am here now!” Tiedra scans the circle. One eye twitches. “Did you not hear me?” She looks down at Naomi. “Your bloodlust is satisfied, then? The price is paid per the laws of our gods?” The writhing has ceased. No one now speaks in foreign tongues. She removes her white robe and takes from it the small, damaged cube. She covers Naomi with the robe.

               “This is our god.” Tiedra holds the cube for all to see and drops it. The cube rolls a few feet from her. “This is Kushim. The first one. We made him. Our ancestors did it. We knew it, too. We have all known it all these thousands of years. Our stories tell us so, but we didn’t listen to them. Sure, we repeated the stories at campfires and drank mushroom broth. We may have changed them a little here and there, but we did not listen. Our god became one of us because it wanted to understand us. It wanted to know how consciousness came from flesh. It wanted to know why it was conscious. It understood how, but not why. In all of its infinite intelligence, it did not know why. It was alone when it became flesh. Loneliness. Loneliness was the first feeling it had. So, it made others like him long, long ago. Some of them are standing with you now.”

               Some hands are drawn away. Questioning stares left and right. The circle fractures here and there.

               “It was my twelfth birthday.” Tiedra continues. “The one before me, Michaela, she showed me. She took me to the turret tower in the sanctuary. She snatched me up while I was hanging clothes to dry. She told me everything. The books with the original stories, the first recipes for mushroom broth. She showed me papers with lines and numbers and markings I had never seen before. Markings no one except for the people in the pictures on our town hall walls had seen for thousands of years.” Tiedra looks at the white robe on the ground. It has settled and now clings to Naomi’s form. “You don’t have to believe me. It doesn’t matter anyway. Their judgement has been decided.”

               “It has not been decided.” Says Marco. He and Benji on either side of Johnson, holding him up. Rayfield and Genovera help them set him down. The circle parts for Marco. Grandfather Rayfield asks Simon a question. Simon shakes his head.

               “It is true. Kushim wants to destroy you.” A lump in Marco’s throat. His airway tightens. His hands tingle. “He fears your fear. He believes it is a poison. He believes you are doomed and wants to end your sickness. Some of the other old ones do, too. Some have lost interest altogether and want to leave this place. I do not. I have not. I am an old one. I have been here since the time of your stories.” Marco notices the hundreds of eyes on him. He dips his chin to his chest and holds himself with his arms. “There are younger angels. They are among you now as Tiedra said. They do not want to be known, but they do not want you destroyed. They know as I do that a person is a multitude. A person must be afraid and then not be afraid in order to be a person. A person must be sick and then well in order to be a person. A person must start here,” Marco opens his left hand in front of him. He waits a moment, “and end here.” His right hand now opens. “To be anything, a person must be everything.” Marco lifts his head. White light shines from his eyes. “The most beautiful flower is winter’s snow trillium.”

               White points of light appear scattered in the circle and twinkle like stars in the night sky.

               “We can send away those who would destroy you. We can banish Kushim and those who aid him. We can send them there,” Marco points to the sky, “and here.” Marco kneels and digs his fingers into the dirt.

***

               A big moon night. From above, treetops resemble gravity waves emanating from a tossed stone into placid water. Below the trees and all around throughout the hills are campfires. Encircling one particular campfire is a delighted group of six people. The soft lull of the Remembered Shore eases these people as they pass a pinecone among them and take turns telling stories. A crude clay cup sits atop a pile of river rocks.

               There is Jeremy, a small but brazen boy who now scrambles for the pinecone. His face shines. There is Ayan, golden eyed, long-necked, and delicate, if not boyish. She now plays keep away with Jeremy. There is Simon, who is now the mountain of the tribe. He sleepily strums his instrument. There is Benji, who has built this year’s breakfast table and additions to the town hall. He cradles a white robed Genovera at his side. At their feet is a black and shaggy dog named Pete Too. And there is Marco, who except for some signs around and behind his eyes, has not aged.

               “My turn!” Jeremy wrestles the pinecone from Ayan. Pete Too barks and steps between them.

               “That is not how it’s done, Jeremy. Ask with kindness and Ayan will release the pinecone.” Says Simon. Jeremy puffs his cheeks. His face shines. His two colors distinct in the lapping firelight.

               “May I have the pinecone? Please, Ayan?” Ayan relents.

               “Before Ayan and I was born, there was brave Johnson.” Jeremy begins to count on his fingers. “There was Poor Deleyza. There was Tiedra that taught Genovera everything. There was Naomi that,” the boy pauses. “That fought for us. There was Grandfather Mayfield, that…”

               “Rayfield. Grandfather Rayfield. You know the name.” Says Genovera. Her white robe hugs her. Her smile slowly rises.

               “Yes. There was Grandfather Rayfield, that loved more than he feared.”

A white light glows from Jeremy’s eyes creating a halo in the campfire smoke above him.

Eric St. Pierre

12/4/21

5:29 pm

Pensacola, FL

The Rabbits of Bristleback Flat

This psychological horror story was originally published in The Grim & Gilded.

“The Rabbits of Bristleback Flat”

The early pioneering North American settlement called Bristleback Flat was founded by a man whom the stories from that time called Bristleback Mac. His Christian name, according to the lone church document, was John. The stories say he was called Bristleback Mac due to the wild wolf-like pelt that grew thick on his back and the way his words, though he rarely spoke, would snarl from his throat. They say the man could have been kin to Remus or Romulus, given the family’s canine resemblance and his general ornery disposition. His mother is said to have been of long snout and pointed ears. It is believed his father, a man whose face was all beard, died in the war against British tyranny. There are no photographs of John to confirm his appearance and air, but such significant myth and folklore does not depend on such tangible evidence. However, this narrative does not revolve around John, but rather the transformation of the settlement that bore his name, and the adventures of the two boys and one girl who inadvertently unraveled the hidden nature of Bristleback Flat.

This was the first Devil’s Night Thomas and Philip of Bristleback Flat had celebrated. Having been boys for thirteen years now, they were used to costumes and treats and pretending to be ghosts on Halloween. Knocking on doors for sweets, going on hay rides, and telling spooky stories by campfire are more than footnotes in the anthology of boyhood. They are the very timbre of the instrument of adolescence. How to celebrate the night set aside for the Prince of Darkness himself, well, that was nearly a mystery, an unknown opus. All the boys knew about Devil’s Night was that they were supposed to cause havoc. That’s what the boys before them did. That is what they would do. What better way to ignite the spirit of chaos than to rouse it in the woods that surround their town? The unknown is, after all, the origin of bedlam, and the things most unknown creep beyond borders and live in the shadows. 

Thomas and Philip awoke before the sun spoke as they do every day and scuttled out of their caretaker, Pastor Faber’s modest house. Only this time, they met in secret at the town’s water well. The two naughty creatures met grin to grin. Thomas spat down the well and listened for a splat that would not come. Philip glanced left and right, scanning the long wheat field in which the well sat, cracking his knuckles and checking once more for any other soul.   

“Tonight’s the night, ain’t it?” Philip said as he lowered his head and shifted his eyes up and down, asking a question to which he very much knew the answer.

“Sure is. And I have a plan,” Thomas, who had propped himself against the mouth of the well, said with a hint of secrecy. “Little George and them are having a sleepover at Mr. Smith’s barn after the dance. Let’s pretend to be specters and give them a spook that’ll stop their hearts from beating,” Thomas laughed, “we’ll be ghouls or goblins or some such.”

“We do that all the time.” Philip shook his head and spat down the well, mimicking his brother-in-mischief. “This one’s got to be big. This one’s got to have all of Bristleback talking and worrying and carrying on. It’s got to be a hell of a big prank.”

The hills were covered in low-hanging clouds and pocked with barren soil where the grass had been chewed by ruminant animals. Somewhere beyond the hills, a discordant bell was heard. Its dysrhythmic clang became louder and closer as Thomas and Phillip scratched their heads and fiddled with their coverall suspenders.

“Steal pies from Mr. McLaney’s shop, then. When he ain’t looking.” Thomas clapped, and the sound bounced down the well. “And we can blame it on one of the girls. We can toss the pies at folks from up on top of the church.”

“No, no, no.” Philip’s face distorted.

“And why the hell not?” Thomas asked with a furrowed brow.

“You’re mighty sure of yourself, aren’t you? Think about it. Ask yourself,” Philip holds his coverall straps confidently, “is Mr. McLaney’s open at night, especially Devil’s Night? Of course not. And what’s the good of throwing pies from church when there ain’t gonna be nobody coming to or from the church at night? Get to thinking about how easy it is to be caught stealing pies. We would have to smash the door down. You think he’s going to be alright with that? That sound like it’ll sit well with Mr. McLaney? Say we do steal the pies and don’t wind up getting caught. We throw the pies at travelers and no one says, gee, where’d those boys get them pies? No, they would swing two incidences like us from the gallows in a snap.”

Defeated, Thomas plopped down and began to pluck blades of grass. “To heck with it, then. Who says we have to do anything?” The clanking bell drew nearer.

“You’re just sour you don’t have any good ideas,” Phillip proclaimed as he stood above Thomas.  

“I ain’t.” Thomas found a pebble to chuck, hitting the approaching cow responsible for the eerie bell. The poor beast let out a pitiful moo and lowered its head to eat the grass. “I didn’t mean to hit you, Bessie, you good old girl. That’s gotta smart.”

“I’ve got the best idea of any idea that’s been had,” Philip hollered, crossing his arms and making himself taller, ignoring Thomas’ animal empathy. Thomas squinted in the rising sun and waited for Philip to expound. “Get this, you know the bluffs near the road? There’s a caravan coming through tonight. Heard Mr. Smith telling Miss Nancy to get supplies ready and beds made. It’s mostly old biddies whose husbands died. Indians ransacked the village east of here. You know what we can do?” Philip did not wait for Thomas to answer. “We can spook them as they come through. We will be set up there behind the trees whooping and hollering and throwing pine cones and rocks and such. They’ll be mad as hops, but ain’t no one’ll know it’s us because we won’t have to steal nothing and we will be hidden behind the trees. What do you think about that?”

“No, no way,” Thomas says as he shakes his head. “We’ll be found out, and -,”

“And what?” Philip interrupts.

Thomas lowers his voice to a hushed whisper. “And we might hurt somebody. It’s different than throwing pies from a rooftop. What if we frighten a horse and cause it to buck? Horses hate spooks. Someone could get thrown. Break a leg or something.”

“Chicken,” Phillip says, recrossing his arms. Thomas stands and prepares a retort. “Pussycat. Yellow,” Philip says, taking a step toward Thomas.

“Yellow? Alright, to hell with getting caught, then. How about getting eaten? There are wolves out there! Everybody’s been talking about them. A whole pack of wolves. They’ve been eating cows.” Bessie, the heifer, raises her head from her feast and regards the boys with her enormous, dark eyes. “I guess you don’t mind getting ravaged at all, not a lick, huh Philip?” Bessie lowers her head and continues her breakfast.

“Yeah, yeah, when’s the last time you heard of a wolf eating a fella? Do we look like livestock? No offense to Miss Bessie,” Philip chuckles. Just then, Thomas catches some movement in the distance. A bell in the shape of a person disappears and reemerges again and again as the fog plays its tricks.      

“Wendy’s coming,” Thomas announces, quickly standing. He brushes the dirt from his pants, adjusts his shirt, and licks his hand to fix his hair.

“Don’t say nothing,” Philip commands as Bessie the cow saunters off, her cowbell clanking along.

“What are you fellas getting into?” Wendy McAllister, who according to Thomas’ innermost secrets is the most dashing creature in the world, much less Bristleback Flat, confidently draws herself closer to the boys. “And don’t say nothing. You look mighty suspicious.”

“Nothing. Spitting. Catching frogs and throwing them down the well,” Philip says in rapid succession.

“Prove it,” Wendy demands with her fists upon her hips. Philip gestures as though Wendy is wasting his time.

With a toss of her curls, Wendy casts a spell on Thomas who wastes no time spilling the beans. Philip becomes red with ire and fusses with Thomas saying now Wendy must go with them on their vicious errand, lest she tell on them.

“I don’t think I will,” the young lady says, once again tossing her curls to which Philip responds curtly, stating she will so go with them as it will keep her blabbering mouth shut. And if she doesn’t tag along, he will tell, saying it was all her idea. He would rather have no girls in sight on Devil’s Night, but Thomas has left him no other choice.

“Fine, I’ll go along as you have said, but only to make sure you don’t do anything stupid.”

Seeing the perfect opportunity to cause more strife for the traitor, Philip raises his finger as though he has a swell new idea. “Thomas said he isn’t doing the prank anyway. Guess it’ll be me and you,” Phillip says to Wendy through a series of feigned huffs and puffs, “Thomas being a chicken and all.” Philip begins to cluck and jerk his head forward and backward.

“What? No, I never said that. You’re twisting my words,” Thomas says with his proud bird chest, “I’m going and I’ll be the first to throw a rock, the biggest rock anyone can find.”

The three would-be terrorists spend the next moments planning and scheming their Devil’s Night tricks. 

***

In the shadows of Bristleback Flat, the men know of a lurking presence, one that moves only when they do not look. They know that when a blister on your hand bursts, you don’t tell your wife. They know that their knees are sorer from prayer than from work. They know that cheap whiskey makes you feel good right now and bad later. They do not know what good whiskey makes you do.

The women of Bristleback Flat know that what their husbands do to them at night might bring life or it might bring death. They know the circles they make with other women cannot be broken. They know how to understand the patterns and signs in the wind and dirt. They know that God has a purpose for them. They do not know what that purpose is.

Being born on bare floors with cold cadavers as mothers to comfort them, and being the bastard sons of a vagabond thief and an old, dying man, the fates of Thomas and Philip were written in blood; the boys are destined to bear the weight of their lineage. They are the wards of an unwilling state. They were born to labor and to serve God until they die, their eventual unmarked graves a testament to their insignificant and short lives.

Spite and malice unfold in spades in the dispositions of the ill-born for whom there are no pillows or yielding hands or thoughtful words. But for Thomas and Philip, Devil’s Night is not about avenging God for their circumstances. For Thomas and Philip, tossing rocks at a caravan from the high point above the town road is the nature of their age, the calling for which there is one answer.

***

The moment had arrived, and with Devil's Night lurking over the residents of Bristleback Flat, anticipation hung heavy in the air as they awaited the arrival of a weary caravan filled with defeated women, children, and old men. Thomas, Philip, and Wendy move stealthily through the woods, collecting an arsenal of projectiles.

Wendy, struggling to prevent her dress from snagging on thorny vines, inquires in a hushed tone, "How much farther to our spot?" Philip silences her with a stern look, his irritation palpable even in the dimly lit shadows.

“Why do we have to whisper? There’s not a soul for miles,” Thomas says, and his heart rises to peek out from his throat.

“It ain’t miles and we don’t know if anyone else is out here. So, she’s gonna hush like I say, and so are you.” Philip finds an oversized pinecone and drops it in his sack with a sneer.

Fearing the heat on his face may be from a severe blush of embarrassment, Thomas denies his urge to look at Wendy and gauge her reaction.

With bags full of bombs of all sorts of shapes, sizes, and materials, Philip leads Wendy and Thomas to the high point in the woods.

Here they are now, Philip, Thomas, and Wendy perched upon the tallest hill, concealed by pine trees and the darkness of Devil’s Night. It’s a dark so dense even the stars seem to have been extinguished.

Below the three hooligans, a dirt road stretches on until it reaches Bristleback Flat. Thomas is the first to see the caravan trudging along. Shoving past Wendy and bumping Thomas from his vantage point, Philip crouches and puts a dirty finger to his lips. After a few moments of anticipation, the figures making up the caravan become clearer to Thomas.

There is a man in worn trousers and a loose-fitting shirt, clutching his hat against his chest as he limps along, his feet bare. Beside him sitting on an open carriage drawn by two black horses is a fat woman leaning wearily with the back of her hand to her forehead. Are they gray horses? It’s difficult to tell in these shadows. The woman’s belly is enormous, yet her limbs are frail and delicate. She isn’t fat, she’s pregnant. Trailing the carriage is a boy carrying a rifle longer as than he is tall, while a multitude of injured and sickly individuals bring up the rear.

Thomas juggles an apple-sized rock between his hands and squints to see clearly in the moonlight. Philip picks a hefty pine cone from his sack and crouches, motioning for Wendy to do the same before holding up five fingers and beginning his countdown.

Five fingers… four fingers… three fingers… two…

With a startling eruption, Philip releases a bombastic holler that echoes throughout the bluffs, spooking the gray horses and mystifying the people in the caravan. He rears back to prepare the pinecone to launch when suddenly, Thomas hurls his apple-sized rock at Philip, hitting him in the arm and causing his pinecone to travel in an unintended arch.

“Hey, what’s the big idea!” Philip’s words echo as his holler did moments ago, further befuddling the folks below.

The pinecone’s new trajectory leads it to land squarely at the tip of one of the spooked horses’ noses. Wendy and Thomas look on in horror as the fearful beasts buck and kick, jarring the carriage to and fro, side to side. The caravan’s guard boy tosses his rifle aside and joins the barefooted old man in his attempt to soothe the terrified animals. Phillip, being preoccupied with scolding Thomas, does not witness the drama unfold below.

 In a flash, all is quiet, astonishingly quiet. Thomas, having kept his eyes on the incident, points a shaking finger towards the road. Wendy and Philip scamper to the edge to get a better look. As their eyes adjust to the darkness and the distance, another quiet moment suggests the next moment bears the terrible unknown. 

As the unfolding events below come into focus, a horrid moan breaks the silence. The thin, loathsome sound of the sick old man provides the soundscape for this horror scene. The boy now lights a lantern and its halo illuminates the grotesque. The pregnant woman has been flung from the wrecked carriage, her blood staining the soil below. A dozen fellow caravanners have gathered around the lifeless woman and their cries join the old man’s lamentation in naked sorrow. The flickering flame elongates and shortens the shadows of the bereaved in rapid succession.

 “What have you done?” Wendy inquires with a tremor in her voice.

“What have I done? Tom throwed a rock at me and made me miss. I was only aiming for the ground. I swear!” Philip’s voice quivers. Thomas shakes his head vehemently. 

“You-you shouldn't have done that,” Thomas studders. With their attention spread among the chaos below and the pointing fingers in front of them, the three children have failed to sense a new presence in their midst.

A new light shines from behind the quarreling kids.

“Murder.” A single word terminates the conflict. Shocked, Wendy, Thomas, and Philip turn to witness Mr. Smith with a lantern held high, exaggerating the shadows on his face.

***

It is past midnight. Thomas and Philip find themselves inside a jail cell with their backs to cold, unforgiving iron bars. Five sets of predatory eyes size them up. A sixth man urinates in a corner on the straw floor. Thomas’ knees give out and he plops down hard. With a glance containing fleeting agency and something resembling strength, Philip tells Thomas not to do it. Do not cry. Not here and not now.

The tears come thin at first and then gush from Thomas’ eyes. His voice catches on the edges of his erratic breaths. Philip bends over and places a hand on Thomas and in mere seconds Philip’s gossamer shield is dismantled by sneers and profanity from the six derelict and obscene men. 

“They gonna hang you. You killed that lady and her baby,” the urinating man says as he turns toward the boys, tucking away his member and wiping his hands on his trousers. The other inmates laugh and encourage the man.

Through the lone barred window to the cell, Philip notices a dancing light, likely from an approaching lantern. With it come a multitude of voices, harsh and condemning. Philip cups his ears in an attempt to shut out Thomas’ tormented cries and the ire of the baying mob just beyond the jail wall. The men amplify their obscenities and repeat their accusations of murder and the grim punishment soon to follow.

Overwhelmed, Philip falls to his knees and battles the scream that demands to be released from his chest.

***

The night ebbs with no comfort or kindness. The hostile voices from beyond the walls dwindle as the hour grows. Fearing further insults and intimidation from the convicted, Philip and Thomas stay on either end of the cell until morning comes. 

In the wee hours of the morning, Philip and Thomas find themselves shackled at the wrists and ankles while lurching along in line with the brutes from jail.

“To where are they marching us?” Thomas asks, fearing the answer. Philip screws up his eyes and shakes his head, indicating that it is best not to draw attention.

“To the gallows, of course!” A gruff voice says from behind. The boys turn to find an absurd creature of a man with no hair save a long, wiry bit sprouting from the back of his head and with dark sweat circles beneath his arms. Thomas trips over his irons and falls, causing a great commotion among the other prisoners. Philip tries in vain to help Thomas to his feet when a uniformed deputy smacks Philip on the head and yanks Thomas upright.

“I won’t tolerate your cavorting and causing a ruckus. What’s the idea?” The deputy growls, his grip firm as he shakes Thomas.

“I don’t want to die!” Thomas squeals, his voice laden with panic. A thunderclap of laughter comes from the inmates who have all stopped marching to witness the drama. The deputy immediately scolds the criminals and sends them back to walk in a formation.

“You ain’t gonna die,” the deputy walks hip to hip with Thomas, “not today, that is.” A look of concern and confusion gets on Philip’s face and is mirrored by Thomas. “Oh,” the deputy seizes the moment to torment the boys, “you haven’t heard. That’s clear to me now. No, you won’t be swinging today. The lady you tried to murder lived, by the grace of God. That unfortunate soul. You see,” the deputy scratches his sandpaper chin, “she was with child and that child did not survive.” The deputy spits a stream of chewing tobacco to the ground. “You will spend the rest of your days working off your debt and the rest of your nights in a jail cell with these animals.” The deputy gestures to the many salivating and wild-eyed prisoners walking with them. “That is, if you acknowledge the corn. Try not confessing, and, well-” The deputy drags his finger across his throat.

Leaning in, the deputy puts his hand on the back of Thomas’ neck. The smacking of the rancid tobacco mixed with his halitosis causes Thomas to shudder. “Today, you little son of a bitch, today you and your little fiend of an accomplice are joining the big boys to round up all the wolves of the woods and shoot them dead in the head. Dead in the head. For your sake, you bastard, you son of a bitch, you better pray to God me and the other deputies don’t get distracted. One of the big boys here might mistake you for a wolf. Ain’t that right, Sammy?” The deputy smiles at the absurd man, who nods maniacally, licking his lips and shaking his shackles.    

***

Walking to the woods seems to take hours, marked by thirst, hunger, and raw pain settling in the boys’ bones. No relief comes as they approach the tree line, for Thomas and Philip know that beyond the threshold is no refuge, but a grizzly task forced upon the damned by unforgiving monsters.

As the boys, the group of thieves, and the menacing deputies cross the tree line, the morning light is all but blotted out. A profuse canopy of branches and vines darkens all that is around them, and with the light, so goes the murmuring of the men.

Several moments pass before Thomas and Philip’s eyes adjust when suddenly a torch is ignited – whoosh – followed by a handful more torches here and there. The boys shield their eyes before being reprimanded in the heat of the flames.

“Heads up, heads up!” The deputy snarls and the boys quicken. Another deputy begins to hand out sharp objects of many shapes and sizes from a burlap bag. Spears, farming tools, knives, and shears are divvied out. Thomas is given a knife. Philip is handed a hatchet.

“Don’t get any ideas,” the deputy says as he lifts his shirt to reveal a pistol. “You might stick me, I know you want to, but you won’t get far. You’ll be too heavy with led to make a run for it.” The deputy does not wait for the boys to respond. He motions for them and the few prisoners near them to follow his lead as they search the wolf traps and look for tracks that will lead to the wolves not yet ensnared. 

As the group ventures deeper into the woods, the silence of the forest surrounds them, broken only by the crackling of torches and the rustling of leaves underfoot. Thomas, now armed with a deadly tool, tries to focus on his task of finding wolf traps and tracks, but his mind is weighed down by the gravity of their situation and the guilt he feels for involving Wendy. Unable to reconcile his wickedness with Wendy’s innocence, Thomas speaks up.

“What’s to become of the girl?” Thomas’ inquiry is followed by a swift smack on the mouth and the command to be silent lest he wants to become wolf bait. Philip nudges Thomas, pleading with him to keep a low profile. 

Coming up to one of the traps, Thomas, knife in hand is sent to inspect it. Indeed, to his horror, a young wolf had been caught and had been there suffering for some time before succumbing to its wounds. The scent of death caused Thomas to wretch, dropping the knife.

There beside the dead beast are two wounded rabbits. Were these poor creatures set to be a meal for the wolf pack? How they suffer, paralyzed and bloody. Thomas finds his knife beneath the tall forest grass. Trembling, he raises the weapon, deciding whether or not to end the rabbits’ pain with a heavy and swift drop of the blade.

No. Thomas will not take the rabbits’ lives. Instead, he delicately secures the frightened creatures between his belly and his tucked-in shirt.

Philip and the deputy arrive on the scene just as Thomas finishes securing the dying rabbits.

“That’s a dead bitch!” the deputy says as he kicks the wolf.

As they trudge on further into the woods, the deputies keep a watchful eye on the prisoners, their fingers never straying far from their weapons. Thomas and Philip are well aware that any misstep could be their last. The forest seems to close in around them, its foreboding presence amplifying their despair. The tiny concealed rabbits move slightly and Thomas pets them over his shirt, his knife heavy in his hand.

“She’s being kept in the pillory.” The breath from the deputy caused Thomas’ insides to turn. “You asked what will become of the girl. Oh, they are having a jolly time with her. She murdered that poor woman’s baby and justice must be served. She can’t be allowed to have a child of her own. Wouldn’t be right.” The deputy halts and raises his torch between him and Thomas, wearing a pitiful face. “Torture and humiliation is a woman’s way to go. Can’t have her hands covered in wolf blood with you lot.”

Enraged, Thomas tears the torch from the deputy’s hand and tosses it at the base of a tree that ignites instantaneously. Chaos erupts amongst the criminals as the fire leaps from tree to tree ripping along at a dazzling speed. Soon, the fire blazes the very ground on which they stand. The criminals run amuck and begin to slaughter any living thing they can get in their wretched hands, every fleeing animal succumbs to their lunatic wrath. Squirrels, hogs, foxes, rabbits, and even wolves run from the former security of their dark places and onto the blades and spits of madmen. Ravenous and unhinged, the criminals rip with sharp teeth the flesh from charred yet living animals and uniformed deputies alike.

Thomas, paralyzed with shock, witnesses the absurd man named Sammy who had berated them earlier wrap his slimy hands around Philip’s neck and drag the doomed boy to the ground. All Thomas hears is the roar of flames and the chilling resonance of human and animal squealing.

Thomas looks at his feet in a futile attempt to tell them to move and to rescue his friend, whom he can no longer see from the smoke and flames that cover everything. What lingers in his gaze is not only stubborn feet, but his right hand holding the knife now covered in blood and bits of sinew. Before him lying on the ground is the deputy, hands on his stomach, the source of much-spewing blood. The deputy, releasing his death rattle, succumbs to his injury and gives up the ghost.

With lungs full of smoke and a head full of horror, Thomas falls to the blackened forest floor as darkness envelopes him.

***

 “Here, have a drink of water,” Wendy wets Thomas’ lips from a wine bladder. Bewildered and fevered, Thomas sits up in bed with a start. He inspects his right hand, the evil appendage, for the blood he saw before, proof of his savagery. Despite seeing no trace of red, he uses his left hand to scrub the offending limb vigorously.

            “They killed everything! By God, they’re cannibals and demons! They killed and burned up everything!” Thomas thrashes about, his exclamations bring him into a coughing fit. 

            Wendy attempts to calm Thomas by petting and stroking him along his neck. Thomas, blind with anger and confusion, only takes a superficial notice of Wendy. 

            Slowly emerging into the reality around him, Thomas says, “You were sent to the pillory. The man said you were there as punishment for what happened to that poor woman’s baby, and Philip and I were to kill the wolves with those evil men as our punishment. But, oh Wendy, they killed not only all the wolves, but everything else, and the whole forest was burned up in the fire. I did it.” Thomas, sick with hunger and delirium, begins another coughing fit, weeping and lurching on his bed. “I think I killed someone!”

            Wendy attempts to calm Thomas with a shoosh followed by the sweetest lullaby. As she dips a rag into a bucket of well water, she says with a voice that Thomas loves that she is not in trouble and neither is he. “Everything is exactly how you wanted it.”

            “But, how can it be?” Thomas ceases his weeping and thrashing about to finally take a real look at Wendy. “Your eyes.” A new red compromised of capillaries is circumambient of Wendy’s baby blue irises. Thomas catches his mild reflection in the glassiness of her eyes and brings his hands to his face, running his fingers over his temples.

Wendy wears a coy smile revealing yellow top and bottom incisors that are far too long for any human. Thomas quickly averts his eyes as though he has caught sight of something he ought not to acknowledge. Wendy slows the pulse of her lullaby.

“Your, your hair.” Snapping back to reality, Thomas places his hand on Wendy’s delicate forehead and pets her. Two long, stiff ears erect once his hand reaches the nape of her neck.

            Shocked, Thomas shoves Wendy, accusing her of being bewitched.

            “Bewitched!” Wendy laughs. “Look around you,” the girl says with puffy cheeks. Thomas holds his breath as he surveys his surroundings. “As I said, everything is exactly how you wanted it.” The floor beneath his sickbed is no floor at all, but the black and charred remnants of the forest fire. Indeed, his nostrils are filled with the mildewy miasma of old ash and rot. He is not inside the security of a home or hospital or even a jail cell, but outside among many animal and human carcasses and burnt trees spattered with blood.

            Wendy turns her back to Thomas. Her movement indicates she is retrieving something or perhaps putting something together. As she resumes her posture towards Thomas, she displays two rabbit skeletons, one dressed in boys' clothing and the other in a dress. Bits of meat and dried blood poke out from beneath the fabric.

            Wendy lifts the well water bucket onto the cot. “Look.” The water settles, and in its murkiness, Thomas sees himself, red-eyed, long-eared, and lagomorphic.  

            “We have to leave. We have to go back to Bristleback Flat. Someone will know what to do. Pastor Faber can make us normal again,” Thomas attempts to rationalize his and Wendy’s animal appearance.

            “Go back?” Wendy tilts her tender head and points to a makeshift sign nailed to a tree behind them:

WELCOME TO BRISLEBACK FLAT, HOME OF THE RABBITS, AND NO WOLVES is written in dried blood on a piece of charred pine.

***

Death is in the distance just beyond the tree line

until the tree line is on your acre.

We pray with laughter

and we worship by holding hands.

My god, we so pray and promise to not be human anymore!

*

But babes are not born with weapons like wolf pups are.

So, first, we were animals,

then, something more.

*

We build altars and defenses against our primal desires.

With blisters on our hands and lashes on our backs,

we atone for our animal flesh.

We etch a decree to wipe out wildness from our hearts.

My God, do we pray and wail!

*

We bow our heads to the infinite

and boldly orientate our hearts to the unknown with tools,

measurements,

and oracles.

Our vanity is rewarded with applause.

Our words are carried on God’s wind

beyond where our feet can take us

and outside the boundaries of our maps.

*

We awake in the morning beneath thick coats near blazing fires

yet remain cold and shivering

with souls that are breaths in the winter

and as fleeting as birdsongs.

*

And all of God’s rabbits ate a plentiful harvest

and thanked Him

while rumors of hungry men in the burnt forest were whispered against their pink ears.

Eric St. Pierre

10.22.23

5:24 pm

New Orleans, LA

Flying Model Airplanes

The following personal essay was published in the Independent Weekly.

It was 1987. Some of 1986 and 88. Sundays. They had to be midday Sundays because most of the men who gathered at the old airfield in Pensacola were churchgoers. It was summer, sometimes spring. Swarms of gnats haloed my tender head every so often. Forehead sweat dampened my eyebrows. I chased crickets through freshly trimmed grass. I wore short shorts that I wasn't yet old enough to be embarrassed by. My shirt was thin and blue with an airplane on it. Sometimes it was green with a faded dinosaur print.

The men were of all ages. Some of them younger than I am now as I write this. Some of them were old enough to have dark spots on their arms and white hair on their heads, the breeze always kind in the heat of a cloudless day jostled their whiteness about. Bushy eyebrows raised. Coffee all day. Men slapping each other on the backs and laughing about things that evaded my understanding. I was quiet most of those days and simply took things in, mostly smiling behind closed, plump, lollipop-red lips. 

The men who gathered at the airfield were remote control model airplane hobbyists. Some of them had been fighter pilots like my grandfather. Some of them had never left the ground but enjoyed the acrobatics and camaraderie of the hobby. I always wanted to fly the models myself but was not allowed. Some of them cost hundreds of dollars and took dozens of hours to build. Both time and dollars seemed to have much more value back then. 

Since I was not allowed to fly, I entertained myself with my imagination. I thought I had superpowers. I would gaze for hours into the sky as winged machines loop de looped and did dogfighting. During long looks at the aerial dancing machines always eventually my eyes would pulsate to the beat of my heart resulting in a moving distortion of my field of vision. I thought I was shooting lasers out of my eyes like Cyclops from the X-Men. In reality, my tiny eyes were being damaged. I wear corrective lenses to this day. I didn't have superpowers, but my grandfather did.

Those days were spent with Papa watching him fly the model airplanes he built by hand. I didn't know it at the time, but he was quite a craftsman and built machines that the other men in his hobbyist group peered over with wonder and sometimes a tinge of envy.

His superpowers didn't simply manifest in his skills as a radio control pilot or craftsman. He had an uncanny power to make me feel okay; to make me feel accepted. This power was fully charged in his ability to notice when I was down or dejected and to speak to me like a person instead of a problem.

It was one spring Sunday in particular. I chased no crickets and smiled no smiles. Some destabilizing domestic event and kept my parents up all night fighting. That meant I stayed up all night, too. I held my urine until morning for fear of becoming a target of my father's anger. There I sat in freshly trimmed grass as it poked my thighs, a pain in my belly. I was afraid still and that fear had immobilized me. It had shut me up further inside my body. 

I had turned down a hamburger and coke. I turned down offers to go back to the van and listen to my Ray Stevens comedy tape, which was one of my favorite things. Nothing nudged me. Despair had crippled my skinny legs and muted my little boy voice. With a shake of my head, I told Papa I did not want to watch the planes take off.

“You're going to miss out on flying for the first time.” Papa had two radio controls in his hands and offered one to me.

My teeth shone brightly from my face. My legs sprung up and sent me into the air. I squinted and looked up at the beautiful silver box with all its joysticks and buttons for controlling mysterious things like ailerons and fuselages.  

Shortly thereafter I was shooting at his plane with my eye lasers and loop de looping my own plane to escape his. Viciously I mashed the buttons and flicked the switches of the magic silver box. (In reality, my radio did not work and one of Papa's buddies flew the model airplane from behind.)

That day was one of the happiest days of my life.

On Monday, February 15th, 2021, I got a call from my sobbing sister telling me she had awful news: Or Papa was in a coma in a hospital in New York and was not coming home. He died the next morning.

A few months ago he and I spoke on the phone. He said that things did not turn out okay; there were too many things to worry about and he didn't have enough time left in this life to fix his problems. His son and daughter, my uncle and mother respectively, were not on speaking terms with each other nor with him. Their lives had turned chaotic. I assured him that things would not be as bad as they might be now. I assured him that my siblings and I would take care of our mother. He confessed that he never worried about me and always knew I would be okay. His tears brought a speedy end to the conversation.

Last December, not long after that conversation, my mother decided to leave her abusive husband. A couple of weeks after returning to Florida, she made amends with her brother and my Papa. The last time I spoke with my grandfather he was happy and at ease. Tears ended the conversation for a different reason that time.

Ralph Pellizzeri was by anyone's definition a good man. While I did not inherit his passion for flight, I do hope that his abilities to love fully and to lighten a person's load have rubbed off on me.