And One Day We Will Die, page 23
A flush raced over me, surprised at her quick movements, how agile she was, and a moment in time flashed across my eyes: Father at home cutting wood and stacking it in a pile next to the barn, Mother in the kitchen canning for the winter, Father pausing to look back toward town, Mother running the back of her hand across her forehead, as the three of us broke out in sweat.
I was a virgin, kept on our property under the guise of survival—mules and oxen cleaving the soil, planting reliable crops, sun up to sun down—reaping, aching, laboring, longing. My emptiness was swollen shut, but in this moment it danced…no longer a wretch, the perfume of her body a heady mix of sweat, salt, manure, and something sweet.
She sat behind me and turned her covered head away, as the misted scent of strawberries, apples, and peaches filled the air. Her hands were now back under the cloth, her entire presence a woman in mourning. Her black, leather boots were firmly rooted on the foot rest—dusty, but sturdy; faded, and yet shiny; worn, but somehow new.
“Eyes on the road, young William, wouldn’t want you to see something you shouldn’t. Might turn you to stone. Or are you hoping more for a kiss, something froggy and wet?”
I swallowed hard, and averted my gaze, as a knot grew in my stomach, her voice melodic as it grated over my skin.
I shook the reins, calling out to the horses, and we ambled forward.
She was everything I dreamed about when I lay in the fields at night staring at the harvest moon, and nothing I could quite comprehend—unable to fix my gaze upon her, each part of her diverting my eye, never really seeing her whole and complete. It was like trying to hold sand or water in my imperfect hands, it kept spilling through, diminishing as it changed.
She cast a presence over the wagon, and that weight flickered between sunlight and shadow—back and forth, back and forth.
Over the creaking wheels I heard a squeak, small and timid—and then a blur of gray wandered out of the folds she kept draped around herself—its movement off balance, its tiny body swollen and lumpy. Out of her sleeve that tiny field mouse darted and wobbled—down to her leg, sniffing quickly, then changing path, and up to her shoulder, twitching as it sat there, something wrong with it, pausing, trembling in wonder. I could only see it out of the corner of my eye, this flash of movement, the tiny mewls it made—too many legs, or too few, I wasn’t sure—wiggling as if afraid to jump away, but terrified to stand pat. I glanced again and it had four eyes, four tails, tiny horns on its head, some hump on its back.
I shifted my eyes back to the road, unsure of what I’d seen.
“You have a friend,” I said, laughing gently, as sweat ran down my armpits, and my back clenched in knots.
She seemed caught off guard, her head darting one way and then the next.
“Where?” she asked.
“The mouse? Or shrew maybe? On your shoulder?” I offered.
The critter turned to me, as if offended that I had ratted it out, a barrage of squeaks and other noises emanating from its crooked mouth, its eyes blinking in rapid succession.
“Come, little one,” she said quietly, holding out her hand, still covered in cloth, and the creature slowly stumbled its way down her arm, disappearing into her gentle fist. And then one bitter squeak, followed by a snap, as if two fingers had been quickly pressed together, and all was silent.
“It’s for the best,” she said. “This was a mercy.”
But I wasn’t sure, not at all.
“In the fields, it would be tortured—chased, played with, bit, and then killed. God only knows for how long,” she said. “It’s not right, but I will continue. ”
I tried to will it into being, this kindness. I needed it to be true.
In no time at all, we were at a fork in the road—one path leading off into the woods where a whisper of smoke lingered; another west, away from the town and toward the river, what lay beyond it only rumors, heat, monsters, and despair; and the final path directed at my own house, a little farther away from the colony and everything it offered.
As if reading my mind, Naomi spoke, while she slowly lowered herself out of the wagon.
“I don’t know what I’m more afraid of, William—suffering for eternity or the rapture of divine intervention.”
“Suffering, I’d imagine,” I blurted out.
I reached behind myself for her goods, and after handing down her sack, she untied the knot in the rope and quickly reached inside the bag, rooting around, looking for something. I kept my eyes on the crooked road, because every time I took a peek at her she shimmered and broke, my eyes unreliable, as my heart and flesh filled with a creeping anxiety.
“Soon, the blood moon will fill the sky. Two weeks, maybe more. When it comes, William, take this mushroom and wander into the forest. There are answers for you there, young man, a peace you are seeking. I may be able to help.”
I hesitated, but only for a moment, before taking the tiny dried fungus, and placing it in my shirt pocket, buttoning it shut.
When I turned to ask her a question, she was gone. And in her place there was a beam of light, splitting the oak trees, as a warm breeze picked up, the mighty trees swaying back and forth, a patch of violets at the edge of the forest, and, in the distance, a cry of great anguish—some creature caught in a trap, no doubt, screaming and howling as it was slowly undone.
The second time I witnessed Naomi suffering, she was lying on her back in the forest, crying out in a wild tangle of weeds, a puddle of ochre settling beneath her scarred flesh, her limbs in shadow. Her pale flesh was mottled and sickly, diseased in the darkness—covered in scales, fur, prickly spines, and molting feathers. I was wandering the countryside, lost and full of light, unsure of what was playing out right in front of my eyes, yet eager to be enlightened, certain that something magical and holy was at play.
I had left my homestead and wandered to the woods behind our home, as the sun set and the chores came to an end. I was tired, my hands and back aching, so I walked to the stream behind our property and stripped down to my bare skin, sliding into the cold water with a rush and a gasp, as chills spread across my flesh.
It had been a long day—a strange one at best; a fated failure at worst. Father had lost a finger, caught in wire, the bite of a hatchet, or the teeth of a sprung trap—we weren’t sure, his ramblings filled with stained cloth and pale overtures. The best I could do when he came stumbling home from the edge of our property was reach into the fire and hold up a glowing red coal with our iron tongs, as Mother held his hands in hers, fingers coated in blood, a strong piece of hickory between his teeth.
As the fire in the hearth raged, the cauldron bubbled down Mother’s labor, the preserves she’d been working on all day, into a dark, syrupy paste. Raspberries and strawberries, huckleberries and elderberries—plucked from the bushes that ringed our property, blending into one sickly sweet porridge.
It was Mother’s job to hold his hands, to calm him down as he bit into the wood, preserving his teeth and pain for all of eternity, as I pressed the hot ember to his mangled flesh. When the wood snapped in two, I pulled the coal away, the smell of meat cooking making my stomach rumble, the old man passing out—legs spread wide, boots covered in mud, his shirt coming unbuttoned and untucked, pale belly like a beached fish, as my mother peppered his face with kisses. She cried and held him as I returned the ember to its bed of shimmering heat, knowing that they would not miss me when I ate the mushroom, and set out into the darkness, leaving them to rest.
In the silence of Father’s branding, the blood moon had risen over the horizon, staining everything in the forest with a crimson veil, as I stood in the river for all to see (for none to see) the breeze caressing my exposed skin in gentle adorations. I chewed on the earthy, bitter, sour tangle of fungus, as around me the night closed in—both a comforting presence and a heaving, encroaching beast.
I would remain ivory, unable to find my britches, shirt, or shoes—marbled skin laced with blue veins, the layers of light and dark folding every breeze and scent into segments and paths that guided me to Naomi. To commune with nature like this, it was both entirely natural, and yet somehow, sacrilegious. I was at one with my pagan roots—a deep reverence for the earth, air, sky, and water that coursed around and through me.
There were clues in the dancing shadows, shimmering waters, and outstretched branches. There were whispers in the lush branches, gentle grasses, and rustling bushes. There were hungers in the floral perfumes, musky soil, and sharp pine. There was sour fear, bitter loss, and coppery blood running in and around my tongue. There were fingers caressing my sweaty arms, nails running down my aching back, lips on my cheeks dotting laughter and joy.
I was filled with life, and overflowing.
As I approached the clearing that separated the edge of our property and that of our neighbors to the east from the woods that lead to her house, fireflies emerged from the grass, in great and wondrous numbers, rising up from the swaying blades, dotting the field with a fairy tale of glowing light. A great beast took flight from the top of an ancient oak, hooting as it soared, diving into the grass and grain, before lifting and disappearing towards the horizon, struggling prey in its grasp.
Maybe Naomi was right.
Sometimes death was a mercy.
It was here that I found her—not my destination, not my intention, but always, inevitably the outcome.
Of course, I would end up here, bearing witness.
Of course, I would be drawn to her call.
Was there ever any other fate?
At first, I was caught by surprise, her writhing in the grasses and weeds not at all what I’d expected to find out here, far from her cabin, her shack, the distant outline of the structure barely visible down that thin, dirty path, a singular candle in a lonely window, that wisp of chimney smoke rising up to the heavens.
I was worried that she was hurt, that she had gotten lost—still remembering her stumbling walk back from town, her quick climb up into the wagon, her ancient hands, her soft, delicate fingers. And then, I heard her laughter—saw her roll over and then back, into the shadows where she snarled and writhed in pain, swollen joints and scarred flesh. Back out into the fading light, the moon bathing her in beams and flickering dust as it slowly worked its way to eternal darkness. Into the light where she bent her back, and fully came to bloom—a tear in her chest blossoming into red rosebuds, dots of lavender erupting out of her spine, a bountiful harvest of greenery erupting between her legs. She bent over to vomit a shower of orange poppies, white daisies with their yellow hearts, green holly with their spiky tips spewing violent crimson berries into the dirt. From her fingertips, vines erupted, twisting and turning as cherry blossom tears ran down and over her face.
A huge gasp of air suddenly filled the night as she sat up, her head and face pointed toward the sky, the moon, the light that reflected off of it, the sun so very far away, and then her prettiness seeped through, as rays of shimmering light spilled out of her in every direction, blinding me, revealing the world around her in excruciating detail.
For just a moment, I was surrounded by life, and yet, I could not comprehend.
In that scream of eternal brightness, there were crouching four-legged creatures slinking in from the edge of my vision, slavering over her perfection, crooked teeth pushing out of bent mouths, caught mid-step, holding one leg, one mangy paw up, paused in their procession, erased as I blinked my eyes. There were swarms of dark insects, glistening purple wings buzzing in fury and rage, clouds of the clicking, undulating murmurations washing over the hills, and then, back down to the tips of the grass, captured in that great release, and then, melting into a flickering erasure. There were beasts on two legs, standing erect, snorting and trembling, dotting the edge of the forest—here, there, yonder, and then up close, by the archway of bent pine trees, in a pile of slick red flesh by the well, by the stream—a hot steam rising off the water, as they rutted and gnashed their teeth, bent horns twisting into the night, eyes glowing a sickly ochre, hairy thighs stamping cloven hooves, as shiny rings in their noses pulled them in closer, and then they were gone.
Flash.
And then darkness.
Flash.
And then pure white light.
Flash.
And then nothingness—an eternal void, that slowly expanded to suffocate us all.
When my vision came back to me, feeble and uncertain, her outline settled into focus, a pulsing glow from deep in the trembling thicket.
She slowly levitated off of the ground, unconscious, and weak, spent in her excursion, as a cloud passed over the moon, plunging us once again into darkness. As she rose, horizontal, light seeping out of her, dripping to the earth below like molten iron, pinpricks of light leaked out of her, pulsing and expanding, retreating and vibrating, my breath eluding me, my heart a jackrabbit, ensnared.
Her truth absolved me, as I fell to my knees, as she exploded into a billion stars, the dust of a million years, and I was filled with flavor—an orgy of salivation transcending taste. A strawberry lingered on my tongue, the juice dripping down my chin in rivulets. A sour lemon blinded my eyes, squinting as I cried out, the sting and spritz of its torn rind reverberating. A bitter emulsion of dark chocolate coated my mouth with fur as salted beef made my mouth water, the tang and chew eliciting guttural, beastly noises—everything, everywhere, all at once.
As I collapsed in the grass I was escorted to sleep by violins and harps, by horns and shouts, by a melodic lute that lured my body, mind, and soul back home.
The last time I witnessed Naomi she was suffering for the final time.
In the days and weeks that came after the blood moon, I did not see her. What I had taken from her, was not mine to take. I was a voyeur, and yet, hadn’t I been invited? I wasn’t sure. What I’d seen in the forest defied every story and fable about birth and menstruation, about desire and longing, about the ways that man and woman might be one, about God and heaven and all that had fallen from on high.
I was lost and filled with longing.
What had I seen?
I could not be around my parents for a blush would wash over me, a fear of being seen, a worry that I wore a sign, a word stitched upon my flesh, an expression on my face, some revelation that defied my God and consorted with the devil.
And yet, it felt true.
It felt honest.
Invited, I was.
Shown, in great detail.
But what lesson, I was not sure.
It eluded me, and yet I kept glancing toward the woods, toward her hut, toward that one wisp of gray smoke that kept rising upward, taking my gaze with it.
There was talk of something lumbering at the edge of our settlement, far to the west, farther than any had been. Any that went to investigate, did not come back. I’d wake in the middle of the night to the sound of a pounding fist on the door of our house, but when Father yanked it open in a fitful rage, there was nothing there—just endless night and chirping crickets. A horrendous sound, a mighty crack, as if the surface had split open, came to me while out in the fields, and as I stopped the oxen, raised my head and listened, it did not come again—no explanation, no further noise. Throughout the day the clouds raced past, white and then blue, hypnotizing in their beauty, taking one shape and then another, morphing and twisting in rhythmic dance.
At dinner, my parents would not speak of the sounds, dismissing them as folly. They would not address the shadows we had found over our beds the night before, waking up swinging closed fists—merely nightmares, nothing more.
But the spell continued.
We pushed the corn and beans around our tin plates, Father ripping the loaf of bread with his bare hands, tearing it in half, Mother placing a hunk of cheese in her mouth, savoring the tangy density on her tongue, pork fat running down my chin, my eyes ablaze, as my veins pounded with each traitorous beat.
It was too much for me, this veil that had been lifted, and the night did me no favors, instead unfolding with corruption. Unable to stay inside any longer, I excused myself and stumbled out into the expanding quiet, only to witness our goat standing on its hind legs in the moonlit yard, bleating into the night before pissing red into the dirt. Its long, curled horns shimmered silver as the coarse hair wrapped tighter, horns elongating in a hypnotic spiral, before lowering itself and then charging the house, a dent in the post still there to this day. By the time my cries brought Father outside, the creature was grazing quietly, my mind reduced to tremors.
We separated to our beds, and the night filled with gasps and exhalations.
When the elders came to see us, I could tell that Mother was shaken. They never traveled this far, Father closing the door behind him on his way out, as Mother lit candles, trying to pray the darkness away. I could see them through a crack in the planks of wood, their frocks and long coats bundled up tight as fall rushed in, with winter not far behind it. Thick crosses were embedded with jewels, hanging around their necks, rosaries held in anxious, nimble fingers. Their caps crowded their long, brown hair, as they held massive tomes, leatherbound books with gold type, certainly Bibles, words uttered in fear and encouragement.
When the creatures fell from the sky, just the two of them, one slightly larger than the other, they shook the land from end to end. I knew where they were, not just because of the dust emanating from the end of the long crooked path, or the wall of light filling the sky with brilliance, rippling outward from her hut, in a glorious circle. But because I knew in my heart of hearts that they were coming for her.
For Naomi.
To punish her.
Rain poured down in furious waves as I charged out of our house and down the road, drenched in cold and warmth in equal measures. A battering of freezing rain would shift into a glowing light, the radiance filling me up. And then, it stopped.
